(no subject)
More of the White Collar epic I'm not writing, lalala. Uh, PG-13, ~1000 words, pre-Neal/Peter. It is important for my conscience to note that this is after Elizabeth and Peter's marriage ends through the fault of neither party. You can thank gypsy_sunday for the scenario; she gave me hurt/comfort as a kind of prompt.
-
Neal's never been one of those people who wakes up slowly. He always remembers exactly where he is when he wakes up, and so he knows he's in the hospital right away when he comes out of unconsciousness. The smell is so familiar; too clean, too plastic, too chemical-y. Add to that the stiff sheets, cruelly starched within an inch of their life, and he's sure of it. He's too tired to open his eyes just yet, but he knows.
What he's less sure of it what exactly brought him here. He remembers the warehouse, yeah, he and Peter inching in along the west edge--the team outside, waiting for their orders. He remembers Giordani hidden around the corner with five of his favorite guards, the snap-sharp moment of realization that they were cornered. The ensuing shoot-out.
He shoved Peter behind him, he remembers that--and if he stretches, he can pull up some kind of memory of arm pain. His scrunches up his nose. He can definitely feel some arm pain now, anyway. He can tell from the sort of dullness of it that they've got him on vicodin or morphine or something, though; it's not really bothering him, more of a distant ache than a constant bludgeoning feeling. The rest of his body feels sluggish but otherwise fine, so Neal's totally counting this one as a victory. Especially if he gets to look at cute nurses because of it.
He forces his eyes open, finally--god, they feel crusted over enough that he could have slept for years--and blinks up at the ceiling. Yep. Definitely hospital; they all have those weird chessboard ceilings. Grimacing, he turns his head to check out the rest of the room. Standard, standard, boring; ah, here we go. Peter's at the window, a phone pressed to his lips and his face twisted in an intense frown.
With a start, Neal connects the low level murmur in the background to the shapes of Peter's lips moving. He blinks and shakes his head a little; his senses are all coming back to him in soft pieces, and it's a little hard to make everything sync up. Case in point: the way his mouth says "hey" before he realizes maybe he should leave Peter to his phone call.
At the sound, though, Peter straightens and whips towards him. Something in his eyes goes sharper; "I'll talk to you later," he mutters into the phone, and snaps it shut.
"I'm awake," says Neal needlessly. "Hi. Who was that? Was it Diana? Was it Jones?"
Peter ignores his question, coming closer. That frown seems to get deeper, or maybe it's just the angle--Neal peers up at him and tries to figure it out.
"How are you feeling?" Peter asks. "Nauseous? Dizzy? Disoriented?"
Neal grins, though the muscles of his face feel a little stiff. "Peter, my friend," he rasps, "if I was disoriented, I wouldn't be able to tell you, now would I?"
"Shut up," Peter says, scrubbing a hand over his face briefly. "shut up, shut up. Jesus."
Peter's hands are both shaking, Neal notices suddenly. Not very much, but they are. Normally Neal would notice right away, but he's giving himself a free pass on this one because he's drugged out. Still. Weird. "Are you okay?" he asks, brow furrowing. "Your hands--"
"Don't you fucking ask me that, Neal Caffrey," Peter says. "You're the one in the goddamn hospital bed."
"Fff," Neal says, and grins. "Broken arm ain't no thang. I broke the other one when I was seven. 'S why I'm ambidextrous, y'know."
"A broken arm--" Peter yanks a hand through his hair and laughs. Neal blinks at the wild loudness of it. "Oh, you are too fucking much," Peter goes on. His voice slides into that soft, dangerous tone he uses with criminals; something in Neal recognizes it, and he shivers. "You take a bullet for me--you take a bullet for me, Caffrey, and all you can do is talk about how you fucking broke your arm before? How this is no big deal?"
Neal laughs a tiny bit. "Is that what this is about?" he asks, shaking his head. The room blurs pleasantly in his vision. "Peter, I was wearing a ballistic vest, and you weren't. The shot didn't even do anything but bruise deeply, did it? The arm is totally unconnected. It made total sense and you know it. And I'd do it again in a heartbeat," he adds, certain of it.
"Don't you ever dare," Peter says, sharp as the edge of a knife. His eyes are blazing into Neal, suddenly, making him feel small in his own skin. "Caffrey, if you ever do anything like that again--"
He doesn't finish the thought, but Neal finds he can't open his mouth to say something smart or ask for clarification. The air feels too thick, somehow, too charged with--with something Neal doesn't quite recognize, something like urgency and fury and yet neither, for him to say a word. Whatever it is, it presses thickly into his chest and stills his tongue behind his teeth; his heart is beating hard and hot under his ribs, and his palms are tingling, electric.
"You don't worry about me, okay?" Peter demands in a murmur. The space between them is too close and full of those words to breathe; some distant part of Neal is thinking about boundaries and how he feels none right now. "You worry about you, and that's it. That's it, you hear me?"
A beat of silence, and then he leans back abruptly, shoving away from the bed and stalking over to the window. He stands there, back to Neal, and doesn't say a word as a cute nurse bustles in to check on him, cutting off any potential reply.
Neal swallows.
He flirts with the cute nurse, of course he does. He jokes about bedpans and hospital food and elevators, whatever comes into his mind. He smiles and teases and laughs, and could get her number in a hot minute if he wanted it.
But here's the thing, the fucked up thing: his eyes are on Peter's back, solid and unmoving, the entire time.
-
Neal's never been one of those people who wakes up slowly. He always remembers exactly where he is when he wakes up, and so he knows he's in the hospital right away when he comes out of unconsciousness. The smell is so familiar; too clean, too plastic, too chemical-y. Add to that the stiff sheets, cruelly starched within an inch of their life, and he's sure of it. He's too tired to open his eyes just yet, but he knows.
What he's less sure of it what exactly brought him here. He remembers the warehouse, yeah, he and Peter inching in along the west edge--the team outside, waiting for their orders. He remembers Giordani hidden around the corner with five of his favorite guards, the snap-sharp moment of realization that they were cornered. The ensuing shoot-out.
He shoved Peter behind him, he remembers that--and if he stretches, he can pull up some kind of memory of arm pain. His scrunches up his nose. He can definitely feel some arm pain now, anyway. He can tell from the sort of dullness of it that they've got him on vicodin or morphine or something, though; it's not really bothering him, more of a distant ache than a constant bludgeoning feeling. The rest of his body feels sluggish but otherwise fine, so Neal's totally counting this one as a victory. Especially if he gets to look at cute nurses because of it.
He forces his eyes open, finally--god, they feel crusted over enough that he could have slept for years--and blinks up at the ceiling. Yep. Definitely hospital; they all have those weird chessboard ceilings. Grimacing, he turns his head to check out the rest of the room. Standard, standard, boring; ah, here we go. Peter's at the window, a phone pressed to his lips and his face twisted in an intense frown.
With a start, Neal connects the low level murmur in the background to the shapes of Peter's lips moving. He blinks and shakes his head a little; his senses are all coming back to him in soft pieces, and it's a little hard to make everything sync up. Case in point: the way his mouth says "hey" before he realizes maybe he should leave Peter to his phone call.
At the sound, though, Peter straightens and whips towards him. Something in his eyes goes sharper; "I'll talk to you later," he mutters into the phone, and snaps it shut.
"I'm awake," says Neal needlessly. "Hi. Who was that? Was it Diana? Was it Jones?"
Peter ignores his question, coming closer. That frown seems to get deeper, or maybe it's just the angle--Neal peers up at him and tries to figure it out.
"How are you feeling?" Peter asks. "Nauseous? Dizzy? Disoriented?"
Neal grins, though the muscles of his face feel a little stiff. "Peter, my friend," he rasps, "if I was disoriented, I wouldn't be able to tell you, now would I?"
"Shut up," Peter says, scrubbing a hand over his face briefly. "shut up, shut up. Jesus."
Peter's hands are both shaking, Neal notices suddenly. Not very much, but they are. Normally Neal would notice right away, but he's giving himself a free pass on this one because he's drugged out. Still. Weird. "Are you okay?" he asks, brow furrowing. "Your hands--"
"Don't you fucking ask me that, Neal Caffrey," Peter says. "You're the one in the goddamn hospital bed."
"Fff," Neal says, and grins. "Broken arm ain't no thang. I broke the other one when I was seven. 'S why I'm ambidextrous, y'know."
"A broken arm--" Peter yanks a hand through his hair and laughs. Neal blinks at the wild loudness of it. "Oh, you are too fucking much," Peter goes on. His voice slides into that soft, dangerous tone he uses with criminals; something in Neal recognizes it, and he shivers. "You take a bullet for me--you take a bullet for me, Caffrey, and all you can do is talk about how you fucking broke your arm before? How this is no big deal?"
Neal laughs a tiny bit. "Is that what this is about?" he asks, shaking his head. The room blurs pleasantly in his vision. "Peter, I was wearing a ballistic vest, and you weren't. The shot didn't even do anything but bruise deeply, did it? The arm is totally unconnected. It made total sense and you know it. And I'd do it again in a heartbeat," he adds, certain of it.
"Don't you ever dare," Peter says, sharp as the edge of a knife. His eyes are blazing into Neal, suddenly, making him feel small in his own skin. "Caffrey, if you ever do anything like that again--"
He doesn't finish the thought, but Neal finds he can't open his mouth to say something smart or ask for clarification. The air feels too thick, somehow, too charged with--with something Neal doesn't quite recognize, something like urgency and fury and yet neither, for him to say a word. Whatever it is, it presses thickly into his chest and stills his tongue behind his teeth; his heart is beating hard and hot under his ribs, and his palms are tingling, electric.
"You don't worry about me, okay?" Peter demands in a murmur. The space between them is too close and full of those words to breathe; some distant part of Neal is thinking about boundaries and how he feels none right now. "You worry about you, and that's it. That's it, you hear me?"
A beat of silence, and then he leans back abruptly, shoving away from the bed and stalking over to the window. He stands there, back to Neal, and doesn't say a word as a cute nurse bustles in to check on him, cutting off any potential reply.
Neal swallows.
He flirts with the cute nurse, of course he does. He jokes about bedpans and hospital food and elevators, whatever comes into his mind. He smiles and teases and laughs, and could get her number in a hot minute if he wanted it.
But here's the thing, the fucked up thing: his eyes are on Peter's back, solid and unmoving, the entire time.