White Collar Fic: Identity Crisis
Identity Crisis
Rating: PG-13 - broken bones, and a generally hurted Neal
Characters: Peter, Neal
Summary: It really wasn't Neal's fault. Really.
A/N: Written for kriadydragon's prompt on collarcorner. I haven't written 2k words this fast in forever. Terrifically ambiguous-yet-angsty idea you had there. \o/ And a big thanks to imbecamiel for the quick beta'ing work.
***
There were cold pin-prick droplets of water tapping at his face, like something sentient, goading him awake.
But Neal really, really didn't want to be awake right now. He wasn't entirely sure why. But he knew unpleasantness was waiting for him on the other side of the blank slate of semi-lucidity.
If lucidity meant acknowledging that his situation was miserable, he'd just remain a blank slate, thank you very much.
The pin-pricks, however, just kept on stabbing, sending small cascades of water down his skin. If only it would stop. A rivulet of water was snaking down his jaw towards his neck, and now down his collar...
Neal shivered at the sensation, reaching up to-
No. Not reaching up, to do anything. The shiver, combined with the attempt to move his arms, was the catalyst. Every unhappy fact began to line up and register itself. His arms were cuffed behind his back. They hurt. He was sitting on something hard, somewhere cold, and a thin rain was pelting his upturned face.
Automatically tilting his head down to shelter his face from the rain-he could solve that problem, at least-he began to uncurl from his slumped position. Then he realized that not only were his arms cuffed behind his back, but they were cuffed to something behind his back. Some sort of pipe, from the feel of it.
He tried to shift himself upright more carefully, and moaned in simple self-pity at the protests of his body. His arms weren't alone in hurting. He hardly knew which demand to listen to first: the pounding in his skull, the throbbing of his ribcage, or the stabbing pain in his left wrist.
In the end nausea played the trump card, and it was a near thing avoiding throwing up on his own outstretched legs.
He felt better afterwards, in the same way that anyone who reaches vomiting point feels after they've painfully unburdened their stomached of bile and acid. Essentially, there was nowhere to go but “better” from where he was sitting, feeling the cramps in his stomach slowly ease up.
God. Where was Peter?
And, nearly as pressing a question, when had Neal fallen into expecting rescue via his personal, Federally paid baby-sitter?
That self-cross-questioning would save for another time. Right now he'd take Peter's scowling face happily, lecture and all.
He cast about for just a sight, and found instead only dank alleyway and the far-off yellow glow of a streetlight to his right. But that new information sparked recollection. He'd been taking an evening stroll when it had started to rain. He'd been jogging back home, trying to avoid getting entirely soaked through, when the three men had appeared. Unfamiliar faces. Biceps like pro-wrestlers. Hard fists, and booted feet.
They'd hit him over the head, dragged him somewhere, and then proceeded to work him over. And while they'd worked him over they'd talked about some guy named Billy. Billy the Claw? Billy...the Crab? It'd had something to do with crustaceans. Or primates? He had no idea if either hazy memory approached reality. He'd been in a lot of pain, and the impression of something to do with primates might very well have simply been his last errant thought on three apes pounding him into the pavement.
Whatever title they'd given “Billy,” it had been something so clichéd Neal remembered almost laughing in their faces. Until one of them had stamped on his wrist, and he'd been forced to focus on fighting back a scream.
What he clearly remembered was their threat to come back and break his other wrist if he didn't work his hardest to see that “Billy” was acquitted in court next week.
Whatever they'd meant, and whoever they'd thought they were talking to, the idea of the men returning made Neal squirm gingerly against his restraints. With a sinking feeling he immediately became aware of one entirely immobile wrist-his left, the one they'd trampled, sensitive to the merest twitch-and the other cold and stiff enough to be equally useless. Flexing his fingers felt like dexterity beyond his ability at the moment, never mind picking the lock.
Then his eyes snagged on the sight of his anklet, and Neal noticed something so ludicrously heart-warming it brought a small smile to his face.
The light was flashing red.
He'd never thought he'd be so happy to see that sight in his life.
Tilting his head back again, enough to let the rain water run into his mouth and rinse out the bad taste, he waited for his government-employed babysitter to arrive.
***
Neal was going to owe him coffee. Coffee, and then some.
Opening the car door, Peter headed at a brisk pace for the alleyway where the Marshals had directed him. What Neal was doing hanging out less than a block outside his radius was beyond Peter's ability to even begin to guess at. Especially beyond his ability at one o'clock in the morning.
Which brought him back to that coffee Neal was going to owe him for this. He really owed Elizabeth something, too, seeing as Peter hadn't been able to get out of the house without waking her. And she'd looked worried after Peter told her what the call was about. Worried. Neal definitely owed her something, for making her sit up anxiously waiting for news at one o'clock in the morning.
And maybe Peter was more worried than angry, too. But anger was a whole lot easier to deal with at this time in the morning. He'd brought his gun all the same, and not because he had concerns that it was Neal he might wind up needing to use it on.
At least it had stopped raining. He'd brought the flashlight he kept in his glove compartment, shining it towards one side of the alley, and then the other...
He heard the muffled yelp before he'd fully registered the sight of Neal, sitting on the ground, eyes shut tight against the beam of light shining in his eyes.
Peter crouched next to him, turning the flashlight so it wasn't directly upon him. It wasn't hard to see Neal wasn't loitering around outside of his radius just to give Peter and the U.S. Marshals a-literal-wake up call.
Quickly casting aside thoughts of preserving his (haphazardly assembled) wardrobe, Peter knelt, ignoring the water that instantly began to seep into the knees of his pants.
“Neal?”
“Finally,” Neal mumbled, eyes still screwed shut. “Good to know I'd have this much of a head start if I ever decide to break for it in the middle of the night...”
Peter was too distracted with reaching out, tilting Neal's face away for a better view of the damage to the side of his face, to react to Neal's tone of belligerent impatience. There was already some nasty swelling developing along the jaw. “Yeah, well. I'm usually sleeping at this hour. Just a heads-up for the next time you decide to get mugged.”
“Wasn't a mugging,” Neal mumbled, “They thought I was a lawyer...or something. Think they broke my wrist.”
“Let me see.”
“Can't,” Neal said with effrontery. “Hands'r cuffed.”
Tucking the flashlight under his arm, Peter pulled out his wallet and produced the handcuff key he kept there.
After that, Peter discovered that the mugging he'd initially suspected would've been a walk in the park compared to whatever had happened to Neal.
Getting the handcuffs off Neal proved to be a more painful process than Peter had anticipated. There was definitely something broken, if the fast breathing and small, not-quite-suppressed whimpers from Neal were any indication. By the time he was finished, Neal was unashamedly leaning against him for support, and Peter let him. He could feel the shivers, violent and steady. Who knew what other damage was done. It was hard to tell by flashlight, and Neal wasn't acting particularly lucid. Concussion, probably.
“I'm calling an ambulance.”
Neal might've moaned something unenthusiastically about just driving to the ER instead, but Peter was already dialing, reporting facts to the operator crisply before pocketing his cell and giving Neal's shoulder a firm pat. “Doing alright?” He felt Neal's head nod tiredly-and Peter couldn't decided if it was the most natural thing in the world, or the most bizarre, to be sitting there serving as Neal Caffrey's human prop and emergency source of warmth. But apparently Neal didn't care one way or the other at the moment that his head was tucked underneath Peter's chin as he listed forward in an unconcerned slump, for all the world like an exhausted toddler collapsed after too much fun on the playground.
Carefully shrugging out of his jacket, Peter managed to sloppily cover Neal with it. He kept his hand on Neal's back, monitoring the rise and fall of each breath, and they waited.
Just another gray hair, courtesy of Neal Caffrey.
“You definitely owe me coffee for this, kid,” Peter sighed into the air near Neal's ear, and closed his eyes briefly in relief at the sound of an approaching ambulance.
***
“So it really wasn't my fault.”
“No. It wasn't your fault.”
Neal smiled. A bruised smile, more than a little battered around the edges, but undiminished in its gloating.
Peter could've rolled his eyes. “You just wanted to hear me say that.”
Ensconced on the couch beneath a mound of blankets, Neal shrugged. “Admit it. You thought it was my fault.”
Peter did roll his eyes. “You just try and tell me I don't have plenty of reason to automatically assume it's your fault.”
“June was worried about me. Elizabeth was worried about me. Worried, Peter, not angry.”
“Yeah, well, the Marshal who called about your anklet going off wasn't exactly in a sunshine and flowers kind of mood.”
“Aw, Peter. You saying he was worried about me, too? You're the only one who assumed it was some jealous lover out to...tar-and-feather me?”
“More like a jealous curator, out to teach you the meaning of loss.”
Neal rested his head back against the arm of the couch. “But it wasn't-”
“-Your fault. Yeah. There, I've said it twice, happy?” Peter was lenient in his exasperation. He was in a lenient mood after what he'd seen in ER last night. They'd really worked Neal over. The broken wrist might've been the most serious of the damage, but the bruising was extensive enough that Neal was definitely going to be uncomfortable for a while. Thank God Elizabeth had been there to descend upon Neal with plenty of care and compassion when Peter'd brought him home, because Peter had been feeling far from nurturing by that point. He'd gone from grumpy and not awake, to exhausted, awake, and way beyond grumpy. Because the men who'd done that to Neal had to be found, and he planned on being the one to find them.
He decided there was something singularly unjust about Neal getting beaten up for a half-wit lawyer who was stupid enough to get caught up in some low-level gang's bribery and, predictably, threats to ensure he'd follow through when he got nervous and showed an inclination toward backing out. Peter would've been the first to admit that Neal had done stuff to merit various and sundry forms of repercussions-but a thorough beating via hired thug wasn't one of them.
Neal, being Neal, was basking in his moment of fault-free trauma. It'd also been his own sketches that had helped to ID two of the three men-who'd been pulled over by cops initially for speeding, booked for the possession of drugs, and eventually charged with assault, with further charges being looked into. All of which could only contribute to his currently glowing halo.
“You're looking pretty smug,” Neal noted-hypocritically.
“Well, we got 'em, didn't we?”
Neal raised an eyebrow.
Peter gave the palms-up gesture of Bestowal of Honor. “Fine. You and NYPD got them.”
“You helped,” Neal offered, smirking magnanimously.
“Nah. I only dragged myself out of bed at one o'clock in the morning to drag your sorry butt to ER. That was nothing. Do it all the time. As a matter of fact, I insist you never call anyone else should you find yourself in a similar situation. Day or night, I'm here.”
Somewhere, somehow, he'd gotten all somber, and serious-and listen, I mean it, Neal-while saying that last part. And he found himself looking into Neal's equally serious expression.
“Thanks, Peter. For, you know...dragging my butt to ER.”
“Sure.”
“And Peter?”
“Hmm.”
“Coffee, tomorrow. My treat.”
***
End
***
Rating: PG-13 - broken bones, and a generally hurted Neal
Characters: Peter, Neal
Summary: It really wasn't Neal's fault. Really.
A/N: Written for kriadydragon's prompt on collarcorner. I haven't written 2k words this fast in forever. Terrifically ambiguous-yet-angsty idea you had there. \o/ And a big thanks to imbecamiel for the quick beta'ing work.
***
There were cold pin-prick droplets of water tapping at his face, like something sentient, goading him awake.
But Neal really, really didn't want to be awake right now. He wasn't entirely sure why. But he knew unpleasantness was waiting for him on the other side of the blank slate of semi-lucidity.
If lucidity meant acknowledging that his situation was miserable, he'd just remain a blank slate, thank you very much.
The pin-pricks, however, just kept on stabbing, sending small cascades of water down his skin. If only it would stop. A rivulet of water was snaking down his jaw towards his neck, and now down his collar...
Neal shivered at the sensation, reaching up to-
No. Not reaching up, to do anything. The shiver, combined with the attempt to move his arms, was the catalyst. Every unhappy fact began to line up and register itself. His arms were cuffed behind his back. They hurt. He was sitting on something hard, somewhere cold, and a thin rain was pelting his upturned face.
Automatically tilting his head down to shelter his face from the rain-he could solve that problem, at least-he began to uncurl from his slumped position. Then he realized that not only were his arms cuffed behind his back, but they were cuffed to something behind his back. Some sort of pipe, from the feel of it.
He tried to shift himself upright more carefully, and moaned in simple self-pity at the protests of his body. His arms weren't alone in hurting. He hardly knew which demand to listen to first: the pounding in his skull, the throbbing of his ribcage, or the stabbing pain in his left wrist.
In the end nausea played the trump card, and it was a near thing avoiding throwing up on his own outstretched legs.
He felt better afterwards, in the same way that anyone who reaches vomiting point feels after they've painfully unburdened their stomached of bile and acid. Essentially, there was nowhere to go but “better” from where he was sitting, feeling the cramps in his stomach slowly ease up.
God. Where was Peter?
And, nearly as pressing a question, when had Neal fallen into expecting rescue via his personal, Federally paid baby-sitter?
That self-cross-questioning would save for another time. Right now he'd take Peter's scowling face happily, lecture and all.
He cast about for just a sight, and found instead only dank alleyway and the far-off yellow glow of a streetlight to his right. But that new information sparked recollection. He'd been taking an evening stroll when it had started to rain. He'd been jogging back home, trying to avoid getting entirely soaked through, when the three men had appeared. Unfamiliar faces. Biceps like pro-wrestlers. Hard fists, and booted feet.
They'd hit him over the head, dragged him somewhere, and then proceeded to work him over. And while they'd worked him over they'd talked about some guy named Billy. Billy the Claw? Billy...the Crab? It'd had something to do with crustaceans. Or primates? He had no idea if either hazy memory approached reality. He'd been in a lot of pain, and the impression of something to do with primates might very well have simply been his last errant thought on three apes pounding him into the pavement.
Whatever title they'd given “Billy,” it had been something so clichéd Neal remembered almost laughing in their faces. Until one of them had stamped on his wrist, and he'd been forced to focus on fighting back a scream.
What he clearly remembered was their threat to come back and break his other wrist if he didn't work his hardest to see that “Billy” was acquitted in court next week.
Whatever they'd meant, and whoever they'd thought they were talking to, the idea of the men returning made Neal squirm gingerly against his restraints. With a sinking feeling he immediately became aware of one entirely immobile wrist-his left, the one they'd trampled, sensitive to the merest twitch-and the other cold and stiff enough to be equally useless. Flexing his fingers felt like dexterity beyond his ability at the moment, never mind picking the lock.
Then his eyes snagged on the sight of his anklet, and Neal noticed something so ludicrously heart-warming it brought a small smile to his face.
The light was flashing red.
He'd never thought he'd be so happy to see that sight in his life.
Tilting his head back again, enough to let the rain water run into his mouth and rinse out the bad taste, he waited for his government-employed babysitter to arrive.
***
Neal was going to owe him coffee. Coffee, and then some.
Opening the car door, Peter headed at a brisk pace for the alleyway where the Marshals had directed him. What Neal was doing hanging out less than a block outside his radius was beyond Peter's ability to even begin to guess at. Especially beyond his ability at one o'clock in the morning.
Which brought him back to that coffee Neal was going to owe him for this. He really owed Elizabeth something, too, seeing as Peter hadn't been able to get out of the house without waking her. And she'd looked worried after Peter told her what the call was about. Worried. Neal definitely owed her something, for making her sit up anxiously waiting for news at one o'clock in the morning.
And maybe Peter was more worried than angry, too. But anger was a whole lot easier to deal with at this time in the morning. He'd brought his gun all the same, and not because he had concerns that it was Neal he might wind up needing to use it on.
At least it had stopped raining. He'd brought the flashlight he kept in his glove compartment, shining it towards one side of the alley, and then the other...
He heard the muffled yelp before he'd fully registered the sight of Neal, sitting on the ground, eyes shut tight against the beam of light shining in his eyes.
Peter crouched next to him, turning the flashlight so it wasn't directly upon him. It wasn't hard to see Neal wasn't loitering around outside of his radius just to give Peter and the U.S. Marshals a-literal-wake up call.
Quickly casting aside thoughts of preserving his (haphazardly assembled) wardrobe, Peter knelt, ignoring the water that instantly began to seep into the knees of his pants.
“Neal?”
“Finally,” Neal mumbled, eyes still screwed shut. “Good to know I'd have this much of a head start if I ever decide to break for it in the middle of the night...”
Peter was too distracted with reaching out, tilting Neal's face away for a better view of the damage to the side of his face, to react to Neal's tone of belligerent impatience. There was already some nasty swelling developing along the jaw. “Yeah, well. I'm usually sleeping at this hour. Just a heads-up for the next time you decide to get mugged.”
“Wasn't a mugging,” Neal mumbled, “They thought I was a lawyer...or something. Think they broke my wrist.”
“Let me see.”
“Can't,” Neal said with effrontery. “Hands'r cuffed.”
Tucking the flashlight under his arm, Peter pulled out his wallet and produced the handcuff key he kept there.
After that, Peter discovered that the mugging he'd initially suspected would've been a walk in the park compared to whatever had happened to Neal.
Getting the handcuffs off Neal proved to be a more painful process than Peter had anticipated. There was definitely something broken, if the fast breathing and small, not-quite-suppressed whimpers from Neal were any indication. By the time he was finished, Neal was unashamedly leaning against him for support, and Peter let him. He could feel the shivers, violent and steady. Who knew what other damage was done. It was hard to tell by flashlight, and Neal wasn't acting particularly lucid. Concussion, probably.
“I'm calling an ambulance.”
Neal might've moaned something unenthusiastically about just driving to the ER instead, but Peter was already dialing, reporting facts to the operator crisply before pocketing his cell and giving Neal's shoulder a firm pat. “Doing alright?” He felt Neal's head nod tiredly-and Peter couldn't decided if it was the most natural thing in the world, or the most bizarre, to be sitting there serving as Neal Caffrey's human prop and emergency source of warmth. But apparently Neal didn't care one way or the other at the moment that his head was tucked underneath Peter's chin as he listed forward in an unconcerned slump, for all the world like an exhausted toddler collapsed after too much fun on the playground.
Carefully shrugging out of his jacket, Peter managed to sloppily cover Neal with it. He kept his hand on Neal's back, monitoring the rise and fall of each breath, and they waited.
Just another gray hair, courtesy of Neal Caffrey.
“You definitely owe me coffee for this, kid,” Peter sighed into the air near Neal's ear, and closed his eyes briefly in relief at the sound of an approaching ambulance.
***
“So it really wasn't my fault.”
“No. It wasn't your fault.”
Neal smiled. A bruised smile, more than a little battered around the edges, but undiminished in its gloating.
Peter could've rolled his eyes. “You just wanted to hear me say that.”
Ensconced on the couch beneath a mound of blankets, Neal shrugged. “Admit it. You thought it was my fault.”
Peter did roll his eyes. “You just try and tell me I don't have plenty of reason to automatically assume it's your fault.”
“June was worried about me. Elizabeth was worried about me. Worried, Peter, not angry.”
“Yeah, well, the Marshal who called about your anklet going off wasn't exactly in a sunshine and flowers kind of mood.”
“Aw, Peter. You saying he was worried about me, too? You're the only one who assumed it was some jealous lover out to...tar-and-feather me?”
“More like a jealous curator, out to teach you the meaning of loss.”
Neal rested his head back against the arm of the couch. “But it wasn't-”
“-Your fault. Yeah. There, I've said it twice, happy?” Peter was lenient in his exasperation. He was in a lenient mood after what he'd seen in ER last night. They'd really worked Neal over. The broken wrist might've been the most serious of the damage, but the bruising was extensive enough that Neal was definitely going to be uncomfortable for a while. Thank God Elizabeth had been there to descend upon Neal with plenty of care and compassion when Peter'd brought him home, because Peter had been feeling far from nurturing by that point. He'd gone from grumpy and not awake, to exhausted, awake, and way beyond grumpy. Because the men who'd done that to Neal had to be found, and he planned on being the one to find them.
He decided there was something singularly unjust about Neal getting beaten up for a half-wit lawyer who was stupid enough to get caught up in some low-level gang's bribery and, predictably, threats to ensure he'd follow through when he got nervous and showed an inclination toward backing out. Peter would've been the first to admit that Neal had done stuff to merit various and sundry forms of repercussions-but a thorough beating via hired thug wasn't one of them.
Neal, being Neal, was basking in his moment of fault-free trauma. It'd also been his own sketches that had helped to ID two of the three men-who'd been pulled over by cops initially for speeding, booked for the possession of drugs, and eventually charged with assault, with further charges being looked into. All of which could only contribute to his currently glowing halo.
“You're looking pretty smug,” Neal noted-hypocritically.
“Well, we got 'em, didn't we?”
Neal raised an eyebrow.
Peter gave the palms-up gesture of Bestowal of Honor. “Fine. You and NYPD got them.”
“You helped,” Neal offered, smirking magnanimously.
“Nah. I only dragged myself out of bed at one o'clock in the morning to drag your sorry butt to ER. That was nothing. Do it all the time. As a matter of fact, I insist you never call anyone else should you find yourself in a similar situation. Day or night, I'm here.”
Somewhere, somehow, he'd gotten all somber, and serious-and listen, I mean it, Neal-while saying that last part. And he found himself looking into Neal's equally serious expression.
“Thanks, Peter. For, you know...dragging my butt to ER.”
“Sure.”
“And Peter?”
“Hmm.”
“Coffee, tomorrow. My treat.”
***
End
***