WC Fic: There Goes the Fear
Title: There Goes the Fear
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Peter in my brain but can be read as Gen
Spoilers: In the Wind
Content Notice: Angst, panic attack
Word Count: ~700
Summary: He’s the one who should be doing the comforting, not Peter.
A/N: Written for this prompt by angelita26 on Comfest 2013, now going on at whitecollarhc. Title is a song by Doves.
----
The door closes behind him and Peter’s too overjoyed to see Neal in person and not through an inch of bulletproof glass that he misses a few things.
Like how Neal won’t look at the bars on the door or the ones on the windows, or the tight set of his spine even as he rises to greet Peter with a manly shoulder bump-and-slap thing they both know is bullshit, but this meeting is being recorded for posterity.
“How are you even able to be here? Alone?” Peter asks, sitting across the table from Neal.
“I’m a part of your defense team.”
“You’re an ex-con.”
“Current con, actually. Apparently, they haven’t checked too thoroughly. Or, you know, it’s unlikely the most notorious killer in the country is going to try to-“
Neal's words are cut off by the loud, clanging sound of another cell door ramming shut somewhere, and this time Peter doesn’t miss the flinch, the quick dart of the eyes towards the door.
“Everything OK?” he asks, and even the conman’s smile, the one Peter always sees through anyway, fails Neal.
“I don’t -“ There’s a scream somewhere, a whoop, really, and Neal literally jumps in his seat. His hands are shaking even as his entire frame tenses, and his eyes are fixing on the center of the scarred wooden picnic table, and even Peter’s hands on his aren’t enough to bring him out of it.
“Neal, hey!” Peter says, taking Neal's hands in his own, but the look in Neal's eyes - the pupils are so dilated it’s like his eyes are black, and Peter can see the sweat darkening his hair around his hairline. He’s seen this before - once, only, when Kate died and word came down that Neal would have to go back to prison until the Powers That Be could work out his involvement in the whole Mentor thing.
“Neal!” Peter hisses as Neal squeezes his hands so tight his fingernails draw blood, but he doesn’t pull away, he couldn’t. Instead he just keeps talking, ducking his head to try to engage with Neal, to try to get him to focus on him. “Hey, it’s all right, you’re not here. I mean, you’re not staying here, OK? You’re safe - you can leave, it’s gonna be all right. Neal, it’s gonna be all right.”
It takes several long minutes, but finally Neal's breathing calms and he draws a steadying breath. Self-consciously, he pulls his hands from Peter’s and folds them in his lap. “I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice is thick, mournful.
“Don’t be - it’s understandable.”
“No, it’s not. You’re the one in prison, not me.”
“I’m the one getting out soon enough. As soon as you and the team figures it all out. I have faith in that, Neal.”
Neal looks up at Peter, his eyes wide, pupils more or less back to normal, but his eyes shine with unshed tears. “I thought I could do this.”
“You can do this.”
“I’m supposed to be the one helping you out, not the other way around. I feel so stupid.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Look at your hands!” Neal rises, walks around the table, and kneels in front of Peter, removing his pocket square to dab at the bloody crescent marks on Peter’s hands. “I fuck everything up.”
“You don’t.”
“I’m sorry, Peter.” He’s fussing over Peter’s hands a bit too strenuously, and Peter finally takes his face between his hands and stares into his eyes.
“Please. Stop. Apologizing. Prison was bad for you. Your reaction is normal. I don’t blame you for it, no one would.” Neal leans forward until his forehead rests on Peter’s knee. Peter settles his hands in the thick hair and rubs the scalp lightly with his fingertips. If he closes his eyes, he could almost pretend they’re not here, that they’re on the couch at home with the dog at their feet and Elizabeth curled up asleep at the other end, and…
He can’t do that. Instead, he settles for offering comfort to someone else, because it makes him feel needed in this most hopeless of places.
----
Thank you for your time.
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Peter in my brain but can be read as Gen
Spoilers: In the Wind
Content Notice: Angst, panic attack
Word Count: ~700
Summary: He’s the one who should be doing the comforting, not Peter.
A/N: Written for this prompt by angelita26 on Comfest 2013, now going on at whitecollarhc. Title is a song by Doves.
----
The door closes behind him and Peter’s too overjoyed to see Neal in person and not through an inch of bulletproof glass that he misses a few things.
Like how Neal won’t look at the bars on the door or the ones on the windows, or the tight set of his spine even as he rises to greet Peter with a manly shoulder bump-and-slap thing they both know is bullshit, but this meeting is being recorded for posterity.
“How are you even able to be here? Alone?” Peter asks, sitting across the table from Neal.
“I’m a part of your defense team.”
“You’re an ex-con.”
“Current con, actually. Apparently, they haven’t checked too thoroughly. Or, you know, it’s unlikely the most notorious killer in the country is going to try to-“
Neal's words are cut off by the loud, clanging sound of another cell door ramming shut somewhere, and this time Peter doesn’t miss the flinch, the quick dart of the eyes towards the door.
“Everything OK?” he asks, and even the conman’s smile, the one Peter always sees through anyway, fails Neal.
“I don’t -“ There’s a scream somewhere, a whoop, really, and Neal literally jumps in his seat. His hands are shaking even as his entire frame tenses, and his eyes are fixing on the center of the scarred wooden picnic table, and even Peter’s hands on his aren’t enough to bring him out of it.
“Neal, hey!” Peter says, taking Neal's hands in his own, but the look in Neal's eyes - the pupils are so dilated it’s like his eyes are black, and Peter can see the sweat darkening his hair around his hairline. He’s seen this before - once, only, when Kate died and word came down that Neal would have to go back to prison until the Powers That Be could work out his involvement in the whole Mentor thing.
“Neal!” Peter hisses as Neal squeezes his hands so tight his fingernails draw blood, but he doesn’t pull away, he couldn’t. Instead he just keeps talking, ducking his head to try to engage with Neal, to try to get him to focus on him. “Hey, it’s all right, you’re not here. I mean, you’re not staying here, OK? You’re safe - you can leave, it’s gonna be all right. Neal, it’s gonna be all right.”
It takes several long minutes, but finally Neal's breathing calms and he draws a steadying breath. Self-consciously, he pulls his hands from Peter’s and folds them in his lap. “I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice is thick, mournful.
“Don’t be - it’s understandable.”
“No, it’s not. You’re the one in prison, not me.”
“I’m the one getting out soon enough. As soon as you and the team figures it all out. I have faith in that, Neal.”
Neal looks up at Peter, his eyes wide, pupils more or less back to normal, but his eyes shine with unshed tears. “I thought I could do this.”
“You can do this.”
“I’m supposed to be the one helping you out, not the other way around. I feel so stupid.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Look at your hands!” Neal rises, walks around the table, and kneels in front of Peter, removing his pocket square to dab at the bloody crescent marks on Peter’s hands. “I fuck everything up.”
“You don’t.”
“I’m sorry, Peter.” He’s fussing over Peter’s hands a bit too strenuously, and Peter finally takes his face between his hands and stares into his eyes.
“Please. Stop. Apologizing. Prison was bad for you. Your reaction is normal. I don’t blame you for it, no one would.” Neal leans forward until his forehead rests on Peter’s knee. Peter settles his hands in the thick hair and rubs the scalp lightly with his fingertips. If he closes his eyes, he could almost pretend they’re not here, that they’re on the couch at home with the dog at their feet and Elizabeth curled up asleep at the other end, and…
He can’t do that. Instead, he settles for offering comfort to someone else, because it makes him feel needed in this most hopeless of places.
----
Thank you for your time.