White Collar - Out of Time
Notes: In the story there are references to Salvador Dali and his work. The Timepiece Paintings are a series of paintings that are best characterized by the soft watches and clocks in them. Peristence of Memory is one of Dali's most well-known paintings.
Life is as quiet as it has been these last two weeks.
It is a clear, crisp night that is shunned out. What Neal sees, is a bleak smear of colors ruining the skyline, the normally jovial city scape is now a deserted battlefield. New York is silent, as it has been since the funeral; dimmed and subdued in a way that vaguely reminds Neal of being snowed in. Ash cascading in a mute waltz.
It is the heavy quiet that presses against the ears.
With a sigh, he turns and walks inside. Mozzie is there. Neal doesn't acknowledge him; Mozzie doesn't seem to expect it.
Tonight, he's sitting before the easel, only in his undershirt despite the chill, and there are smears of paint on his face. He always gets paint on his face when his mind is somewhere else. The heavy odor of thinner hangs in the air, but he doesn't feel it. He's lost sense of smell long ago.
He picks up the brush, loads some red on it, and picks up from where he's left.
It's been two weeks since the funeral. Sixteen days since Elle-- since it happened. The world has all but crumbled in on itself, unable to support its own weight, and Neal's lost not only Elizabeth, but in a way, also Peter. Sixteen days. The clock ticks, but time doesn't flow; it slides past and doesn't touch what's underneath. Mornings come, and then the evenings; things happen, but they don't affect. It's an eerily strange experience; disturbing, because it wasn't like this after Kate died.
But again, Kate's death wasn't Neal's fault.
He presses the brush a bit harder than he should have, and it leaves a big red blotch on a tree trunk. He reaches for a dry brush and smoothes it out.
He somehow held himself through the entire service. Put on a mask much the way he does while conning people. He held it when Peter walked up to say a few words and couldn't; he held it all the way back home, and then, he locked himself in for days. Broke things, ripped apart all of his artwork, been sick for a number of times, but didn't cry. He was a mess when Mozzie found it in himself to check up on him. They sat down on the floor, side by side, and that's when Neal finally cried for Elizabeth. Mozzie left.
Mozzie is a good friend. He comes by some days, they sit together at the table, and share the silence. They don't touch the wine.
Neal's wrist continues to hover over the painting.
Sleep is pressing down on his eyelids, but his mind is clear. His mind is all too clear, except when he falls asleep. In the dark of his eyelids is Kate; Kate that morphs into Elizabeth, and gunshots that explode in flames; one moment he's Neal, and the next he's Peter, and at some point, it just doesn't matter who he is, because everyone dies, and he's left behind to watch. He wakes up to an invisible hand clasping his throat.
No; Neal isn't numbed by grief. Neal's never been the kind of man to simply be hung up; he doesn't linger. He knows that if it hadn't been for the treasure, if it hadn't been for the web of delicate lies that he'd entrapped Peter in, Keller wouldn't have gotten to him. Elizabeth would still be alive, and Neal would still have a chance to smooth his relationship with Peter.
Neal accepts it the way it is.
He pushes a little more alizarin onto the canvas, and ruins the same part he's just fixed. He's painting a Dali tonight; there is no angry red in this painting, so with an irritated huff, he leaves the offending brush aside and reaches for a new one. He is working on his own version of The Timepiece Paintings. This is the fifth painting he's started; the other four are on the floor, leant against the wall, facing away from the room. They're hidden in plain sight. Discarded once they serve their purpose.
These days, Neal understands Dali more than he ever did.
"Do you think he'll ever forgive us?" Mozzie asks morosely. Neal swallows, although Moz can't see it from his seat at the table. He mutely shakes his head, and Mozzie silences.
Neal doesn't want to think about Peter. It feels like he's dried up; there is June and Mozzie, but no Peter and no Elizabeth, and it's stifling. He doesn't want to think, doesn't want to acknowledge. Focus on what's there and not on what isn't.
Peter can beat him up, shoot him if he wants to; they could give him life without parole, and Neal doesn't care. He's lost Elizabeth,and he's lost Peter. He paints while waiting for the sentence.
His tired hand gives a jerk, and the hand on a lax quadrant spills out over the edge. Neal doesn't fix it.
"Perhaps," Mozzie whispers at length, "... perhaps we should go."
Neal's hand stills.
Should they really leave? For sure Neal has everything to run away from; the ruins of what he's wanted to hold on to, the weight of the debris on his chest, the shards of the trust that once existed between him and Peter. There's everything to leave behind, run and never look back; every reason to cast himself on the road again, and Peter won't even look for him this time -- or will he? -- will he come after him with a vengeance, more hellbent on bringing him to justice than he's ever been?
Yes, Neal can run. He should run.
But he won't leave.
"I can't," he says simply, without turning his head. Mozzie understands.
They don't need to talk much. Words have disappeared somewhere along the road; no one talks to each other. Everyone is here, everyone but Elizabeth, but life is deserted; there are imprints, but no souls. Time dangles from a dead tree branch, hovering over the haunted grounds. Persistence of Memory.
Memory of the first time he's met Elizabeth; memory of lunches with the Burkes's, memory of cons and stings pulled together, memories.. of a life Neal already suspects that has been a dream.
Memory persists.
Lingers.
Slows...
Stills.
And Neal waits.
Waits for life to reclaim itself. Waits for the sea to wash over the desert, to erode the sands of time. To make a change, however imperceptible. Neal is prepared, resolved, resigned.
These days, Neal paints melting clocks, and the scrape of his brush ticks for the silent watch.
.
Author's Commentary: This story -this feeling- came out of a dream; one of those mute dreams that fills into your chest and takes time to dispel. Perhaps it's because of the weight of this subject that I had so much trouble with this story; I'd say it's sculpted rather than being written; I'd say it's more jazz than pop. I'd say that I'm dissatisfied, but drained of reckoning with the premise. Which is why I'm giving up and drawing the line here. It's not my best story, but if, regardless of technical ineptitude, something ashen takes root in your chest, then I'd say the point is clear.
Since is the first -and hopefully last- time I've written character death, I think that the situation necessarily pushes the characters out of their element. Frankly, it's been really bizarre to put Neal Caffrey into such a morbid situation and try to scrutinize him. It makes me wonder if OOCness a given when you're writing death fics.
Please let me know what you think, if you've already come this far.
Life is as quiet as it has been these last two weeks.
It is a clear, crisp night that is shunned out. What Neal sees, is a bleak smear of colors ruining the skyline, the normally jovial city scape is now a deserted battlefield. New York is silent, as it has been since the funeral; dimmed and subdued in a way that vaguely reminds Neal of being snowed in. Ash cascading in a mute waltz.
It is the heavy quiet that presses against the ears.
With a sigh, he turns and walks inside. Mozzie is there. Neal doesn't acknowledge him; Mozzie doesn't seem to expect it.
Tonight, he's sitting before the easel, only in his undershirt despite the chill, and there are smears of paint on his face. He always gets paint on his face when his mind is somewhere else. The heavy odor of thinner hangs in the air, but he doesn't feel it. He's lost sense of smell long ago.
He picks up the brush, loads some red on it, and picks up from where he's left.
It's been two weeks since the funeral. Sixteen days since Elle-- since it happened. The world has all but crumbled in on itself, unable to support its own weight, and Neal's lost not only Elizabeth, but in a way, also Peter. Sixteen days. The clock ticks, but time doesn't flow; it slides past and doesn't touch what's underneath. Mornings come, and then the evenings; things happen, but they don't affect. It's an eerily strange experience; disturbing, because it wasn't like this after Kate died.
But again, Kate's death wasn't Neal's fault.
He presses the brush a bit harder than he should have, and it leaves a big red blotch on a tree trunk. He reaches for a dry brush and smoothes it out.
He somehow held himself through the entire service. Put on a mask much the way he does while conning people. He held it when Peter walked up to say a few words and couldn't; he held it all the way back home, and then, he locked himself in for days. Broke things, ripped apart all of his artwork, been sick for a number of times, but didn't cry. He was a mess when Mozzie found it in himself to check up on him. They sat down on the floor, side by side, and that's when Neal finally cried for Elizabeth. Mozzie left.
Mozzie is a good friend. He comes by some days, they sit together at the table, and share the silence. They don't touch the wine.
Neal's wrist continues to hover over the painting.
Sleep is pressing down on his eyelids, but his mind is clear. His mind is all too clear, except when he falls asleep. In the dark of his eyelids is Kate; Kate that morphs into Elizabeth, and gunshots that explode in flames; one moment he's Neal, and the next he's Peter, and at some point, it just doesn't matter who he is, because everyone dies, and he's left behind to watch. He wakes up to an invisible hand clasping his throat.
No; Neal isn't numbed by grief. Neal's never been the kind of man to simply be hung up; he doesn't linger. He knows that if it hadn't been for the treasure, if it hadn't been for the web of delicate lies that he'd entrapped Peter in, Keller wouldn't have gotten to him. Elizabeth would still be alive, and Neal would still have a chance to smooth his relationship with Peter.
Neal accepts it the way it is.
He pushes a little more alizarin onto the canvas, and ruins the same part he's just fixed. He's painting a Dali tonight; there is no angry red in this painting, so with an irritated huff, he leaves the offending brush aside and reaches for a new one. He is working on his own version of The Timepiece Paintings. This is the fifth painting he's started; the other four are on the floor, leant against the wall, facing away from the room. They're hidden in plain sight. Discarded once they serve their purpose.
These days, Neal understands Dali more than he ever did.
"Do you think he'll ever forgive us?" Mozzie asks morosely. Neal swallows, although Moz can't see it from his seat at the table. He mutely shakes his head, and Mozzie silences.
Neal doesn't want to think about Peter. It feels like he's dried up; there is June and Mozzie, but no Peter and no Elizabeth, and it's stifling. He doesn't want to think, doesn't want to acknowledge. Focus on what's there and not on what isn't.
Peter can beat him up, shoot him if he wants to; they could give him life without parole, and Neal doesn't care. He's lost Elizabeth,and he's lost Peter. He paints while waiting for the sentence.
His tired hand gives a jerk, and the hand on a lax quadrant spills out over the edge. Neal doesn't fix it.
"Perhaps," Mozzie whispers at length, "... perhaps we should go."
Neal's hand stills.
Should they really leave? For sure Neal has everything to run away from; the ruins of what he's wanted to hold on to, the weight of the debris on his chest, the shards of the trust that once existed between him and Peter. There's everything to leave behind, run and never look back; every reason to cast himself on the road again, and Peter won't even look for him this time -- or will he? -- will he come after him with a vengeance, more hellbent on bringing him to justice than he's ever been?
Yes, Neal can run. He should run.
But he won't leave.
"I can't," he says simply, without turning his head. Mozzie understands.
They don't need to talk much. Words have disappeared somewhere along the road; no one talks to each other. Everyone is here, everyone but Elizabeth, but life is deserted; there are imprints, but no souls. Time dangles from a dead tree branch, hovering over the haunted grounds. Persistence of Memory.
Memory of the first time he's met Elizabeth; memory of lunches with the Burkes's, memory of cons and stings pulled together, memories.. of a life Neal already suspects that has been a dream.
Memory persists.
Lingers.
Slows...
Stills.
And Neal waits.
Waits for life to reclaim itself. Waits for the sea to wash over the desert, to erode the sands of time. To make a change, however imperceptible. Neal is prepared, resolved, resigned.
These days, Neal paints melting clocks, and the scrape of his brush ticks for the silent watch.
.
Author's Commentary: This story -this feeling- came out of a dream; one of those mute dreams that fills into your chest and takes time to dispel. Perhaps it's because of the weight of this subject that I had so much trouble with this story; I'd say it's sculpted rather than being written; I'd say it's more jazz than pop. I'd say that I'm dissatisfied, but drained of reckoning with the premise. Which is why I'm giving up and drawing the line here. It's not my best story, but if, regardless of technical ineptitude, something ashen takes root in your chest, then I'd say the point is clear.
Since is the first -and hopefully last- time I've written character death, I think that the situation necessarily pushes the characters out of their element. Frankly, it's been really bizarre to put Neal Caffrey into such a morbid situation and try to scrutinize him. It makes me wonder if OOCness a given when you're writing death fics.
Please let me know what you think, if you've already come this far.