"Breathing Space"
Fandom: White Collar
Title: Breathing Space
Author: TeeJay
Written for: anonymous at collarkink
Prompt: I would like to read an AU in which Neal suffers a violent panick attack in that tiny room [from 3,10], maybe triggered by some traumatic experience in his past, he honestly thought he could handle it and carry out his plan but he underestimated the trauma still lurking in the depths of his soul. Peter has no idea about it.
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Peter
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Spoilers for up to and including 3x10 'Countdown'
Summary: Peter locks Neal in a storage room to get him out of his hair for a while. What Peter doesn't know is that Neal has a problem with small spaces. AU for the storage room scene in 3x10 'Countdown'.
Author's Note: kanarek13 pointed me to this prompt last night, and it just had to be written. I was defenseless. Hasn't been beta'ed, so if you find any typos, inconsistencies or other errors, feel free to let me know so I can fix them.
Disclaimer: White Collar, its characters and its settings belong to Jeff Eastin and USA Network. And, guys? Your characters are not only welcome, they're wonderful. I'm just borrowing, I promise.
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Neal thinks he can brave it. He's been locked in small rooms before. He's always made it out, more or less unscathed. But, damn, this one is stuffy, and much too bright.
He doesn't know why he has a problem with barren, white walls. It's irrational, he knows, to get panicky in a room that radiates light. People get claustrophobic in dark, cramped spaces, in tiny rooms in the absence of light.
Neal isn't "people". It becomes clear to him once again, at this very moment. He can still feel Peter's iron grip around his bicep as the lock of the door clicks into place. The smile on Neal's face, the smug expression quickly fades. He looks around, looks up. White walls, white ceiling panels. A tiny light on the wall. No air condition or vent that he can see.
He loosens the tie around his neck. Already the feeling washes over him that he can't breathe. "Don't be silly," he tells himself. "There's enough air in here that'll last you a whole day, probably two." It doesn't help. Much.
He can feel a droplet of sweat trickling down his spine, can feel his shirt becoming wet in the regions of his armpits. He takes off the suit jacket, throws it carelessly over the backrest of the single chair in the room. It strikes him as odd that there even is a chair in the room, since that is the only item in it.
He sits down at first, looking for an escape route. He knows he can do this for ten minutes, maybe fifteen if he keeps it together. But Peter will likely take longer than that.
He tries distraction techniques, runs through numbers in his mind. Then paintings. His favorites. Gaugin, Toulouse-Lautrec, Cézanne. He moves on to the surrealists, just because his mind is taking him there. Ernst, Dalí, Tanguy, Magritte. Ceci n'est pas une pipe.
It's not helping. He gets up, paces around the chair a few times. His breath is coming out in ragged hitches. He stops, grips the top of the chair's backrest with both hands. His heart is now pounding in his chest, and he tries to calm this breathing. But he's out of control, his body is betraying his mind. His hands start shaking and he grips the faux leather harder until his knuckles become white.
A stumbling step takes him to the door, his wet palms brace his body against the white veneer. He pounds his hand against the door, repeats the motion. "Help!" he calls. "Get me outta here!"
His breath is coming out in staccato gasps now, and he sucks air into his lungs in a desperate attempt to raise his voice for another shout. "Help! I need to get out!"
Help doesn't come. Maybe the receptionists can't hear him, maybe Peter told them not let Neal out. The boy who cried wolf. Neal is that boy, and his own screams are choking him.
He can't get enough air into his lungs, and the nausea and dizziness hit him all at once. His knees buckle and he doesn't even feel the thud when his kneecaps make contact with the floor. His palms flat on the ground in front of him, he doubles over.
His fingers tingle and threaten to go numb, and something inside him twists and turns. It's a small miracle that his heart is even still pumping blood through this veins, that his lungs can supply it with oxygen. Maybe it's pure survival instinct, but this breathing evens out-just a little. Enough to feel the nausea full force.
A hand clutches his stomach. Don't puke, don't puke, don't puke, his mind reels. Because he knows that will only make it worse. "Help," he tries again, but it comes out barely as a whimper. "I can't, I just-" he gasps.
Time passes in agonizing increments. He doesn't hear the approaching footsteps that are slightly rushed, the murmur of voices outside, doesn't hear the key being inserted in the lock.
He does hear Peter's voice, though, booming and comforting and no-nonsense. "Come on, Neal, get up. Let's go. Enough with the theatrics."
Neal wants to obey, he really does, but his body won't let him.
He chokes out a, "Peter," but it falls flat after the first syllable.
Suddenly, a strong, steady hand lays on his back. "Neal?" It sounds unsure, wavering.
"Neal." There is a definite edge of panic now, and Neal empathizes to the power of ten. "Jesus, Neal."
"Call an ambulance," Peter shouts, and there is sudden commotion.
Hands come back to grip his shoulders, push him more upright. Wide, brown eyes seek out his. "Neal, tell me what's wrong."
"Can't... breathe..." he rasps.
"What, are you having an allergic reaction? What? Neal, Neal?"
"No... just..." He breathes in and out a few times. "Panic attack. Happens... sometimes."
"Damn," Peter hisses. "This room, we need to get you out of here, all right?"
Neal manages a small nod. Peter's strong hands grip his arms, pull him upright. Neal's leg are made of rubber, and the dizziness hits together with the nausea, just like before.
Together they stumble a few steps, and Peter sets Neal down by one of the marble columns. Near the glass doors, so Neal can see the outside, because Peter has a suspicion that this has something to do with enclosed spaces.
Neal's breathing has already become steadier, less labored. Peter's hand finds his upper arm, his shoulder, and squeezes. "Hang in there. Breathe. You're okay. You're okay."
Neal finally feels safe-or at least safer, and he succumbs. He doubles over, leans sideways and his stomach heaves. It's messy and gross, and when he's done, he mumbles, "I'm sorry."
"No," Peter's voice soothes. "Don't. Don't apologize. If anyone needs to apologize, it's me."
Neal's eyes find Peter's, and they share a moment that needs no words. It is then that sirens wail in the distance, coming closer. Peter breathes a sigh of relief.
Twenty minutes later, Peter saunters over to where Neal is sitting in the back of the ambulance, fumbling the band aid that covers the puncture mark in the crook of his arm where they injected the Ativan.
"Hey buddy," Peter greets him, the tone of his voice not belying the concern rooted in it. "Feeling better?"
Neal's regained most of his composure, and some of his dignity. "Much."
"Are they taking you?"
"No, don't think they are."
"Hey, listen..." Peter starts, and Neal almost wants to shush him right there. He doesn't.
Peter continues, his voice uncharacteristically low, gentle. "Neal, I'm sorry. I didn't know you... you had issues with small rooms. If I'd known, I would have-"
"It's okay," Neal interrupts him. "I thought I could ride it out."
Peter's voice is filled with regret, with guilt. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Would you have listened?"
Peter ponders this for a moment. He decides to be honest. "No, probably not."
The smile on Neal's face is almost apologetic, with a hint of lightheartedness that seems out of place. "And you're still asking me why?"
"Neal, I..." Peter starts, and it's obvious he wants to trust Neal, wants to hold out his hand and be assured that it's not going to be cut off at the wrist when he does. "I really want to believe you. You know that, right?"
"But...?" The silence stretches out for a beat.
"You know why there is a 'but'."
Neal does, and his face falls. He drops the mask of pretense and playfulness. "Yeah," he just sighs.
That is all they say on the matter, and that is all they can say-and will say.
In both their minds, there is a voice that whispers, "You need to do more, you need to be better at this." And that's what they both want to keep reminding themselves of, but will forget again the next time they dance their well-choreographed dance.
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THE END.
Title: Breathing Space
Author: TeeJay
Written for: anonymous at collarkink
Prompt: I would like to read an AU in which Neal suffers a violent panick attack in that tiny room [from 3,10], maybe triggered by some traumatic experience in his past, he honestly thought he could handle it and carry out his plan but he underestimated the trauma still lurking in the depths of his soul. Peter has no idea about it.
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Peter
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Spoilers for up to and including 3x10 'Countdown'
Summary: Peter locks Neal in a storage room to get him out of his hair for a while. What Peter doesn't know is that Neal has a problem with small spaces. AU for the storage room scene in 3x10 'Countdown'.
Author's Note: kanarek13 pointed me to this prompt last night, and it just had to be written. I was defenseless. Hasn't been beta'ed, so if you find any typos, inconsistencies or other errors, feel free to let me know so I can fix them.
Disclaimer: White Collar, its characters and its settings belong to Jeff Eastin and USA Network. And, guys? Your characters are not only welcome, they're wonderful. I'm just borrowing, I promise.
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Neal thinks he can brave it. He's been locked in small rooms before. He's always made it out, more or less unscathed. But, damn, this one is stuffy, and much too bright.
He doesn't know why he has a problem with barren, white walls. It's irrational, he knows, to get panicky in a room that radiates light. People get claustrophobic in dark, cramped spaces, in tiny rooms in the absence of light.
Neal isn't "people". It becomes clear to him once again, at this very moment. He can still feel Peter's iron grip around his bicep as the lock of the door clicks into place. The smile on Neal's face, the smug expression quickly fades. He looks around, looks up. White walls, white ceiling panels. A tiny light on the wall. No air condition or vent that he can see.
He loosens the tie around his neck. Already the feeling washes over him that he can't breathe. "Don't be silly," he tells himself. "There's enough air in here that'll last you a whole day, probably two." It doesn't help. Much.
He can feel a droplet of sweat trickling down his spine, can feel his shirt becoming wet in the regions of his armpits. He takes off the suit jacket, throws it carelessly over the backrest of the single chair in the room. It strikes him as odd that there even is a chair in the room, since that is the only item in it.
He sits down at first, looking for an escape route. He knows he can do this for ten minutes, maybe fifteen if he keeps it together. But Peter will likely take longer than that.
He tries distraction techniques, runs through numbers in his mind. Then paintings. His favorites. Gaugin, Toulouse-Lautrec, Cézanne. He moves on to the surrealists, just because his mind is taking him there. Ernst, Dalí, Tanguy, Magritte. Ceci n'est pas une pipe.
It's not helping. He gets up, paces around the chair a few times. His breath is coming out in ragged hitches. He stops, grips the top of the chair's backrest with both hands. His heart is now pounding in his chest, and he tries to calm this breathing. But he's out of control, his body is betraying his mind. His hands start shaking and he grips the faux leather harder until his knuckles become white.
A stumbling step takes him to the door, his wet palms brace his body against the white veneer. He pounds his hand against the door, repeats the motion. "Help!" he calls. "Get me outta here!"
His breath is coming out in staccato gasps now, and he sucks air into his lungs in a desperate attempt to raise his voice for another shout. "Help! I need to get out!"
Help doesn't come. Maybe the receptionists can't hear him, maybe Peter told them not let Neal out. The boy who cried wolf. Neal is that boy, and his own screams are choking him.
He can't get enough air into his lungs, and the nausea and dizziness hit him all at once. His knees buckle and he doesn't even feel the thud when his kneecaps make contact with the floor. His palms flat on the ground in front of him, he doubles over.
His fingers tingle and threaten to go numb, and something inside him twists and turns. It's a small miracle that his heart is even still pumping blood through this veins, that his lungs can supply it with oxygen. Maybe it's pure survival instinct, but this breathing evens out-just a little. Enough to feel the nausea full force.
A hand clutches his stomach. Don't puke, don't puke, don't puke, his mind reels. Because he knows that will only make it worse. "Help," he tries again, but it comes out barely as a whimper. "I can't, I just-" he gasps.
Time passes in agonizing increments. He doesn't hear the approaching footsteps that are slightly rushed, the murmur of voices outside, doesn't hear the key being inserted in the lock.
He does hear Peter's voice, though, booming and comforting and no-nonsense. "Come on, Neal, get up. Let's go. Enough with the theatrics."
Neal wants to obey, he really does, but his body won't let him.
He chokes out a, "Peter," but it falls flat after the first syllable.
Suddenly, a strong, steady hand lays on his back. "Neal?" It sounds unsure, wavering.
"Neal." There is a definite edge of panic now, and Neal empathizes to the power of ten. "Jesus, Neal."
"Call an ambulance," Peter shouts, and there is sudden commotion.
Hands come back to grip his shoulders, push him more upright. Wide, brown eyes seek out his. "Neal, tell me what's wrong."
"Can't... breathe..." he rasps.
"What, are you having an allergic reaction? What? Neal, Neal?"
"No... just..." He breathes in and out a few times. "Panic attack. Happens... sometimes."
"Damn," Peter hisses. "This room, we need to get you out of here, all right?"
Neal manages a small nod. Peter's strong hands grip his arms, pull him upright. Neal's leg are made of rubber, and the dizziness hits together with the nausea, just like before.
Together they stumble a few steps, and Peter sets Neal down by one of the marble columns. Near the glass doors, so Neal can see the outside, because Peter has a suspicion that this has something to do with enclosed spaces.
Neal's breathing has already become steadier, less labored. Peter's hand finds his upper arm, his shoulder, and squeezes. "Hang in there. Breathe. You're okay. You're okay."
Neal finally feels safe-or at least safer, and he succumbs. He doubles over, leans sideways and his stomach heaves. It's messy and gross, and when he's done, he mumbles, "I'm sorry."
"No," Peter's voice soothes. "Don't. Don't apologize. If anyone needs to apologize, it's me."
Neal's eyes find Peter's, and they share a moment that needs no words. It is then that sirens wail in the distance, coming closer. Peter breathes a sigh of relief.
Twenty minutes later, Peter saunters over to where Neal is sitting in the back of the ambulance, fumbling the band aid that covers the puncture mark in the crook of his arm where they injected the Ativan.
"Hey buddy," Peter greets him, the tone of his voice not belying the concern rooted in it. "Feeling better?"
Neal's regained most of his composure, and some of his dignity. "Much."
"Are they taking you?"
"No, don't think they are."
"Hey, listen..." Peter starts, and Neal almost wants to shush him right there. He doesn't.
Peter continues, his voice uncharacteristically low, gentle. "Neal, I'm sorry. I didn't know you... you had issues with small rooms. If I'd known, I would have-"
"It's okay," Neal interrupts him. "I thought I could ride it out."
Peter's voice is filled with regret, with guilt. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Would you have listened?"
Peter ponders this for a moment. He decides to be honest. "No, probably not."
The smile on Neal's face is almost apologetic, with a hint of lightheartedness that seems out of place. "And you're still asking me why?"
"Neal, I..." Peter starts, and it's obvious he wants to trust Neal, wants to hold out his hand and be assured that it's not going to be cut off at the wrist when he does. "I really want to believe you. You know that, right?"
"But...?" The silence stretches out for a beat.
"You know why there is a 'but'."
Neal does, and his face falls. He drops the mask of pretense and playfulness. "Yeah," he just sighs.
That is all they say on the matter, and that is all they can say-and will say.
In both their minds, there is a voice that whispers, "You need to do more, you need to be better at this." And that's what they both want to keep reminding themselves of, but will forget again the next time they dance their well-choreographed dance.
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THE END.