"Who Will I Turn To?"
Fandom: White Collar
Title: Who Will I Turn To?
Author: TeeJay
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Elizabeth
Written for: Round 3 of thenewpub's writing session on Oct 01, 2011
Prompt: Bedtime stories
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Neal hates this. He's never sick, and when he is, it's always bad. Just his fucking luck.
Author's Note: Just a little gentle Neal!Whump for the h/c junkies. Title from "Virgin State of Mind" by K's Choice (ignore the Roswell visuals of the video, though that was a great TV show too). Thanks to kanarek13 for the ad-hoc spelling beta.
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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He lies in this bed that is alien and unfamiliar, yet warm and welcoming and uncomfortable at the same time. It's not that the mattress is lumpy or hard, or that the sheets are rough or dirty. Because it's actually just the opposite. The bed is perfect. But Neal is not.
He wants to crawl out of his own skin, swap bodies with someone who's not flu-ridden and feverish and aching in every muscle and tendon and bone.
He shifts positions, rolls onto his back. A moan escapes his lips that he doesn't bother suppressing. His throat is dry, sandpapery, and even the thought of swallowing anything grinds his soul like fingernails on a blackboard. He's also thirsty, which is incongruent and unfortunate.
The mug that was once filled with peppermint tea on his nightstand is empty, and the nearest source of ingestible liquid is the tap of the Burke's bathroom. He figures he might just as well attempt the trip because his bladder is giving him warning signals on top. He wonders what time it is. It is dark outside, and the house is quiet. It feels like well after 1 AM, or 3 or 4. He can't tell.
He fights off waves of dizziness as he stands, steadying himself against the wall with one hand. He hates this. He's never sick, and when he is, it's always bad. Just his fucking luck.
He vaguely remembers the one time in Stockholm. He'd been alone in a cheap hotel room, and the stomach flu had thrown him for almost two weeks. He'd lost over 12 pounds then, and for a while he'd considered calling for an ambulance when he couldn't hold any liquids for almost two days.
That had been touch and go, and he doesn't want to go back there. At least now he has Peter and Elizabeth who are taking care of him. He doesn't want to admit it, but he's consummately thankful all the same.
The trip to the bathroom is more laborious than it should be, and the cool water he sups from his cupped hand feels good. He downs two of the Tylenol pills while he's at it. The pills scratch his sore throat, and he almost gags them back up. Swallowing hard, he leans forward with his hands on the sink before he gathers the little energy he has left to splash water on his face, wiping it with the towel that El set aside for him. His face is pallid, his cheeks flushed, his eyes glassy. He looks like crap. He feels like crap too, and gross and lightheaded and just not himself.
Exhaustedly, he shuffles back to the guestroom, crawls into bed, shivering underneath the mound of blankets. A sigh escapes his lips. He closes his eyes, wishing just a little bit he could sleep and never wake up again, if waking up meant having to go through more of this.
There's a low harrumph from the doorway, and Elizabeth's soft voice asks, "Can't sleep?"
He opens his eyes a crack to barely make out her silhouette in the dim light of the hallway. "I wish I could," he rasps, his voice barely his own.
"Can I come in?" she asks, almost timidly.
"Yeah," he approves.
She edges closer, crouches down next to him. Her cool hand touches his forehead and he almost leans into the touch.
"You should take some more Tylenol. Your fever's still going strong."
"Just did."
"Can I get you anything? More tea?"
He closes his eyes again, and it takes a second or two too long before he answers. "No, thanks."
"Okay. I'll let you get some rest," she says, straightening up.
"El?" he whispers, and she stops, because maybe his tone of voice was almost like a plea.
"Yeah?"
He wants to say, "Please stay," or "Don't go," but he knows it's not right. Before he can say anything, though, she reads his mind.
"You want me stay a bit?"
"No," he quickly says, "Yes," his inner voice contradicts. "You need to get up early tomorrow," he tells her.
She gingerly sits down on the edge of the bed, in the hollow of his curled up body. Her hand on his ribcage just above his waist, the soft strokes of her thumb, it feels reassuring, and he tries to draw strength from it.
"What can I do?" she asks.
"Get me a new body?" he quips, but the airiness isn't there.
"We're fresh out of those, I'm afraid." She picks up the book that is lying on his nightstand. It's a copy of 'Road Dogs', and she opens the front cover. "How about I read to you?"
He can't help but let out a chuckle (because the sheer idea is so absurd), which prompts a coughing fit he isn't prepared for. He slowly recovers, El's guiding hand gently rubbing his back to help him through it.
"I've always wanted to read Elmore Leonard. How about it?" she prompts when his breathing evens out.
"I think you'd like it."
"Well then," she changes her position on the bed. "I hope Elmore and the two of us are going to become fast friends."
He isn't sure what's happening when he feels the bed shift, her weight lifting off it. He's too drained to open his eyes, to care, to visually confirm, though the idea of her leaving him by himself makes him want to cry-even though he knows she and Peter are sleeping just across the hall.
The mattress moves again gently a moment later, and he hears a soft click of a light switch. The faint red shining through his closed eyelids becomes a shade brighter. He realizes Elizabeth must have joined him on the other side of the bed. He can feel her adjusting the pillows behind her back against the headrest, and something inside of him uncurls and eases.
The rustle of the pages is a little too loud, a little too harsh, but is soon forgotten as Elizabeth's voice drifts to his ears. She tells of Jack Foley and Cundo Rey, and he's too tired to follow the actual story. But the plot is not important, it's not what makes Neal relax, makes the all-encompassing misery shift to a hazy mist that hovers but doesn't intrude. This is all it takes for him to know he can endure it until it clears.
The soft lilt of Elizabeth's storytelling is the most comforting thing he can recall for a long time, maybe ever. The gratefulness that washes over him is the last thing he remembers before his mind drifts off into an exhausted slumber.
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THE END.
Title: Who Will I Turn To?
Author: TeeJay
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Elizabeth
Written for: Round 3 of thenewpub's writing session on Oct 01, 2011
Prompt: Bedtime stories
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Neal hates this. He's never sick, and when he is, it's always bad. Just his fucking luck.
Author's Note: Just a little gentle Neal!Whump for the h/c junkies. Title from "Virgin State of Mind" by K's Choice (ignore the Roswell visuals of the video, though that was a great TV show too). Thanks to kanarek13 for the ad-hoc spelling beta.
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.
+-+-+-+-+
He lies in this bed that is alien and unfamiliar, yet warm and welcoming and uncomfortable at the same time. It's not that the mattress is lumpy or hard, or that the sheets are rough or dirty. Because it's actually just the opposite. The bed is perfect. But Neal is not.
He wants to crawl out of his own skin, swap bodies with someone who's not flu-ridden and feverish and aching in every muscle and tendon and bone.
He shifts positions, rolls onto his back. A moan escapes his lips that he doesn't bother suppressing. His throat is dry, sandpapery, and even the thought of swallowing anything grinds his soul like fingernails on a blackboard. He's also thirsty, which is incongruent and unfortunate.
The mug that was once filled with peppermint tea on his nightstand is empty, and the nearest source of ingestible liquid is the tap of the Burke's bathroom. He figures he might just as well attempt the trip because his bladder is giving him warning signals on top. He wonders what time it is. It is dark outside, and the house is quiet. It feels like well after 1 AM, or 3 or 4. He can't tell.
He fights off waves of dizziness as he stands, steadying himself against the wall with one hand. He hates this. He's never sick, and when he is, it's always bad. Just his fucking luck.
He vaguely remembers the one time in Stockholm. He'd been alone in a cheap hotel room, and the stomach flu had thrown him for almost two weeks. He'd lost over 12 pounds then, and for a while he'd considered calling for an ambulance when he couldn't hold any liquids for almost two days.
That had been touch and go, and he doesn't want to go back there. At least now he has Peter and Elizabeth who are taking care of him. He doesn't want to admit it, but he's consummately thankful all the same.
The trip to the bathroom is more laborious than it should be, and the cool water he sups from his cupped hand feels good. He downs two of the Tylenol pills while he's at it. The pills scratch his sore throat, and he almost gags them back up. Swallowing hard, he leans forward with his hands on the sink before he gathers the little energy he has left to splash water on his face, wiping it with the towel that El set aside for him. His face is pallid, his cheeks flushed, his eyes glassy. He looks like crap. He feels like crap too, and gross and lightheaded and just not himself.
Exhaustedly, he shuffles back to the guestroom, crawls into bed, shivering underneath the mound of blankets. A sigh escapes his lips. He closes his eyes, wishing just a little bit he could sleep and never wake up again, if waking up meant having to go through more of this.
There's a low harrumph from the doorway, and Elizabeth's soft voice asks, "Can't sleep?"
He opens his eyes a crack to barely make out her silhouette in the dim light of the hallway. "I wish I could," he rasps, his voice barely his own.
"Can I come in?" she asks, almost timidly.
"Yeah," he approves.
She edges closer, crouches down next to him. Her cool hand touches his forehead and he almost leans into the touch.
"You should take some more Tylenol. Your fever's still going strong."
"Just did."
"Can I get you anything? More tea?"
He closes his eyes again, and it takes a second or two too long before he answers. "No, thanks."
"Okay. I'll let you get some rest," she says, straightening up.
"El?" he whispers, and she stops, because maybe his tone of voice was almost like a plea.
"Yeah?"
He wants to say, "Please stay," or "Don't go," but he knows it's not right. Before he can say anything, though, she reads his mind.
"You want me stay a bit?"
"No," he quickly says, "Yes," his inner voice contradicts. "You need to get up early tomorrow," he tells her.
She gingerly sits down on the edge of the bed, in the hollow of his curled up body. Her hand on his ribcage just above his waist, the soft strokes of her thumb, it feels reassuring, and he tries to draw strength from it.
"What can I do?" she asks.
"Get me a new body?" he quips, but the airiness isn't there.
"We're fresh out of those, I'm afraid." She picks up the book that is lying on his nightstand. It's a copy of 'Road Dogs', and she opens the front cover. "How about I read to you?"
He can't help but let out a chuckle (because the sheer idea is so absurd), which prompts a coughing fit he isn't prepared for. He slowly recovers, El's guiding hand gently rubbing his back to help him through it.
"I've always wanted to read Elmore Leonard. How about it?" she prompts when his breathing evens out.
"I think you'd like it."
"Well then," she changes her position on the bed. "I hope Elmore and the two of us are going to become fast friends."
He isn't sure what's happening when he feels the bed shift, her weight lifting off it. He's too drained to open his eyes, to care, to visually confirm, though the idea of her leaving him by himself makes him want to cry-even though he knows she and Peter are sleeping just across the hall.
The mattress moves again gently a moment later, and he hears a soft click of a light switch. The faint red shining through his closed eyelids becomes a shade brighter. He realizes Elizabeth must have joined him on the other side of the bed. He can feel her adjusting the pillows behind her back against the headrest, and something inside of him uncurls and eases.
The rustle of the pages is a little too loud, a little too harsh, but is soon forgotten as Elizabeth's voice drifts to his ears. She tells of Jack Foley and Cundo Rey, and he's too tired to follow the actual story. But the plot is not important, it's not what makes Neal relax, makes the all-encompassing misery shift to a hazy mist that hovers but doesn't intrude. This is all it takes for him to know he can endure it until it clears.
The soft lilt of Elizabeth's storytelling is the most comforting thing he can recall for a long time, maybe ever. The gratefulness that washes over him is the last thing he remembers before his mind drifts off into an exhausted slumber.
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THE END.