Fic: Wash Away the Pain
Title: Wash Away the Pain
Author: wraithkeeper
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Neal/Peter(/Elizabeth)
Spoilers: season 1 finale
Word Count: ~1,300
Disclaimer: White Collar and its characters don't belong to me.
Notes: Written for rabidchild67 for her Five Acts erotic bathing prompt. I totally failed on the erotic part, but consider this hurt/comfort bathing.
They caught the suspect just before he fled the country. As cliché as it sounds, they handcuffed him on the tarmac moments before he would have boarded his private jet. It had been a long and difficult case, and Peter would have been relieved to see it end if it hadn’t been for the fact that they were at an airport. Peter didn’t miss the way Neal’s shoulders tensed the second he stepped onto the tarmac. It wasn’t even the same airport, but something - the smell of jet fuel lingering in the air or the sound of planes taking off, Peter didn’t know - was enough to leave Neal painfully aware of the last time he’d been at an airstrip. Neal’s eyes darted nervously and he crowded closer to Peter’s side than he usually would allow himself.
By the time they get home, both men are exhausted. El takes one look at them before kissing each of them tenderly and guiding them upstairs. They fall into bed in a tangle of limbs, and Peter falls asleep almost instantly. When he wakes up, it’s to El’s warmth on one side and cold, empty sheets on the other. A quick glance at the alarm clock tells him they’d only been asleep a couple hours. Peter waits a minute to see if Neal has simply gotten up to go to the bathroom, but when the younger man doesn’t return Peter carefully disentangles himself from El’s grasp and stands up with a sigh. He knows where Neal will be.
He doesn’t have to turn on any lights as he navigates the familiar path to the guest bedroom that they had converted into Neal’s art studio. It’s where Neal always goes when he can’t sleep, so Peter is unsurprised to see Neal standing in front of an easel with his paintbrush hovering over the half-painted canvas, not quite touching. Neal is wearing nothing but silk pajama bottoms, so as Peter nears him and sees the goosebumps raised on Neal’s skin, he blames it on the cold, even though he knows better.
The painting is a cloud of dark paint, blacks and grays applied in harsh, jagged brushstrokes. The only color is the orange currently on Neal’s brush as he hesitantly touches it to the canvas. It could be the color of prison jumpsuits or of explosions and searing flames, but either way Peter feels a sense of dread at what the completed painting will be.
“Neal,” Peter says softly, and Neal snaps his head around. The brush jerks away from the canvas, its stroke cutting off abruptly before Peter can see what shape it would have taken. Peter approaches Neal and gently takes the brush from his trembling fingers. He rinses it in the little pot of water beside the easel, carefully wiping it clean with a towel before placing the brush on the table. He then takes Neal’s face in his hands and brushes a light kiss across his lips.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Peter whispers. Neal’s hands are coated in paint and at some point he must have scrubbed a hand over his face, as evidenced by the streaks of drying paint left behind. There’s even a smudged partial handprint of black and orange on his chest. Peter takes Neal’s hand and guides him down the hall and into the bathroom. Neal goes willingly, his tired eyes not quite focusing and his mind clearly trapped in some other place. Peter flicks on the bathroom light and sits Neal of the edge of the bathtub while he wets a washcloth. He dabs gently at the smudged paint on Neal’s face, but the gray streaks remain stubbornly affixed to Neal’s pale skin. Peter is sure Neal has a trick for this; he vaguely remembers Neal wiping something on his hands to remove the paint on previous occasions. After a few tries, Peter sighs and tosses the washcloth in the sink. This calls for more drastic measures.
Peter starts the tub filling with hot water and strips down first himself and then Neal. Peter guides Neal into the tub, and as much as he wants to lie with Neal leaning back into his chest so he can feel the younger man’s heart beating, he instead sits facing Neal so he can easily see to clean the paint from his face. Neal is slouched against the side of the tub, the water lapping over his chest from Peter’s movements.
Peter lathers soap between his hands and smoothes them over Neal’s chest, slowly rubbing more vigorously as he scrubs the paint away. When Neal’s chest is clean, Peter lathers up more soap and takes Neal’s hand in both of his, sliding his fingers between Neal’s and washing away the tacky coat of paint. Next, Peter gently cups Neal’s cheek and begins rubbing his thumb in circles over his delicate skin. The paint flakes away slowly under the thick lather of soap until finally Peter can rinse away the suds and see only Neal’s pale flesh.
Neal is still shaking so Peter pulls him closer until he is lying alongside Peter, his head resting on Peter’s shoulder. Peter sweeps Neal’s wet hair back from where it has fallen over his eyes. Neal buries his face in the crook of Peter’s neck, but even as he trembles his shoulders do not shake with sobs. They never do. Peter holds him close, alternating between rubbing soothing circles on his back and running his fingers through Neal’s wet hair. They stay like that until the water cools uncomfortably and Peter knows they have to get up. He presses a kiss into Neal’s hair and sits up slightly, shifting their bodies in the tub. Neal looks up at Peter silently, then nods and sits up. Peter stands and helps the younger man out of the tub, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around Neal’s shoulders. He dries Neal completely before he even thinks to grab a towel for himself.
Neal has stopped shaking now, but Peter drapes a bathrobe over his shoulders to protect him from chills until they reach the warmth of their bed. They climb underneath the covers, where Elizabeth immediately curls up against Neal with a sleepy sigh. Peter presses against Neal’s other side and Neal turns his face into Peter’s neck, pressing a kiss against his throat.
“I love you,” Neal whispers against Peter’s skin.
“I know,” Peter assures him quietly, but Neal has already slipped into sleep, “I love you, too, Neal.”
Peter stays awake for most of the night, stroking his hand through Neal’s hair and acting as sentry against any more nightmares. It’s almost morning before he finds sleep himself, and when he wakes up again the room is filled with sunlight and he’s the only one left in bed. Peter knows from past experience that if he goes into Neal’s studio the painting will be gone, although he isn’t sure whether Neal throws them out or has a box somewhere of all the haunting images he has put down on canvas in an attempt to exorcise them from his mind.
“You get any sleep last night?” Neal asks from the doorway, where he is now standing awkwardly.
“Enough,” Peter shrugs.
Neal walks into the room, still dressed in pajamas. He sits down on the edge of the mattress and leans over Peter, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.
“Thank you,” Neal whispers.
Peter knows Neal won’t want to talk about it, so he just kisses him instead.
“El’s in the shower,” Neal says when they pull apart, “should we help her?”
Peter smiles. “I like the way you think.”
Author: wraithkeeper
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Neal/Peter(/Elizabeth)
Spoilers: season 1 finale
Word Count: ~1,300
Disclaimer: White Collar and its characters don't belong to me.
Notes: Written for rabidchild67 for her Five Acts erotic bathing prompt. I totally failed on the erotic part, but consider this hurt/comfort bathing.
They caught the suspect just before he fled the country. As cliché as it sounds, they handcuffed him on the tarmac moments before he would have boarded his private jet. It had been a long and difficult case, and Peter would have been relieved to see it end if it hadn’t been for the fact that they were at an airport. Peter didn’t miss the way Neal’s shoulders tensed the second he stepped onto the tarmac. It wasn’t even the same airport, but something - the smell of jet fuel lingering in the air or the sound of planes taking off, Peter didn’t know - was enough to leave Neal painfully aware of the last time he’d been at an airstrip. Neal’s eyes darted nervously and he crowded closer to Peter’s side than he usually would allow himself.
By the time they get home, both men are exhausted. El takes one look at them before kissing each of them tenderly and guiding them upstairs. They fall into bed in a tangle of limbs, and Peter falls asleep almost instantly. When he wakes up, it’s to El’s warmth on one side and cold, empty sheets on the other. A quick glance at the alarm clock tells him they’d only been asleep a couple hours. Peter waits a minute to see if Neal has simply gotten up to go to the bathroom, but when the younger man doesn’t return Peter carefully disentangles himself from El’s grasp and stands up with a sigh. He knows where Neal will be.
He doesn’t have to turn on any lights as he navigates the familiar path to the guest bedroom that they had converted into Neal’s art studio. It’s where Neal always goes when he can’t sleep, so Peter is unsurprised to see Neal standing in front of an easel with his paintbrush hovering over the half-painted canvas, not quite touching. Neal is wearing nothing but silk pajama bottoms, so as Peter nears him and sees the goosebumps raised on Neal’s skin, he blames it on the cold, even though he knows better.
The painting is a cloud of dark paint, blacks and grays applied in harsh, jagged brushstrokes. The only color is the orange currently on Neal’s brush as he hesitantly touches it to the canvas. It could be the color of prison jumpsuits or of explosions and searing flames, but either way Peter feels a sense of dread at what the completed painting will be.
“Neal,” Peter says softly, and Neal snaps his head around. The brush jerks away from the canvas, its stroke cutting off abruptly before Peter can see what shape it would have taken. Peter approaches Neal and gently takes the brush from his trembling fingers. He rinses it in the little pot of water beside the easel, carefully wiping it clean with a towel before placing the brush on the table. He then takes Neal’s face in his hands and brushes a light kiss across his lips.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Peter whispers. Neal’s hands are coated in paint and at some point he must have scrubbed a hand over his face, as evidenced by the streaks of drying paint left behind. There’s even a smudged partial handprint of black and orange on his chest. Peter takes Neal’s hand and guides him down the hall and into the bathroom. Neal goes willingly, his tired eyes not quite focusing and his mind clearly trapped in some other place. Peter flicks on the bathroom light and sits Neal of the edge of the bathtub while he wets a washcloth. He dabs gently at the smudged paint on Neal’s face, but the gray streaks remain stubbornly affixed to Neal’s pale skin. Peter is sure Neal has a trick for this; he vaguely remembers Neal wiping something on his hands to remove the paint on previous occasions. After a few tries, Peter sighs and tosses the washcloth in the sink. This calls for more drastic measures.
Peter starts the tub filling with hot water and strips down first himself and then Neal. Peter guides Neal into the tub, and as much as he wants to lie with Neal leaning back into his chest so he can feel the younger man’s heart beating, he instead sits facing Neal so he can easily see to clean the paint from his face. Neal is slouched against the side of the tub, the water lapping over his chest from Peter’s movements.
Peter lathers soap between his hands and smoothes them over Neal’s chest, slowly rubbing more vigorously as he scrubs the paint away. When Neal’s chest is clean, Peter lathers up more soap and takes Neal’s hand in both of his, sliding his fingers between Neal’s and washing away the tacky coat of paint. Next, Peter gently cups Neal’s cheek and begins rubbing his thumb in circles over his delicate skin. The paint flakes away slowly under the thick lather of soap until finally Peter can rinse away the suds and see only Neal’s pale flesh.
Neal is still shaking so Peter pulls him closer until he is lying alongside Peter, his head resting on Peter’s shoulder. Peter sweeps Neal’s wet hair back from where it has fallen over his eyes. Neal buries his face in the crook of Peter’s neck, but even as he trembles his shoulders do not shake with sobs. They never do. Peter holds him close, alternating between rubbing soothing circles on his back and running his fingers through Neal’s wet hair. They stay like that until the water cools uncomfortably and Peter knows they have to get up. He presses a kiss into Neal’s hair and sits up slightly, shifting their bodies in the tub. Neal looks up at Peter silently, then nods and sits up. Peter stands and helps the younger man out of the tub, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around Neal’s shoulders. He dries Neal completely before he even thinks to grab a towel for himself.
Neal has stopped shaking now, but Peter drapes a bathrobe over his shoulders to protect him from chills until they reach the warmth of their bed. They climb underneath the covers, where Elizabeth immediately curls up against Neal with a sleepy sigh. Peter presses against Neal’s other side and Neal turns his face into Peter’s neck, pressing a kiss against his throat.
“I love you,” Neal whispers against Peter’s skin.
“I know,” Peter assures him quietly, but Neal has already slipped into sleep, “I love you, too, Neal.”
Peter stays awake for most of the night, stroking his hand through Neal’s hair and acting as sentry against any more nightmares. It’s almost morning before he finds sleep himself, and when he wakes up again the room is filled with sunlight and he’s the only one left in bed. Peter knows from past experience that if he goes into Neal’s studio the painting will be gone, although he isn’t sure whether Neal throws them out or has a box somewhere of all the haunting images he has put down on canvas in an attempt to exorcise them from his mind.
“You get any sleep last night?” Neal asks from the doorway, where he is now standing awkwardly.
“Enough,” Peter shrugs.
Neal walks into the room, still dressed in pajamas. He sits down on the edge of the mattress and leans over Peter, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.
“Thank you,” Neal whispers.
Peter knows Neal won’t want to talk about it, so he just kisses him instead.
“El’s in the shower,” Neal says when they pull apart, “should we help her?”
Peter smiles. “I like the way you think.”