Survival Skills
Title: Survival Skills
Author: hurinhouse
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: G
Characters: Neal, Peter, Elizabeth
Summary: Independence only carries you so far when you're on death's door.
Disclaimer: Entirely fiction
Word Count: 512
Notes: For Elrhiarhodan's Promptfest IX for the prompt: Neal - recuperate
They found him in the snow on the coldest day February had seen in nine years, dumped in the median between two lanes of highway, at the bottom of a steep ravine that spanned almost three miles. It was by chance that he was seen - the driver of an old Chevy stopped at the berm of the fast lane, his blown tire having chosen that mile marker to give up.
Horrified strangers draped him in blankets, carrying him out of that grave, and though they thought he was beyond help, doctors were miraculously able to revive him. He had no identification and he was unable to tell them anything useful, but they took the appropriate steps to report his existence to those who might be looking for him.
Dreams came to him, of pain and desperation, of stealing and running, of his heart breaking from being left behind. Waking flashbacks consisted only of sneaking to survive and he didn't need much of a memory to know he had that skill in spades. Medical personnel confined him to his bed to prevent that natural instinct, but he'd go back to the con once he had the strength.
When Peter and Elizabeth came, he didn't know them, but he immediately felt a building warmth and was able to let go of part of his fear. They called him Neal as though he should know it. He couldn't remember that name, but it made them happy. Their house felt like home when they got him through the door. Elizabeth hugged him incessantly as if he was broken, Peter made sure he had everything he could ever need, and Satchmo kept bowling him over as if they were best friends.
Neal couldn't sleep that first night. They'd gone out of their way to make him feel welcome, but he kept waiting for the catch. He couldn't help but dream of a snatch and run, but he stuck it out, if only to satisfy his curiosity on what the next day would bring, on what it would take to make them show their true colors and kick him out.
His slow recovery didn't stop him from trying to sabotage a few of Peter and Elizabeth's plans, in varying degrees of frustration on their part. They did their best to ignore his efforts to goad them. The worst his schemes earned him was Satchmo trapping his legs beneath the covers one night. It felt nice.
After dinner on the sixth night, while Elizabeth was dishing up small bowls of ice cream for dessert, Neal sat on the couch beside Peter, Satchmo leaning against his other side, as they watched the game. Peter leaned over to pat Satchmo's head while he ran a soothing hand over Neal's fur, head to tail. Neal purred in reply, his first in this house.
"What do you think, Satch? Happy with your new brother?"
Sathmo nuzzled Neal's ear and that's when it hit him. No more stealing or running or pain. He belonged here. He could survive here. He would stay here.
Author: hurinhouse
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: G
Characters: Neal, Peter, Elizabeth
Summary: Independence only carries you so far when you're on death's door.
Disclaimer: Entirely fiction
Word Count: 512
Notes: For Elrhiarhodan's Promptfest IX for the prompt: Neal - recuperate
They found him in the snow on the coldest day February had seen in nine years, dumped in the median between two lanes of highway, at the bottom of a steep ravine that spanned almost three miles. It was by chance that he was seen - the driver of an old Chevy stopped at the berm of the fast lane, his blown tire having chosen that mile marker to give up.
Horrified strangers draped him in blankets, carrying him out of that grave, and though they thought he was beyond help, doctors were miraculously able to revive him. He had no identification and he was unable to tell them anything useful, but they took the appropriate steps to report his existence to those who might be looking for him.
Dreams came to him, of pain and desperation, of stealing and running, of his heart breaking from being left behind. Waking flashbacks consisted only of sneaking to survive and he didn't need much of a memory to know he had that skill in spades. Medical personnel confined him to his bed to prevent that natural instinct, but he'd go back to the con once he had the strength.
When Peter and Elizabeth came, he didn't know them, but he immediately felt a building warmth and was able to let go of part of his fear. They called him Neal as though he should know it. He couldn't remember that name, but it made them happy. Their house felt like home when they got him through the door. Elizabeth hugged him incessantly as if he was broken, Peter made sure he had everything he could ever need, and Satchmo kept bowling him over as if they were best friends.
Neal couldn't sleep that first night. They'd gone out of their way to make him feel welcome, but he kept waiting for the catch. He couldn't help but dream of a snatch and run, but he stuck it out, if only to satisfy his curiosity on what the next day would bring, on what it would take to make them show their true colors and kick him out.
His slow recovery didn't stop him from trying to sabotage a few of Peter and Elizabeth's plans, in varying degrees of frustration on their part. They did their best to ignore his efforts to goad them. The worst his schemes earned him was Satchmo trapping his legs beneath the covers one night. It felt nice.
After dinner on the sixth night, while Elizabeth was dishing up small bowls of ice cream for dessert, Neal sat on the couch beside Peter, Satchmo leaning against his other side, as they watched the game. Peter leaned over to pat Satchmo's head while he ran a soothing hand over Neal's fur, head to tail. Neal purred in reply, his first in this house.
"What do you think, Satch? Happy with your new brother?"
Sathmo nuzzled Neal's ear and that's when it hit him. No more stealing or running or pain. He belonged here. He could survive here. He would stay here.