Title: Blurry
Author: Lymricks
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: Gen, Friendship
Spoilers: Pilot, basically that's it.
Warnings: A little discussion of some Neal!Whump.
Word Count: 1400
Notes: For
this prompt at
collarcornerSummary: It's raining in New York City and Neal's hands are numb. He's just trying to forget about what happened that day.
New York is not a quiet place.
It’s something that Neal loves about the city. The rush of noise against his eardrums keeps him alert. He fell in love with New York because it drowns out the rest of the world. When he’s listening to New York, he can’t hear them looking for him.
Of course, no one is looking for him now. At least, not like they used to. Perhaps somewhere in an anonymous federal building, a man with a face he’s never seen is pulling up a blinking dot on a computer, a dot that means Neal Caffrey is here. Mozzie thinks it’s a leash and Alex thinks it’s a liability, but privately, in the back of his mind, Neal occasionally thinks it’s nice that someone knows where he is.
New York is not a quiet place, but at just the right hour and just the right temperature, the rain can make it seem that way. Neal looks over the railing at the city and curls his fingers around the cold wet metal. His hands are numb-not good, for an artist.
Anyone can find him up here if they really want to. Anyone can pull up his little blinking dot. It’s not quite like having a target on his back, although there are days when he feels like that. Instead, it’s like having a hand. A warm, soft hand that isn’t wet from the rain or cold from the metal.
This is why Neal sometimes wants to stay. He’s almost, almost tired of running-no, not of running-he’s tired of the free fall. He doesn’t want to dodge clouds as he plummets toward the gravel below, he wants to float down with a warm, soft hand against his back, telling him that he doesn’t need to have all the answers, just this once.
Water drips from his soaking hair into his eyes and he tosses his head to clear his vision.
“You spend too much time staring at that skyline.”
The voice is June’s, he knows the cadence and the inflection. She’s standing in the doorway, her figure silhouetted against the bright light of the apartment. He almost apologizes, because he’s wearing her husband’s suit and he’s soaking wet-but he doesn’t. He knows June wont really mind.
“I never liked rainy days like this,” she continues, wrapping the silk shawl a little tighter around her shoulders, subconsciously emphasizing the point. “Byron did the same thing you do. Especially if it had been a hard day. He’d come stand out here no matter the weather. ‘Byron,’ I used to say, ‘Come inside, New York is blurry and cold tonight,’ but he never would.” She falls quiet for a while and they watch each other. “New York is blurry, Neal,” she says finally, and she sounds concerned, but Neal can hear the smile in her words. “Everything is out of focus. Get some rest, you look tired and no one is watching tonight.”
That draws a laugh out of Neal and he holds his ankle out for her, “Now, now, June,” he says, “Someone is always watching.”
“There are different ways to watch a person, Neal Caffrey,” she says as she walks away. Neal watches her long after the clink of the closing glass door. He always has known how to say what he’s thinking (or at the very least, what he wants to be thinking), but June just went and nailed what he’s been trying to say all night.
“June says you’ve been out here for a while.”
Peter.
Neal turns, just a fraction of an inch, so that he can see Peter in his peripherals. The agent doesn’t say anything else, but Neal can see his calm in the irritating stillness of his body. Neal, who is currently working very hard to maintain his composure, hates the way that Peter is so nonchalantly confident, even out here in the pouring rain.
“June also says Byron used to wind down like this,” Neal counters, because he doesn’t like the idea of June and Peter talking about him behind his back-even if their intentions sound caring.
“You have a lot to wind down from,” Peter agrees.
That one sentence forces Neal to think about everything he’s been trying to forget since he stepped outside onto the terrace in the pouring rain. He grips the railing tighter and stares out at the blinking, flashing lights of New York City. It is blurry in the rain, June’s right.
“Neal,” Peter’s voice is patient in that irritating way he has, the way that reminds Neal not a little of an older brother. Patient and understanding in an ‘I’ve been there, too’ kind of way. “I know you were-”
“It doesn’t matter,” Neal says, too quickly. “You came before things got bad.”
“No, we came before things got worse. There’s a difference, Neal, and I know the system really failed you tonight.”
Neal thinks back to that afternoon and remembers not just his confidence in the plan, but Peter’s confidence that the Marshalls would be there in time. ‘No one will get hurt,’ Peter had told him.
Neal had believed him, too, something he never would have done before the FBI had become part of his daily routine.
He doesn’t know how or why his cover got blown, but he does know that he’d been sipping an expensive martini when the men had come out from behind the partition. He’d dropped the glass and it had shattered. Neal has never liked guns and he’s never really known what to do when one is pointed at him, except recoil. He’d recoiled right back into a big, burly chest and then been taken and locked in a room.
The room had been small and it had filled up fast with smoke, but it was freezing too. The combination had been interesting, leaving Neal, with his back against an icy metal wall, to wonder if he would die of smoke inhalation or if he would freeze.
Hours had passed, he knew that, and he’d been kept alive. He hadn’t survived, because that would imply he had any part in it. They hadn’t killed him, just left him to lie there, miserable and splitting at the seams.
“I kept thinking that you would come.”
That’s the most honest thing he’s ever said in his life, Neal Caffrey is sure of it.
The rain beats down hard against the terrace, against the fabric of his Devore, against his hair. It beats down hard against Peter too, who is suddenly right next to him. “I did come, Neal,” Peter reminds him.
Neal clenches the railing and closes his eyes. He breathes slowly and measurably. “I always thought I was unbreakable,” he admits. “Alex-I think it was Alex-was the first one to tell me that someday, someday I wouldn’t be unbreakable.”
“Neal-” Peter is struggling for words, Neal can tell, “There’s a difference between the façade of fortitude that you let us see, and the truth behind that.”
“Eloquent,” Neal deflects, looking away from Peter. “It doesn’t matter, Peter.”
“Are you going to be all right?”
This is why Neal likes Peter. They don’t have to talk about the details. About how Neal can still taste the smoke deep in the back of his throat, or about how his hands haven’t stopped being numb since they got him out (he grips the metal tighter, telling himself he’s making the choice to make them numb), Peter can just ask the question that covers all of that.
Neal has a choice to make. He can be honest or he can lie, but Neal has had enough of lying for one day.
“I don’t know,” he admits so quietly that it is almost lost in the rain.
But New York, although never silent, is quieter tonight, and Peter hears him. He wraps an arm around Neal’s shoulders and leads him back inside and they spend the whole night and a bottle of wine talking about everything but Neal’s long, long day.
When Neal wakes up, a little hung over, Peter is gone and the sun is out.
The pavement outside is still wet though, and there are two wine glasses on the table.
Neal flexes his fingers and smiles because they aren’t numb.