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White Collar fic: the tune without the words
Oh look, I wrote the blood loss fic after all! Unbeta'd, pure idfic. This is a tag/missing scene (or rather, a series of them) for my earlier WC fic "Courier" (LJ / DW / AO3). But if you haven't read that one, you can probably read this as a series of snippets from a random White Collar field mission gone wrong. Title is from Emily Dickinson.
Title: the tune without the words
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing/rating: PG/gen
Word Count: 1000
Notes: for my![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hc_bingo square "blood loss"
Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/242024
The thought comes to Neal unbidden, in the back of Hafstetter's car: This is Hell. Hell is knowing that Peter might be bleeding to death two feet away from him, and not being able to do a damn thing about it.
Hell is keeping up a facade of enmity, when what he really wants to do is get Peter to a hospital, for God's sake. Call Diana and Jones. Pull the plug on this whole operation. Or, at least, lean over in the backseat and get Peter out of that wet overcoat and stop the bleeding.
He'd tried tapping out R U OK? on Peter's wrist a little earlier, and Peter tapped Y for "yes" -- because this is super-agent Peter Burke, and Peter probably thinks that admitting that he's in pain and possibly bleeding to death isn't badass enough or something.
Now, silent and stealthy in the dark, Neal keeps his fingers on Peter's pulse: Peter's heartbeat thready and fast, his hand cold as ice. They can communicate this way, in limited snatches of Morse code, and more importantly, simple human contact. With Neal's hand on Peter's wrist, Peter can't just die, there in the seat next to him, without Neal being any the wiser. He'd know, he'd have warning, he'd be able to do something first.
When he gets out to escort Grace into the airport, he gives Peter's wrist a small squeeze before he leaves. Wait for me, it says, and I'm here and Don't die before I get back, because then I'd have to train another FBI agent and I've already got all this time invested in training you.
Please don't die.
******
With Grace between them, he doesn't even have the reassurance of being able to touch Peter, to feel the aliveness of him. Still, he manages to slip his hand between the girl's back and the seat, reaching across to squeeze Peter's arm and tap "OK?" against the shoulder of his overcoat.
Peter gives him a small, tight nod.
It has to be enough.
And he goes on playing the game -- Hafstetter's devoted employee, keeping an eye on the prisoner. Neal knows all too well how to step outside himself, how to become the role he's playing. He's Hafstetter's thug, and as such, he doesn't give a damn that the prisoner is bleeding to death in the seat next to him.
Peter's bleeding to death, and Neal's bleeding inside, but it doesn't show, and that's the important thing.
******
And yet, for all of that, Neal still discovers a brand new definition of Hell when Hafstetter puts a gun in his hand and tells him to kill Burke.
******
He doesn't feel the pain until it's all over. Hafstetter's bullet winged him in the left side, just below the ribs -- the gun was aimed at Peter's chest, but Neal pushed him out of the way; he'd already given Peter his own gun, there wasn't any other way, and Neal doesn't hesitate to point out that it's a little unfair, the way Peter keeps glaring at him for saving his life.
But Peter can glare all he likes as long as it means he's alive to do the glaring. They're all right. The kid's all right. Everything is all right. Neal closes his eyes and lets relief wash over him like the rain.
And then there's a flurry of sirens and FBI agents around them, and he goes weak and shaky because someone else can take over now -- it's over, it's done, he can hand off the weight to other people and just be for a while. He can't drop the mask completely: he's still Neal Caffrey, after all. Falling over in the mud, bursting into laughter or tears -- these are things he's not about to do in front of half the White Collar division. He has a reputation to maintain, not to mention a fair modicum of self-respect.
But at least now there's a dry place to sit in the back of an ambulance, while a pretty medic patches up his side. She tells him how lucky he was, and that he'll be sore for a few days, and he should come to the ER if he notices any redness or swelling.
"If I do, will you be there to take care of me?" he asks her, smiling, charm on autopilot.
"Are you really flirting with the paramedic?" Peter's voice is weak, but he doesn't seem to be lacking in his usual measure of sarcasm.
Neal struggles to his feet and goes to lean on the edge of Peter's gurney, trying to stay out of the way of the paramedics. Peter's face is gray under the harsh overhead lights in the ambulance, and his whole arm is covered with blood: blood everywhere, matting his coat sleeve -- they've had to cut it away, Neal notices -- and soaking his shirt and staining the sheet under him.
"I can't help it if I'm a people person," Neal says. He's shivering now; he has to set his jaw to keep his teeth from clicking together. He needs to get back to June's, have a shower, change clothes, get back to being him. He can still feel the burning line that the bullet traced across his side, a map to a different, deadlier future in which it went a little further to the right, a little higher up.
Neal's hand is resting on the edge of the gurney, and he jumps when Peter takes hold of his wrist. Peter's long, strong fingers curl around his wrist and tap something quick in Morse code. While the paramedics bustle around them, Peter taps O. K. and a question mark.
Neal grins. Y, he taps back.
~
Title: the tune without the words
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing/rating: PG/gen
Word Count: 1000
Notes: for my
hc_bingo square "blood loss"Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/242024
The thought comes to Neal unbidden, in the back of Hafstetter's car: This is Hell. Hell is knowing that Peter might be bleeding to death two feet away from him, and not being able to do a damn thing about it.
Hell is keeping up a facade of enmity, when what he really wants to do is get Peter to a hospital, for God's sake. Call Diana and Jones. Pull the plug on this whole operation. Or, at least, lean over in the backseat and get Peter out of that wet overcoat and stop the bleeding.
He'd tried tapping out R U OK? on Peter's wrist a little earlier, and Peter tapped Y for "yes" -- because this is super-agent Peter Burke, and Peter probably thinks that admitting that he's in pain and possibly bleeding to death isn't badass enough or something.
Now, silent and stealthy in the dark, Neal keeps his fingers on Peter's pulse: Peter's heartbeat thready and fast, his hand cold as ice. They can communicate this way, in limited snatches of Morse code, and more importantly, simple human contact. With Neal's hand on Peter's wrist, Peter can't just die, there in the seat next to him, without Neal being any the wiser. He'd know, he'd have warning, he'd be able to do something first.
When he gets out to escort Grace into the airport, he gives Peter's wrist a small squeeze before he leaves. Wait for me, it says, and I'm here and Don't die before I get back, because then I'd have to train another FBI agent and I've already got all this time invested in training you.
Please don't die.
With Grace between them, he doesn't even have the reassurance of being able to touch Peter, to feel the aliveness of him. Still, he manages to slip his hand between the girl's back and the seat, reaching across to squeeze Peter's arm and tap "OK?" against the shoulder of his overcoat.
Peter gives him a small, tight nod.
It has to be enough.
And he goes on playing the game -- Hafstetter's devoted employee, keeping an eye on the prisoner. Neal knows all too well how to step outside himself, how to become the role he's playing. He's Hafstetter's thug, and as such, he doesn't give a damn that the prisoner is bleeding to death in the seat next to him.
Peter's bleeding to death, and Neal's bleeding inside, but it doesn't show, and that's the important thing.
And yet, for all of that, Neal still discovers a brand new definition of Hell when Hafstetter puts a gun in his hand and tells him to kill Burke.
He doesn't feel the pain until it's all over. Hafstetter's bullet winged him in the left side, just below the ribs -- the gun was aimed at Peter's chest, but Neal pushed him out of the way; he'd already given Peter his own gun, there wasn't any other way, and Neal doesn't hesitate to point out that it's a little unfair, the way Peter keeps glaring at him for saving his life.
But Peter can glare all he likes as long as it means he's alive to do the glaring. They're all right. The kid's all right. Everything is all right. Neal closes his eyes and lets relief wash over him like the rain.
And then there's a flurry of sirens and FBI agents around them, and he goes weak and shaky because someone else can take over now -- it's over, it's done, he can hand off the weight to other people and just be for a while. He can't drop the mask completely: he's still Neal Caffrey, after all. Falling over in the mud, bursting into laughter or tears -- these are things he's not about to do in front of half the White Collar division. He has a reputation to maintain, not to mention a fair modicum of self-respect.
But at least now there's a dry place to sit in the back of an ambulance, while a pretty medic patches up his side. She tells him how lucky he was, and that he'll be sore for a few days, and he should come to the ER if he notices any redness or swelling.
"If I do, will you be there to take care of me?" he asks her, smiling, charm on autopilot.
"Are you really flirting with the paramedic?" Peter's voice is weak, but he doesn't seem to be lacking in his usual measure of sarcasm.
Neal struggles to his feet and goes to lean on the edge of Peter's gurney, trying to stay out of the way of the paramedics. Peter's face is gray under the harsh overhead lights in the ambulance, and his whole arm is covered with blood: blood everywhere, matting his coat sleeve -- they've had to cut it away, Neal notices -- and soaking his shirt and staining the sheet under him.
"I can't help it if I'm a people person," Neal says. He's shivering now; he has to set his jaw to keep his teeth from clicking together. He needs to get back to June's, have a shower, change clothes, get back to being him. He can still feel the burning line that the bullet traced across his side, a map to a different, deadlier future in which it went a little further to the right, a little higher up.
Neal's hand is resting on the edge of the gurney, and he jumps when Peter takes hold of his wrist. Peter's long, strong fingers curl around his wrist and tap something quick in Morse code. While the paramedics bustle around them, Peter taps O. K. and a question mark.
Neal grins. Y, he taps back.
~