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White Collar fic: Trust Me
Because I reaaaallllly needed a little bit of fluffy, super-cliche h/c after that last story.
Title: Trust Me
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1200
Summary: This time it's Neal's turn to deal with a drugged Peter. (And I am totally counting this one for the Wild Card space on my h/c bingo card - "imprisonment" will probably do, since "drugging" is inexplicably not on their list of prompts!)
Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/295327
Another day, another prison cell. Lovely.
Neal had already managed to escape twice, but he hadn't made it more than halfway down the corridor either time. The second time, they'd punched him in the face and put him in a much smaller room that basically reminded him of a concrete-floored closet. It was a whole lot harder to escape from. And now his face hurt.
Clearly he needed a better plan.
If he'd been on his own, he could have just sat and waited for his captors to show up, then tried to reason with them or manipulate them. This usually worked. But ... they'd taken Peter. And the thought of what might be happening to Peter was driving him up the wall. Or, as the case may be, out the door.
He was contemplating a deeply unrealistic plan involving his tie pin, his shoes and his third backup set of lock picks when the door opened. Neal caught a brief glimpse of two big guys with Peter supported between them. They shoved Peter inside, where he staggered one step and collapsed in a heap. The door slammed.
"Peter!"
Neal knelt beside him and rolled him over. Peter looked unexpectedly okay: he'd lost his suit jacket, but he still had his shirt and tie, and while they'd roughed him up a little bit -- split lip, a couple of bruises -- he looked basically all right. Also, he was giggling.
Giggling. Peter Burke. That was not right.
"Oh," Neal said. "They gave you something, didn't they? This is going to be fun. Nice role reversal, by the way."
"Neal. Hi." Peter grinned up at him, then frowned. "Stop spinning. That's an order."
"Working on it." Neal helped him sit up, tilting him against the wall. Peter squinted at him. "Did they hurt you?" Neal asked. "... Much," he added, frowning at Peter's split lip and ruffled hair.
"Noooo," Peter said, obviously having to think about it. "Drugged me." His brow furrowed. "This seems a little bit familiar all of a sudden."
"Yes, it is, except the last person it happened to was me."
"Weird."
"Yes," Neal said. He found himself experiencing a certain amount of sympathy for Peter having to deal with him at the Howser Clinic. This was a lot less fun than he'd expected, and a lot more disturbing. Also, it was going to absolutely suck trying to escape with Peter like this.
Peter began to hum. Off key.
"You're doing that to annoy me, aren't you. This is payback."
"Do you like showtunes?" Peter asked.
Neal decided to try the door again. Still just as locked as it had been, and it was going to be damned difficult to pick the lock from this side. He knelt down in front of Peter again. "Did you see anything when they brought you down here?"
"I am the very something of a modern Major General -- what?"
"Outside," Neal said, "the door. What's out there?"
Peter thought about it, concentrating hard. Then he said, "What was the question?"
"Never mind," Neal sighed. Yeah, definitely less fun than expected. Then he noticed that Peter had managed to focus on him and was looking at his face intently. "What? Have you started hallucinating?"
Peter reached out and touched the bruise under Neal's eye. His fingers were unexpectedly gentle. "Oh, Neal," he said quietly. "They hurt you."
"Not ... much?"
"Gonna kill 'em." Peter tried to get up, which was totally ineffectual since his legs didn't work properly.
"Wow, sit down, Rambo. I'm all right."
"No one," Peter declared drunkenly, "no one gets to -- Gonna kill 'em. Kill 'em. Where are my legs?"
"Right where they always are." Neal finally got him to hold still by holding him down with a hand on each shoulder, and putting most of his weight on his hands. Peter really was strong, even drugged. "Peter, seriously, I'm fine. Well, mostly. In all essential ways."
"I'm sorry," Peter said.
Neal let go, cautiously, and when Peter didn't seem inclined to go anywhere, sat down against the wall beside him. "What are you sorry about?"
"I'm supposed to be the one who -- but I can't. I can't think." Peter pressed his fingertips against his forehead. "Can't do anything. Just going to slow you down."
Oh God. The only thing worse than a happy, stoned Peter was a depressed, stoned Peter having an existential crisis. "Calm down," Neal said. "Since we're both trapped in here, it doesn't actually matter at the moment."
"You're you. You can probably get out. Go on." Peter waved a somewhat floppy hand. "Escape. 'm gonna be fine."
"Are you seriously telling me to get out of here and leave you behind?"
"Slow you down," Peter repeated. He was starting to shiver.
"Luckily, you are far too stoned to be making decisions like that. As the only compos mentis person in this room, I hereby declare that no one is leaving anyone behind. Strangely enough," Neal said, "you were the one who said that to me, remember?" He slipped off his jacket and wrapped it around Peter's shoulders.
"Sorry," Peter murmured. He was starting to wilt, the cheerful, manic energy seeping out of him, leaving him droopy and shaking.
"For inflicting your chivalrous notions of duty on me? You oughta be."
"I feel like hell." Peter rubbed his temples. "Head hurts. Things won't stop spinning. I told you to stop spinning ... I think ..."
"Welcome to the 'I've been drugged against my will' club. We're a very select group ... or we used to be; seems like they're letting anyone in these days." Peter was still shivering, so Neal tried putting an arm around him and tugging Peter against his side. Peter resisted briefly and then sagged onto him.
"And yes, I know, you're Peter Burke," Neal said. "Special Agent Peter Burke, the one who has to do everything. You're always in charge, always in control. This time, for a change, settle down and trust your team to get you out."
"Diana and Jones," Peter said.
"Right. They'll be looking for us." Good advice for me too, he thought. Sit tight, help'll get here soon. "Peter. Trust me."
There was a silence; then Peter said quietly, "I do."
"You do what?"
"Trust you."
Neal told himself that it didn't make him feel warm inside.
"Mostly," Peter added. "Some of the time. In some ways."
"Thanks, Peter. I needed that reality check."
There was another little silence, then Peter mumbled, "I really don't feel well at all."
"Peter, if you throw up on me, I'm kicking you out of my cell."
But he didn't; instead he fell asleep on Neal's shoulder. Since waking him up would just leave him feeling sick and miserable -- Neal had first-hand experience with that part of the whole drugging experience -- Neal didn't have the heart to push him off and go pick the lock.
Luckily Diana and Jones showed up to rescue them before he lost all the feeling in his arm.
~
Title: Trust Me
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1200
Summary: This time it's Neal's turn to deal with a drugged Peter. (And I am totally counting this one for the Wild Card space on my h/c bingo card - "imprisonment" will probably do, since "drugging" is inexplicably not on their list of prompts!)
Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/295327
Another day, another prison cell. Lovely.
Neal had already managed to escape twice, but he hadn't made it more than halfway down the corridor either time. The second time, they'd punched him in the face and put him in a much smaller room that basically reminded him of a concrete-floored closet. It was a whole lot harder to escape from. And now his face hurt.
Clearly he needed a better plan.
If he'd been on his own, he could have just sat and waited for his captors to show up, then tried to reason with them or manipulate them. This usually worked. But ... they'd taken Peter. And the thought of what might be happening to Peter was driving him up the wall. Or, as the case may be, out the door.
He was contemplating a deeply unrealistic plan involving his tie pin, his shoes and his third backup set of lock picks when the door opened. Neal caught a brief glimpse of two big guys with Peter supported between them. They shoved Peter inside, where he staggered one step and collapsed in a heap. The door slammed.
"Peter!"
Neal knelt beside him and rolled him over. Peter looked unexpectedly okay: he'd lost his suit jacket, but he still had his shirt and tie, and while they'd roughed him up a little bit -- split lip, a couple of bruises -- he looked basically all right. Also, he was giggling.
Giggling. Peter Burke. That was not right.
"Oh," Neal said. "They gave you something, didn't they? This is going to be fun. Nice role reversal, by the way."
"Neal. Hi." Peter grinned up at him, then frowned. "Stop spinning. That's an order."
"Working on it." Neal helped him sit up, tilting him against the wall. Peter squinted at him. "Did they hurt you?" Neal asked. "... Much," he added, frowning at Peter's split lip and ruffled hair.
"Noooo," Peter said, obviously having to think about it. "Drugged me." His brow furrowed. "This seems a little bit familiar all of a sudden."
"Yes, it is, except the last person it happened to was me."
"Weird."
"Yes," Neal said. He found himself experiencing a certain amount of sympathy for Peter having to deal with him at the Howser Clinic. This was a lot less fun than he'd expected, and a lot more disturbing. Also, it was going to absolutely suck trying to escape with Peter like this.
Peter began to hum. Off key.
"You're doing that to annoy me, aren't you. This is payback."
"Do you like showtunes?" Peter asked.
Neal decided to try the door again. Still just as locked as it had been, and it was going to be damned difficult to pick the lock from this side. He knelt down in front of Peter again. "Did you see anything when they brought you down here?"
"I am the very something of a modern Major General -- what?"
"Outside," Neal said, "the door. What's out there?"
Peter thought about it, concentrating hard. Then he said, "What was the question?"
"Never mind," Neal sighed. Yeah, definitely less fun than expected. Then he noticed that Peter had managed to focus on him and was looking at his face intently. "What? Have you started hallucinating?"
Peter reached out and touched the bruise under Neal's eye. His fingers were unexpectedly gentle. "Oh, Neal," he said quietly. "They hurt you."
"Not ... much?"
"Gonna kill 'em." Peter tried to get up, which was totally ineffectual since his legs didn't work properly.
"Wow, sit down, Rambo. I'm all right."
"No one," Peter declared drunkenly, "no one gets to -- Gonna kill 'em. Kill 'em. Where are my legs?"
"Right where they always are." Neal finally got him to hold still by holding him down with a hand on each shoulder, and putting most of his weight on his hands. Peter really was strong, even drugged. "Peter, seriously, I'm fine. Well, mostly. In all essential ways."
"I'm sorry," Peter said.
Neal let go, cautiously, and when Peter didn't seem inclined to go anywhere, sat down against the wall beside him. "What are you sorry about?"
"I'm supposed to be the one who -- but I can't. I can't think." Peter pressed his fingertips against his forehead. "Can't do anything. Just going to slow you down."
Oh God. The only thing worse than a happy, stoned Peter was a depressed, stoned Peter having an existential crisis. "Calm down," Neal said. "Since we're both trapped in here, it doesn't actually matter at the moment."
"You're you. You can probably get out. Go on." Peter waved a somewhat floppy hand. "Escape. 'm gonna be fine."
"Are you seriously telling me to get out of here and leave you behind?"
"Slow you down," Peter repeated. He was starting to shiver.
"Luckily, you are far too stoned to be making decisions like that. As the only compos mentis person in this room, I hereby declare that no one is leaving anyone behind. Strangely enough," Neal said, "you were the one who said that to me, remember?" He slipped off his jacket and wrapped it around Peter's shoulders.
"Sorry," Peter murmured. He was starting to wilt, the cheerful, manic energy seeping out of him, leaving him droopy and shaking.
"For inflicting your chivalrous notions of duty on me? You oughta be."
"I feel like hell." Peter rubbed his temples. "Head hurts. Things won't stop spinning. I told you to stop spinning ... I think ..."
"Welcome to the 'I've been drugged against my will' club. We're a very select group ... or we used to be; seems like they're letting anyone in these days." Peter was still shivering, so Neal tried putting an arm around him and tugging Peter against his side. Peter resisted briefly and then sagged onto him.
"And yes, I know, you're Peter Burke," Neal said. "Special Agent Peter Burke, the one who has to do everything. You're always in charge, always in control. This time, for a change, settle down and trust your team to get you out."
"Diana and Jones," Peter said.
"Right. They'll be looking for us." Good advice for me too, he thought. Sit tight, help'll get here soon. "Peter. Trust me."
There was a silence; then Peter said quietly, "I do."
"You do what?"
"Trust you."
Neal told himself that it didn't make him feel warm inside.
"Mostly," Peter added. "Some of the time. In some ways."
"Thanks, Peter. I needed that reality check."
There was another little silence, then Peter mumbled, "I really don't feel well at all."
"Peter, if you throw up on me, I'm kicking you out of my cell."
But he didn't; instead he fell asleep on Neal's shoulder. Since waking him up would just leave him feeling sick and miserable -- Neal had first-hand experience with that part of the whole drugging experience -- Neal didn't have the heart to push him off and go pick the lock.
Luckily Diana and Jones showed up to rescue them before he lost all the feeling in his arm.
~
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