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White Collar fic: a small missing scene for 4x12
One of two I've written, actually; the other is Neal-centric and will be posted shortly. I know there are a lot of opinions about Elizabeth in the episode, and I was reluctant to post this because I was afraid people would use the comments to soapbox about how upset they are at Elizabeth, and it would make me sad. So please don't make me sad.
Title: Small Acts of Kindness
Fandom: White Collar
Word Count: 800
Pairing: background Peter/El, but basically gen
Summary: Elizabeth finds that sometimes it's the small things that get you through the hard times. Missing scene for 4x12, quite spoilery.
Crossposted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/665970
Elizabeth had lost track of how long she'd been sitting at Peter's bedside when she finally managed to rouse herself.
She'd called Peter's parents to let them know what was going on; she'd told them that it wasn't necessary to drive down -- Peter's father was getting to an age when long highway drives were difficult and unsafe for him -- but promised to keep them updated. And then she'd talked to her mother for a while, until she felt a little less like she was about to fly apart at any moment.
But Peter was still ... not there; her husband, her rock, the steady constant in her life. He wasn't there, and until he woke up, there was no way to assess the damage from the concussion. There was no way to know if he'd ever be there again.
But she was starving, and emotionally exhausted. Satchmo would need to be walked and fed -- poor Satchmo, it was hours past the time when he could normally expect his parents home. El wished for a moment, selfishly, that she'd asked Peter's parents to drive down after all. Maybe she could call a neighbor -- Liz next door loved Satchmo, and her kids loved him; Liz would happily take care of him for a day or two. But, no; El knew that for her own mental health, she needed to get out of the hospital for a little while. Some dog therapy would be good for her.
She leaned over and kissed Peter gently on the corner of his unresponsive mouth. "I'll be back in the morning, hon. And I'll look forward to your beautiful brown eyes greeting me, won't I?"
There was a part of her that hoped for a little twitch, something to acknowledge that he knew she was there -- that he was still in there. But there was nothing. She gathered her purse and left.
Walking to the parking garage seemed to take forever. For the first time in her life, she felt old -- her body slow and creaky, her muscles aching from hours of sitting still in an uncomfortable hospital chair. She had to focus all her concentration and willpower on just getting the car into gear and pulling out into traffic.
El knew she wouldn't have the energy to cook anything, but couldn't muster the willpower to stop anywhere and get takeout either. She just wanted to get home, open a can of soup, fall down in bed and not think for a while.
And there was nothing to look forward to at home but a house that was dark and empty, with a frantic, unwalked Labrador fawning all over her.
Instead, when she opened the door, she found that the kitchen light was on, shedding its light into the darkened living room. El stopped in surprise. She didn't remember leaving it on. A cold, sharp chill ran through her: a memory of a rough arm around her throat, Satchmo snarling, the feeling of a gun pressed into her back --
"Hello?" she called hesitantly. "Liz?" No one answered. Surely Pratt wouldn't go so far as to send someone to the house ... would he?
Then Satchmo came trotting out of the kitchen, wagging, with a rawhide bone in his mouth, a brand-new one from the look of it. "Hi, sweetie," El said, rubbing his ears. Satchmo didn't seem upset, nor did he seem particularly eager to go outside. In fact, when she cautiously entered the kitchen, he flopped down to chew his bone, sedate as if he'd just had a long walk.
Come to think of it, his paws were suspiciously muddy ...
El looked around the kitchen. Sitting in plain sight on the countertop was a foil-covered baking dish with a small, plain white card on top of it. El peeked under the foil and found lasagna, still warm, with a small piece cut out. On the card, written in a nearly indecipherable scrawl, she found the message:
Lasagna courtesy of June's cook. Taste-tested for poison just in case. Satchmo walked. Neighbors may have buried something suspicious in their flowerbed; thought you ought to know. Will investigate further. P.S. Am writing with left hand to discourage FBI collection of handwriting samples.
There were fresh daisies in a vase on the countertop. They had a very suspicious "picked from the neighbor's flowerbed" look to them. El quietly moved the vase to a part of the countertop where it was not visible from the window. And then she covered her eyes with her hand for a moment, and succumbed to a few quick sobs before getting herself under control.
On the worst of all possible days, sometimes it was the small things that made a difference. Like a house that wasn't dark and empty, and a few small chores done -- a reminder of friendship, and the possibility that there could indeed be brighter days ahead.
~
Title: Small Acts of Kindness
Fandom: White Collar
Word Count: 800
Pairing: background Peter/El, but basically gen
Summary: Elizabeth finds that sometimes it's the small things that get you through the hard times. Missing scene for 4x12, quite spoilery.
Crossposted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/665970
Elizabeth had lost track of how long she'd been sitting at Peter's bedside when she finally managed to rouse herself.
She'd called Peter's parents to let them know what was going on; she'd told them that it wasn't necessary to drive down -- Peter's father was getting to an age when long highway drives were difficult and unsafe for him -- but promised to keep them updated. And then she'd talked to her mother for a while, until she felt a little less like she was about to fly apart at any moment.
But Peter was still ... not there; her husband, her rock, the steady constant in her life. He wasn't there, and until he woke up, there was no way to assess the damage from the concussion. There was no way to know if he'd ever be there again.
But she was starving, and emotionally exhausted. Satchmo would need to be walked and fed -- poor Satchmo, it was hours past the time when he could normally expect his parents home. El wished for a moment, selfishly, that she'd asked Peter's parents to drive down after all. Maybe she could call a neighbor -- Liz next door loved Satchmo, and her kids loved him; Liz would happily take care of him for a day or two. But, no; El knew that for her own mental health, she needed to get out of the hospital for a little while. Some dog therapy would be good for her.
She leaned over and kissed Peter gently on the corner of his unresponsive mouth. "I'll be back in the morning, hon. And I'll look forward to your beautiful brown eyes greeting me, won't I?"
There was a part of her that hoped for a little twitch, something to acknowledge that he knew she was there -- that he was still in there. But there was nothing. She gathered her purse and left.
Walking to the parking garage seemed to take forever. For the first time in her life, she felt old -- her body slow and creaky, her muscles aching from hours of sitting still in an uncomfortable hospital chair. She had to focus all her concentration and willpower on just getting the car into gear and pulling out into traffic.
El knew she wouldn't have the energy to cook anything, but couldn't muster the willpower to stop anywhere and get takeout either. She just wanted to get home, open a can of soup, fall down in bed and not think for a while.
And there was nothing to look forward to at home but a house that was dark and empty, with a frantic, unwalked Labrador fawning all over her.
Instead, when she opened the door, she found that the kitchen light was on, shedding its light into the darkened living room. El stopped in surprise. She didn't remember leaving it on. A cold, sharp chill ran through her: a memory of a rough arm around her throat, Satchmo snarling, the feeling of a gun pressed into her back --
"Hello?" she called hesitantly. "Liz?" No one answered. Surely Pratt wouldn't go so far as to send someone to the house ... would he?
Then Satchmo came trotting out of the kitchen, wagging, with a rawhide bone in his mouth, a brand-new one from the look of it. "Hi, sweetie," El said, rubbing his ears. Satchmo didn't seem upset, nor did he seem particularly eager to go outside. In fact, when she cautiously entered the kitchen, he flopped down to chew his bone, sedate as if he'd just had a long walk.
Come to think of it, his paws were suspiciously muddy ...
El looked around the kitchen. Sitting in plain sight on the countertop was a foil-covered baking dish with a small, plain white card on top of it. El peeked under the foil and found lasagna, still warm, with a small piece cut out. On the card, written in a nearly indecipherable scrawl, she found the message:
Lasagna courtesy of June's cook. Taste-tested for poison just in case. Satchmo walked. Neighbors may have buried something suspicious in their flowerbed; thought you ought to know. Will investigate further. P.S. Am writing with left hand to discourage FBI collection of handwriting samples.
There were fresh daisies in a vase on the countertop. They had a very suspicious "picked from the neighbor's flowerbed" look to them. El quietly moved the vase to a part of the countertop where it was not visible from the window. And then she covered her eyes with her hand for a moment, and succumbed to a few quick sobs before getting herself under control.
On the worst of all possible days, sometimes it was the small things that made a difference. Like a house that wasn't dark and empty, and a few small chores done -- a reminder of friendship, and the possibility that there could indeed be brighter days ahead.
~
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