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White Collar ficlet: Grounded
Another one from Fandom Stocking! (Just one more to go after this one.) This is really just a little bite of fic.
Grounded: gen, h/c, 800 wds, Peter & Neal. Neal is drugged on a case; that's all there is of actual plot. Crossposted to AO3.
The world is wrong, and everything is the wrong size. Neal reaches out and watches his hand recede on the end of a long, long arm. He's forgotten what he's reaching for. There's something that he's supposed to be doing, but he doesn't remember what, and someone he doesn't want to let down, but he doesn't remember who.
There are people around him, but they're all the wrong shape, and their words are coming out in funny colors and twisting in slippery ways that make him a little sick.
He has to find someone, so he stands up, but the ground slides out from under his feet. "Sit down," someone says impatiently, a woman's voice, but even when he's sitting, he's still falling, and there's nothing to hold onto, nothing that isn't moving. He grabs someone's sleeve, or tries to, but his hand is going at the wrong speed to sync up and it misses. Relativity, he thinks, and maybe says out loud. But that's not what he meant to say. The words fall out of his head before he can find the right ones. And that's bad, because if he says the wrong thing, something bad is going to happen. So maybe he'd just better not say anything at all. Except he needs to ask for something, or someone, but he can't remember what ...
The world is the wrong shape and the wrong size, and he buries his face in his hands to make it stop, stop, stop moving, but he can see through his fingers, so that doesn't help.
"Neal?"
There are hands on him, big hands, warm and strong and secure. "Peter," Neal says. That's who he was trying to find. He can't even remember for certain who Peter is -- the memories slide away, everything is sliding, sliding -- but he knows Peter will make this okay.
"Wow, you're pretty messed up, aren't you?" Peter says, but the words don't matter, it's his voice, low and steady and giving Neal something to hang onto. "I'm sorry it took me so long to get here --" and there's more, Peter's still talking, but the words blur and swell and contract, twisting through his ears like snakes. It's all right. Words don't matter, words twist and turn and lie. Peter's here, Peter is going to make things okay. And he still feels like he's falling, but when he holds onto Peter, he feels it a little less. Peter won't let him fall.
So he just hangs on, and Peter's words wash over him in a warm steady wave, and when Peter takes him somewhere, he goes, because Peter won't be taking him anywhere bad.
***
He drifts awake a long time later, or maybe it's a short time later. He's melded into the familiar dips and lumps of Peter and Elizabeth's couch, his body conforming to its shape in a way that is probably going to hurt his back later. There's a blanket over him. His head feels too big, and his tongue is fuzzy.
He can hear Peter and Elizabeth talking in the kitchen, just quiet married-couple chatter. It's peaceful and it makes him feel safe, and though he thinks he should probably get up or say something, he just wants to go on drifting here.
Eventually Peter's sock-clad footsteps approach him. He knows it's Peter; he'd recognize Peter's tread anywhere. Neal cracks an eye open, and Peter smiles at him.
"I thought you might be waking up. Water?"
Neal takes the glass in both hands, like a child. He's still a bit shaky and not too sure of his ability to hold it otherwise. The first swallow doesn't feel like it'll stay down, but it does. Peter wordlessly hands him a couple of aspirin, and he takes them with the rest of the glass of water, and feels a little better afterwards. He doesn't feel bad, exactly, except for a slight headache. Just weird and spacey.
Peter sits on the arm of the couch. "Do you remember what happened?"
Neal rubs his eyes, trying to unfuzz himself. "I was undercover with the Brady crew, and I ... got roofied?"
"Pretty much, and then we lost contact with you. We were tying ourselves into knots trying to find you, but apparently what happened is that Jim Brady's sister smuggled you out the back and took you to a hospital. She didn't know you were undercover; she just didn't want to see her brother hurt you."
"Always knew I liked her."
Peter smiles lopsidedly. "And she liked you, apparently. She's cutting a deal with us."
"So I got the bad guys," Neal says, and flops down again on the couch. "With my charm and panache."
"Yes, we're all glad you're using your superpower for good and not evil." Peter's words are dry, but the tone is warm, and Neal decides that moving is overrated. He's on Peter's couch, and he's safe. Maybe he'll just stay here for a while.
~
Grounded: gen, h/c, 800 wds, Peter & Neal. Neal is drugged on a case; that's all there is of actual plot. Crossposted to AO3.
The world is wrong, and everything is the wrong size. Neal reaches out and watches his hand recede on the end of a long, long arm. He's forgotten what he's reaching for. There's something that he's supposed to be doing, but he doesn't remember what, and someone he doesn't want to let down, but he doesn't remember who.
There are people around him, but they're all the wrong shape, and their words are coming out in funny colors and twisting in slippery ways that make him a little sick.
He has to find someone, so he stands up, but the ground slides out from under his feet. "Sit down," someone says impatiently, a woman's voice, but even when he's sitting, he's still falling, and there's nothing to hold onto, nothing that isn't moving. He grabs someone's sleeve, or tries to, but his hand is going at the wrong speed to sync up and it misses. Relativity, he thinks, and maybe says out loud. But that's not what he meant to say. The words fall out of his head before he can find the right ones. And that's bad, because if he says the wrong thing, something bad is going to happen. So maybe he'd just better not say anything at all. Except he needs to ask for something, or someone, but he can't remember what ...
The world is the wrong shape and the wrong size, and he buries his face in his hands to make it stop, stop, stop moving, but he can see through his fingers, so that doesn't help.
"Neal?"
There are hands on him, big hands, warm and strong and secure. "Peter," Neal says. That's who he was trying to find. He can't even remember for certain who Peter is -- the memories slide away, everything is sliding, sliding -- but he knows Peter will make this okay.
"Wow, you're pretty messed up, aren't you?" Peter says, but the words don't matter, it's his voice, low and steady and giving Neal something to hang onto. "I'm sorry it took me so long to get here --" and there's more, Peter's still talking, but the words blur and swell and contract, twisting through his ears like snakes. It's all right. Words don't matter, words twist and turn and lie. Peter's here, Peter is going to make things okay. And he still feels like he's falling, but when he holds onto Peter, he feels it a little less. Peter won't let him fall.
So he just hangs on, and Peter's words wash over him in a warm steady wave, and when Peter takes him somewhere, he goes, because Peter won't be taking him anywhere bad.
***
He drifts awake a long time later, or maybe it's a short time later. He's melded into the familiar dips and lumps of Peter and Elizabeth's couch, his body conforming to its shape in a way that is probably going to hurt his back later. There's a blanket over him. His head feels too big, and his tongue is fuzzy.
He can hear Peter and Elizabeth talking in the kitchen, just quiet married-couple chatter. It's peaceful and it makes him feel safe, and though he thinks he should probably get up or say something, he just wants to go on drifting here.
Eventually Peter's sock-clad footsteps approach him. He knows it's Peter; he'd recognize Peter's tread anywhere. Neal cracks an eye open, and Peter smiles at him.
"I thought you might be waking up. Water?"
Neal takes the glass in both hands, like a child. He's still a bit shaky and not too sure of his ability to hold it otherwise. The first swallow doesn't feel like it'll stay down, but it does. Peter wordlessly hands him a couple of aspirin, and he takes them with the rest of the glass of water, and feels a little better afterwards. He doesn't feel bad, exactly, except for a slight headache. Just weird and spacey.
Peter sits on the arm of the couch. "Do you remember what happened?"
Neal rubs his eyes, trying to unfuzz himself. "I was undercover with the Brady crew, and I ... got roofied?"
"Pretty much, and then we lost contact with you. We were tying ourselves into knots trying to find you, but apparently what happened is that Jim Brady's sister smuggled you out the back and took you to a hospital. She didn't know you were undercover; she just didn't want to see her brother hurt you."
"Always knew I liked her."
Peter smiles lopsidedly. "And she liked you, apparently. She's cutting a deal with us."
"So I got the bad guys," Neal says, and flops down again on the couch. "With my charm and panache."
"Yes, we're all glad you're using your superpower for good and not evil." Peter's words are dry, but the tone is warm, and Neal decides that moving is overrated. He's on Peter's couch, and he's safe. Maybe he'll just stay here for a while.
~