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Fallen London/White Collar AU: Hunting Jack in Polythreme
This is a direct follow-up to ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
frith_in_thorns's Jack-of-Smiles. (Content warning for darkness and graphic violence in the original; not so much in this one, but they're dealing with the aftermath of that.)
After sending this part to Frith a couple of weeks ago, I'd planned to write more, but since that's not really happening, I figured this could stand on its own as a complete story anyway. As always, the Fallen London masterpost is here.
Title: Hunting Jack in Polythreme
Word Count: 1800
Summary: Peter's not dealing well with the Jack-of-Smiles incident. And so Neal finds himself stowed away on a ship in the middle of the vast black zee.
There were probably less comfortable ways to zail than stowed away in the hold of a small zee-clipper, but Neal was hard-pressed to think of any, especially after nearly two days at zee without a chance to come up to the deck for air. He'd been expecting to have a certain amount of freedom to move about the ship while Peter was asleep ... except that Peter didn't seem to have slept at all. The way things were going, it looked like he was planning to zail straight to wherever he was going without a single rest.
And it wasn't as if Neal could simply relax below, because Peter kept coming down to stoke the boilers. Instead he had to remain in his cramped hiding place behind the water barrels, coming out only to retrieve food (cold, preserved food, the only thing Peter seemed to have laid in for the journey; Neal wished he'd packed a few bottles of decent wine, at least) and then scuttling back to his hole. He felt like a rat. Actually, he wouldn't have minded a few rats to talk to, but Peter ran a tight ship.
Two days was how long it took before boredom and a growing claustrophobia drove him to slink out of his hiding place and, very nervously, up to the deck. Peter was at the wheel, and he said, without turning around, "Took you long enough."
"You knew I was there?" Neal approached cautiously. Peter didn't sound angry. Mostly he just sounded tired.
"I figured it out." Up close, Peter looked as exhausted as he sounded, as if his grip on the wheel was the only thing keeping him upright. Still, his eyes were fixed on the flat, glass-black sea. "It was either that or rats, and between El's tiger and my dream-hound, there aren't any vermin around here."
"I'm surprised you didn't turn around and put me ashore."
Peter snorted, though he didn't smile. He hadn't smiled since -- well. Since. "I thought about it, but we were already half a day at zee before I knew for sure. I suppose I should be glad that El's not here too."
"We talked about it and decided I was better at sneaking and hiding."
"Of course you did." Peter sighed. "I know you two have been watching me like a couple of ravens, but I'm fine."
In Neal's opinion, Peter was so far from fine that it couldn't even be seen on the horizon. "Right, because slipping out under the cover of night and putting to zee without gathering a crew or telling anyone where you're going -- that's perfectly normal behavior." When Peter didn't answer, Neal decided to push a little harder. "So where are we going?"
At the word "we", the corner of Peter's mouth might have twitched up, just a little. "Polythreme."
"You hate Polythreme."
"Yes," Peter agreed, his eyes steadily turned forward, focused on the dark, distant horizon. "But that's where the knives come from."
Ah.
Of course it was the knives.
In the immediate aftermath of the Jack incident, Neal and El had both expected Peter to fall apart a lot more than he had. They were expecting insanity, or a honey-bender, or possibly suicide (which, of course, wouldn't be permanent, but suicides did have a tendency not to bother coming back, so Neal had laid in a good stock of poisons just in case).
But he hadn't, at least not in any overt way. Neal thought that someone who didn't really know him might not have noticed anything wrong. But to Neal, and to El, it was as blatant as if Peter had been carrying around a large sign that said "I AM MISERABLE AND TRYING TO HIDE IT." He didn't even respond to Neal's teasing anymore. He was solemn and driven and spent most of his time with the Constables, staying out till all hours and coming home (according to El) smelling of blood and beer and smoke. Neal knew from talking to contacts that Peter had been a lot rougher with suspects than had ever been normal for him. And he'd been asking questions. A lot of questions.
Now they were going to Polythreme.
"And you're planning on zailing all the way without sleeping?" Neal said. "I'm sure you'll be a lot of use once we get there."
"I don't sleep much, these days," Peter said gruffly, and added, not meeting Neal's eyes, "Nightmares."
Yes. Neal understood about nightmares. Was there anyone in London who got a full night's sleep anymore?
He settled his own hands beside Peter's on the wheel. Up close, he could see that Peter's hands were trembling slightly. "You don't have to go below. I'll take the wheel for a little while, and you can watch me to make sure I'm doing it right."
Peter gave him an exasperated look, but relinquished the wheel without arguing -- a sign of how tired he was.
"There's a nice comfortable-looking pile of sailcloth over there," Neal suggested helpfully. "For sitting on. While you supervise me."
And this time, that was definitely a tiny smile flickering briefly across Peter's face.
When Neal next looked over at him, Peter was wrapped in his coat on the pile of sailcloth, twitching in the grip of dreams.
Neal waited until he was absolutely sure that Peter was asleep; then he reached into his pocket and brought out a very annoyed, very sulky, slightly tousled bat. "Sorry," Neal murmured to it. He scribbled a quick note to El on a scrap of paper: ZAILING TO POLYTHREME. ALL OK. DON'T JOIN US! I'LL WRITE AGAIN WHEN I KNOW MORE. -N
He tossed the bat into the air and watched its erratic flight until it vanished into the darkness, leaving nothing to look at but the zee itself. The water was a cold black mirror, dark and wide beneath the glitter of the false-stars above. It felt very lonely, just the two of them in all this great dark emptiness.
But, he thought, it was a little less lonely with two than with one.
***
"Is it possible to go anywhere with you without this sort of thing happening?" Peter demanded, but his hands were gentle even if his voice was sharp.
"Ow," Neal said meekly.
He'd only been curious. They'd been at zee for a really long time (days!), and that iceberg, or island, or whatever it was looked interesting. Peter was asleep. There was no reason not to zail up and see where there was to see ...
... which, apparently, turned out to be a lot of frost-moths with very sharp wings. Now there was blood all over the deck, most of it Neal's, although Peter had picked up a few cuts beating them off him.
"Don't you ever look at my charts?" Peter asked. "Preventing this sort of thing is the reason why we have charts."
"But charts make it so much less interesting," Neal protested. "It's like using maps. What's the point of going somewhere if you already know what's going to be there?"
"That explains so much about you," Peter sighed. "Turn over; I need to look at your back."
"I'm not going to end up in Tomb-Colony bandages, am I?" Neal asked worriedly. He felt terribly weak and cold.
"No; you've lost a lot of blood, but none of these are deep. Ow!" Peter jerked back suddenly, and Neal looked up in surprise. "Your pocket just bit me," Peter said, and Neal thought Uh-oh as Peter plunged a hand into Neal's pocket and retrieved a somewhat battered bat, along with the note that had been attached to it.
"ALL WELL AT HOME. MAKE SURE PETER EATS SOMETHING AND DOESN'T TAKE A CHILL. -E," Peter read aloud. "I see. It's a conspiracy."
He was wearing what Neal thought of as Peter's "calm before the storm" face: the look Peter got right before he decided whether or not to tip over into genuine anger. Ordinarily Neal would never have worried about Peter getting truly angry over something like this -- a little surface griping, followed by a fond and exasperated grin, was more his style -- but Neal just didn't know anymore. Peter was so distant and volatile these days. Neal had always been able to read Peter like an open book, but he never seemed to know what Peter was thinking anymore.
For a long moment, the tension hovered between them, so tangible Neal almost felt as if it might crackle like a skim of ice freezing on the surface of a pond. Then Peter, still holding the bat carefully caged in his hand, retrieved a pencil and paper from his other pocket.
"Dear El," he read aloud as he wrote. "Neal wounded by frost-moths, not seriously, mostly self-inflicted. Send leash. Love, P."
"Hey," Neal said -- a token protest only, because lurking under Peter's surface gruffness, there was a playfulness that Neal hadn't seen in awhile; he hadn't even realized until this moment how afraid he'd been that it had gone away forever.
Peter tossed the bat into the air with a practiced hand. It soared high, got its wings coordinated and flittered off in a Londonward direction.
"Two can play that game," Peter remarked, and there it was again, a glimmer of warmth and humor and fondness that made Neal want to crumple in relief -- if he hadn't already been crumpled in a shivering heap on top of Peter's coat.
Peter looked down at him -- looked and seemed to see him, perhaps for the first time in weeks. "C'mere," he said, kneeling and getting an arm under Neal's shoulders. "I've got the worst of these cuts cleaned up; now it's just a matter of sleeping while your body does the rest. Let's get you below."
"I'd rather stay up here," Neal said, possessed by a strange, superstitious fear that if he lost sight of Peter, this subtle thawing, this healing, would be undone and Peter would retreat back behind his walls.
Peter gave him an odd look, but he went below and brought up an armload of the embroidered quilts that El insisted upon using rather than rough ship's blankets. He also brought the kettle from the boiler room and made Neal drink a large cup of lukewarm tea and a bottle of Tincture of Vigour from their small reserve. "Fluids are good for blood loss."
"I don't think that's actual first aid," Neal muttered, but he felt a little less cold and woozy. He was still weak, though. Peter had propped him in a little nest made of spare sailcloth and rope, with another cup of tea in his hands and the quilts tucked around him. He settled in and watched Peter steer the ship, big hands steady on the wheel, without a trace of tremor.
frith_in_thorns's Jack-of-Smiles. (Content warning for darkness and graphic violence in the original; not so much in this one, but they're dealing with the aftermath of that.)After sending this part to Frith a couple of weeks ago, I'd planned to write more, but since that's not really happening, I figured this could stand on its own as a complete story anyway. As always, the Fallen London masterpost is here.
Title: Hunting Jack in Polythreme
Word Count: 1800
Summary: Peter's not dealing well with the Jack-of-Smiles incident. And so Neal finds himself stowed away on a ship in the middle of the vast black zee.
There were probably less comfortable ways to zail than stowed away in the hold of a small zee-clipper, but Neal was hard-pressed to think of any, especially after nearly two days at zee without a chance to come up to the deck for air. He'd been expecting to have a certain amount of freedom to move about the ship while Peter was asleep ... except that Peter didn't seem to have slept at all. The way things were going, it looked like he was planning to zail straight to wherever he was going without a single rest.
And it wasn't as if Neal could simply relax below, because Peter kept coming down to stoke the boilers. Instead he had to remain in his cramped hiding place behind the water barrels, coming out only to retrieve food (cold, preserved food, the only thing Peter seemed to have laid in for the journey; Neal wished he'd packed a few bottles of decent wine, at least) and then scuttling back to his hole. He felt like a rat. Actually, he wouldn't have minded a few rats to talk to, but Peter ran a tight ship.
Two days was how long it took before boredom and a growing claustrophobia drove him to slink out of his hiding place and, very nervously, up to the deck. Peter was at the wheel, and he said, without turning around, "Took you long enough."
"You knew I was there?" Neal approached cautiously. Peter didn't sound angry. Mostly he just sounded tired.
"I figured it out." Up close, Peter looked as exhausted as he sounded, as if his grip on the wheel was the only thing keeping him upright. Still, his eyes were fixed on the flat, glass-black sea. "It was either that or rats, and between El's tiger and my dream-hound, there aren't any vermin around here."
"I'm surprised you didn't turn around and put me ashore."
Peter snorted, though he didn't smile. He hadn't smiled since -- well. Since. "I thought about it, but we were already half a day at zee before I knew for sure. I suppose I should be glad that El's not here too."
"We talked about it and decided I was better at sneaking and hiding."
"Of course you did." Peter sighed. "I know you two have been watching me like a couple of ravens, but I'm fine."
In Neal's opinion, Peter was so far from fine that it couldn't even be seen on the horizon. "Right, because slipping out under the cover of night and putting to zee without gathering a crew or telling anyone where you're going -- that's perfectly normal behavior." When Peter didn't answer, Neal decided to push a little harder. "So where are we going?"
At the word "we", the corner of Peter's mouth might have twitched up, just a little. "Polythreme."
"You hate Polythreme."
"Yes," Peter agreed, his eyes steadily turned forward, focused on the dark, distant horizon. "But that's where the knives come from."
Ah.
Of course it was the knives.
In the immediate aftermath of the Jack incident, Neal and El had both expected Peter to fall apart a lot more than he had. They were expecting insanity, or a honey-bender, or possibly suicide (which, of course, wouldn't be permanent, but suicides did have a tendency not to bother coming back, so Neal had laid in a good stock of poisons just in case).
But he hadn't, at least not in any overt way. Neal thought that someone who didn't really know him might not have noticed anything wrong. But to Neal, and to El, it was as blatant as if Peter had been carrying around a large sign that said "I AM MISERABLE AND TRYING TO HIDE IT." He didn't even respond to Neal's teasing anymore. He was solemn and driven and spent most of his time with the Constables, staying out till all hours and coming home (according to El) smelling of blood and beer and smoke. Neal knew from talking to contacts that Peter had been a lot rougher with suspects than had ever been normal for him. And he'd been asking questions. A lot of questions.
Now they were going to Polythreme.
"And you're planning on zailing all the way without sleeping?" Neal said. "I'm sure you'll be a lot of use once we get there."
"I don't sleep much, these days," Peter said gruffly, and added, not meeting Neal's eyes, "Nightmares."
Yes. Neal understood about nightmares. Was there anyone in London who got a full night's sleep anymore?
He settled his own hands beside Peter's on the wheel. Up close, he could see that Peter's hands were trembling slightly. "You don't have to go below. I'll take the wheel for a little while, and you can watch me to make sure I'm doing it right."
Peter gave him an exasperated look, but relinquished the wheel without arguing -- a sign of how tired he was.
"There's a nice comfortable-looking pile of sailcloth over there," Neal suggested helpfully. "For sitting on. While you supervise me."
And this time, that was definitely a tiny smile flickering briefly across Peter's face.
When Neal next looked over at him, Peter was wrapped in his coat on the pile of sailcloth, twitching in the grip of dreams.
Neal waited until he was absolutely sure that Peter was asleep; then he reached into his pocket and brought out a very annoyed, very sulky, slightly tousled bat. "Sorry," Neal murmured to it. He scribbled a quick note to El on a scrap of paper: ZAILING TO POLYTHREME. ALL OK. DON'T JOIN US! I'LL WRITE AGAIN WHEN I KNOW MORE. -N
He tossed the bat into the air and watched its erratic flight until it vanished into the darkness, leaving nothing to look at but the zee itself. The water was a cold black mirror, dark and wide beneath the glitter of the false-stars above. It felt very lonely, just the two of them in all this great dark emptiness.
But, he thought, it was a little less lonely with two than with one.
***
"Is it possible to go anywhere with you without this sort of thing happening?" Peter demanded, but his hands were gentle even if his voice was sharp.
"Ow," Neal said meekly.
He'd only been curious. They'd been at zee for a really long time (days!), and that iceberg, or island, or whatever it was looked interesting. Peter was asleep. There was no reason not to zail up and see where there was to see ...
... which, apparently, turned out to be a lot of frost-moths with very sharp wings. Now there was blood all over the deck, most of it Neal's, although Peter had picked up a few cuts beating them off him.
"Don't you ever look at my charts?" Peter asked. "Preventing this sort of thing is the reason why we have charts."
"But charts make it so much less interesting," Neal protested. "It's like using maps. What's the point of going somewhere if you already know what's going to be there?"
"That explains so much about you," Peter sighed. "Turn over; I need to look at your back."
"I'm not going to end up in Tomb-Colony bandages, am I?" Neal asked worriedly. He felt terribly weak and cold.
"No; you've lost a lot of blood, but none of these are deep. Ow!" Peter jerked back suddenly, and Neal looked up in surprise. "Your pocket just bit me," Peter said, and Neal thought Uh-oh as Peter plunged a hand into Neal's pocket and retrieved a somewhat battered bat, along with the note that had been attached to it.
"ALL WELL AT HOME. MAKE SURE PETER EATS SOMETHING AND DOESN'T TAKE A CHILL. -E," Peter read aloud. "I see. It's a conspiracy."
He was wearing what Neal thought of as Peter's "calm before the storm" face: the look Peter got right before he decided whether or not to tip over into genuine anger. Ordinarily Neal would never have worried about Peter getting truly angry over something like this -- a little surface griping, followed by a fond and exasperated grin, was more his style -- but Neal just didn't know anymore. Peter was so distant and volatile these days. Neal had always been able to read Peter like an open book, but he never seemed to know what Peter was thinking anymore.
For a long moment, the tension hovered between them, so tangible Neal almost felt as if it might crackle like a skim of ice freezing on the surface of a pond. Then Peter, still holding the bat carefully caged in his hand, retrieved a pencil and paper from his other pocket.
"Dear El," he read aloud as he wrote. "Neal wounded by frost-moths, not seriously, mostly self-inflicted. Send leash. Love, P."
"Hey," Neal said -- a token protest only, because lurking under Peter's surface gruffness, there was a playfulness that Neal hadn't seen in awhile; he hadn't even realized until this moment how afraid he'd been that it had gone away forever.
Peter tossed the bat into the air with a practiced hand. It soared high, got its wings coordinated and flittered off in a Londonward direction.
"Two can play that game," Peter remarked, and there it was again, a glimmer of warmth and humor and fondness that made Neal want to crumple in relief -- if he hadn't already been crumpled in a shivering heap on top of Peter's coat.
Peter looked down at him -- looked and seemed to see him, perhaps for the first time in weeks. "C'mere," he said, kneeling and getting an arm under Neal's shoulders. "I've got the worst of these cuts cleaned up; now it's just a matter of sleeping while your body does the rest. Let's get you below."
"I'd rather stay up here," Neal said, possessed by a strange, superstitious fear that if he lost sight of Peter, this subtle thawing, this healing, would be undone and Peter would retreat back behind his walls.
Peter gave him an odd look, but he went below and brought up an armload of the embroidered quilts that El insisted upon using rather than rough ship's blankets. He also brought the kettle from the boiler room and made Neal drink a large cup of lukewarm tea and a bottle of Tincture of Vigour from their small reserve. "Fluids are good for blood loss."
"I don't think that's actual first aid," Neal muttered, but he felt a little less cold and woozy. He was still weak, though. Peter had propped him in a little nest made of spare sailcloth and rope, with another cup of tea in his hands and the quilts tucked around him. He settled in and watched Peter steer the ship, big hands steady on the wheel, without a trace of tremor.
no subject
Hee! I love this! And this:
"But charts make it so much less interesting," Neal protested. "It's like using maps. What's the point of going somewhere if you already know what's going to be there?"
"That explains so much about you," Peter sighed.
I love their concern for each other in this, and the ways they read each other so well, and I love how Neal is able to get Peter to let his guard down and relax, just a little. *hugs them*
no subject