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Entry tags:
- .sundown'verse,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: peter burke,
- did i just write that?,
- fandom: white collar,
- for: hc bingo,
- for: writerverse,
- i am clearly incapable of tagging today.,
- i need more humour in my life,
- oh my god i seriously just did this,
- rating: r,
- this is surprising,
- tiiiiiired,
- type: dark!fic,
- type: episode tag,
- type: hurt/comfort,
- what the fuck.
Somehow, Sundown, a White Collar fanfiction
Title: Somehow, Sundown
Characters (Pairings): Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke
Rating: Let's call this an R to be safe.
Word Count: 780
Spoilers: S05E13 - Diamond Exchange
Warnings: Unspecified physical trauma, vague but graphic descriptions of injury
Disclaimer: White Collar is Jeff Eastin's brainchild. Not mine.
Summary: Neal's kidnappers hurt him. A lot.
Author's Note: I AM WRITING NEAL AND PETER AGAIN HUZZAH!!! But I committed a lot of run on sentence crimes. And welp, Neal is in way too much pain. And this is literally words thrown at a page and immediately posted, I haven't even looked over this once, I am going to regret this SO MUCH in the morning, omg. I think I should shut up now.
For the 'begging' square on my![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hc_bingo card.
For this picture prompt fromwriterverse's October Table of Doom.
Title from Shattered by Trading Yesterday.
For more in this verse, click here.
He wants to scream. He'd give anything to let go of the control to which he's so stubbornly clinging and beg anyone who's listening to just please make it stop, please. But he doesn't.
He does end up screaming, but it's more indistinct sounds of pain and less words that make any kind of sense. Because begging isn't going to make a difference, because the pain isn't going to stop, because he can't get out, and they won't let him out, he knows that, so he doesn't. He just stays put and doesn't put much of an effort into stopping the onslaught of pain.
He's good. He can be good, even if he feels like so many pieces of broken glass that's only staying together because it's laminated glass. And it's crumbling, it is, it's not going to hold for much longer, it's holding for now.
It feels a lot like giving up. But he doesn't call it that. He calls it waiting for Peter, because Peter's still looking, Peter won't stop, Peter will find him, he will. He always does.
Neal's even more terrified when they stop. It doesn't mean they heard him somehow, he's quite sure he didn't just give in and beg, and they're certainly not mind readers, and even if they were, who's to say that they'd stop? It means they have something worse planned, and he can't imagine anything worse than this.
He's hanging by his wrists, no, not literally, his toes are touching the ground so he has some purchase but not enough. There's blood dripping down his face, over his eyes, it's blocking his vision.
He's literally seeing red.
He laughs. His chest hurts, his ribs hurt, his arms hurt, his arms shouldn't be hurting, his arms are numb, and he laughs because he never thought he'd laugh again, because this is just a little ridiculous, because the litany of please let me be, what can I do for you to make you stop, I'll do anything, anything at all has finally stopped. He's in pain but he feels okay, the pain's like an annoying buzz that's finally faded into background noise, he cannot believe that he's so far gone that he's calling this background noise.
He feels the strain on his arms reducing. He's being let down. They're letting him down. Are they letting him go? They're not letting him go, kidnappers don't just let people go once they're done using them as punching bags. Something worse is coming, and he's not sure he wants it to be here yet.
"Neal," a voice whispers. Peter's voice.
"Whuh?" He tried to put words together, but that's all that came out. He tries to blink the blood out of his eyes, because he wants to see Peter, wants to be sure that he isn't hearing a pain-induced hallucination instead of the real thing, and it can't be real, he isn't lucky, he doesn't get lucky.
A hand helps wipe some of the blood away, not a hallucination, a new refrain following a new beat ricocheting around his head, and he's hopeful, oh god, this shred of hope hurts so damn much.
"Help is on the way," that same voice whispers, and it's still Peter's voice, he thinks, but he doesn't have visual confirmation, and dear god, he sounds like Peter now. That can't be good.
"Who... you?" Neal says in a voice that's rasping far too much to be his.
"Peter, it's Peter. I'm here."
You'll be okay hangs unsaid in the air. Neal's probably too injured to even have a hope in hell of getting back into his usual shape, his usual skin, but that doesn't matter, because it is Peter's voice, and Neal can't prevent a cracked but wide smile from spreading across his face. "Knew you'd find me."
He hears Peter's quiet laugh, tries to turn towards it, realizes that his head is at a height. In Peter's lap? And there's a hand gently stroking his hair, and there's probably blood in his hair, on Peter's hand, there's blood everywhere, but Peter doesn't seem to mind.
He doesn't even need to ask to be put together again, Peter does it anyway. Peter holds him so carefully, touches him so gently, delicately picks up the sheet of glass pieces and holds it together and doesn't get cut, or maybe he does, maybe Neal just can't see it through the blood in his eyes. Neal doesn't need to ask, or beg, or plead, he just needs to lay there and let Peter hold him together and it is so, so freeing to not have to ask.
He's broken, but he doesn't feel it.
Characters (Pairings): Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke
Rating: Let's call this an R to be safe.
Word Count: 780
Spoilers: S05E13 - Diamond Exchange
Warnings: Unspecified physical trauma, vague but graphic descriptions of injury
Disclaimer: White Collar is Jeff Eastin's brainchild. Not mine.
Summary: Neal's kidnappers hurt him. A lot.
Author's Note: I AM WRITING NEAL AND PETER AGAIN HUZZAH!!! But I committed a lot of run on sentence crimes. And welp, Neal is in way too much pain. And this is literally words thrown at a page and immediately posted, I haven't even looked over this once, I am going to regret this SO MUCH in the morning, omg. I think I should shut up now.
For the 'begging' square on my
hc_bingo card.For this picture prompt from
writerverse's October Table of Doom.Title from Shattered by Trading Yesterday.
For more in this verse, click here.
He wants to scream. He'd give anything to let go of the control to which he's so stubbornly clinging and beg anyone who's listening to just please make it stop, please. But he doesn't.
He does end up screaming, but it's more indistinct sounds of pain and less words that make any kind of sense. Because begging isn't going to make a difference, because the pain isn't going to stop, because he can't get out, and they won't let him out, he knows that, so he doesn't. He just stays put and doesn't put much of an effort into stopping the onslaught of pain.
He's good. He can be good, even if he feels like so many pieces of broken glass that's only staying together because it's laminated glass. And it's crumbling, it is, it's not going to hold for much longer, it's holding for now.
It feels a lot like giving up. But he doesn't call it that. He calls it waiting for Peter, because Peter's still looking, Peter won't stop, Peter will find him, he will. He always does.
-:-
Neal's even more terrified when they stop. It doesn't mean they heard him somehow, he's quite sure he didn't just give in and beg, and they're certainly not mind readers, and even if they were, who's to say that they'd stop? It means they have something worse planned, and he can't imagine anything worse than this.
He's hanging by his wrists, no, not literally, his toes are touching the ground so he has some purchase but not enough. There's blood dripping down his face, over his eyes, it's blocking his vision.
He's literally seeing red.
He laughs. His chest hurts, his ribs hurt, his arms hurt, his arms shouldn't be hurting, his arms are numb, and he laughs because he never thought he'd laugh again, because this is just a little ridiculous, because the litany of please let me be, what can I do for you to make you stop, I'll do anything, anything at all has finally stopped. He's in pain but he feels okay, the pain's like an annoying buzz that's finally faded into background noise, he cannot believe that he's so far gone that he's calling this background noise.
He feels the strain on his arms reducing. He's being let down. They're letting him down. Are they letting him go? They're not letting him go, kidnappers don't just let people go once they're done using them as punching bags. Something worse is coming, and he's not sure he wants it to be here yet.
"Neal," a voice whispers. Peter's voice.
"Whuh?" He tried to put words together, but that's all that came out. He tries to blink the blood out of his eyes, because he wants to see Peter, wants to be sure that he isn't hearing a pain-induced hallucination instead of the real thing, and it can't be real, he isn't lucky, he doesn't get lucky.
A hand helps wipe some of the blood away, not a hallucination, a new refrain following a new beat ricocheting around his head, and he's hopeful, oh god, this shred of hope hurts so damn much.
"Help is on the way," that same voice whispers, and it's still Peter's voice, he thinks, but he doesn't have visual confirmation, and dear god, he sounds like Peter now. That can't be good.
"Who... you?" Neal says in a voice that's rasping far too much to be his.
"Peter, it's Peter. I'm here."
You'll be okay hangs unsaid in the air. Neal's probably too injured to even have a hope in hell of getting back into his usual shape, his usual skin, but that doesn't matter, because it is Peter's voice, and Neal can't prevent a cracked but wide smile from spreading across his face. "Knew you'd find me."
He hears Peter's quiet laugh, tries to turn towards it, realizes that his head is at a height. In Peter's lap? And there's a hand gently stroking his hair, and there's probably blood in his hair, on Peter's hand, there's blood everywhere, but Peter doesn't seem to mind.
He doesn't even need to ask to be put together again, Peter does it anyway. Peter holds him so carefully, touches him so gently, delicately picks up the sheet of glass pieces and holds it together and doesn't get cut, or maybe he does, maybe Neal just can't see it through the blood in his eyes. Neal doesn't need to ask, or beg, or plead, he just needs to lay there and let Peter hold him together and it is so, so freeing to not have to ask.
He's broken, but he doesn't feel it.