Fic: Broken Dreams
Mar. 7th, 2015 12:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
s2309Title: Broken Dreams
Characters (Pairings): Peter Burke
Rating: PG
Word Count: 448
Spoilers: S03E15 - Stealing Home, for Peter's backstory.
Disclaimer: White Collar is Jeff Eastin's brainchild. Not mine.
Summary: The dream that didn't.
Author's Note: Set preseries. Written for Elr's Promptfest IX, for the prompt Peter - Broken Dreams.
I'm afraid it's not all good news, Mr. Burke.
Peter steps up to the pitcher's mound, adjusts his grip on the ball, gets ready to throw it.
I thought you said I'd be able to play?
He brings his arms together in front of him. There’s a moment of silence that he wants to relish, but his mind doesn't allow him even that luxury.
Yes. But it's not without its risks. Pitching takes an immense toll on the body.
He lunges forward, releases the ball. It's perfect, he knows, even before he sees the ball fly past the batter, untouched.
If you keep playing...
There isn't anything to trip over, so he trips over his own feet (not for the first time) falls onto his hands and knees (not his shoulder, not this time, but he may even wreck his knees if this carries on).
...you'll destroy your arm for good.
He lets out a shaky breath that’s almost a sob and lets his nails dig into the soft ground because it hurts and that’s the only way the pain wants to leave.
"Burke? You okay?"
That last voice wasn't in his head, he realizes, as he squints against the sunlight to see his coach offering him a hand.
He looks him in the eye and shakes his head, because he isn't okay. "I'm done," he says hoarsely. "I can't do this."
His coach nods like he'd seen it coming (of course he had, Peter's been a mess this whole week). "Okay," he says. "But I need you to pitch one last ball, yeah? Finish this game. I know it's just a practice session, but you can't leave it hanging. One ball. That's all I need from you. Can you do that?"
"Yeah." Peter stands up, waits for his coach to retreat to a safe distance, gets ready to throw again.
I'm afraid it's not all good news, Mr. Burke.
The voice has faded over time. It probably doesn't even sound like the doctor's anymore, but the words are just the same, layered over a bleeding wound like salt not a bandage.
Not this time, he thinks, a fierce, rightful anger taking over him, he can feel it down to his bones. He lets this little fit of anger carry him through the motions. The ball lands crisply in the catcher's hands, the batter struck out, that old familiar litany is gone, it’s not hurting him anymore.
But despite that, all he has in his two hands is the shards of a broken dream and the bitter knowledge that he can never put it back together again. Not like it was before.
Characters (Pairings): Peter Burke
Rating: PG
Word Count: 448
Spoilers: S03E15 - Stealing Home, for Peter's backstory.
Disclaimer: White Collar is Jeff Eastin's brainchild. Not mine.
Summary: The dream that didn't.
Author's Note: Set preseries. Written for Elr's Promptfest IX, for the prompt Peter - Broken Dreams.
I'm afraid it's not all good news, Mr. Burke.
Peter steps up to the pitcher's mound, adjusts his grip on the ball, gets ready to throw it.
I thought you said I'd be able to play?
He brings his arms together in front of him. There’s a moment of silence that he wants to relish, but his mind doesn't allow him even that luxury.
Yes. But it's not without its risks. Pitching takes an immense toll on the body.
He lunges forward, releases the ball. It's perfect, he knows, even before he sees the ball fly past the batter, untouched.
If you keep playing...
There isn't anything to trip over, so he trips over his own feet (not for the first time) falls onto his hands and knees (not his shoulder, not this time, but he may even wreck his knees if this carries on).
...you'll destroy your arm for good.
He lets out a shaky breath that’s almost a sob and lets his nails dig into the soft ground because it hurts and that’s the only way the pain wants to leave.
"Burke? You okay?"
That last voice wasn't in his head, he realizes, as he squints against the sunlight to see his coach offering him a hand.
He looks him in the eye and shakes his head, because he isn't okay. "I'm done," he says hoarsely. "I can't do this."
His coach nods like he'd seen it coming (of course he had, Peter's been a mess this whole week). "Okay," he says. "But I need you to pitch one last ball, yeah? Finish this game. I know it's just a practice session, but you can't leave it hanging. One ball. That's all I need from you. Can you do that?"
"Yeah." Peter stands up, waits for his coach to retreat to a safe distance, gets ready to throw again.
I'm afraid it's not all good news, Mr. Burke.
The voice has faded over time. It probably doesn't even sound like the doctor's anymore, but the words are just the same, layered over a bleeding wound like salt not a bandage.
Not this time, he thinks, a fierce, rightful anger taking over him, he can feel it down to his bones. He lets this little fit of anger carry him through the motions. The ball lands crisply in the catcher's hands, the batter struck out, that old familiar litany is gone, it’s not hurting him anymore.
But despite that, all he has in his two hands is the shards of a broken dream and the bitter knowledge that he can never put it back together again. Not like it was before.
