waldos_writings (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
waldos_writings) wrote2010-04-03 08:24 pm
waldos_writings) wrote2010-04-03 08:24 pm
Entry tags:
WC Fic: A Different Kind of Fix (Peter/Neal)
Title: A Different Kind of Fix
Rating: PG
Length: 1297 Words
Pairing: Peter/Neal pre-slash; Elizabeth Approves.
Summary: It's the night after the plane exploded and Neal needs something.
It’s almost midnight when Peter hears banging around down in the kitchen. El is up and looking at him, hearing it too. Peter slides his Sig out of the bedside drawer and is halfway down the stairs before he remembers that Neal was sleeping on the sofa.
He ditches the gun at the top of the stairs – Neal’s not a gun guy and he’s already an emotional wreck – and flips on the hall light as a way of giving Neal some warning.
Neal jumps a little at the light and slams a drawer shut.
“What’cha looking for?” Peter hopes he sounds like he’s trying to help, not that he thinks Neal’s trying to rob him blind and Peter’s caught him at it.
“A pencil. Don’t you have a damn pencil in this house?!”
Neal sounds strung out. Peter remembers a junkie he once busted when he worked narcotics his first year out of Quantico. The guy hadn’t cared that Peter was about to bust him and get him sent to jail for years. He hadn’t cared if Peter had taken away the half-a-kilo of coke he’d been busted with. He’d just begged Peter to let him have one hit, right there on the street. Just to calm his nerves and stave off the withdrawl symptoms for another hour.
Neal has that same desperate sound and Peter hates it.
<{*}>
Peter moved to the drawer Neal had just slammed shut and opened it. He rooted through the take-out menus and rubber bands, a golf ball and several of El’s hair ties until he found a pen. “Here’s a pen.”
Neal rolled his eyes and stormed back into the living room before he slammed himself back into the corner of the sofa. “Nevermind.”
Peter followed him into the living room, trying to piece together what Neal was going through in his head. It was when he saw a few pieces of blank white paper – probably pilfered from the fax machine - sitting on the coffee table that it started to make sense.
“I’m sorry, Peter,” Neal mumbled into his hands. “I’m sorry I woke you up. I’m sorry I snapped. I’m… sorry.”
Peter got up and squeezed Neal’s shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ll be back in a second.”
Neal watched as Peter went up the stairs, stopping to retrieve something from the top step before going back into the bedroom. A few minutes later he came back down, dressed, and with a pair of jeans (and a belt) and a sweatshirt for Neal. He handed over the clothes. “Get dressed.”
“Why?” Neal asked, looking up, looking like Peter may well have been speaking in Swahili for all he understood.
“Because you’ll look silly going out in my old raggedy sweats and no shirt.”
Neal just looked up at him, his head shaking slightly, clearly still not understanding.
“Because I don’t know of any twenty-four hour art supply stores, but the drug store down the street should have some plain old yellow pencils. They’ll have to do for tonight.”
“Peter, I didn’t – I’m okay. Go back up to El.” Neal suddenly realized how absolutely ridiculous he must look to need something as basic as a pencil so insanely badly.
“El threatened to stab me somewhere sensitive with a pencil if I don’t do anything I can to make you feel better tonight.” Peter sat down next to Neal and threw an arm around his shoulders. Neal leaned in to him gratefully. Peter trailed his fingers up and down Neal’s bare arm, letting him take comfort for as long as he wanted to.
They sat silently for a few minutes. Peter and El had both hugged and held him all night as he tried to wrap his brain around an exploding plane meant for him, and the very permanent loss of Kate. But Neal knew he was a long way from having had enough of it.
After a few minutes Neal drew back just enough to see Peter’s face. “How’s she going to stab you with a pencil if we don’t have a pencil?”
“She’s mostly asleep. I’m not going to attack her logic.”
Neal gave him a little smile. “But you are afraid that she’ll find a way to make it happen.”
“A little bit, yeah,” Peter answered with a smile and a pat on Neal’s head. “Go on, there’s socks and whatever in there too.” Peter hadn’t been sure what they thought they’d find in the black bag Neal had been prepared to leave with, but the evidence recovery team had confiscated it, and Neal wasn’t ready to go back to June’s yet, so he was spending some time in Peter’s clothes. Peter got the odd impression that Neal was finding a little bit of comfort in that, so he didn’t mind at all.
“Come on,” Peter prodded. “Let’s go take a walk.”
<{*}>
They were gone and back inside of twenty minutes. It was ridiculous, but Peter had gotten two twelve-packs of number two pencils, a small sharpener in the shape of a racecar and some erasers. He was ridiculously pleased to see that even in the school-supply section of a drug store they had a small artist sketchpad. It was probably still below Neal’s standards, but he suspected it would be better than the computer paper Neal had found.
Neal had fussed, saying that really, one pack of pre-sharpened pencils would be sufficient. Peter had said that Neal’s peace-of-mind was worth much more than the seven bucks for all the stuff he’d grabbed and he’d paid for it before Neal could argue again.
<{*}>
When they got back, Neal changed back into Peter’s sweats and Peter put his pajamas back on, but he didn’t go back up to bed. He turned on ESPN and turned the volume down to almost nothing, sprawling out on the end of the couch. Neal crammed himself back into the opposite corner, the sketchpad tucked between his knees and his chest. Peter eventually fell asleep, t.v. and lights on.
<{*}>
Peter woke to hear El and Neal in the kitchen talking about old movies. The kinds that Peter sat through for El’s sake but could never really understand how most of them could be called ‘art’. On the coffee table were Neal’s supplies. About six pages had been ripped from the sketchpad. Given the way Neal was guarding himself the night before, Peter never would have invaded his privacy by flipping through a closed notebook. But he had the feeling that these sketches had been removed and left on top of the pad just so that Peter would look. There was Kate in the door of the plane. There was a sketch that Peter suspected Neal would take to the engravers – Kate’s tombstone. There was a picture of Satchmo who had wormed himself between Neal and Peter at some point, Peter remembered. A sketch of the music box was under that, with an inset of something that looked like a cherub in the corner. The last one was a sketch of Peter, sleeping on the couch, his feet on the coffee table. He was staring at it when Neal came back in.
“It’s not quite done. I finally settled down enough to sleep for a while before I could finish it.”
Peter looked up to see Neal leaning on the wall across from him. His hands were shoved deep into the pocket of the re-borrowed jeans; he looked faintly embarrassed.
Peter wasn’t sure what to say. Maybe Neal didn’t mean for it to sound like he’d finally found some peace because Peter was nearby, but that was how Peter interpreted it. He just smiled at him somewhat awkwardly, feeling intensely grateful when El hollered that breakfast was served.
Author's Note: So I dithered over posting this because of the tense change. At this point I've decided on calling it 'an experiment in style' and leaving it. If you noticed, and you have an opinion, I'd love to hear it.
Rating: PG
Length: 1297 Words
Pairing: Peter/Neal pre-slash; Elizabeth Approves.
Summary: It's the night after the plane exploded and Neal needs something.
It’s almost midnight when Peter hears banging around down in the kitchen. El is up and looking at him, hearing it too. Peter slides his Sig out of the bedside drawer and is halfway down the stairs before he remembers that Neal was sleeping on the sofa.
He ditches the gun at the top of the stairs – Neal’s not a gun guy and he’s already an emotional wreck – and flips on the hall light as a way of giving Neal some warning.
Neal jumps a little at the light and slams a drawer shut.
“What’cha looking for?” Peter hopes he sounds like he’s trying to help, not that he thinks Neal’s trying to rob him blind and Peter’s caught him at it.
“A pencil. Don’t you have a damn pencil in this house?!”
Neal sounds strung out. Peter remembers a junkie he once busted when he worked narcotics his first year out of Quantico. The guy hadn’t cared that Peter was about to bust him and get him sent to jail for years. He hadn’t cared if Peter had taken away the half-a-kilo of coke he’d been busted with. He’d just begged Peter to let him have one hit, right there on the street. Just to calm his nerves and stave off the withdrawl symptoms for another hour.
Neal has that same desperate sound and Peter hates it.
Peter moved to the drawer Neal had just slammed shut and opened it. He rooted through the take-out menus and rubber bands, a golf ball and several of El’s hair ties until he found a pen. “Here’s a pen.”
Neal rolled his eyes and stormed back into the living room before he slammed himself back into the corner of the sofa. “Nevermind.”
Peter followed him into the living room, trying to piece together what Neal was going through in his head. It was when he saw a few pieces of blank white paper – probably pilfered from the fax machine - sitting on the coffee table that it started to make sense.
“I’m sorry, Peter,” Neal mumbled into his hands. “I’m sorry I woke you up. I’m sorry I snapped. I’m… sorry.”
Peter got up and squeezed Neal’s shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ll be back in a second.”
Neal watched as Peter went up the stairs, stopping to retrieve something from the top step before going back into the bedroom. A few minutes later he came back down, dressed, and with a pair of jeans (and a belt) and a sweatshirt for Neal. He handed over the clothes. “Get dressed.”
“Why?” Neal asked, looking up, looking like Peter may well have been speaking in Swahili for all he understood.
“Because you’ll look silly going out in my old raggedy sweats and no shirt.”
Neal just looked up at him, his head shaking slightly, clearly still not understanding.
“Because I don’t know of any twenty-four hour art supply stores, but the drug store down the street should have some plain old yellow pencils. They’ll have to do for tonight.”
“Peter, I didn’t – I’m okay. Go back up to El.” Neal suddenly realized how absolutely ridiculous he must look to need something as basic as a pencil so insanely badly.
“El threatened to stab me somewhere sensitive with a pencil if I don’t do anything I can to make you feel better tonight.” Peter sat down next to Neal and threw an arm around his shoulders. Neal leaned in to him gratefully. Peter trailed his fingers up and down Neal’s bare arm, letting him take comfort for as long as he wanted to.
They sat silently for a few minutes. Peter and El had both hugged and held him all night as he tried to wrap his brain around an exploding plane meant for him, and the very permanent loss of Kate. But Neal knew he was a long way from having had enough of it.
After a few minutes Neal drew back just enough to see Peter’s face. “How’s she going to stab you with a pencil if we don’t have a pencil?”
“She’s mostly asleep. I’m not going to attack her logic.”
Neal gave him a little smile. “But you are afraid that she’ll find a way to make it happen.”
“A little bit, yeah,” Peter answered with a smile and a pat on Neal’s head. “Go on, there’s socks and whatever in there too.” Peter hadn’t been sure what they thought they’d find in the black bag Neal had been prepared to leave with, but the evidence recovery team had confiscated it, and Neal wasn’t ready to go back to June’s yet, so he was spending some time in Peter’s clothes. Peter got the odd impression that Neal was finding a little bit of comfort in that, so he didn’t mind at all.
“Come on,” Peter prodded. “Let’s go take a walk.”
They were gone and back inside of twenty minutes. It was ridiculous, but Peter had gotten two twelve-packs of number two pencils, a small sharpener in the shape of a racecar and some erasers. He was ridiculously pleased to see that even in the school-supply section of a drug store they had a small artist sketchpad. It was probably still below Neal’s standards, but he suspected it would be better than the computer paper Neal had found.
Neal had fussed, saying that really, one pack of pre-sharpened pencils would be sufficient. Peter had said that Neal’s peace-of-mind was worth much more than the seven bucks for all the stuff he’d grabbed and he’d paid for it before Neal could argue again.
When they got back, Neal changed back into Peter’s sweats and Peter put his pajamas back on, but he didn’t go back up to bed. He turned on ESPN and turned the volume down to almost nothing, sprawling out on the end of the couch. Neal crammed himself back into the opposite corner, the sketchpad tucked between his knees and his chest. Peter eventually fell asleep, t.v. and lights on.
Peter woke to hear El and Neal in the kitchen talking about old movies. The kinds that Peter sat through for El’s sake but could never really understand how most of them could be called ‘art’. On the coffee table were Neal’s supplies. About six pages had been ripped from the sketchpad. Given the way Neal was guarding himself the night before, Peter never would have invaded his privacy by flipping through a closed notebook. But he had the feeling that these sketches had been removed and left on top of the pad just so that Peter would look. There was Kate in the door of the plane. There was a sketch that Peter suspected Neal would take to the engravers – Kate’s tombstone. There was a picture of Satchmo who had wormed himself between Neal and Peter at some point, Peter remembered. A sketch of the music box was under that, with an inset of something that looked like a cherub in the corner. The last one was a sketch of Peter, sleeping on the couch, his feet on the coffee table. He was staring at it when Neal came back in.
“It’s not quite done. I finally settled down enough to sleep for a while before I could finish it.”
Peter looked up to see Neal leaning on the wall across from him. His hands were shoved deep into the pocket of the re-borrowed jeans; he looked faintly embarrassed.
Peter wasn’t sure what to say. Maybe Neal didn’t mean for it to sound like he’d finally found some peace because Peter was nearby, but that was how Peter interpreted it. He just smiled at him somewhat awkwardly, feeling intensely grateful when El hollered that breakfast was served.
Author's Note: So I dithered over posting this because of the tense change. At this point I've decided on calling it 'an experiment in style' and leaving it. If you noticed, and you have an opinion, I'd love to hear it.