Fic: Count Your Bruises (One By One)
Title: Count Your Bruises (One By One)
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke (slightest bit of Neal/Peter)
Context: Not quite sure where, maybe somewhere in season 2?
Words: ~2800
Summary: The aftermath of a less-than-perfect undercover mission.
“You don’t care. Why is that, is it because you’re going to get your pretty cut of the profits here?”
Neal had begun moving towards the door, but Peter’s words stopped him. He had tried to walk away, but Peter was attacking his character in a way Neal had never experienced from him before. He expected to be accused of things like this by people like Ruiz, but Peter?
“You want to know why he got away, Peter? Why you lost the painting and the cash?” Neal’s voice was quiet, his back still to Peter. “You want to know why I didn’t go after him?”
“Yeah, Neal, I do. Come on, make this good.”
Neal pulled his wrists in close together in front of him, out of Peter’s line of sight. He looked at the glass, and could just make out in the reflection that Neal appeared to be… removing his cufflinks?
“Neal, what’re y--“Peter stopped short when Neal turned around, shirtsleeves now pushed slightly up his arms. Ugly red abrasions ringed his wrists, quite clearly identifiable as the marks of too-tight handcuffs.
“This is why, Peter.” Neal’s voice was measured and cold.
As Neal spoke again, his fingers were pulling off his silk tie, then unfastening his buttons. He pushed one sleeve of the dress shirt down off his shoulder, revealing a bandage that he pulled off, to show the two almost-perfectly circular cigar burns there.
“This is why”, he repeated, as he let the sleeve of the shirt slip off his arm entirely, and lifted one side of his undershirt, allowing Peter to stare in shock at the deep bruises that decorated his skin.
“Neal…” Peter breathed the other man’s name in horror at what he was seeing now for the first time. He slumped into his chair, eyes still fixed on the purple that had blossomed across Neal’s torso.
“What the hell happened in there?” Neal let his singlet slip down again, covering the marks. As he re-secured the bandage over the burns, he began quietly.
“They made me the second I walked in the door. They had scramblers, so you lost the signal from the watch, which they smashed anyway. One of them pinned me; one of the others was a little cuff-happy. They sat me down, asked me a few questions about how it feels to be a turncoat, gave me some souvenirs of our time together, and left. They took the money and the painting and left. I knew you were outside, but was having a bit of a hard time catching my breath…”
Peter shook his head at Neal’s half-joking comment.
“I finally found something to get the cuffs off with - a little too tight to slip - and came outside. Your guys saw me get clear, stormed the place, and reported they were gone, with everything.”
“Why didn’t you say something?!” Peter questioned, his eyes roaming over Neal like he expected to see more signs of abuse.
“What was I meant to say? I barely managed to tell you they were gone before the entry team came back out and everyone went into chase mode, I was supposed to grab someone and say, hey, you think you could stop chasing a guy who’s got a half-million dollar painting and 200 thousand of the government’s cash to find me a band-aid?”
“Neal, it doesn’t matter what the piece is, how much money is involved, nothing is more important than your safety. Nothing. Ever.”
“I wanted to help track Connor down, I really did. I knew what it would look like, the fact that he’d gotten away clean. I tried to help, but I could hardly breathe. I hoped that even if I sat it out, people might trust me enough by now to realise that it was nothing to do with me. But all I got was questions that were barely veiled accusations, and not-so-quiet comments about how or why I must have known Connor, people making little effort to hide the fact that they thought I’d sold you out. So I left. I was exhausted, I was hurting, and I was sick of being accused of something I didn’t do. I took a cab back to June’s, cleaned myself up a bit, and came back here for my anklet and the latest. And instead, I get... this.”
Neal stopped, indicating he meant the grilling he’d just gotten from Peter. Neal had retied his tie, and was replacing his cufflinks as Peter spoke again. His voice was soft, holding none of the accusation it had earlier.
“I… I’m so sorry, Neal. I had no idea. You waltzed out of there looking like everything had gone well, then we find out the whole thing had fallen through… we needed to get that bastard. If nothing else we at least had to get that money back. You have to understand why it looked suspicious… and then you were gone, and had no anklet, and the watch was out of action, and suddenly we had to move, and it wasn’t after you. And then you show up here a couple hours later, fresh suit, asking how the chase was going… how were we meant to react?”
Neal looked slightly incredulous.
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe like a friend? he replied. “Like Peter, instead of like Agent Burke? With, ‘What happened in there Neal, everything okay?’ instead of, ‘Why do you always do this?’” Neal paused for a moment, and his next words hit Peter like a sucker punch to the gut.
“Like you actually trust me?”
Neal’s anger was as clear as his bruises and Peter had no idea how to respond.
“You were meant to believe me, Peter. Believe in me. When everyone else was exchanging theories about how big a cut I was in for, I wouldn’t expect you to defend me, but at least trust me enough to pretend to believe I had nothing to do with it.”
Neal paused, but Peter made no indication he was going to respond.
“I want you to stop thinking you have to doubt me. I see sometimes the way you react to things I say, things I do - your gut tells you to trust me, to give things a chance to play out… But then it’s like you suddenly remember I’m not an agent, like you force yourself to question everything I do for any possible ulterior motive. You know what, Peter? Sometimes, I’m not trying to run a con. Sometimes, you should trust me.”
Peter didn’t respond. He didn’t know how to. Neal waited, but when Peter remained silent, he shook his head slightly and turned on his heel to leave. Peter didn’t stop him.
**********
Peter stood silently in the doorway, observing Neal with a careful eye. The younger man was leaning back in the tub, head resting on a folded towel, eyes closed. Steam rose off the water between the bubbles strewn across its surface. Peter had let himself into Neal's rooms with June's blessing, but had been surprised not to find him in the apartment or on the balcony, despite the presence of an opened bottle of wine on the table and the soothing sounds of Sinatra playing. Neal hadn't made an appearance on hearing the door open and close, and so it was that Peter had ventured down the hall looking for his partner, and came to be watching him now as he rested. Leaning against the door frame, Peter wondered at the fact that somehow, even as he slept, Neal looked exhausted. His features seemed drawn, and there were shadows under his eyes Peter had failed to notice earlier, that were only enhanced by the paleness of his face.
Their exchange at the office replayed in Peter's head.
“You waltzed out of there looking like everything had gone well, then we find out the whole thing had fallen through… how were we meant to react?”
“… like a friend? Like Peter, instead of like Agent Burke? With, ‘What happened in there Neal, everything ok?’ instead of, ‘Why do you always do this?’
… Like you actually trust me?”
"Hello, Peter."
Peter started at the sound of Neal's voice. His mind had wandered and he hadn't noticed when Neal had woken.
"Neal, I..."
"Why are you here, is everything okay?"
"I came to make sure that you were okay... and to apologise for what happened earlier," Peter replied, watching Neal's face.
Neal offered no response, or visible reaction.
"I’m sorry for accusing you without any proof. I’m sorry for not giving you the benefit of the doubt, for jumping to conclusions - the wrong conclusions. I know how hard this case has been on you - it has been hard on all of us, but especially on you. And then to find out what they did to you, I just... I’m sorry, Neal. Truly."
Neal nodded. After a long pause, he spoke.
"It’s okay. I know now how it must have looked. It is just hard to find the will to keep trying to prove myself to people when something like this happens and I realise all my effort isn't making any difference."
One arm appeared from under the water, gripping the side of the tub, and with the other arm wrapped tightly around his battered ribs; Neal slowly pulled himself upright, eyes closed tightly against the pain.
Peter wasn't sure how to respond, or even if Neal expected him to. As the silence following Neal's statement tended towards awkwardness, Peter changed the subject.
"Are you sure you're okay? Those bruises look deep, and they'll only get worse, I should really take you to get checked out," Peter said, concern evident in his voice.
Neal had let his head drop forward, taking shallow breaths to avoid further aggravating his injuries. He shook it vigorously at Peter's suggestion.
"No, I’ll be fine, I don't need to see anyone," Neal said firmly.
"If you're sure..." Peter tailed off, questioningly.
"There is nothing they can do for me anyway, I just need to take it easy and give it some time. It’s okay, really."
The bubbles had almost entirely disappeared from the bath now, and Peter could see again the ugly marks across Neal's chest. They looked even worse now than they had just a few hours earlier. He noticed Neal's knuckles had whitened against the edges of the tub, and suddenly realised he was steeling himself for the agony that would be trying to get out.
Wordlessly, he leaned over, gripping his partner's arms firmly just above the elbow. Neal raised his eyes to meet Peter's in a silent show of gratitude, and when the younger man nodded to show his readiness, Peter pulled him up.
Neal tried to contain his moan, but biting his lip was not enough to conceal the sounds of his distress. Something inside of Peter twisted uneasily, guilt over his unwilling part in what had happened to Neal plaguing him. He was meant to keep him safe.
Maintaining his grip on one of Neal's arms to keep him steady, Peter reached for a towel with his free hand. Neal took it gratefully and as Peter released his other arm, wrapped it around his slender waist. He stepped carefully out of the tub, and was surprised when Peter didn't step back, but stayed put on the mat, leaving little space between them.
"Peter..?"
Neal's question was cut short as Peter kissed him, gently at first, but then deeper when Neal offered no resistance.
When they parted, Neal seemed surprised. They hadn't spent any time together during this case; Neal's cover hadn't allowed it, and the way Peter had behaved in the aftermath of the takedown had left Neal somewhat unsure of where they stood. Peter's kiss left him breathless and confused.
Peter answered the question in Neal's gaze.
"That is what I should have done when we found you. When the others ran after Connor, I should have gone after you; I should have made sure you were okay. I don't know why I didn't. I worried about you, every minute you were with them I was worried, and then when your cover was finally broken, and we had you back, instead of telling you how worried I’d been, instead of showing you how much I’d missed you, I shut you out, and then I accused you of something you didn't do. I’m sorry, Neal. I’m so sorry."
Neal granted his forgiveness with another kiss, only pulling away when he realised Peter was still fully clothed, and now rather damp.
Peter's eyes flickered over Neal's face, and then down over his abused body. They settled on the burns on his shoulder.
"Do you have a first aid kit up here? I’ll dress your shoulder for you," Peter said, brushing his thumb lightly over the reddened skin around one of the circular marks.
Neal flinched slightly at the touch.
"You don't have to do that," he said softly, but Peter's expression wasn't leaving any room for debate, so Neal turned and retrieved a small kit from one of the many drawers. Peter pulled the chain on the plug to let the water go, and then led Neal out of the bathroom and back to the table. He set the kit down and instructed Neal to sit as he washed his hands.
There were only limited supplies in the small kit, but enough to work with. Peter smoothed a small amount of antibiotic ointment over the two angry circles, Neal holding his breath as the tender flesh smarted under Peter's gentle ministrations. He carefully set two squares of burns gauze over the wounds, letting Neal press it down as he looked through the rest of the kit. He couldn’t find the tape he had in mind to strap Neal's surely fractured ribs, so instead he retrieved the singlet laid out on the bed.
A bitter voice somewhere inside Peter’s mind whispered, ‘out of sight, out of mind?’ He closed his eyes momentarily, banishing the thought, and opened them to see Neal gingerly slipping the singlet on. The marks on his wrists, red earlier when he had first revealed them to Peter, had darkened into bruises at their sides, where the cuffs had crushed pale skin against unyielding bone. Peter didn’t realise he was staring until Neal shifted his hands from where they rested in his lap and carefully pushed himself up from the chair. He made his way slowly towards the bed, sitting lightly on the edge and letting the towel fall open as he pulled on the cotton boxers that he had set out with the singlet.
Peter averted his eyes, pushing the thoughts that came unbidden to his mind whenever he saw Neal in almost any degree of undress aside. Neal needed rest, and time to recover. He was in no condition for anything more than sleep, and Peter intended to see that he did just that.
Moving towards the bed, he shifted the pillows and turned down the soft covers. Neal shuffled along the edge, Peter collecting the damp towel as Neal gently laid back, a deep sigh that held notes of pain and relief escaping his lips as he swung his legs up and reclined fully. His eyes were closed, breathing careful. Peter deposited the towel in the bathroom and wasn’t surprised when he found Neal asleep when he returned moments later.
He was relieved to see some of the lines of pain that had marked Neal's face had fallen away as he slept again. What was visible of his bruises stood out in stark contrast with the white of the sheets, and a slight shiver ran down Peter's spine as Neal's slumber allowed him a more thorough visual examination of his partner. His bruises were setting, and Peter's eyes didn't leave the younger man as he half-turned and made his way to the fridge. Opening it, he glanced away momentarily to retrieve one of the beers Neal kept there for him, cracking it and heading for the sofa. He flicked on the television, the sound lowered, watching to see that he didn't disturb Neal as he slept. Finding the game, he settled in for a night-long vigil. Neal was safe now, and hardly needed it, but Peter was still guilt-ridden about what had happened and how he had reacted without knowing the truth.
He would stay all night, and when Neal woke with a start, the jolting of his fractured ribs tearing an agonised moan from his lips, Peter would be there to calm him, to hold him close and rub soothing circles on his back until Neal's breathing evened out and sleep found him again.
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke (slightest bit of Neal/Peter)
Context: Not quite sure where, maybe somewhere in season 2?
Words: ~2800
Summary: The aftermath of a less-than-perfect undercover mission.
“You don’t care. Why is that, is it because you’re going to get your pretty cut of the profits here?”
Neal had begun moving towards the door, but Peter’s words stopped him. He had tried to walk away, but Peter was attacking his character in a way Neal had never experienced from him before. He expected to be accused of things like this by people like Ruiz, but Peter?
“You want to know why he got away, Peter? Why you lost the painting and the cash?” Neal’s voice was quiet, his back still to Peter. “You want to know why I didn’t go after him?”
“Yeah, Neal, I do. Come on, make this good.”
Neal pulled his wrists in close together in front of him, out of Peter’s line of sight. He looked at the glass, and could just make out in the reflection that Neal appeared to be… removing his cufflinks?
“Neal, what’re y--“Peter stopped short when Neal turned around, shirtsleeves now pushed slightly up his arms. Ugly red abrasions ringed his wrists, quite clearly identifiable as the marks of too-tight handcuffs.
“This is why, Peter.” Neal’s voice was measured and cold.
As Neal spoke again, his fingers were pulling off his silk tie, then unfastening his buttons. He pushed one sleeve of the dress shirt down off his shoulder, revealing a bandage that he pulled off, to show the two almost-perfectly circular cigar burns there.
“This is why”, he repeated, as he let the sleeve of the shirt slip off his arm entirely, and lifted one side of his undershirt, allowing Peter to stare in shock at the deep bruises that decorated his skin.
“Neal…” Peter breathed the other man’s name in horror at what he was seeing now for the first time. He slumped into his chair, eyes still fixed on the purple that had blossomed across Neal’s torso.
“What the hell happened in there?” Neal let his singlet slip down again, covering the marks. As he re-secured the bandage over the burns, he began quietly.
“They made me the second I walked in the door. They had scramblers, so you lost the signal from the watch, which they smashed anyway. One of them pinned me; one of the others was a little cuff-happy. They sat me down, asked me a few questions about how it feels to be a turncoat, gave me some souvenirs of our time together, and left. They took the money and the painting and left. I knew you were outside, but was having a bit of a hard time catching my breath…”
Peter shook his head at Neal’s half-joking comment.
“I finally found something to get the cuffs off with - a little too tight to slip - and came outside. Your guys saw me get clear, stormed the place, and reported they were gone, with everything.”
“Why didn’t you say something?!” Peter questioned, his eyes roaming over Neal like he expected to see more signs of abuse.
“What was I meant to say? I barely managed to tell you they were gone before the entry team came back out and everyone went into chase mode, I was supposed to grab someone and say, hey, you think you could stop chasing a guy who’s got a half-million dollar painting and 200 thousand of the government’s cash to find me a band-aid?”
“Neal, it doesn’t matter what the piece is, how much money is involved, nothing is more important than your safety. Nothing. Ever.”
“I wanted to help track Connor down, I really did. I knew what it would look like, the fact that he’d gotten away clean. I tried to help, but I could hardly breathe. I hoped that even if I sat it out, people might trust me enough by now to realise that it was nothing to do with me. But all I got was questions that were barely veiled accusations, and not-so-quiet comments about how or why I must have known Connor, people making little effort to hide the fact that they thought I’d sold you out. So I left. I was exhausted, I was hurting, and I was sick of being accused of something I didn’t do. I took a cab back to June’s, cleaned myself up a bit, and came back here for my anklet and the latest. And instead, I get... this.”
Neal stopped, indicating he meant the grilling he’d just gotten from Peter. Neal had retied his tie, and was replacing his cufflinks as Peter spoke again. His voice was soft, holding none of the accusation it had earlier.
“I… I’m so sorry, Neal. I had no idea. You waltzed out of there looking like everything had gone well, then we find out the whole thing had fallen through… we needed to get that bastard. If nothing else we at least had to get that money back. You have to understand why it looked suspicious… and then you were gone, and had no anklet, and the watch was out of action, and suddenly we had to move, and it wasn’t after you. And then you show up here a couple hours later, fresh suit, asking how the chase was going… how were we meant to react?”
Neal looked slightly incredulous.
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe like a friend? he replied. “Like Peter, instead of like Agent Burke? With, ‘What happened in there Neal, everything okay?’ instead of, ‘Why do you always do this?’” Neal paused for a moment, and his next words hit Peter like a sucker punch to the gut.
“Like you actually trust me?”
Neal’s anger was as clear as his bruises and Peter had no idea how to respond.
“You were meant to believe me, Peter. Believe in me. When everyone else was exchanging theories about how big a cut I was in for, I wouldn’t expect you to defend me, but at least trust me enough to pretend to believe I had nothing to do with it.”
Neal paused, but Peter made no indication he was going to respond.
“I want you to stop thinking you have to doubt me. I see sometimes the way you react to things I say, things I do - your gut tells you to trust me, to give things a chance to play out… But then it’s like you suddenly remember I’m not an agent, like you force yourself to question everything I do for any possible ulterior motive. You know what, Peter? Sometimes, I’m not trying to run a con. Sometimes, you should trust me.”
Peter didn’t respond. He didn’t know how to. Neal waited, but when Peter remained silent, he shook his head slightly and turned on his heel to leave. Peter didn’t stop him.
**********
Peter stood silently in the doorway, observing Neal with a careful eye. The younger man was leaning back in the tub, head resting on a folded towel, eyes closed. Steam rose off the water between the bubbles strewn across its surface. Peter had let himself into Neal's rooms with June's blessing, but had been surprised not to find him in the apartment or on the balcony, despite the presence of an opened bottle of wine on the table and the soothing sounds of Sinatra playing. Neal hadn't made an appearance on hearing the door open and close, and so it was that Peter had ventured down the hall looking for his partner, and came to be watching him now as he rested. Leaning against the door frame, Peter wondered at the fact that somehow, even as he slept, Neal looked exhausted. His features seemed drawn, and there were shadows under his eyes Peter had failed to notice earlier, that were only enhanced by the paleness of his face.
Their exchange at the office replayed in Peter's head.
“You waltzed out of there looking like everything had gone well, then we find out the whole thing had fallen through… how were we meant to react?”
“… like a friend? Like Peter, instead of like Agent Burke? With, ‘What happened in there Neal, everything ok?’ instead of, ‘Why do you always do this?’
… Like you actually trust me?”
"Hello, Peter."
Peter started at the sound of Neal's voice. His mind had wandered and he hadn't noticed when Neal had woken.
"Neal, I..."
"Why are you here, is everything okay?"
"I came to make sure that you were okay... and to apologise for what happened earlier," Peter replied, watching Neal's face.
Neal offered no response, or visible reaction.
"I’m sorry for accusing you without any proof. I’m sorry for not giving you the benefit of the doubt, for jumping to conclusions - the wrong conclusions. I know how hard this case has been on you - it has been hard on all of us, but especially on you. And then to find out what they did to you, I just... I’m sorry, Neal. Truly."
Neal nodded. After a long pause, he spoke.
"It’s okay. I know now how it must have looked. It is just hard to find the will to keep trying to prove myself to people when something like this happens and I realise all my effort isn't making any difference."
One arm appeared from under the water, gripping the side of the tub, and with the other arm wrapped tightly around his battered ribs; Neal slowly pulled himself upright, eyes closed tightly against the pain.
Peter wasn't sure how to respond, or even if Neal expected him to. As the silence following Neal's statement tended towards awkwardness, Peter changed the subject.
"Are you sure you're okay? Those bruises look deep, and they'll only get worse, I should really take you to get checked out," Peter said, concern evident in his voice.
Neal had let his head drop forward, taking shallow breaths to avoid further aggravating his injuries. He shook it vigorously at Peter's suggestion.
"No, I’ll be fine, I don't need to see anyone," Neal said firmly.
"If you're sure..." Peter tailed off, questioningly.
"There is nothing they can do for me anyway, I just need to take it easy and give it some time. It’s okay, really."
The bubbles had almost entirely disappeared from the bath now, and Peter could see again the ugly marks across Neal's chest. They looked even worse now than they had just a few hours earlier. He noticed Neal's knuckles had whitened against the edges of the tub, and suddenly realised he was steeling himself for the agony that would be trying to get out.
Wordlessly, he leaned over, gripping his partner's arms firmly just above the elbow. Neal raised his eyes to meet Peter's in a silent show of gratitude, and when the younger man nodded to show his readiness, Peter pulled him up.
Neal tried to contain his moan, but biting his lip was not enough to conceal the sounds of his distress. Something inside of Peter twisted uneasily, guilt over his unwilling part in what had happened to Neal plaguing him. He was meant to keep him safe.
Maintaining his grip on one of Neal's arms to keep him steady, Peter reached for a towel with his free hand. Neal took it gratefully and as Peter released his other arm, wrapped it around his slender waist. He stepped carefully out of the tub, and was surprised when Peter didn't step back, but stayed put on the mat, leaving little space between them.
"Peter..?"
Neal's question was cut short as Peter kissed him, gently at first, but then deeper when Neal offered no resistance.
When they parted, Neal seemed surprised. They hadn't spent any time together during this case; Neal's cover hadn't allowed it, and the way Peter had behaved in the aftermath of the takedown had left Neal somewhat unsure of where they stood. Peter's kiss left him breathless and confused.
Peter answered the question in Neal's gaze.
"That is what I should have done when we found you. When the others ran after Connor, I should have gone after you; I should have made sure you were okay. I don't know why I didn't. I worried about you, every minute you were with them I was worried, and then when your cover was finally broken, and we had you back, instead of telling you how worried I’d been, instead of showing you how much I’d missed you, I shut you out, and then I accused you of something you didn't do. I’m sorry, Neal. I’m so sorry."
Neal granted his forgiveness with another kiss, only pulling away when he realised Peter was still fully clothed, and now rather damp.
Peter's eyes flickered over Neal's face, and then down over his abused body. They settled on the burns on his shoulder.
"Do you have a first aid kit up here? I’ll dress your shoulder for you," Peter said, brushing his thumb lightly over the reddened skin around one of the circular marks.
Neal flinched slightly at the touch.
"You don't have to do that," he said softly, but Peter's expression wasn't leaving any room for debate, so Neal turned and retrieved a small kit from one of the many drawers. Peter pulled the chain on the plug to let the water go, and then led Neal out of the bathroom and back to the table. He set the kit down and instructed Neal to sit as he washed his hands.
There were only limited supplies in the small kit, but enough to work with. Peter smoothed a small amount of antibiotic ointment over the two angry circles, Neal holding his breath as the tender flesh smarted under Peter's gentle ministrations. He carefully set two squares of burns gauze over the wounds, letting Neal press it down as he looked through the rest of the kit. He couldn’t find the tape he had in mind to strap Neal's surely fractured ribs, so instead he retrieved the singlet laid out on the bed.
A bitter voice somewhere inside Peter’s mind whispered, ‘out of sight, out of mind?’ He closed his eyes momentarily, banishing the thought, and opened them to see Neal gingerly slipping the singlet on. The marks on his wrists, red earlier when he had first revealed them to Peter, had darkened into bruises at their sides, where the cuffs had crushed pale skin against unyielding bone. Peter didn’t realise he was staring until Neal shifted his hands from where they rested in his lap and carefully pushed himself up from the chair. He made his way slowly towards the bed, sitting lightly on the edge and letting the towel fall open as he pulled on the cotton boxers that he had set out with the singlet.
Peter averted his eyes, pushing the thoughts that came unbidden to his mind whenever he saw Neal in almost any degree of undress aside. Neal needed rest, and time to recover. He was in no condition for anything more than sleep, and Peter intended to see that he did just that.
Moving towards the bed, he shifted the pillows and turned down the soft covers. Neal shuffled along the edge, Peter collecting the damp towel as Neal gently laid back, a deep sigh that held notes of pain and relief escaping his lips as he swung his legs up and reclined fully. His eyes were closed, breathing careful. Peter deposited the towel in the bathroom and wasn’t surprised when he found Neal asleep when he returned moments later.
He was relieved to see some of the lines of pain that had marked Neal's face had fallen away as he slept again. What was visible of his bruises stood out in stark contrast with the white of the sheets, and a slight shiver ran down Peter's spine as Neal's slumber allowed him a more thorough visual examination of his partner. His bruises were setting, and Peter's eyes didn't leave the younger man as he half-turned and made his way to the fridge. Opening it, he glanced away momentarily to retrieve one of the beers Neal kept there for him, cracking it and heading for the sofa. He flicked on the television, the sound lowered, watching to see that he didn't disturb Neal as he slept. Finding the game, he settled in for a night-long vigil. Neal was safe now, and hardly needed it, but Peter was still guilt-ridden about what had happened and how he had reacted without knowing the truth.
He would stay all night, and when Neal woke with a start, the jolting of his fractured ribs tearing an agonised moan from his lips, Peter would be there to calm him, to hold him close and rub soothing circles on his back until Neal's breathing evened out and sleep found him again.