Fic (White Collar): Unfurled
Title: Unfurled
Author: cookielaura
Beta: sherylyn
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Peter, pre-Peter/Neal
Wordcount: 3058
Rating: PG-13
Contains: Mild gun shot wound; no spoilers
Summary: When Neal gets hurt protecting Peter, he knows he has to hide the wound or risk revealing his biggest secret.
Notes: Written for wcpairings for kanarek13. I tried to fit in a couple of your favourite things, hope you enjoy! ♥
More notes: This is a couple of hours early because I’m off on holiday in the morning. Please excuse any delay replying to comments! :)
Neal sees it before Peter does.
Peter’s still talking in that steady, reassuring voice, still telling the suspect that he should put the gun down, that it will all be okay, that a twenty-year sentence for bank robbing is better than a life sentence for cop-killing. Peter still thinks he can diffuse this situation, or at least wait it out until back-up arrives, which should be any minute now.
But Neal sees it. He hasn’t been watching Peter, a couple yards away, his hands in the air, doing his best to negotiate. He’s been watching the criminal standing wild-eyed in the doorway of the bank, his gun trained on Peter. And Neal sees the moment when the man’s face shifts, desperation changing into reckless abandon, and Neal knows what happens next.
He doesn’t wait to see if Peter will notice, if Peter will go for his gun. He just acts.
He hears the gunshot at the same time as he barrels into Peter, colliding at enough force to send them both to the ground. They land hard on the concrete, Neal on top of Peter at first, then underneath as they roll over, and Neal ends up pinned on the sidewalk, the air knocked out of him. There’s a sudden explosion of noise and chaos as the back-up arrives, but Neal doesn’t care, doesn’t give a damn what happens to the bank robber or anyone else, because nothing matters except whether Peter is okay. He tries to get enough breath to speak, to check on Peter, but Peter gets there first.
“Neal?” Peter pulls himself up and gets to his feet shakily, his hands on his knees, bending down to Neal. “You okay? Damn, that was - that was close. Neal?”
Released from Peter’s weight, Neal manages to suck in a breath, and then another, the relief that Peter is obviously fine washing over him. And as the terror leaves him, it’s replaced by something else: pain, and the realization of what that pain means.
“Neal?” Peter’s repeating, concern growing in his voice as he reaches down towards Neal, and Neal forces himself into action.
“Fine, I’m fine,” he says, hearing the thickness in his voice and willing it away. He moves his arm enough to take Peter’s offered hand, and lets Peter pull him up, gritting his teeth against the agony that shoots along his shoulder as he does so. He twists a little to make sure that he rises facing Peter, that his back is not within Peter’s eye-line.
His back, on which he is sure there is a rip in the suit jacket, a rip in his shirt, and, by now, a fair amount of blood.
“That was stupid,” Peter says. “You could have been killed.” He looks more shaken than Neal can ever remember seeing him before.
Neal tries a laugh, and it sounds small and cracked, but it’s there nonetheless. “You could have been killed,” he counters. “Shouldn’t you be thanking me?”
Peter grips Neal’s upper arm, and for once Neal wishes that he wouldn’t, because it makes the pain across his shoulder flare, but he covers his flinch as best he can.
“Thank you,” says Peter, as though he’s trying to imbue the words with every little bit of gratitude that he can, and it’s so heartfelt that it almost makes Neal forget the blood he can feel seeping down his back.
Peter’s grip tightens. “And don’t ever do it again,” he says, as sternly as he can manage.
Neal grins, flashing the teeth: carefree, unaffected, fine. “Of course not,” he says lightly, then backs away a little from Peter, letting his gaze fall on the scene before him: Diana reading the robber his rights, Jones walking over in their direction, and a few other officers heading into the bank to deal with the scene.
“Uh, Peter?” Neal asks, before Jones reaches them. “Do you think you could drop me off at home on your way back to the office? I’ve got a headache coming on, and it’s nearly five pm anyway.”
Peter looks at him sharply. “Are you sure you’re okay? Didn’t hurt yourself when we fell?”
“No,” Neal says quickly, and it’s not a lie, because he didn’t hurt himself when they fell. He got hurt before that. “This headache’s been threatening all day.” He nods towards the bank. “And I don’t think doing the paperwork for this mess is going to help.”
Peter rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “All right, I’ll drop you off. But don’t think I’m going to start your report for you just because you may have saved my life.”
Neal gives a more genuine smile this time, even through the pain, because he has a sneaking suspicion that Peter will have done most of the paperwork for him by tomorrow.
“I’ll wait in the car,” he says, reaching over to pluck the keys to the Taurus from Peter’s jacket pocket. He raises a hand in greeting to Jones, then backs away from the scene, leaving Peter to update Jones on the way things went down. Nobody’s watching Neal, as far as he can tell, so nobody should wonder why he’s walking backwards, and thankfully the car isn’t far away.
It’s not until Neal’s sitting in the passenger seat, the door closed firmly behind him and one eye still on Peter and Jones, that he lets himself exhale completely, and it’s then that the full extent of the pain hits him, and he has to reach to steady himself against the car door. His vision swims for a moment, then clears.
He checks that Peter is still busy talking, and then sneaks a look over his shoulder, twisting his head as far as he can to try to assess the extent of the damage. He can’t see much, except for the edges of a tear in his jacket, but he can feel the wound, his skin blazing, his nerve endings raw and mangled. He thinks the bullet just grazed him, but he can’t be sure, and the thought that there might be damage underneath - irreversible damage - makes his chest tighten and his mouth go dry. He wishes - not for the first time - that he was normal, that he could go to the hospital and get checked out, get a couple stitches or a bandage and not risk some doctor keeling over in shock when he sees what’s under Neal’s skin.
But he’s not normal, and all he can do is wait until he gets home, and call Mozzie.
----
Neal isn’t quite sure how he managed the car journey back to June’s - how he managed to keep up a conversation with Peter, while biting down on the pain and simultaneously trying to maintain a half-twisted position in his seat to ensure his back didn’t touch the car seat and leave an incriminating trail of blood. He did it though, even attempting to throw in a few witty comments for Peter’s benefit, and now the front door to his apartment looks like the best thing he’s ever seen.
He’s got his jacket off even before the door is fully shut behind him, and he barely even registers the burn as the muscles in his shoulders contract, so desperate is he to see the wound. His shirt follows the jacket, dropped on the floor a few feet further along as he makes his way to the mirror, one hand already digging his cell phone from the pocket of his pants. He speed-dials Mozzie without looking, his entire focus on the mirror as he stands facing away from it and strains to turn his head far enough to see the wound.
He was right, it’s just a graze, but it’s an ugly sight. There’s an open gash in the skin, its edges jagged and angry, and it’s deep enough to show a flash of silver in the center, glinting through the blood. Neal squints harder, trying to see the silver better, but he can’t tell if there’s damage.
The phone goes to voicemail, and Neal clenches his teeth down on his bottom lip and redials.
“Pick up, pick up,” he mutters, trying to angle his wound towards the mirror better, but having little success. Mozzie fails to answer again, and Neal curses and throws the cell onto the bed. Mozzie is the only one he’s ever trusted with his secret, and then only out of necessity.
He’ll have to try and clean the wound himself. But first -
He strides to the window, and pulls the drapes roughly closed, his injury protesting with each movement of his arm. The room falls into semi-darkness and his heartbeat thuds in his ears, his pulse as erratic as his breath. He doesn’t let himself consider what he’ll do if there is damage. How he’ll cope. What he’ll have lost.
He just moves into the center of the room, closes his eyes, and unfurls his wings.
It doesn’t usually hurt. It’s usually smooth and swift, the skin drawing back instinctively and the wings decompressing, filling out and spanning across his back. It’s normally like drawing in a deep, refreshing breath after being underwater, or shedding a too-tight outfit at the end of a long, hot day.
Today, it’s not like that. Today, the wound seems to scream out against the contraction of the skin and muscle, the sting exploding across his shoulder and causing sparks behind his eyelids. But it’s only momentary, and then it fades in comparison with the sensation of being unfurled.
He’s missed this. He so rarely unfurls these days, not when having his wings out brings such intense temptation to fly. Even at night, flying in the city that never sleeps is not a good idea.
He flexes the wings, apprehensive, heart in his throat. He waits for pain, for something to feel wrong, but it only feels wonderful. He walks in front of the mirror again and turns slowly, watching every ripple of light across the silvery feathers, seeking a chink, a ruffle, an imperfection. There is none. He flexes them harder, moves them up a little, and down, and then folds them forward in a sweeping arc and wraps them around himself. They are the same as ever: undamaged, untainted. The sting of the graze on his shoulder ebbs and flows somewhere underneath the wings, but he doesn’t care. His wings are safe.
He stretches them out once again, letting himself admire them, losing himself in the way they shimmer, bright silver layered over dark silver, their glow amplified in the near darkness of the room.
And then he hears the door bang against the wall, and an intake of breath, and he freezes.
He drags his gaze reluctantly from the tips of his wings, dreading what he will find. How could he have been so stupid, so wrapped up in his fear of damage to his wings, that he forgot to lock the door?
It’s Peter, and to Neal’s surprise, he relaxes a little at the discovery. His first thought had been June or one of the maids, but Peter… Peter is something different. He’s standing silhouetted in the light from the hallway, and Neal has to squint to see his expression. He can’t make it out. And for once, he is completely lost for words.
“Neal?” Peter says, hesitantly.
Neal tries to find his voice. “Peter,” he says, and it’s little more than a croak. Then, stronger: “Close the door, will you?”
Peter rushes to shut the door behind him, clumsily, then swallows - Neal can just see the shape of his Adam’s apple moving up and down.
“What brings you here?” Neal says, casually, as if the situation isn’t what it so clearly is.
“Blood,” Peter says, sounding stunned. “There was blood on the back of your seat. I thought… I thought you’d gotten hurt and hadn’t realized. Shock, or…something.”
Neal sighs. He’d been so careful, he thought. Not careful enough. He looks out at his wings, still shining through the darkness and casting blurry pools of light on the floor, and tries to think.
“Is that - is that a Halloween costume?” Peter asks, and there it is, the perfect excuse. It’s September. It could very well be a Halloween costume. But Peter doesn’t sound like he believes what he’s saying, and Neal can’t bear to lie - not now, not when he’s so open and exposed and Peter can finally see him. The real him, without the layers he usually builds up so carefully before facing the world. He’s dreamt of being able to show Peter this, but it always seemed out of his grasp. And now that it’s happening - not the way he’d imagined it, but happening nonetheless - he can’t face the thought of not seeing it through.
“No,” he says. “It’s not for Halloween.”
“Is it…” Peter takes a step forward, and his hand twitches by his side, as if he wants to reach out to Neal. “Is it a trick? For a con?”
Neal laughs, surprising himself. “No,” he says again.
Peter takes another step, and another, and then they’re only a couple of feet apart, and Peter’s staring, his eyes reflecting the glow of the wings, his expression pure amazement.
“Neal?” he says, softly, locking eyes with him. It’s just his name, but it’s so much more - it’s a question, a request, and the way Peter says it, the lack of demand in the word, the lack of interrogation, makes Neal’s mind up for him.
“They’re real,” he says, and flexes them, moving the left wing forward a little, so that it’s within Peter’s reach.
“They can’t be,” Peter says, but even as he denies it, he’s moving his hand, stretching out his fingers, touching the tip of the wing. So gently, so carefully, as if it might disappear under his touch. The feel of his fingertip as it settles on the outermost feather fizzes down the length of the wing and shudders through Neal. It’s been so long since anyone has touched him there.
“It’s impossible,” Peter says, but it doesn’t sound like denial anymore; it sounds like wonderment. Peter lets his hand fall away from the wing, but Neal sees the reluctance in his eyes, and it soothes Neal’s nerves.
“How?” Peter says simply.
Neal shrugs, and the wings ripple, sending soft breaths of air towards Peter. “I’ve always had them. And my mother, before me. And her father. And so on. I suppose there are others like me, somewhere, but I’ve never found them.”
Peter nods, slowly. “And you didn’t hurt them, today? When we fell?”
Neal grimaces. “Bullet grazed my back. You can patch it up later. But no… the wings are fine. Fully functional.”
“Fully functional?” Peter moistens his lips with his tongue. “Can you…?” he starts, then stops, as if flummoxed.
“Fly?” Neal asks, with a grin. “Of course. Bet you don’t feel so bad about taking three years to catch me now.”
Peter shakes his head, speechless.
“You can’t tell anyone,” Neal says, suddenly, even though it seems redundant. Now that Peter is here with him, seeing him properly, Neal doesn’t know why he ever thought he needed to keep this from him.
“I won’t,” Peter replies, then frowns. “But why didn’t you just fly away? You could have cut the anklet any time, taken off, and we’d never have found you.”
Neal looks down. He can’t say it hasn’t crossed his mind. But now that he thinks about it, it’s been a while.
“At first, I didn’t know where to fly to,” he says, honestly. “I had a better chance of finding Kate here in New York. And then, the last couple years...” he stops, wondering if this is too honest, but Peter is watching closely, waiting, so he carries on. “I didn’t want to go anymore. I wanted to be here.”
Peter smiles, and in the glow from Neal’s wings it looks like something almost magical. And then Peter reaches out again to Neal’s left wing, as though he can’t help himself. “Can I?” he asks, and Neal nods.
Peter’s touch is more certain now, and he strokes along the tip of the wing with the back of his finger, and it feels like he’s stroking Neal’s soul. A soft, involuntary sound rises from Neal’s throat - almost a mewl - and Peter draws back, leaving the wing trembling in his wake.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks, anxious, his brow furrowed.
“No,” Neal says, heat rising in his face. “It’s not painful. It’s just…” He swallows. “Nobody’s touched me like that for years. And it’s… intimate.”
A matching flush starts to appear on Peter’s face. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, awkwardly. “I shouldn’t have…” He trails off, and his eyes search Neal’s face. Neal’s heart thuds.
“It’s okay,” he says, quietly, trying not to let his voice shake with the want, the need that’s coursing through him. He gazes back at Peter, trying to see if his own desire is echoed in Peter’s eyes. He can never tell, not for sure. But if there was ever a moment to ask…
“I wanted you to,” Neal says.
The air between them lies thick and heavy for a moment, and all Neal can hear is Peter’s breathing, matching the rhythm of his own. It feels like he’s asked for the world.
And then, Peter steps closer, and slowly, agonizingly slowly, runs his
fingers across the body of the left wing, leaving a trail of electricity behind him.
“They’re beautiful,” Peter says, and Neal’s heart leaps. “You’re beautiful.”
“Wasn’t I always?” Neal says, lightly, trying to swallow down the happiness that’s rising in his chest lest he burst with it.
“Yes,” says Peter, without hesitation. He bites his lip. “We should get that graze bandaged.”
Neal groans, the graze the last thing on his mind, but Peter smiles crookedly at him.
“We’ve got time,” he says, and it sounds like a promise.
Neal smiles back at him. “I could take you flying one day,” he says, the world suddenly lighting up with possibilities now that Peter knows the truth about him. “I could take you anywhere you want to go.”
Peter reaches out and cups Neal’s face in his hand, his fingers slightly warm from Neal’s wings. “I don’t doubt it,” he says, and leans in to kiss him.
-- END --
Author: cookielaura
Beta: sherylyn
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Peter, pre-Peter/Neal
Wordcount: 3058
Rating: PG-13
Contains: Mild gun shot wound; no spoilers
Summary: When Neal gets hurt protecting Peter, he knows he has to hide the wound or risk revealing his biggest secret.
Notes: Written for wcpairings for kanarek13. I tried to fit in a couple of your favourite things, hope you enjoy! ♥
More notes: This is a couple of hours early because I’m off on holiday in the morning. Please excuse any delay replying to comments! :)
Neal sees it before Peter does.
Peter’s still talking in that steady, reassuring voice, still telling the suspect that he should put the gun down, that it will all be okay, that a twenty-year sentence for bank robbing is better than a life sentence for cop-killing. Peter still thinks he can diffuse this situation, or at least wait it out until back-up arrives, which should be any minute now.
But Neal sees it. He hasn’t been watching Peter, a couple yards away, his hands in the air, doing his best to negotiate. He’s been watching the criminal standing wild-eyed in the doorway of the bank, his gun trained on Peter. And Neal sees the moment when the man’s face shifts, desperation changing into reckless abandon, and Neal knows what happens next.
He doesn’t wait to see if Peter will notice, if Peter will go for his gun. He just acts.
He hears the gunshot at the same time as he barrels into Peter, colliding at enough force to send them both to the ground. They land hard on the concrete, Neal on top of Peter at first, then underneath as they roll over, and Neal ends up pinned on the sidewalk, the air knocked out of him. There’s a sudden explosion of noise and chaos as the back-up arrives, but Neal doesn’t care, doesn’t give a damn what happens to the bank robber or anyone else, because nothing matters except whether Peter is okay. He tries to get enough breath to speak, to check on Peter, but Peter gets there first.
“Neal?” Peter pulls himself up and gets to his feet shakily, his hands on his knees, bending down to Neal. “You okay? Damn, that was - that was close. Neal?”
Released from Peter’s weight, Neal manages to suck in a breath, and then another, the relief that Peter is obviously fine washing over him. And as the terror leaves him, it’s replaced by something else: pain, and the realization of what that pain means.
“Neal?” Peter’s repeating, concern growing in his voice as he reaches down towards Neal, and Neal forces himself into action.
“Fine, I’m fine,” he says, hearing the thickness in his voice and willing it away. He moves his arm enough to take Peter’s offered hand, and lets Peter pull him up, gritting his teeth against the agony that shoots along his shoulder as he does so. He twists a little to make sure that he rises facing Peter, that his back is not within Peter’s eye-line.
His back, on which he is sure there is a rip in the suit jacket, a rip in his shirt, and, by now, a fair amount of blood.
“That was stupid,” Peter says. “You could have been killed.” He looks more shaken than Neal can ever remember seeing him before.
Neal tries a laugh, and it sounds small and cracked, but it’s there nonetheless. “You could have been killed,” he counters. “Shouldn’t you be thanking me?”
Peter grips Neal’s upper arm, and for once Neal wishes that he wouldn’t, because it makes the pain across his shoulder flare, but he covers his flinch as best he can.
“Thank you,” says Peter, as though he’s trying to imbue the words with every little bit of gratitude that he can, and it’s so heartfelt that it almost makes Neal forget the blood he can feel seeping down his back.
Peter’s grip tightens. “And don’t ever do it again,” he says, as sternly as he can manage.
Neal grins, flashing the teeth: carefree, unaffected, fine. “Of course not,” he says lightly, then backs away a little from Peter, letting his gaze fall on the scene before him: Diana reading the robber his rights, Jones walking over in their direction, and a few other officers heading into the bank to deal with the scene.
“Uh, Peter?” Neal asks, before Jones reaches them. “Do you think you could drop me off at home on your way back to the office? I’ve got a headache coming on, and it’s nearly five pm anyway.”
Peter looks at him sharply. “Are you sure you’re okay? Didn’t hurt yourself when we fell?”
“No,” Neal says quickly, and it’s not a lie, because he didn’t hurt himself when they fell. He got hurt before that. “This headache’s been threatening all day.” He nods towards the bank. “And I don’t think doing the paperwork for this mess is going to help.”
Peter rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “All right, I’ll drop you off. But don’t think I’m going to start your report for you just because you may have saved my life.”
Neal gives a more genuine smile this time, even through the pain, because he has a sneaking suspicion that Peter will have done most of the paperwork for him by tomorrow.
“I’ll wait in the car,” he says, reaching over to pluck the keys to the Taurus from Peter’s jacket pocket. He raises a hand in greeting to Jones, then backs away from the scene, leaving Peter to update Jones on the way things went down. Nobody’s watching Neal, as far as he can tell, so nobody should wonder why he’s walking backwards, and thankfully the car isn’t far away.
It’s not until Neal’s sitting in the passenger seat, the door closed firmly behind him and one eye still on Peter and Jones, that he lets himself exhale completely, and it’s then that the full extent of the pain hits him, and he has to reach to steady himself against the car door. His vision swims for a moment, then clears.
He checks that Peter is still busy talking, and then sneaks a look over his shoulder, twisting his head as far as he can to try to assess the extent of the damage. He can’t see much, except for the edges of a tear in his jacket, but he can feel the wound, his skin blazing, his nerve endings raw and mangled. He thinks the bullet just grazed him, but he can’t be sure, and the thought that there might be damage underneath - irreversible damage - makes his chest tighten and his mouth go dry. He wishes - not for the first time - that he was normal, that he could go to the hospital and get checked out, get a couple stitches or a bandage and not risk some doctor keeling over in shock when he sees what’s under Neal’s skin.
But he’s not normal, and all he can do is wait until he gets home, and call Mozzie.
----
Neal isn’t quite sure how he managed the car journey back to June’s - how he managed to keep up a conversation with Peter, while biting down on the pain and simultaneously trying to maintain a half-twisted position in his seat to ensure his back didn’t touch the car seat and leave an incriminating trail of blood. He did it though, even attempting to throw in a few witty comments for Peter’s benefit, and now the front door to his apartment looks like the best thing he’s ever seen.
He’s got his jacket off even before the door is fully shut behind him, and he barely even registers the burn as the muscles in his shoulders contract, so desperate is he to see the wound. His shirt follows the jacket, dropped on the floor a few feet further along as he makes his way to the mirror, one hand already digging his cell phone from the pocket of his pants. He speed-dials Mozzie without looking, his entire focus on the mirror as he stands facing away from it and strains to turn his head far enough to see the wound.
He was right, it’s just a graze, but it’s an ugly sight. There’s an open gash in the skin, its edges jagged and angry, and it’s deep enough to show a flash of silver in the center, glinting through the blood. Neal squints harder, trying to see the silver better, but he can’t tell if there’s damage.
The phone goes to voicemail, and Neal clenches his teeth down on his bottom lip and redials.
“Pick up, pick up,” he mutters, trying to angle his wound towards the mirror better, but having little success. Mozzie fails to answer again, and Neal curses and throws the cell onto the bed. Mozzie is the only one he’s ever trusted with his secret, and then only out of necessity.
He’ll have to try and clean the wound himself. But first -
He strides to the window, and pulls the drapes roughly closed, his injury protesting with each movement of his arm. The room falls into semi-darkness and his heartbeat thuds in his ears, his pulse as erratic as his breath. He doesn’t let himself consider what he’ll do if there is damage. How he’ll cope. What he’ll have lost.
He just moves into the center of the room, closes his eyes, and unfurls his wings.
It doesn’t usually hurt. It’s usually smooth and swift, the skin drawing back instinctively and the wings decompressing, filling out and spanning across his back. It’s normally like drawing in a deep, refreshing breath after being underwater, or shedding a too-tight outfit at the end of a long, hot day.
Today, it’s not like that. Today, the wound seems to scream out against the contraction of the skin and muscle, the sting exploding across his shoulder and causing sparks behind his eyelids. But it’s only momentary, and then it fades in comparison with the sensation of being unfurled.
He’s missed this. He so rarely unfurls these days, not when having his wings out brings such intense temptation to fly. Even at night, flying in the city that never sleeps is not a good idea.
He flexes the wings, apprehensive, heart in his throat. He waits for pain, for something to feel wrong, but it only feels wonderful. He walks in front of the mirror again and turns slowly, watching every ripple of light across the silvery feathers, seeking a chink, a ruffle, an imperfection. There is none. He flexes them harder, moves them up a little, and down, and then folds them forward in a sweeping arc and wraps them around himself. They are the same as ever: undamaged, untainted. The sting of the graze on his shoulder ebbs and flows somewhere underneath the wings, but he doesn’t care. His wings are safe.
He stretches them out once again, letting himself admire them, losing himself in the way they shimmer, bright silver layered over dark silver, their glow amplified in the near darkness of the room.
And then he hears the door bang against the wall, and an intake of breath, and he freezes.
He drags his gaze reluctantly from the tips of his wings, dreading what he will find. How could he have been so stupid, so wrapped up in his fear of damage to his wings, that he forgot to lock the door?
It’s Peter, and to Neal’s surprise, he relaxes a little at the discovery. His first thought had been June or one of the maids, but Peter… Peter is something different. He’s standing silhouetted in the light from the hallway, and Neal has to squint to see his expression. He can’t make it out. And for once, he is completely lost for words.
“Neal?” Peter says, hesitantly.
Neal tries to find his voice. “Peter,” he says, and it’s little more than a croak. Then, stronger: “Close the door, will you?”
Peter rushes to shut the door behind him, clumsily, then swallows - Neal can just see the shape of his Adam’s apple moving up and down.
“What brings you here?” Neal says, casually, as if the situation isn’t what it so clearly is.
“Blood,” Peter says, sounding stunned. “There was blood on the back of your seat. I thought… I thought you’d gotten hurt and hadn’t realized. Shock, or…something.”
Neal sighs. He’d been so careful, he thought. Not careful enough. He looks out at his wings, still shining through the darkness and casting blurry pools of light on the floor, and tries to think.
“Is that - is that a Halloween costume?” Peter asks, and there it is, the perfect excuse. It’s September. It could very well be a Halloween costume. But Peter doesn’t sound like he believes what he’s saying, and Neal can’t bear to lie - not now, not when he’s so open and exposed and Peter can finally see him. The real him, without the layers he usually builds up so carefully before facing the world. He’s dreamt of being able to show Peter this, but it always seemed out of his grasp. And now that it’s happening - not the way he’d imagined it, but happening nonetheless - he can’t face the thought of not seeing it through.
“No,” he says. “It’s not for Halloween.”
“Is it…” Peter takes a step forward, and his hand twitches by his side, as if he wants to reach out to Neal. “Is it a trick? For a con?”
Neal laughs, surprising himself. “No,” he says again.
Peter takes another step, and another, and then they’re only a couple of feet apart, and Peter’s staring, his eyes reflecting the glow of the wings, his expression pure amazement.
“Neal?” he says, softly, locking eyes with him. It’s just his name, but it’s so much more - it’s a question, a request, and the way Peter says it, the lack of demand in the word, the lack of interrogation, makes Neal’s mind up for him.
“They’re real,” he says, and flexes them, moving the left wing forward a little, so that it’s within Peter’s reach.
“They can’t be,” Peter says, but even as he denies it, he’s moving his hand, stretching out his fingers, touching the tip of the wing. So gently, so carefully, as if it might disappear under his touch. The feel of his fingertip as it settles on the outermost feather fizzes down the length of the wing and shudders through Neal. It’s been so long since anyone has touched him there.
“It’s impossible,” Peter says, but it doesn’t sound like denial anymore; it sounds like wonderment. Peter lets his hand fall away from the wing, but Neal sees the reluctance in his eyes, and it soothes Neal’s nerves.
“How?” Peter says simply.
Neal shrugs, and the wings ripple, sending soft breaths of air towards Peter. “I’ve always had them. And my mother, before me. And her father. And so on. I suppose there are others like me, somewhere, but I’ve never found them.”
Peter nods, slowly. “And you didn’t hurt them, today? When we fell?”
Neal grimaces. “Bullet grazed my back. You can patch it up later. But no… the wings are fine. Fully functional.”
“Fully functional?” Peter moistens his lips with his tongue. “Can you…?” he starts, then stops, as if flummoxed.
“Fly?” Neal asks, with a grin. “Of course. Bet you don’t feel so bad about taking three years to catch me now.”
Peter shakes his head, speechless.
“You can’t tell anyone,” Neal says, suddenly, even though it seems redundant. Now that Peter is here with him, seeing him properly, Neal doesn’t know why he ever thought he needed to keep this from him.
“I won’t,” Peter replies, then frowns. “But why didn’t you just fly away? You could have cut the anklet any time, taken off, and we’d never have found you.”
Neal looks down. He can’t say it hasn’t crossed his mind. But now that he thinks about it, it’s been a while.
“At first, I didn’t know where to fly to,” he says, honestly. “I had a better chance of finding Kate here in New York. And then, the last couple years...” he stops, wondering if this is too honest, but Peter is watching closely, waiting, so he carries on. “I didn’t want to go anymore. I wanted to be here.”
Peter smiles, and in the glow from Neal’s wings it looks like something almost magical. And then Peter reaches out again to Neal’s left wing, as though he can’t help himself. “Can I?” he asks, and Neal nods.
Peter’s touch is more certain now, and he strokes along the tip of the wing with the back of his finger, and it feels like he’s stroking Neal’s soul. A soft, involuntary sound rises from Neal’s throat - almost a mewl - and Peter draws back, leaving the wing trembling in his wake.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks, anxious, his brow furrowed.
“No,” Neal says, heat rising in his face. “It’s not painful. It’s just…” He swallows. “Nobody’s touched me like that for years. And it’s… intimate.”
A matching flush starts to appear on Peter’s face. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, awkwardly. “I shouldn’t have…” He trails off, and his eyes search Neal’s face. Neal’s heart thuds.
“It’s okay,” he says, quietly, trying not to let his voice shake with the want, the need that’s coursing through him. He gazes back at Peter, trying to see if his own desire is echoed in Peter’s eyes. He can never tell, not for sure. But if there was ever a moment to ask…
“I wanted you to,” Neal says.
The air between them lies thick and heavy for a moment, and all Neal can hear is Peter’s breathing, matching the rhythm of his own. It feels like he’s asked for the world.
And then, Peter steps closer, and slowly, agonizingly slowly, runs his
fingers across the body of the left wing, leaving a trail of electricity behind him.
“They’re beautiful,” Peter says, and Neal’s heart leaps. “You’re beautiful.”
“Wasn’t I always?” Neal says, lightly, trying to swallow down the happiness that’s rising in his chest lest he burst with it.
“Yes,” says Peter, without hesitation. He bites his lip. “We should get that graze bandaged.”
Neal groans, the graze the last thing on his mind, but Peter smiles crookedly at him.
“We’ve got time,” he says, and it sounds like a promise.
Neal smiles back at him. “I could take you flying one day,” he says, the world suddenly lighting up with possibilities now that Peter knows the truth about him. “I could take you anywhere you want to go.”
Peter reaches out and cups Neal’s face in his hand, his fingers slightly warm from Neal’s wings. “I don’t doubt it,” he says, and leans in to kiss him.
-- END --