White Collar; Fic; Little Things; PG-13
Title: Little Things
Rating: PG-13
Genre/Pairing: Neal/Kate. OT3, with some squinting.
Spoilers: For Out of the Box.
Warnings: Grief, crying. Exploding cantaloupes.
Author's Note: There's fic I should be working on and beta-ing I should be doing, but I woke up in the middle of the night with this in my head and had to write it.
Summary: Neal tries to think like a con man, like being sane is his cover.
It's little things.
The woman on the street in front of him and the way the streetlight highlights the curve of her neck bending forever under her hair--that stops him. That makes him duck into an alley and put his head between his knees until he feels steady again, until he can pull himself upright. Then he walks to the stand on the corner quickly, letting the task of putting one leg in front of the other distract him. He buys a pack of cigarettes and a lighter because he thinks it might be good, to have a reminder to draw breath.
The first pull of the smoke is disgusting and the second is worse and he coughs around it, punishing himself afterwards by pulling in a third and then a fourth hit. It helps until he holds it between his lips too long and the smoke twists up into his nose. Then he's caught in the filthy, sickening smell of it, reminiscent and horrible, and he swears and throws the thing onto the dirty sidewalk and stares at the sky to keep himself from crying.
("There's nothing you could have done," Elizabeth said, while Peter was in the bathroom. Neal shook his head, not believing her, and she said it again, and again, and again, until finally he repeated it, his tongue numb around the words, just so he wouldn't have to hear her lie anymore. "There's nothing I could have done.")
He is able to hold it together until he crosses the street; it is not a street he should be able to cross, and he waits for the high, betrayed beep of his tracker before he remembers that he's not wearing it. Because everyone is so sorry for his loss and because they all know that what he has lost is his only reason to run, that she is gone like the plane she died in, that without her he's trapped no matter where he goes.
He shudders in the crosswalk and tries to think like a con man, like being sane is his cover. He's good at covers; he's been something more and less than himself for nearly his whole life. Even with her (he can't bear to even think her name) he was a cover--he was who she wanted, and then he was more than who she wanted, and then he was her future locked in a prison cell. He'd tried to be her freedom, too, but he'd failed at that; he'd forgotten that old rule about not overreaching yourself, about not blinding yourself with desire.
There is a woman selling fruit outside of her shop. She looks ridiculous, tossing cantaloupe in the relative quiet of late-night Manhattan, but he smiles at her. Cantaloupe had been Kate's favorite fruit. She'd said she liked the way it felt against her tongue, liked how you had to have talent to chose the good ones. The woman smiles back at him and she misses the cantaloupe she's thrown and he runs to catch it, but he is (always) too late. It explodes against the pavement, orange fleshy shrapnel everywhere, and he backs away from it with his hands up, with his eyes wide.
"I'm sorry," the woman calls, and he runs, because he cannot bear to hear that word again. Because to maintain the cover of sanity he cannot swear at a woman peddling cantaloupes for being distracted by his smile. Because even the faint smell of overripe fruit reminds him of the way her hair looked all those afternoons ago, streaming out behind her, her knowing half-grin the only evidence of the diamond taped to her back.
(The tape had been sticky against his fingers as he strapped it there and he'd made a joke about it, about his sticky fingers, and she'd told him to wait until they escaped with their windfall and she'd show him just where he could stick them--)
He runs all the way to Peter's, down all the streets he shouldn't be able to take, and he's panting and gasping when he reaches the house. He puts up a hand to knock but suddenly Peter is there, the door swung open already, like he'd been waiting, watching.
"I was wrong," Neal says. He means it to come out light; instead there is a sob threaded through it, caught in his throat, choking him. He has to hold it in, he has to keep his cover, and so he swallows and swallows again until he thinks he can speak clearly. "The walk didn't--"
He stops. Peter is looking at him like knows everything, like he can see through all of Neal's disguises. Peter's always been like that, looking through him, like he's so simple. Like Neal is a puzzle he is meant to solve.
And there's no point, is there, trying to keep it up. Because Peter has caught Neal over and over and will catch him at this, and anyway he doesn't really want to lie anymore. All it's gotten him is here, to this place where everything he touches makes him explode like that damned cantaloupe, where he feels like a hundred thousand tiny mouths are feasting on his insides, where she is gone.
"Help," he finishes, and he lets his voice break, and Peter grabs him too hard and holds him too close and slams the door shut. The sound of it is huge, booming, echoing, and Neal lets his heartbreak rip through him, lets it tear its vicious way through his chest. He weeps like a child in Peter's arms, and Peter is strong and solid and large in a world of treacherous little things. He fists his hands in Peter's rough shirt and mourns for it: the future he'd imagined for himself, the reality that has set like the evening sun.
Rating: PG-13
Genre/Pairing: Neal/Kate. OT3, with some squinting.
Spoilers: For Out of the Box.
Warnings: Grief, crying. Exploding cantaloupes.
Author's Note: There's fic I should be working on and beta-ing I should be doing, but I woke up in the middle of the night with this in my head and had to write it.
Summary: Neal tries to think like a con man, like being sane is his cover.
It's little things.
The woman on the street in front of him and the way the streetlight highlights the curve of her neck bending forever under her hair--that stops him. That makes him duck into an alley and put his head between his knees until he feels steady again, until he can pull himself upright. Then he walks to the stand on the corner quickly, letting the task of putting one leg in front of the other distract him. He buys a pack of cigarettes and a lighter because he thinks it might be good, to have a reminder to draw breath.
The first pull of the smoke is disgusting and the second is worse and he coughs around it, punishing himself afterwards by pulling in a third and then a fourth hit. It helps until he holds it between his lips too long and the smoke twists up into his nose. Then he's caught in the filthy, sickening smell of it, reminiscent and horrible, and he swears and throws the thing onto the dirty sidewalk and stares at the sky to keep himself from crying.
("There's nothing you could have done," Elizabeth said, while Peter was in the bathroom. Neal shook his head, not believing her, and she said it again, and again, and again, until finally he repeated it, his tongue numb around the words, just so he wouldn't have to hear her lie anymore. "There's nothing I could have done.")
He is able to hold it together until he crosses the street; it is not a street he should be able to cross, and he waits for the high, betrayed beep of his tracker before he remembers that he's not wearing it. Because everyone is so sorry for his loss and because they all know that what he has lost is his only reason to run, that she is gone like the plane she died in, that without her he's trapped no matter where he goes.
He shudders in the crosswalk and tries to think like a con man, like being sane is his cover. He's good at covers; he's been something more and less than himself for nearly his whole life. Even with her (he can't bear to even think her name) he was a cover--he was who she wanted, and then he was more than who she wanted, and then he was her future locked in a prison cell. He'd tried to be her freedom, too, but he'd failed at that; he'd forgotten that old rule about not overreaching yourself, about not blinding yourself with desire.
There is a woman selling fruit outside of her shop. She looks ridiculous, tossing cantaloupe in the relative quiet of late-night Manhattan, but he smiles at her. Cantaloupe had been Kate's favorite fruit. She'd said she liked the way it felt against her tongue, liked how you had to have talent to chose the good ones. The woman smiles back at him and she misses the cantaloupe she's thrown and he runs to catch it, but he is (always) too late. It explodes against the pavement, orange fleshy shrapnel everywhere, and he backs away from it with his hands up, with his eyes wide.
"I'm sorry," the woman calls, and he runs, because he cannot bear to hear that word again. Because to maintain the cover of sanity he cannot swear at a woman peddling cantaloupes for being distracted by his smile. Because even the faint smell of overripe fruit reminds him of the way her hair looked all those afternoons ago, streaming out behind her, her knowing half-grin the only evidence of the diamond taped to her back.
(The tape had been sticky against his fingers as he strapped it there and he'd made a joke about it, about his sticky fingers, and she'd told him to wait until they escaped with their windfall and she'd show him just where he could stick them--)
He runs all the way to Peter's, down all the streets he shouldn't be able to take, and he's panting and gasping when he reaches the house. He puts up a hand to knock but suddenly Peter is there, the door swung open already, like he'd been waiting, watching.
"I was wrong," Neal says. He means it to come out light; instead there is a sob threaded through it, caught in his throat, choking him. He has to hold it in, he has to keep his cover, and so he swallows and swallows again until he thinks he can speak clearly. "The walk didn't--"
He stops. Peter is looking at him like knows everything, like he can see through all of Neal's disguises. Peter's always been like that, looking through him, like he's so simple. Like Neal is a puzzle he is meant to solve.
And there's no point, is there, trying to keep it up. Because Peter has caught Neal over and over and will catch him at this, and anyway he doesn't really want to lie anymore. All it's gotten him is here, to this place where everything he touches makes him explode like that damned cantaloupe, where he feels like a hundred thousand tiny mouths are feasting on his insides, where she is gone.
"Help," he finishes, and he lets his voice break, and Peter grabs him too hard and holds him too close and slams the door shut. The sound of it is huge, booming, echoing, and Neal lets his heartbreak rip through him, lets it tear its vicious way through his chest. He weeps like a child in Peter's arms, and Peter is strong and solid and large in a world of treacherous little things. He fists his hands in Peter's rough shirt and mourns for it: the future he'd imagined for himself, the reality that has set like the evening sun.