Letting Go
Title: Letting Go
Author: hurinhouse
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Peter/Neal
Summary: Sometimes it's hard to believe things will be okay.
Words: 1,926
Notes: For the H/C Advent 2017 at whitecollarhc and whitecollarhc
He watches Neal lean gingerly against the sink, raising his left hand, digging into the terrain of his overgrown stubble in the mirror. He's exhausted, his eyes slivers of blue ice instead of the usual mirthful saucers. It's a sobering change from his limitless energy. Peter doesn't think he's purposely fighting the sedative portion of the painkillers, but even as loopy and drained as Neal is, he hasn't been able to relax enough to sleep since he's been home.
Hoarsely, Neal attempts Hallelujah. Peter's heard him sing this more than once while painting, his smooth baritone haunting, bringing to life Cohen's complex brilliance, his misunderstood lyrics. But it's the first day of Chanukah, and though Neal's not Jewish, he's as impartial and open-minded about the topic as Cohen was, recognizing humanity as the common denominator, not religion. He sings it today to honor Cohen. Peter knows this not because Neal's ever told him, but because he's unwittingly made it his mission to master everything about the dazzling expansive maze of this man's mind.
Neal's strained voice skips a few times and he gives up the song, clearly annoyed but not strong enough to power through. Peter steps into the bathroom and gently slides his arm around Neal's waist from behind, nuzzling his ear while Neal slumps back, heavy and trusting against him. "Itchy?"
"Yeah." He scratches the scruff harder, maybe to prove it. His voice is gravelly and just short of slurring, "I'd borrow yours but.. " he shrugs, causing a wince, " ... not ambidextrous enough for a razor." It's the most he's said since they brought him home.
"I could pick up your electric from your place at lunch tomorrow.... "
"Kay."
Peter gently turns Neal in his arms, runs his own hand over Neal's beard. "But today we'll improvise."
Peter lets go of Neal long enough to lean into the shower and turn the knob to hot-as-balls. He takes his time pulling off Neal's sling. Every part of him hurts, but his right side took the brunt and Peter ignores the bruises, has been forcing himself not to think about them. Neal's t-shirt goes next, then his sweats. Peter smiles, lets demand seep into his voice, "Neal." He waits till Neal looks at him. "Commando?"
Neal returns the grin, less radiant than normal. "Less to deal with."
Peter strips his own clothes off and checks the water, glad he put that new water heater in last summer now that they're in the middle of December. "Come 'ere." He takes Neal's left hand and leads him into the shower, guiding him to the soft teak bench El insisted on and directing the spray there. "Sit down before you fall."
He pulls in the stool from beside the sink and sits opposite Neal. His head is back against the tiles, watching Peter through hooded eyes and steam, water sluicing around his shoulders. Peter wraps a rolled up towel around the back of Neal's neck and pulls him forward a bit, letting his head tip back further against the roll, giving Peter better access.
"Close your eyes."
He shoots a dose of shaving cream into his palm and lathers up, Neal's eyes holding out just until Peter reaches his face, slowly caressing the foam across the hills and valleys of his chin, cheeks, neck. He uses more than he does on his own face, wanting to be sure not to chafe or cut Neal. And then he sets to work.
Everything is the opposite of what he's used to, but he thinks the left side should be cake. Left hand braced on the wall beside Neal's head, his right pulls his straight razor across the expanse of Neal's left cheek in long smooth strokes, metal hugging the contours like it's on tracks. The water's constant soothing rush drowns out most noise, each pass seeming surreal without the expected scrape of metal on skin. One pass after another, soft clean skin in each wake.
Neal's drowsy eyes pop half open while Peter sits back, rinsing the razor thoroughly.
Peter assesses his progress. Access to Neal's right cheek looks tricky enough to be intimidating so Peter decides he'll work on his neck while he brainstorms a solution.
"You can sleep, Babe," he coaxes with a kiss to his lover's forehead.
"Yeah." Lip service apparently, because Neal doesn't follow the advice.
Peter finds his own voice rumbling, Cohen's melody softly building up from his throat, as soothing as he can make it.
Baby, I've been here before, I've seen this room and I've walked the floor, I used to live alone before I knew you
Starting down at his throat Peter grazes up steady and sure. Neal's eyes slip closed again but Peter knows he's not asleep. One stroke becomes four becomes seven.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch, But love is not a victory march, It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah
Peter's ready to try his idea. He readjusts the suction cup holding the shower mirror, lowering it and nudging Neal. "Scoot forward, Babe."
Neal does so and Peter slips in behind him on the bench. Neal's movements are awkward but Peter can tell the moment he understands and relaxes against Peter as he pulls Neal back against his chest, cradling his body between his legs. "Clever."
Watching in the mirror, Peter bends his elbow, his hand rising up, sliding the razor across Neal's right cheek just like he does his own. This angle is natural; every day. When he picks up the song, he can feel the vibrations of his voice pulse between his whole front and Neal's entire back side, cleaving them together.
Well there was a time you let me know, What's really going on below, But now you never show that to me do you
Neal breathes in more heavily and Peter catches him watching in the mirror, a heat in those tired eyes that Peter's beyond relieved to see again. He glances down - Neal is half hard, and if the feel of Neal's body against him and the sight of that quickening arousal doesn't fill his own cock, he doesn't know what else would.
He ignores it; he's almost done.
But remember when I moved in you
Neal squirms, ass lazily driving back against Peter's erection, then hips bearing up and forward into the air. Peter forces himself not to hurry, continuing the long languid strokes he'd used all along. One more swipe...
And the holy dove was moving too
And he's done, the smooth planes of Neal's face broken only by the occasional dollop of shaving cream at his temples, more that slid down to his collarbone.
And every breath we drew was hallelujah.
"Peter."
He knows. He understands that broken plea. Neal doesn't have the strength to hold back. Peter shouldn't be encouraging this when Neal's so weak but the man who can resist this creature in his arms is a stronger man than Peter.
He slides two fingers through the foam, swirls them around the head of Neal's cock, Neal's breath hitching, his hips jerking back hard into the V of Peter's legs. "Oh God," Peter tries to keep himself under control, but he can't stop his own cock now from gliding up, up against the cleft of Neal's ass.
His left arm wraps around Neal's waist to keep him steady, careful of his right side. He reaches down between Neal's legs, guiding his knees apart. His balls are soft, fragile as Peter rolls them and Neal groans deep in his chest, tilting and spreading.
Peter drags that slippery hand back up, grips Neal's cock and squeezes as he slides up and down, up and down, foam stealing out between his fingers. Neal's panting. His face is pink in the mirror, from the steam, from Peter. He's lost in some space and Peter has to know-
"Neal, look at me."
His lids drag up immediately, straight at Peter's reflection, brow creased in desperation and defiance and Peter knows this look. Neal is a wild thing. He lets Peter cover him because he wants it, lays himself bare as proof of his trust; but he's Peter's equal, and he won't be a victim.
Peter drops his jutting cock, Neal letting out a rough cry of despair. He tilts Neal's face around and takes his mouth. He pours it all in - his fury and anguish; the paralyzing fear. The relief. Neal assumes what he means to them, but he needs to feel it, deep in his bones like they do. His thumbs caress Neal's face while his tongue sinks in deep. He forces his love into Neal, while Neal drowns in it, gives back what his battered body can, until Peter can't think any longer and lets go, Neal's head falling to his shoulder, Peter's palm back on his cock, his left arm gripping Neal's chest tight enough that he can't ever get free.
"God, Neal, I love you so much. I was so scared we'd lose you."
He tries to go slowly, to drag it out, but he knows Neal won't last in this state anyway. His hand starts to fly, Neal's breath stuttering faster, a gasp and a twitch and a moan; his voice shaping "Peter" and "love" into a porn movie.
His left hand comes down to clutch at Peter's thigh and his hips piston back and forth, shoving harder through Peter's fist. All the while, Peter tries to rein in his rutting, even while knowing his plans of waiting till Neal's safely in bed - safe from the world, from Peter, from everything - are pointless.
"Let go, Baby. You're safe. Let go with me."
Neal gasps, eyes squeezing shut, a single tear sliding down in the mirror as his ass squeezes up and he shoots, fucking into Peter's hand. White jets pumping out in spurts, evidence he's alive. Peter lets it go behind, all over Neal's back. Both of them vibrating with the stilted quaking thrusts of orgasm. He keeps his palm firm around Neal, doggedly milking the dregs; and he leans back, watching his own cum trickle down Neal's cleft, inch by inch, lazy drops falling to soak into the teak slats. He pulls his left hand around, curious finger trailing through it as Neal shivers a couple more drops out.
As the spasms subside, Neal droops, heavier than before. Peter lays hot slow kisses down his temple, his jaw, his neck, rocking him for long soft moments as he hums Neal's song. He makes sure the spray gets them both clean, then pulls Neal up to dry him off. He's not much help, his brain half-baked from climax, the other half from the drugs, legs shaky from the adrenaline rush of getting off. Peter forgoes Neal's clothes, just slips the sling back into place and steers him through the doorway, into the bed, pulling the covers over his chilling body.
Back in the bathroom Peter returns the mirror and the stool to their places, the shaving cream. He cleans up the water they'd splashed over the floor, the wet towels and clothes, all the while back to absently humming the melody he'd crooned to Neal.
Peeking around the corner, he watches Neal's chest rise slowly, his breathing deep and even, the first time Peter's seen that peace in far too long.
He has to look away, step back out of the bedroom; his turn to lean against the sink. He drops his head into his hands as the tears finally come. Now he can let go, too.
-fin-
Author: hurinhouse
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Peter/Neal
Summary: Sometimes it's hard to believe things will be okay.
Words: 1,926
Notes: For the H/C Advent 2017 at whitecollarhc and whitecollarhc
He watches Neal lean gingerly against the sink, raising his left hand, digging into the terrain of his overgrown stubble in the mirror. He's exhausted, his eyes slivers of blue ice instead of the usual mirthful saucers. It's a sobering change from his limitless energy. Peter doesn't think he's purposely fighting the sedative portion of the painkillers, but even as loopy and drained as Neal is, he hasn't been able to relax enough to sleep since he's been home.
Hoarsely, Neal attempts Hallelujah. Peter's heard him sing this more than once while painting, his smooth baritone haunting, bringing to life Cohen's complex brilliance, his misunderstood lyrics. But it's the first day of Chanukah, and though Neal's not Jewish, he's as impartial and open-minded about the topic as Cohen was, recognizing humanity as the common denominator, not religion. He sings it today to honor Cohen. Peter knows this not because Neal's ever told him, but because he's unwittingly made it his mission to master everything about the dazzling expansive maze of this man's mind.
Neal's strained voice skips a few times and he gives up the song, clearly annoyed but not strong enough to power through. Peter steps into the bathroom and gently slides his arm around Neal's waist from behind, nuzzling his ear while Neal slumps back, heavy and trusting against him. "Itchy?"
"Yeah." He scratches the scruff harder, maybe to prove it. His voice is gravelly and just short of slurring, "I'd borrow yours but.. " he shrugs, causing a wince, " ... not ambidextrous enough for a razor." It's the most he's said since they brought him home.
"I could pick up your electric from your place at lunch tomorrow.... "
"Kay."
Peter gently turns Neal in his arms, runs his own hand over Neal's beard. "But today we'll improvise."
Peter lets go of Neal long enough to lean into the shower and turn the knob to hot-as-balls. He takes his time pulling off Neal's sling. Every part of him hurts, but his right side took the brunt and Peter ignores the bruises, has been forcing himself not to think about them. Neal's t-shirt goes next, then his sweats. Peter smiles, lets demand seep into his voice, "Neal." He waits till Neal looks at him. "Commando?"
Neal returns the grin, less radiant than normal. "Less to deal with."
Peter strips his own clothes off and checks the water, glad he put that new water heater in last summer now that they're in the middle of December. "Come 'ere." He takes Neal's left hand and leads him into the shower, guiding him to the soft teak bench El insisted on and directing the spray there. "Sit down before you fall."
He pulls in the stool from beside the sink and sits opposite Neal. His head is back against the tiles, watching Peter through hooded eyes and steam, water sluicing around his shoulders. Peter wraps a rolled up towel around the back of Neal's neck and pulls him forward a bit, letting his head tip back further against the roll, giving Peter better access.
"Close your eyes."
He shoots a dose of shaving cream into his palm and lathers up, Neal's eyes holding out just until Peter reaches his face, slowly caressing the foam across the hills and valleys of his chin, cheeks, neck. He uses more than he does on his own face, wanting to be sure not to chafe or cut Neal. And then he sets to work.
Everything is the opposite of what he's used to, but he thinks the left side should be cake. Left hand braced on the wall beside Neal's head, his right pulls his straight razor across the expanse of Neal's left cheek in long smooth strokes, metal hugging the contours like it's on tracks. The water's constant soothing rush drowns out most noise, each pass seeming surreal without the expected scrape of metal on skin. One pass after another, soft clean skin in each wake.
Neal's drowsy eyes pop half open while Peter sits back, rinsing the razor thoroughly.
Peter assesses his progress. Access to Neal's right cheek looks tricky enough to be intimidating so Peter decides he'll work on his neck while he brainstorms a solution.
"You can sleep, Babe," he coaxes with a kiss to his lover's forehead.
"Yeah." Lip service apparently, because Neal doesn't follow the advice.
Peter finds his own voice rumbling, Cohen's melody softly building up from his throat, as soothing as he can make it.
Baby, I've been here before, I've seen this room and I've walked the floor, I used to live alone before I knew you
Starting down at his throat Peter grazes up steady and sure. Neal's eyes slip closed again but Peter knows he's not asleep. One stroke becomes four becomes seven.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch, But love is not a victory march, It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah
Peter's ready to try his idea. He readjusts the suction cup holding the shower mirror, lowering it and nudging Neal. "Scoot forward, Babe."
Neal does so and Peter slips in behind him on the bench. Neal's movements are awkward but Peter can tell the moment he understands and relaxes against Peter as he pulls Neal back against his chest, cradling his body between his legs. "Clever."
Watching in the mirror, Peter bends his elbow, his hand rising up, sliding the razor across Neal's right cheek just like he does his own. This angle is natural; every day. When he picks up the song, he can feel the vibrations of his voice pulse between his whole front and Neal's entire back side, cleaving them together.
Well there was a time you let me know, What's really going on below, But now you never show that to me do you
Neal breathes in more heavily and Peter catches him watching in the mirror, a heat in those tired eyes that Peter's beyond relieved to see again. He glances down - Neal is half hard, and if the feel of Neal's body against him and the sight of that quickening arousal doesn't fill his own cock, he doesn't know what else would.
He ignores it; he's almost done.
But remember when I moved in you
Neal squirms, ass lazily driving back against Peter's erection, then hips bearing up and forward into the air. Peter forces himself not to hurry, continuing the long languid strokes he'd used all along. One more swipe...
And the holy dove was moving too
And he's done, the smooth planes of Neal's face broken only by the occasional dollop of shaving cream at his temples, more that slid down to his collarbone.
And every breath we drew was hallelujah.
"Peter."
He knows. He understands that broken plea. Neal doesn't have the strength to hold back. Peter shouldn't be encouraging this when Neal's so weak but the man who can resist this creature in his arms is a stronger man than Peter.
He slides two fingers through the foam, swirls them around the head of Neal's cock, Neal's breath hitching, his hips jerking back hard into the V of Peter's legs. "Oh God," Peter tries to keep himself under control, but he can't stop his own cock now from gliding up, up against the cleft of Neal's ass.
His left arm wraps around Neal's waist to keep him steady, careful of his right side. He reaches down between Neal's legs, guiding his knees apart. His balls are soft, fragile as Peter rolls them and Neal groans deep in his chest, tilting and spreading.
Peter drags that slippery hand back up, grips Neal's cock and squeezes as he slides up and down, up and down, foam stealing out between his fingers. Neal's panting. His face is pink in the mirror, from the steam, from Peter. He's lost in some space and Peter has to know-
"Neal, look at me."
His lids drag up immediately, straight at Peter's reflection, brow creased in desperation and defiance and Peter knows this look. Neal is a wild thing. He lets Peter cover him because he wants it, lays himself bare as proof of his trust; but he's Peter's equal, and he won't be a victim.
Peter drops his jutting cock, Neal letting out a rough cry of despair. He tilts Neal's face around and takes his mouth. He pours it all in - his fury and anguish; the paralyzing fear. The relief. Neal assumes what he means to them, but he needs to feel it, deep in his bones like they do. His thumbs caress Neal's face while his tongue sinks in deep. He forces his love into Neal, while Neal drowns in it, gives back what his battered body can, until Peter can't think any longer and lets go, Neal's head falling to his shoulder, Peter's palm back on his cock, his left arm gripping Neal's chest tight enough that he can't ever get free.
"God, Neal, I love you so much. I was so scared we'd lose you."
He tries to go slowly, to drag it out, but he knows Neal won't last in this state anyway. His hand starts to fly, Neal's breath stuttering faster, a gasp and a twitch and a moan; his voice shaping "Peter" and "love" into a porn movie.
His left hand comes down to clutch at Peter's thigh and his hips piston back and forth, shoving harder through Peter's fist. All the while, Peter tries to rein in his rutting, even while knowing his plans of waiting till Neal's safely in bed - safe from the world, from Peter, from everything - are pointless.
"Let go, Baby. You're safe. Let go with me."
Neal gasps, eyes squeezing shut, a single tear sliding down in the mirror as his ass squeezes up and he shoots, fucking into Peter's hand. White jets pumping out in spurts, evidence he's alive. Peter lets it go behind, all over Neal's back. Both of them vibrating with the stilted quaking thrusts of orgasm. He keeps his palm firm around Neal, doggedly milking the dregs; and he leans back, watching his own cum trickle down Neal's cleft, inch by inch, lazy drops falling to soak into the teak slats. He pulls his left hand around, curious finger trailing through it as Neal shivers a couple more drops out.
As the spasms subside, Neal droops, heavier than before. Peter lays hot slow kisses down his temple, his jaw, his neck, rocking him for long soft moments as he hums Neal's song. He makes sure the spray gets them both clean, then pulls Neal up to dry him off. He's not much help, his brain half-baked from climax, the other half from the drugs, legs shaky from the adrenaline rush of getting off. Peter forgoes Neal's clothes, just slips the sling back into place and steers him through the doorway, into the bed, pulling the covers over his chilling body.
Back in the bathroom Peter returns the mirror and the stool to their places, the shaving cream. He cleans up the water they'd splashed over the floor, the wet towels and clothes, all the while back to absently humming the melody he'd crooned to Neal.
Peeking around the corner, he watches Neal's chest rise slowly, his breathing deep and even, the first time Peter's seen that peace in far too long.
He has to look away, step back out of the bedroom; his turn to lean against the sink. He drops his head into his hands as the tears finally come. Now he can let go, too.
-fin-