Fic: Peter's Pan Shadow - Part 1/? (WIP)
Title: Peter's Pan Shadow 1/? (WIP)
Characters: Peter Burke, Other
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: AU, minor character death
Spoilers: none
Word Count: ~ 4700 (this part)
Summary: There was once, a magic world. A world in which you were never afraid of darkness. A world in which your destiny shaped your life. It's all changed in time, but some things reminded.
Beta: by mam711 of fanfiction.net
Disclaimer: Not mine, just borrowing them for fun. White Collar belongs to Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
All remaining mistakes are mine alone.
The stories about shadows were told for millennia. The magic world where man and his shadow worked and lived hand in hand. A world in which you were never afraid of darkness. A world in which your destiny shaped your life.
But the world was changing, the stories were changing, and soon parents told them to their children only as bedtime stories. The monsters under the bed. The chill that goes up your spine in the dark alley.
The knowledge vanished in time, but the shadows remained, and the worlds divided.
February 1972 - Ithaca, NY
The winter this year was hard; the snow covered the fields and roads with a thick layer, making it difficult to drive even when plowed. It was snowing again, with the setting sun low on the horizon shining directly in the eyes of the driver. She averted her eyes from the road only for a second, to glance at her sleeping son in the back seat. It was all it took, a second of averted attention, to lose control on the ice-glazed road. She tried frantically to straighten the speeding car; she moved the steering wheel counter to how the car was sliding then back again. With panic in her blue eyes she moved the wheel again, a scream rising to her lips when the car slammed into a tree. Her scream died a few moments later; the only sound for the next few minutes was the wind howling in the naked trees. It was so silent you could hear the snow falling.
The grocery bag that lay on the passenger seat spilled its colorful contents around. Some things flew from the shattered window onto the snow-covered field. A torn bread package attracted a murder of crows; screeching, they attacked each other for prey. One big crow took in its beak a small green baby shoe, tearing it apart and tossing it around. The second shoe, covered in ketchup from a nearby opened bottle, was left ignored. The bird flew away when a blast of cold wind blew around, causing the surrounding trees to lose some of the snow covering them.
He woke up groggy and cold; his eyelids fluttered, and brown eyes moved in the darkness. A howl of wind passed through a broken window, making him shiver.
"Mommy?" he called softly. His vision cleared a little; it was almost dark-the last rays of sun in the air were giving enough light to scare the boy. The shadows grew, the trees growing bigger, the fields darker. He shivered again and moved his head slightly, stopping when a painful jolt ran through it. He closed his eyes to try to stop the nausea; he moved his arms then his legs slightly, instinctively checking if everything was okay. It wasn't: his right leg was trapped between the seat and whatever was left of the door. Before opening his eyes again he moved his head to what he was hoping was a position where he could see the driver's seat. He opened his eyes and squinted in the growing darkness to seek his mother.
"Mom?" he called again, this time a little bit louder. He couldn't see her: it was too dark. The car lights had died and he was trapped without any idea what happened. He took a deep breath and tried again, fear pumping his little body full of adrenalin, allowing him to forget about the pain when panic set in.
"Mommy!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. Tears started to run over his cheeks as he called again and again into the darkness, till his voice was hoarse from screaming. He was losing consciousness when he finally saw some lights on the road; the blue and red lights danced behind his eyelids when he murmured his last word, "Mommy?"
Simon Burke sat in the gray hospital corridor with a crestfallen look on his face. His wife and son had been brought into the emergency room two hours ago, and he still hadn't heard anything from the doctors. It was late afternoon when a police patrol found the car wrapped around a tree only ten miles from home. He wasn't expecting them home for another two hours, so was surprised by the knock on the door. When he opened it and saw the police uniforms he almost had a heart attack. They were kind and careful while explaining the situation; nevertheless the shock still hadn't worn off. He suspected it wouldn't wear off at all, but the doctor took a look at him, put a hot coffee into his hands and told him to sit and wait for the news. It was the only thing he could do, this or call the family. He opted not to, as he wasn't sure what to tell them; just calling to say Margaret and Peter had been in a car accident and not being able to say if everything was all right didn't suit him. He wanted to be able to tell them what would happen next; right now he wasn't sure.
He sipped the now-cold coffee and shifted a little to change position, his back hurting from sitting on the uncomfortable chair too long. The chair squeaked and he winced both from the sound and the cold of the coffee he'd just drunk. He threw away the cup with the remaining liquid and chose to stretch a little; no one was able to tell him how long it would take to get some news. The only information he'd gotten was that both Peter and his wife were currently in surgery.
Then the doors marked 'Staff Only' opened and a doctor in scrubs came out; he looked tired. Quickly scanning the corridor, his eyes landed on Simon; he nodded slightly.
"Doctor?"
"Are you family of the Burkes?"
"Yes, yes, my son and my wife: what's happening with them?"
The doctor steered him along to a private room to share the news. Simon's heart fell a little with fear; he'd heard about this solitary room-it was where families were given bad news.
"Please sit down. What have you been told about your family's injuries?" the doctor asked gently.
"Nothing." Simon shook his head.
"Let me start with your son as we just finished working on his leg. Besides leg injuries he also hit his head and we're going to keep him sedated till we are more sure that the brain swelling is down; it's not dangerous for him but we want to be careful. Peter's right leg was broken in a couple places below his knee. For now we installed screws that will help to keep the pieces of the bone together and we'll monitor it closely. It's a spiral fracture; the good news is it was a stable break, the bad news is that with all the other breaks he will spend the next six to eight weeks in traction. We will need to get him back into the operating room at least one more time to remove some of the screws, and then he will need to follow with physical therapy to recover full use of his leg..." He trailed off, taking a pause before delivering the rest of the news.
Simon finally felt relieved: the first news was good news, although he understood only that his boy's leg was broken in few places, but it allowed his fear to subside and him to relax. When the doctor paused, the anxiety returned.
"What about Margaret?" he asked with hope.
The look in the doctor's eyes told him that this time the news would not be so positive.
"The second team of surgeons is still working on your wife, Mr. Burke. She was unconscious when brought in, and besides a knock on the head we didn't suspect any other injuries. Only after further examination did we start to suspect an issue with her spleen..." He took a deep breath. "Did you know your wife was pregnant?" he asked gently.
The doctor's words stunned Simon. Pregnant, it couldn't be. After Peter was born, the doctors said that due to complications it was unlikely that they would have more children. They tried, of course, for the next two years, but when nothing happened they simply came to terms with the diagnosis. It hurt when four-year-old Peter, upon seeing his newborn cousin, asked when he would have a little brother. They explained to him gently that it's not always mommy and daddy's decision alone; God would have to bless them, and for now they were blessed with Peter and were happy. It seemed a good explanation, as Peter each night during his prayer asked to bless mommy and daddy with a little brother for him. The tears swelled in his eyes: a baby.
"No … we ... I..." he shook his head, unable to say another word.
The doctor squeezed his arm. "I'm sorry, but we were unable to save the baby. She was around ten weeks; maybe didn't know it herself yet." He added with sympathy, "But we are still working on saving her; there is still hope." The doctor stood up. "I'll come back as soon as I have more news for you. If you would like to visit your son, you'll be able to in a few hours, after we move him from post-op. I'll ask a nurse to lead you to him."
Simon nodded, still unable to say a word. Now he was grateful for the private room. Here he didn't have to be the closed-off, sometimes hard man; here he could weep for his unborn child.
When he woke up again, the first thing he registered was the smell, like the bathroom after Mom cleaned it up for the grandparents' visit. He smiled slightly; the smell was familiar and comforting-he always smelled it from his room. Without opening his eyes he tried to curl up under his blanket to snuggle for a moment longer.
It was Saturday and mom would be in his room soon trying to wake him up. Their weekend wake-up game.
Peter heard the door scraping on carpet. She was there. He smiled slightly. The first step: she stopped by the bed legs; he saw his mom smiling from under his eyelashes.
"Peter Pan…" she called softly "Wake up, Peter Pan." She squeezed his foot slightly.
He almost cracked; he loved that nickname. The next step was the window: opening the drapes, she let the sun in. This time she didn't try to be silent, when she sat on the bed and messed with his hair.
"Oh look, Peter Pan, I found your shadow…" she called with false surprise, looking over his shoulder.
He smiled widely; opening his eyes fully, he moved his arms to hug her.…
He woke up. He moved his arm, and the moment he tried to move his leg his eyes snapped open. He wasn't at home, the blinds were already opened, and the sun was brightly shining directly in his eyes. He averted his head to look at the leg: it was immobilized in a strange-looking combination of cloth, rollers and cables-heavily bandaged. He started to move around in panic. His movement must have drawn attention, as a moment later his father came into his view and pulled him into his arms.
"Peter!" His voice was relieved, but it did nothing to ease his anxiety. "Son, calm down, everything will be all right." He ran his hands over his back, trying to soothe him, still hugging him tightly. "It'll all be okay, all okay." He repeated it over and over, as if trying to believe what he was saying himself. A few minutes later he felt the small body in his arms go limp again and he lowered his son to the bed carefully. The boy looked exhausted, the white bandage on his head adding to the impression of illness. He slowly moved the hairs away from his temple and kissed it.
"It will all be okay, Peter Pan; all will be okay, I promise."
Peter woke again with the urge to run; he was still in the hospital, his right leg in a cast. He thrashed for a moment, dreaming about a free run on the fields, almost falling off the bed and the support keeping his leg up. It was the middle of the night; the hospital was almost silent. From time to time a page for a doctor sounded in the corridors, but it was muffled to tolerant levels by closed doors. The moon shone brightly today; he looked at the lonely satellite and felt tears gathering in his eyes. He would not cry, not again; he'd promised himself over a week before that he wouldn't. But the tears didn't hear his promise, didn't listen to his will, and fell slowly on his cheeks. He dried them angrily with an arm and averted his eyes from the light; there would be no witness to his weakness.
His dad visited daily in the afternoons, asked how he was, promised again and again that all would be all right, that they will make it work, together. He just had to work on getting better, and as soon as the screws were gone, listen to the therapist and learn to walk again.
He didn't want to learn how to walk; he wanted to run, wanted to play baseball. But with the busted leg, the doctors weren't promising anything at all. For now he just had to wait and be patient. Another tear ran from his eye. He wanted his mom; if Mom promised that everything would be okay he would believe her. But neither Dad nor the doctors talked to him about Mom, told him only that she wasn't feeling so good and he couldn't see her now. He dried another set of tears with his sleeve. His eyes slowly took another inventory of the room that he could now draw completely with his eyes closed.
His sketch pad lay on the night table with a set of pencils and crayons. He took them and slowly started to sketch the room he was in. He didn't even notice when he fell asleep again; when he woke up the sun was shining brightly, adding a cheer to the room that was missing in the moonlight. The sketch pad was still in his lap, but instead of the usual detailed sketch, there was a surprisingly-simple drawing made of curvy lines and badly-made shadows. It looked like something he'd done when he was five; since then his mom had taught him to really draw, and he was good, really good. Many people repeated time and time again, seeing his works, that he had a very bright future as an artist. His sketches had already won a few awards at the state level, competing with kids a few years older; if he progressed, an art scholarship for whatever school he wanted would be waiting for him in a few years. He must have been tired; he had fallen asleep drawing it.
His brow furrowed after a nurse came by with breakfast; she took one look at the picture and smiled.
"It looks very nice." she complimented.
"Nice?" he asked, surprised.
"Yes, very nice picture. Why don't you draw something else for your mom? I'm sure someone could put it in her room today; that would make her feel so much better, you know?" She smiled again before leaving him alone.
He ate breakfast without an appetite, looking at the strange picture he'd drawn. After finishing the oatmeal he took the pad again and tried to create in his mind the beauty of their home's garden. If he wanted to draw something for Mom that would make her feel better, then it would be her favorite garden. The picture escaped from his mind after few seconds.
His hand moved slowly over the paper, concentrating on lines he wanted to create. But unlike all the other times, the lines didn't want to form what he needed them to be. They were awkward, curved when they should be straight, straight when they should be curved, not really bending in the angles he wanted them. He decided to not concentrate on it too much and started working on shadows, and he discovered he couldn't. He couldn't imagine the garden, nor was he able to draw it anymore.
Angry, he threw the pad at the wall, followed by the pencil. He cried again, the traitorous tears falling from his eyes without any control. This time he sobbed, devastated that he couldn't do anything that he loved anymore-no running, no baseball, no drawing.
The sun shone brightly through the windows, casting its rays over a child sitting on the bed; a shadow formed on the wall. The sketch pad and the pencil lay directly by the curled form; the shadow hand reached out and with a swift move the pad and the pencil disappeared from view. The crying child on the bed didn't notice anything at all, and when the sun moved, the shadow dissolved along with the pad and pen.
"No! That's not true! I want to see Mom! NOW!" Peter was screaming; he couldn't tell any more if the tears running down his face were from fear or anger-those two emotions had been mixing with each other since his father set foot in his room that day. It was the end of March and he had only one more week before starting physical therapy for his leg. For all those weeks he'd kept asking about his mother and when he would be able to see her. The doctors kept saying "soon," and that all depended on his father; the nurses took his pictures-as bad as he thought they were-to put in his mom's room; his father kept saying it wasn't the right time.
Today had shattered every belief that Peter had had in his father. The nurses had been lying, the doctors had been lying, but most importantly his dad had been lying.
Strong arms enfolded him, trying to keep him in one place before he aggravated his still-tender leg. His father's aftershave, his favorite flannel shirt, the laundry soap his mother used, all the familiar scents were there.
"Peter, Peter, calm down! Peter!"
"No! You lied! You all lied! I hate you, I don't want to see you... Go away... Leave me alone... Go away." He was in a full hysterics attack; Simon cast a terrified look at the doctor, who quickly called a nurse to bring a sedative.
The boy slowly calmed down and fell asleep in his father's arms, his small hands still clenched in fists against his father's shirt. Simon put him in bed again, allowed the doctor to check the kid's leg and then tiredly sat in the nearby chair.
"We gave him a mild sedative; he will be up in an hour or so, maybe more if the crying exhausted him enough. Simon, don't beat yourself up over that; you had to tell him sometime and now was probably the best moment."
"I know, but I can't stop thinking that I could have done it better, told him sooner or..." He trailed off, unsure what to do. The urge to tell his little boy to cowboy up, like he always did when the kid threw an unnecessary fit, was huge. On the other hand, he knew that hearing that your mother died the same night they brought her to the hospital, and then having everyone around you lying about it, would have made him upset or angry. He ran a hand over his face and hair.
"What do I do now, Doctor? How do I raise a kid on my own?" It was a question he asked himself and everyone around him who would listen. How he was supposed to do it?
The bars were white with powder, keeping them slick enough to slide your hands but at the same time keep you from falling. He slowly moved his left leg forward, then with tears in his eyes, very slowly moved the right one, then tried to move the left foot forward without putting it down again.
"Good, Peter, you're doing very good. Just remember, put a little bit of your weight on the right foot, just as much as you are comfortable with; put the rest on the railings, and then move your left foot." His physical therapist was very patiently coaching him through the process. It was more painful that he'd imagined; a relatively clean break of his leg had changed into a nightmare when an infection had set in. No one knew from where or how it had happened, but after one week in the drug-induced coma, and another week in bed, he was in so much pain that he was crying all the time. The doctors had to cut off the bandages, operate to clean the infected space, and pump him full of additional drugs. This time, just to be safe, they also added steel screws on the other part of the bone. It bought him two additional weeks in the hospital.
He clenched his teeth and moved his left leg, almost crying with pain; quickly putting it down, he used his hip and body balance to move the right one.
"Peter, don't use your hip like that; you have to work on your muscles."
"I know, Tony!" he cried out angrily; only one more step and he would be finished with the bars. "You repeat that every single time. I've had enough!"
"Okay, champ, come on, one more step." Tony caught the angry kid and put him in the wheelchair; he squeezed his arm and patted his head, not really concerned about his behavior. He'd heard worse things and something like that never fazed him, even if coming from an eight-year-old kid.
"See you tomorrow! We're gonna work on those muscles specifically." He smiled and let a nurse wheel him out.
The sun in the gym was already quite low, Peter being his last patient of the day. Tony started to clean up the space, putting away pillows, blankets and balls. He'd just turned around with a ball in hand when something moved in the corner of his eye; he quickly pivoted again but didn't notice anything strange. Finishing the clean-up he cast a last look at the gym and left, locking the door with a key.
On the bars' shadow a silhouette of a boy made a handstand, then lurched down and up again, gaining momentum and moving closer to the end of bars; on the last swing he curled up and jumped, doing a somersault. The door opened and Tony hurried in, going for the car keys he'd left on one of the benches; he was walking back to the door when he noticed a small black object by the bars' shadow. He came closer and picked up a pencil.
"How did that get there?" he mused aloud, putting it in his pocket. The door closed, leaving an empty room behind.
Peter wasn't happy. Two weeks after leaving the hospital he still was limping. Tony, his therapist, insisted that would straighten itself out when he stopped being afraid to use his leg fully, but it hadn't happened yet. The kids at school were mean, calling him names and pushing him around at recess. He got into his first fight at the end of the second week and was not only suspended for two days, but also grounded by his father for two weeks. It certainly didn't help his behavior, the sudden panic attacks or swelling of anger, the overall mood swings.
Till now he'd kept it to himself but when the bigger boy pushed him, he simply reacted, not thinking. He broke the kid's nose, and it didn't make him feel better at all; it made him feel guilty. So he accepted his punishment without comment, just an ashamed face and quiet "I'm sorry, it will never happen again" promise to his father.
Peter wasn't a child to hold a grudge, but after his father's lie about his mother he was actually avoiding him at home as much as possible. Which wasn't so difficult as he was almost never there. His aunt Helen came to help and she was the one that kept an eye on Peter most of the time. She left after two weeks, saying they had to talk to each other and solve the problem together; they had only themselves now. The first day after her departure Peter was in his first fight, but not his last.
It wasn't the first change in his behavior; another was sneaking around and stealing-something that Peter himself couldn't understand. He was a very conflicted little boy, and each time he saw something he wanted his first reaction was to turn and ask his mother to buy it for him. But each time he stopped mid-turn and only one word escaped his lips.
His mom wasn't there, not anymore. His father was too wrapped up in himself to notice that his kid was missing during the day, and ignored neighbors' offers that they could keep an eye on Peter when he wasn't home. Before the accident it wasn't a problem-Peter would stay after school, involved in sports and various clubs; sometimes he would go to a friend's house. But now, now he snuck out before anyone noticed and wandered the town alone. It wasn't a very big town, and many people knew the Burkes, so when Peter wandered into a shop they always asked where his father was, or what he was doing there alone. It was at these strange times that it was most evident how the child had changed-he lied convincingly, he stole unnoticed, he disappeared when needed.
"Helen, I don't know what to do with him anymore... Yes, I know it's a difficult time for him ... but ... Helen, no ... nothing works... Yes, I tried that too..." Peter listened carefully to the one side of the conversation his father was again having with his aunt. His dad was right: nothing he did made any impact on him. The strange thing was he knew what he was doing was wrong; he even felt guilty about it and promised time and time again to himself that he would not do it ever again ... till the next occasion. When his mind clouded, when the dark impulse came from nowhere that he couldn't control, he did it again, and again, and again.
It earned him three suspensions from school, four months of grounding in advance, and a few times when his father couldn't stop himself, a spanking. It was probably the worst of all his punishments because it hurt his pride more than his bottom, and it actually worked a little in stopping him before doing another stupid thing. Unfortunately it only worked for a minute or two; when the strange tugging in his mind to do something got stronger each time he tried to stop himself, he failed.
After another three months he was still limping; sometimes it was even worse than the first week just after the hospital. He was now a troublemaker-always sneaking around, leaving school whenever he wanted, stealing and lying. People would say he'd changed, and nod sadly, adding that it's all because of the accident, and his father not keeping enough of an eye on him. Some would whisper, unaware-or simply not caring that he could still hear them-that social services should have taken him away as soon as possible. It scared him at first, but then he was still mad at his father and shrugged the feeling away-so what if they took him.
TBC