Fic: Red
Title: Red
Series: Shades of Gray
Characters: Neal Caffrey
Rating: PG
Warnings: violence, pre-series, Kid Fic, h/c
Spoilers: none
Word Count: ~ 850
Summary: There is a reason why Neal doesn't like guns; there is a reason he sometimes dreams red. He just doesn't remember it.
Beta: by mam711 of fanfiction.net
Disclaimer: Not mine, just borrowing them for fun. White Collar belongs to Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
Cover design: Awesome aragarna
All remaining mistakes are mine alone.
The man walking quickly down the external corridor of a shady motel was obviously angry. His mouth was in a grimace, eyes darting back and forth checking everything around him, but never landing on the child in his arms. The little cherub might have been around two years old, give or take a few months.
The child in his arms squirmed, trying to get out, his little face twisted in fear; he was crying silently. He squeezed the small body closer to his and hurried through the corridor, getting as quickly as possible to the motel room.
Putting the kid in a middle of the bed, he made a quick sweep of the dirty room, closing the blinds in the bathroom and pulling the drapes over the window, hoping they would cover it altogether. But, as in every motel, the drapes were washed out and too short; when he pulled them to cover the middle the ends opened. After a minute of moving them back and forth, he settled on covering the middle.
Nervously dragging his hand over his short hair, he took a gun out of the back of his pants. Looking over his shoulder, he put the gun on the shabby table and went towards the bed. Crouching so as not to tower over the crying child, he slowly petted his head and then hugged him.
"Calm down, Neal, calm down. Daddy's here, I won't allow anyone to harm you; it's all gonna be okay." His hand was circling slowly on the kid's back. "Shhhh, shhhh; it's all okay."
The child's cries changed into sniffling, his chubby cheeks still dirty with tears.
"Mama?" Neal asked in a hushed and terrified voice.
The man's blue eyes were already dark with anger; they darted to the door for a moment, then back to the face of his son.
"Mommy is gone; she left you with me," he lied.
Neal's big blue eyes, a tone lighter than his father's, filled with tears again; he started to wail and scream for his mother.
A phone on the nightstand rang, startling them both.
The man jumped and took the gun again, then very carefully used the opening in the drapes to look out. The phone was still ringing.
Neal quieted, surprised by the sound, but the tears were still flowing freely.
Daddy was frightening him.
"Yes?" The man answered the phone with a surprisingly calm tone, albeit a little tense.
He listened, his eyes set firmly on the boy sitting on the bed. He was still angry and buzzing with nervous energy, but was trying to project calmness over the phone. Till whatever the person on the other side said that pushed him over the edge.
"That bitch didn't have right to call you... No! He is my son; I have the right to... I don't fucking care..."
The kid chose that moment to cry again, loud-supersonic loud.
"Neal!" the man barked, impatience flowing into his voice in one huge wave.
That didn't work too well; the child wailed even louder.
Someone was still speaking over the phone, but the man slammed the receiver down, severing the connection.
Picking up the pacing again and waving the gun back and forth, he drew a hand over his hair.
"Will you shut up already!" he shouted at the boy, the gun pointing once at the kid, then at the wall.
Neal cried himself to exhaustion; he was hungry, and wet, and terrified.
Daddy was angry and shouting and Mommy wasn't there.
Neal woke into darkness; the lights from outside were barely visible, red then blue blinking on part of a wall. He had a thumb in his mouth and a blanket around his shoulders, giving him a sense of security. He blinked, disoriented, not remembering why he was there.
His father was sitting on the foot of the bed. He seemed to have calmed down. Neal sat up, clenching the edge of the blanket, and thumb still firmly in his mouth.
"Dada?" he whispered.
The man's back straightened; he quickly ran a sleeve over his face, cleaning it up. When he faced the boy, his eyes were red and wet from tears.
"Hey buddy..."
"Whes' Mama?"
The innocent question angered the man. He jumped up; the gun he had been clutching in his right hand pointed at the boy.
"Shut up, shut up! She's gone, not coming back." He waved the gun, still pointing it towards the kid. Neal, terrified, started to cry again.
Daddy was scary.
When the phone rang again, the man didn't even try to appear calm; picking up the receiver, his eyes and gun were still on the child crying on the bed.
"Shut the hell up. Shu-" he screamed.
The sound of something hitting the glass didn't register, then something hit him in the back mid-word. A spray of red covered the floor, the bed, and the crying child.
Falling to his knees, with pain radiating from his chest and his vision tunneling, his mouth was still forming the words, "Shut up."
The End
Third in verse - Orange