White Collar/Fallen London AU fic
Ever since Fandom Stocking, 
frith_in_thorns and I have been writing this fusion between the Flash game Fallen London (formerly Echo Bazaar) and White Collar. Mostly it's been taking the form of bits of fic tossed back and forth in email and LJ comments. Every once in a while they go ahead and develop into actual stories. :D She's posted a few of hers so far: A Boat Trip and A Game of Croquet.
Fallen London (the game) is set in a Victorian-era alternate-history London sunk beneath the surface of the ground. The game is bizarre and dark and funny and disturbing and very fun to play ... as well as fun to inflict on the White Collar characters. Frith explains some of the game mechanics in A Boat Trip; that particular story deals with the fact that, within the game, if your Wounds quality gets high enough, you die. However, it's established game canon that you only die temporarily and all the residents of the city are aware of this (which we both think is hilarious when applied to Neal and his canonical risk-taking abilities).
The ficlet below the cut deals with a different aspect of Fallen London game mechanics, Nightmares. Nightmares is another quality that rises as you play the game, and when it gets too high, you go temporarily insane (which is highly entertaining to play). However, you can reduce your Nightmares in various ways -- everything mentioned in this story (walking in the park, buying goldfish, etc) is actually a canonical way of bringing your Nightmares down from dangerous levels. Naturally Neal goes for the most self-destructive option. *g*
I've been slightly reluctant to post this because, even aside from the fact that I'm hardly online at all due to factors beyond my control ... I'm not entirely sure how much sense this will make if you haven't played the game. The whole AU is basically one long extended series of in-jokes. But it's also White Collar! There's Peter! And Neal! And h/c! (Because we're us.) So, here you go. :D
Title: The Search for Sleep
Word Count: 1200
Characters/Pairing: Peter, Neal, gen
Summary: Sleeping down here isn't easy. It helps to have a friend to look out for you.
Neal seeks him out while he's patrolling in Spite. Well, to be technical about it, Neal picks his pocket, shadows him until he notices, and then deposits a small sack of glim, two carnival tickets, a half-empty flask of Tincture of Vigour, and El's most recent gift of adoration back into his palm. It's one more carnival ticket than he started off with, which Peter pretends not to notice; he just snaps, "Knock it off", before pocketing the stolen items.
"I just wanted to check and make sure you were paying attention," Neal says, tucking his hands into his pockets and falling into step with Peter. "Which you weren't. Most people around here wouldn't give it back, you know. And that's the ones that aren't going to stick a knife between your ribs before you even see them coming."
"There wouldn't be nearly as many people trying to stick knives between my ribs if someone hadn't roped me into dueling with the Black Ribbon."
Neal smiles. It's a tired smile, not as bright as his normal cheery grin. "Don't blame me for that. You did that all on your own."
"I was trying to help," Peter retorts sullenly. "I thought that priest was trying to kill you!"
"He was trying to kill me, Peter; that's the point."
Peter glances nervously over his shoulder, which has become a habit ever since black-ribbon-wearing individuals started jumping from alleys trying to decapitate him, then looks more closely at Neal. Up close, Neal looks terrible. The fine lines around his eyes have grown more noticeable, as they always do when he's not sleeping, and his eyes seem to have sunk deeper into his eye sockets, surrounded by shadows so dark they look like bruises.
"Nightmares?" Peter asks quietly.
Neal shrugs, an eloquent enough answer. Peter can relate -- he's had enough sleepless nights of his own, though talking it over with El often helps. And Peter swears he's slept more restfully since he acquired the goldfish now swimming in a little glass jar by the head of their bed, though El doesn't seem to believe him. She likes having it around, though. It's a cheerful little thing.
But he worries about Neal. Death might not be permanent here, but it's not the only kind of harm that can befall a person. He doesn't want to think about the time that he and El found Neal wandering in the Forgotten Quarter, wet and half-starved and so confused that he didn't even recognize them. They'd taken him home with them and cared for him in their cottage until he came out of it, but some of Peter's nightmares are about Neal's mindless laughter and the empty stare of his haunted eyes.
"I was actually wondering ..." Neal says casually, drawing Peter's attention back to him. Neal trails off, but he touches his coat pocket meaningfully.
"No," Peter says quickly. "I'm not giving you that kind of help anymore. That stuff's addictive, and you're taking too much of it as it is."
"I just need to sleep, Peter." Neal's voice isn't so much wheedling as tired, tired beyond endurance. "Just for one night."
And then another night, Peter thinks, glancing at the bulge in Neal's pocket where the laudanum bottle is snugly tucked away. And another ...
But the fact that Neal is willing to come to him means a lot. Neal doesn't like being out of control in a laudanum-induced stupor -- which makes sense, considering some of the places he's been staying lately (rooms above gambling dens, beachwrecked steamers and who knows what else). The first time he asked Peter to stay with him after he dosed himself, Peter hesitated to argue against it because the alternatives were so much worse; at least he knows that Neal isn't passed out in a honey-den somewhere. He's tried, since then, to talk Neal into healthier alternatives (jogging! a nice stroll in the park! goldfish!) but he can't deny that it makes Neal look a lot better afterwards -- more bright-eyed, more alert, more like the Neal Peter knows and less of the dead-eyed zombie he becomes when he's not sleeping.
Peter found a small bottle of laudanum in El's nightstand recently. He tries not to think about it; he tells himself that she has it just in case. But he also found himself staring at it for longer than he wants to admit, wondering if it really would help ...
"Never mind," Neal says quietly, looking away. He takes his hand off the pocket containing the laudanum, and then pastes a bright grin on his face. "Want to walk me over to the Singing Mandrake, get a drink?"
"Come on," Peter sighs, and he traps Neal's wrist with his hand. And Neal comes, as responsive as if he still wears the anklet.
Peter is braced for what he'll find at home -- El's friends include poets and prostitutes, revolutionaries and spies, any of whom might stop by for a cup of tea at any time. But the cottage is quiet except for an occasional sulky squeak from the rafters, and the happy splashing of the goldfish in its jar, upstairs.
"We could go back to my place," Neal says, a little awkward now that Peter's taken him up on his offer.
"Oh no. If you're going to do this, you're going to do it where I have a comfortable chair, the crossword from the Gazette, and my favorite tea mug." It's all but impossible to get a proper cup of coffee in this town, aside from Caligula's, which he's started avoiding on general principles because he can't walk in the door without wanting to arrest half the people in the place. At least down at the docks, the rough bars are supposed to be full of criminals. Peter likes it there, although it makes Neal tease him about getting back to his Viking roots. The undercurrents of veiled malice at Caligula's make him deeply uneasy.
Neal sighs and flops down on the chesterfield in front of the fireplace, while Peter stirs up the fire and puts a kettle on.
"You want something to eat?" Peter asks.
Neal shakes his head. "Not really hungry," he says, and now that he's lying down, the weariness in his voice is almost unbearable. "I just need some rest."
"So rest," Peter says, and goes about making a cup of tea strong enough to disguise the tea flavor, and possibly melt spoons.
He nurtures a small hope that Neal might forgo the laudanum, but when he glances over, an empty glass bottle is tipped over beside Neal's limp fingers. Peter sighs, and covers Neal with a blanket.
Then he goes upstairs to get the goldfish -- it can't hurt, right? -- and sets it on the table by Neal's head, before settling into his favorite chair with a cup of tea and the latest copy of the Unexpurgated Gazette. Which, he can't help but notice, contains a scathing and politely venomous editorial aimed at the Masters, with the byline E.B.
Every so often he glances over at Neal, who doesn't seem to have moved since sinking into a deep, oblivious sleep.
The fire crackles. The goldfish bubbles cheerfully in its jar.
Sometimes living down here isn't so bad.
This entry is also posted at http://sholio.dreamwidth.org/873177.html with
comments.
frith_in_thorns and I have been writing this fusion between the Flash game Fallen London (formerly Echo Bazaar) and White Collar. Mostly it's been taking the form of bits of fic tossed back and forth in email and LJ comments. Every once in a while they go ahead and develop into actual stories. :D She's posted a few of hers so far: A Boat Trip and A Game of Croquet.
Fallen London (the game) is set in a Victorian-era alternate-history London sunk beneath the surface of the ground. The game is bizarre and dark and funny and disturbing and very fun to play ... as well as fun to inflict on the White Collar characters. Frith explains some of the game mechanics in A Boat Trip; that particular story deals with the fact that, within the game, if your Wounds quality gets high enough, you die. However, it's established game canon that you only die temporarily and all the residents of the city are aware of this (which we both think is hilarious when applied to Neal and his canonical risk-taking abilities).
The ficlet below the cut deals with a different aspect of Fallen London game mechanics, Nightmares. Nightmares is another quality that rises as you play the game, and when it gets too high, you go temporarily insane (which is highly entertaining to play). However, you can reduce your Nightmares in various ways -- everything mentioned in this story (walking in the park, buying goldfish, etc) is actually a canonical way of bringing your Nightmares down from dangerous levels. Naturally Neal goes for the most self-destructive option. *g*
I've been slightly reluctant to post this because, even aside from the fact that I'm hardly online at all due to factors beyond my control ... I'm not entirely sure how much sense this will make if you haven't played the game. The whole AU is basically one long extended series of in-jokes. But it's also White Collar! There's Peter! And Neal! And h/c! (Because we're us.) So, here you go. :D
Title: The Search for Sleep
Word Count: 1200
Characters/Pairing: Peter, Neal, gen
Summary: Sleeping down here isn't easy. It helps to have a friend to look out for you.
Neal seeks him out while he's patrolling in Spite. Well, to be technical about it, Neal picks his pocket, shadows him until he notices, and then deposits a small sack of glim, two carnival tickets, a half-empty flask of Tincture of Vigour, and El's most recent gift of adoration back into his palm. It's one more carnival ticket than he started off with, which Peter pretends not to notice; he just snaps, "Knock it off", before pocketing the stolen items.
"I just wanted to check and make sure you were paying attention," Neal says, tucking his hands into his pockets and falling into step with Peter. "Which you weren't. Most people around here wouldn't give it back, you know. And that's the ones that aren't going to stick a knife between your ribs before you even see them coming."
"There wouldn't be nearly as many people trying to stick knives between my ribs if someone hadn't roped me into dueling with the Black Ribbon."
Neal smiles. It's a tired smile, not as bright as his normal cheery grin. "Don't blame me for that. You did that all on your own."
"I was trying to help," Peter retorts sullenly. "I thought that priest was trying to kill you!"
"He was trying to kill me, Peter; that's the point."
Peter glances nervously over his shoulder, which has become a habit ever since black-ribbon-wearing individuals started jumping from alleys trying to decapitate him, then looks more closely at Neal. Up close, Neal looks terrible. The fine lines around his eyes have grown more noticeable, as they always do when he's not sleeping, and his eyes seem to have sunk deeper into his eye sockets, surrounded by shadows so dark they look like bruises.
"Nightmares?" Peter asks quietly.
Neal shrugs, an eloquent enough answer. Peter can relate -- he's had enough sleepless nights of his own, though talking it over with El often helps. And Peter swears he's slept more restfully since he acquired the goldfish now swimming in a little glass jar by the head of their bed, though El doesn't seem to believe him. She likes having it around, though. It's a cheerful little thing.
But he worries about Neal. Death might not be permanent here, but it's not the only kind of harm that can befall a person. He doesn't want to think about the time that he and El found Neal wandering in the Forgotten Quarter, wet and half-starved and so confused that he didn't even recognize them. They'd taken him home with them and cared for him in their cottage until he came out of it, but some of Peter's nightmares are about Neal's mindless laughter and the empty stare of his haunted eyes.
"I was actually wondering ..." Neal says casually, drawing Peter's attention back to him. Neal trails off, but he touches his coat pocket meaningfully.
"No," Peter says quickly. "I'm not giving you that kind of help anymore. That stuff's addictive, and you're taking too much of it as it is."
"I just need to sleep, Peter." Neal's voice isn't so much wheedling as tired, tired beyond endurance. "Just for one night."
And then another night, Peter thinks, glancing at the bulge in Neal's pocket where the laudanum bottle is snugly tucked away. And another ...
But the fact that Neal is willing to come to him means a lot. Neal doesn't like being out of control in a laudanum-induced stupor -- which makes sense, considering some of the places he's been staying lately (rooms above gambling dens, beachwrecked steamers and who knows what else). The first time he asked Peter to stay with him after he dosed himself, Peter hesitated to argue against it because the alternatives were so much worse; at least he knows that Neal isn't passed out in a honey-den somewhere. He's tried, since then, to talk Neal into healthier alternatives (jogging! a nice stroll in the park! goldfish!) but he can't deny that it makes Neal look a lot better afterwards -- more bright-eyed, more alert, more like the Neal Peter knows and less of the dead-eyed zombie he becomes when he's not sleeping.
Peter found a small bottle of laudanum in El's nightstand recently. He tries not to think about it; he tells himself that she has it just in case. But he also found himself staring at it for longer than he wants to admit, wondering if it really would help ...
"Never mind," Neal says quietly, looking away. He takes his hand off the pocket containing the laudanum, and then pastes a bright grin on his face. "Want to walk me over to the Singing Mandrake, get a drink?"
"Come on," Peter sighs, and he traps Neal's wrist with his hand. And Neal comes, as responsive as if he still wears the anklet.
Peter is braced for what he'll find at home -- El's friends include poets and prostitutes, revolutionaries and spies, any of whom might stop by for a cup of tea at any time. But the cottage is quiet except for an occasional sulky squeak from the rafters, and the happy splashing of the goldfish in its jar, upstairs.
"We could go back to my place," Neal says, a little awkward now that Peter's taken him up on his offer.
"Oh no. If you're going to do this, you're going to do it where I have a comfortable chair, the crossword from the Gazette, and my favorite tea mug." It's all but impossible to get a proper cup of coffee in this town, aside from Caligula's, which he's started avoiding on general principles because he can't walk in the door without wanting to arrest half the people in the place. At least down at the docks, the rough bars are supposed to be full of criminals. Peter likes it there, although it makes Neal tease him about getting back to his Viking roots. The undercurrents of veiled malice at Caligula's make him deeply uneasy.
Neal sighs and flops down on the chesterfield in front of the fireplace, while Peter stirs up the fire and puts a kettle on.
"You want something to eat?" Peter asks.
Neal shakes his head. "Not really hungry," he says, and now that he's lying down, the weariness in his voice is almost unbearable. "I just need some rest."
"So rest," Peter says, and goes about making a cup of tea strong enough to disguise the tea flavor, and possibly melt spoons.
He nurtures a small hope that Neal might forgo the laudanum, but when he glances over, an empty glass bottle is tipped over beside Neal's limp fingers. Peter sighs, and covers Neal with a blanket.
Then he goes upstairs to get the goldfish -- it can't hurt, right? -- and sets it on the table by Neal's head, before settling into his favorite chair with a cup of tea and the latest copy of the Unexpurgated Gazette. Which, he can't help but notice, contains a scathing and politely venomous editorial aimed at the Masters, with the byline E.B.
Every so often he glances over at Neal, who doesn't seem to have moved since sinking into a deep, oblivious sleep.
The fire crackles. The goldfish bubbles cheerfully in its jar.
Sometimes living down here isn't so bad.
This entry is also posted at http://sholio.dreamwidth.org/873177.html with
comments.