kriadydragon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kriadydragon) wrote2011-01-15 08:26 pm
kriadydragon) wrote2011-01-15 08:26 pm
Entry tags:
White Collar - Out of the Blue
Title: Out of the Blue
Rating: PG-13, gen
Characters: Neal, some Peter
Warnings: Violence, injuries
Summary: "It was embarrassing afterward, because this time Neal hadn't done anything." written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tj_teejay at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
collarcorner. Prompt found here. I would also like to give a big thanks to the people who helped me out over at wcwu. Not beta'd but edited.
Out of the Blue
It was embarrassing afterward, because this time Neal hadn't done anything. There was no woman thief/slash murderer screaming rape, no chivalrous meat-heads looking to save a pretty lady, and no Peter to rush in and save the day. There was only beer, testosterone, a broken heart and Muprhy's law. It was ridiculous.
But first it was terrifying.
Neal heard them before he saw them, one man complaining loudly about the back-stabbing “bitches” of the world ditching him for pretty boys. Their voices echoed, drifting toward Neal from no particular direction as he crossed a bridge over the noisy early evening traffic traffic. He'd just gone to his favorite coffee place, had his favorite coffee and was feeling quite content.
He only saw them right when they shoved him spine-first into the corner of one of block pillars part of the guard wall. There were three of them, two hauling him to his feet, one punching him in the face as soon as he was upright.
“You like that, pretty boy?” man number three sneered. He punched Neal again. “Ain't so pretty now!”
They shoved him to the ground, kicked him in the side. Air as thoroughly shoved from his lungs as it was going to get, they lifted him up and slammed him chest-first into the edge of the guard wall, arm twisted up behind his back.
“Ain't so pretty now!” number three shrieked with psychotic glee. Hot air stinking of alcohol tumbled over Neal's face as Three pressed into him, the wall's edge burying itself into Neal's solar plexus and crushing his ribs against his all ready depleted lungs. The only sound Neal could make was a pathetic squeak.
“Huh!” Three shoved and twisted harder. “Huh!” And harder. Neal's shoulder slipped from its socket, bone scraping against bone. He tried to gasped, wanted to scream, but there was no room, no air. He couldn't breathe.
“Maybe I should just toss you over the side!” Three snarled. Neal's heart stopped with his breathing. He struggled, bucked, twisted; doing Three's dirty work for him by making the pain worse. Then Neal made a new sound, a choked whimper, and just like that he was released to slump in a gasping heap to the ground. One more kick to the ribs then the drunken assholes staggered off, laughing and whooping in their triumph over the pretty boys of the world.
Neal sat there, sucking in air, shaking, and wondering what the hell had just happened. His back throbbed but his front throbbed worse around the rib cage, and his shoulder... crap, his shoulder. He wasn't even moving and the thing burned as though breathing alone was pushing glass shards into the muscle and bone. He felt something warm and sticky drip down his face and off his jaw, staining his nice clean shirt with red drops. He stared at them, gaping.
He was bleeding. His arm was dislocated, ribs probably broken, and he was bleeding.
Neal blinked.
He'd just gotten the crap beat out of him. By a bunch of drunken idiot strangers who didn't even know him. Random chance, random encounter, random timing: no case, no suspect, no former pissed off partner.
Neal's brain couldn't compute it. Beatings were a dime a dozen, and as much as he hated to admit it, they usually happened for a reason – usually because it was his own damn fault.
He hadn't done anything.
“Sir, sir, are you all right?” A shrill voice asked, and the next thing Neal knew he was being hauled to his feet by a petite young woman too frazzled to consider 911 as the least painful path to being a good Samaritan. She practically dragged Neal, long limbs and flopping arm and all, and all Neal could figure was that he must have passed out along the way when the next thing he knew, he was in the woman's car.
It didn't hit him until the car was moving that she might be kidnapping him, taking him to some cabin in the woods where she would nurse him back to health then bust him up all over again just to keep him around, just like in that movie (which he had hated. It had actually given him nightmares, with Kate in place of Kathy Bates). The woman babbled but it was white noise lost to the roar of blood pounding through Neal's ears.
And yet he heard, over the roar and chatter, a tiny, timid beep from somewhere in the vicinity of his ankle.
Neal flinched. He was out of his radius. He was beat up, helpless and out of his radius. Peter was going to kill him.
Neal groaned and the woman cooed incoherently. Neal must have been more out of it than he realized when he blinked, just once, and on opening his eyes found himself staring at the hospital.
It was quite the fanfare for little old him: the woman running in, probably shouting and failing for help; people in scrubs hurrying out with a gurney moments later; gentle hands easing him up then down onto that gurney while jostling him in ways that forced unmanly sounds from his throat.
“You... need to call Peter. Let him know,” Neal gasped. “Peter Burke, You... gotta call him.”
“Okay, honey, just relax, we'll call him,” said an older woman in pink scrubs. Expect they didn't have Peter's number, didn't even know who Peter was. Neal started to get up only for hands to push him back down.
“Agent Peter Burke. You gotta call... let him know... I'm here, please. I'm a criminal!”
He would later blame the confession on his punch-drunk brain. For now, all he could do was groan in dejection. It didn't change the urgency nor the nurses' regard of him. They wheeled him to the nearest available space and got him situated, then proceeded to touch him in ways that Neal found incredibly annoying (most especially the palpitations to his abdomen. He was ticklish, damn it!) But whatever his body's state, it wasn't so bad that they had to cut off his shirt. Getting it off was no picnic, but a small price to pay as far as his scanty wardrobe of nice shirts was concerned.
Embarrassment re-reared its ugly head while, during the process of getting his blood pressure and heart rate checked, someone cuffed him to the bed rail. They pressed on his ribs, which hurt. They touched his shoulder, which also hurt. It was all he could do to keep breathing and not cry.
A warm tear tickled down his cheek, as though he wasn't humiliated enough. But he couldn't help it. Every breath, every minor move, set off a chain reaction of pulsing agony that made each inhale and exhale quake. He was stuck to the bed, shirtless, cold, and feeling increasingly nauseas all because a gang of three assholes had needed a punching bag.
He hadn't even done anything, and they still beat the crap out of him.
“Neal?”
Neal flinched and whipped his head around to see Peter barging through the curtains whether he was permitted to or not. He took one look at Neal and frowned severely.
“What happened?”
“I didn't do anything,” Neal blurted, wincing when his arm was slipped into a temporary sling.
Peter raised his hands and patted the air. “It's okay, Neal. I'm not mad, I just need to know what happened.”
So Neal explained as best he could between winces and hisses of pain. Peter's eyes darkened, wandering over red skin that would become impressive bruises and a myriad of cuts.
Peter was mad.
“Damn it! Don't worry, Neal. We're going to find these guys and bring them in.”
Neal felt immediately better.
There were X-rays to take, cuts to clean, bruises to ice to prevent swelling. His ribs were cracked and his shoulder dislocated, which meant an overnight stay so they could put it back properly. Neal was okay with that, mostly too doped to the gills to care. He was released the next day, not quite as doped but doped enough to feel comfortable in his own skin. Peter gave him a ride home.
“We got the guys,” Peter said, grinning like it was yet another important case finally solved. “Wasn't hard. The sons of bitches had already been arrested for attacking another guy who turned out to be an off duty cop.”
Neal smiled tentatively. He didn't hurt, but even the pull of injuries was pretty uncomfortable.
Once home, Peter helped him up the stairs, into his pajamas, then into bed, rounding it off by tucking him in. It was embarrassing, but right now, it was an embarrassment Neal could easily live with.
The End
Rating: PG-13, gen
Characters: Neal, some Peter
Warnings: Violence, injuries
Summary: "It was embarrassing afterward, because this time Neal hadn't done anything." written for
tj_teejay at collarcorner. Prompt found here. I would also like to give a big thanks to the people who helped me out over at wcwu. Not beta'd but edited. It was embarrassing afterward, because this time Neal hadn't done anything. There was no woman thief/slash murderer screaming rape, no chivalrous meat-heads looking to save a pretty lady, and no Peter to rush in and save the day. There was only beer, testosterone, a broken heart and Muprhy's law. It was ridiculous.
But first it was terrifying.
Neal heard them before he saw them, one man complaining loudly about the back-stabbing “bitches” of the world ditching him for pretty boys. Their voices echoed, drifting toward Neal from no particular direction as he crossed a bridge over the noisy early evening traffic traffic. He'd just gone to his favorite coffee place, had his favorite coffee and was feeling quite content.
He only saw them right when they shoved him spine-first into the corner of one of block pillars part of the guard wall. There were three of them, two hauling him to his feet, one punching him in the face as soon as he was upright.
“You like that, pretty boy?” man number three sneered. He punched Neal again. “Ain't so pretty now!”
They shoved him to the ground, kicked him in the side. Air as thoroughly shoved from his lungs as it was going to get, they lifted him up and slammed him chest-first into the edge of the guard wall, arm twisted up behind his back.
“Ain't so pretty now!” number three shrieked with psychotic glee. Hot air stinking of alcohol tumbled over Neal's face as Three pressed into him, the wall's edge burying itself into Neal's solar plexus and crushing his ribs against his all ready depleted lungs. The only sound Neal could make was a pathetic squeak.
“Huh!” Three shoved and twisted harder. “Huh!” And harder. Neal's shoulder slipped from its socket, bone scraping against bone. He tried to gasped, wanted to scream, but there was no room, no air. He couldn't breathe.
“Maybe I should just toss you over the side!” Three snarled. Neal's heart stopped with his breathing. He struggled, bucked, twisted; doing Three's dirty work for him by making the pain worse. Then Neal made a new sound, a choked whimper, and just like that he was released to slump in a gasping heap to the ground. One more kick to the ribs then the drunken assholes staggered off, laughing and whooping in their triumph over the pretty boys of the world.
Neal sat there, sucking in air, shaking, and wondering what the hell had just happened. His back throbbed but his front throbbed worse around the rib cage, and his shoulder... crap, his shoulder. He wasn't even moving and the thing burned as though breathing alone was pushing glass shards into the muscle and bone. He felt something warm and sticky drip down his face and off his jaw, staining his nice clean shirt with red drops. He stared at them, gaping.
He was bleeding. His arm was dislocated, ribs probably broken, and he was bleeding.
Neal blinked.
He'd just gotten the crap beat out of him. By a bunch of drunken idiot strangers who didn't even know him. Random chance, random encounter, random timing: no case, no suspect, no former pissed off partner.
Neal's brain couldn't compute it. Beatings were a dime a dozen, and as much as he hated to admit it, they usually happened for a reason – usually because it was his own damn fault.
He hadn't done anything.
“Sir, sir, are you all right?” A shrill voice asked, and the next thing Neal knew he was being hauled to his feet by a petite young woman too frazzled to consider 911 as the least painful path to being a good Samaritan. She practically dragged Neal, long limbs and flopping arm and all, and all Neal could figure was that he must have passed out along the way when the next thing he knew, he was in the woman's car.
It didn't hit him until the car was moving that she might be kidnapping him, taking him to some cabin in the woods where she would nurse him back to health then bust him up all over again just to keep him around, just like in that movie (which he had hated. It had actually given him nightmares, with Kate in place of Kathy Bates). The woman babbled but it was white noise lost to the roar of blood pounding through Neal's ears.
And yet he heard, over the roar and chatter, a tiny, timid beep from somewhere in the vicinity of his ankle.
Neal flinched. He was out of his radius. He was beat up, helpless and out of his radius. Peter was going to kill him.
Neal groaned and the woman cooed incoherently. Neal must have been more out of it than he realized when he blinked, just once, and on opening his eyes found himself staring at the hospital.
It was quite the fanfare for little old him: the woman running in, probably shouting and failing for help; people in scrubs hurrying out with a gurney moments later; gentle hands easing him up then down onto that gurney while jostling him in ways that forced unmanly sounds from his throat.
“You... need to call Peter. Let him know,” Neal gasped. “Peter Burke, You... gotta call him.”
“Okay, honey, just relax, we'll call him,” said an older woman in pink scrubs. Expect they didn't have Peter's number, didn't even know who Peter was. Neal started to get up only for hands to push him back down.
“Agent Peter Burke. You gotta call... let him know... I'm here, please. I'm a criminal!”
He would later blame the confession on his punch-drunk brain. For now, all he could do was groan in dejection. It didn't change the urgency nor the nurses' regard of him. They wheeled him to the nearest available space and got him situated, then proceeded to touch him in ways that Neal found incredibly annoying (most especially the palpitations to his abdomen. He was ticklish, damn it!) But whatever his body's state, it wasn't so bad that they had to cut off his shirt. Getting it off was no picnic, but a small price to pay as far as his scanty wardrobe of nice shirts was concerned.
Embarrassment re-reared its ugly head while, during the process of getting his blood pressure and heart rate checked, someone cuffed him to the bed rail. They pressed on his ribs, which hurt. They touched his shoulder, which also hurt. It was all he could do to keep breathing and not cry.
A warm tear tickled down his cheek, as though he wasn't humiliated enough. But he couldn't help it. Every breath, every minor move, set off a chain reaction of pulsing agony that made each inhale and exhale quake. He was stuck to the bed, shirtless, cold, and feeling increasingly nauseas all because a gang of three assholes had needed a punching bag.
He hadn't even done anything, and they still beat the crap out of him.
“Neal?”
Neal flinched and whipped his head around to see Peter barging through the curtains whether he was permitted to or not. He took one look at Neal and frowned severely.
“What happened?”
“I didn't do anything,” Neal blurted, wincing when his arm was slipped into a temporary sling.
Peter raised his hands and patted the air. “It's okay, Neal. I'm not mad, I just need to know what happened.”
So Neal explained as best he could between winces and hisses of pain. Peter's eyes darkened, wandering over red skin that would become impressive bruises and a myriad of cuts.
Peter was mad.
“Damn it! Don't worry, Neal. We're going to find these guys and bring them in.”
Neal felt immediately better.
There were X-rays to take, cuts to clean, bruises to ice to prevent swelling. His ribs were cracked and his shoulder dislocated, which meant an overnight stay so they could put it back properly. Neal was okay with that, mostly too doped to the gills to care. He was released the next day, not quite as doped but doped enough to feel comfortable in his own skin. Peter gave him a ride home.
“We got the guys,” Peter said, grinning like it was yet another important case finally solved. “Wasn't hard. The sons of bitches had already been arrested for attacking another guy who turned out to be an off duty cop.”
Neal smiled tentatively. He didn't hurt, but even the pull of injuries was pretty uncomfortable.
Once home, Peter helped him up the stairs, into his pajamas, then into bed, rounding it off by tucking him in. It was embarrassing, but right now, it was an embarrassment Neal could easily live with.
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I really like the Neal POV - his bewilderment that he got beat up, his panic of being out of his radius and his humilation off being cuffed shirtless to a hospital bed.
Thank you for this fic! :)
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Let me send you a PM, though. I found a few typos.
Oh, and btw... I finished the story I was working on for your last prompt. You'll need to give
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Your description of his emotions and physical sensations was incredibly well-done--very vivid and gripping.
And I love protective!Peter coming through. :)
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I am so glad you're writing for WC now - you write the most awesome h/c fics!
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