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Title: Run
Rating: PG
Characters: Neal, some Peter
Summary: Neal running for his life - literally. This here is what we call in the business "plot without a point." I just wanted to write a story about Neal running for dear life. Not beta'd but edited extensively.
Run
You do what you have to do. Whether for a con or a case, you mentally haul ass to see it through. But Neal has mastered the fine art of finding happy mediums, drawing lines and knowing when to say no and what to say no to. He can seduce without it leading to sex, invite himself to places without ever actually having to go, and make threats that have nothing to do with putting anyone's life in danger.
But you still do what you have to do.
Neal walks into a parlor that's all about male dominance – leather, metal, gradients of dark gray and black, and all four male occupants dressed to intimidate in suits that cost more than Peter's car, an equally pricey girl on each arm. Neal immediately identifies the alpha male as the one looking Neal up and down with a lazy smile.
“Well ain't you a pretty one,” Alpha Male simpers. The other males laugh. Neal gives them a tight, neutral smile that isn't an act. Neal's part is that of the professional thief looking for employment. As a professional thief, he's insulted by the insinuation that good looks equal incompetence.
But Neal knows what this is, and isn't surprised when Alpha Male tells him to remove his shirt. Neal makes sure to look mildly amused but mostly bewildered, the professional thief chalking this up to Alpha Male wanting a health check. Neal's young, fit, and will pass with flying colors.
It is a health check, but not to make sure that the professional thief is top of the line. Alpha Male has Neal hold out his arms. He circles Neal, feels along his biceps, passes a hand down his ribs, nods in approval and leaves Neal feeling suddenly empathetic toward cattle.
“Thin and fit,” Alpha Male says. “Nice.” It's approval Neal is used to. In his business, whether conning or on a case, thin and fit is good. Thin means fitting into tight spaces, fit means being able to endure. Right now, however, it's a purely shallow assessment.
Fit means a nice body to look at. Thin, a body easy to subdue.
The most dangerous jobs aren't the ones where you might end up dead. They're the ones where you end up in a situation worse than death. Neal could argue that there is no difference, but right here, right now, considering why he's being admired, considering where he might end up and that there is a good chance, a very good chance, that to end up there means never to be found again, Neal has to admit, hands down, that this is the most dangerous job he's ever done. But he knows how to do what needs to be done, and as long as Alpha Male's hand doesn't press too hard against his chest, feels his rapidly beating heart, then everything will be fine.
“Drug him,” Alpha says.
Neal has been waiting for those very words. He just didn't think they'd be said so soon. Neal feels the big guy behind him step closer, and he reacts just how Diana taught him before the operation began. Neal lashes out with his elbow, feels the pain of it connecting with Big Guy's nose, the sickening crunch of cartilage. Neal's body twists with the blow, turning him around toward the door. He shoves Big Guy aside and bolts, reaching the door just as the split-second distraction of alarm erupts into chaos.
Peter can laugh at Neal's choice of self-defense all he wants, but running is a damn fine way to stay alive. This, too, is why it pays to be fit, and thin, as well as graced with long legs. Neal dashes into the silver-doored elevators so fast he rebounds off the back wall, using it to flip him around enough to jam his thumb into the button. The doors close just as Alpha's goons are pounding down the black and gray hallway.
The elevator's descent is painfully slow, the ding of each floor like a smug smile as though the building itself loves suffering. The very second the doors start to open, before they fully part, Neal squeezes through and he's off again. He barely registers the gasp of startled patrons as he streaks through the lobby, dodging rich old ladies in faux fur and rich old men with heavy jowls and disapproving eyes. Neal's also good at taking in the scene even when most of the scene is a blur.
Until he hears the elevator's mocking ding behind him, the doors rolling open and the goons yelling at Neal to stop, and then all he sees is the cluster of glass doors that are his only exit. Alpha's goons are shouting, people are yelping in fear all around him and multiple feet are pounding toward him. Neal slams into the middle door, forgetting that they open inward. He yanks the brass handle, such a simple action, so excruciatingly slow. He's out the door just as thick, clammy fingers scrabble at his shoulder, blunt nails scraping his skin. He twists away which causes him to stumble, but he's good at running and rights himself as Big Guy continues to stagger over his missed grasp.
The cold air on Neal's exposed skin is like a slap to his face, waking him up and giving him an extra something that makes his legs and heart pump faster. But the goons stay on him, forcing him to dodge passer-bys, sometimes even shoving them aside, tossing them a breathless gasp of an apology. He makes a sharp turn down a dark alley, his eyes adjusting enough to show him shapes, garbage bins, boxes and a fence. Fences are nothing. Whether wood or chain link, Neal doesn't even need the boxes to scale them. He leaps as high as possible at the fence and grabs the top - a good thing because it's wood and taking a second leap would have cost him time. One push with his foot and pull with his hands, and he's up and over and off again.
Neal can hear the goons still on his tail but slowed because they do have to use the boxes. Neal makes turn after turn, running with everything he's got, his lungs burning and his heart a jackhammer in his chest. He runs and runs, turning, leaping, scaling another fence. He bursts onto a sidewalk, skidding, stumbling and barely avoiding his momentum carrying him into traffic. The sudden change in direction costs him and he's like a newborn colt staggering upright until he finally finds his balance and is moving again.
The only problem with running for dear life is that, sometimes, you don't know when to stop. Neal runs and feels like he's been running forever; that one day he woke up, ran and has been running ever since. Like it's all he knows how to do. It's a funny kind of irony that he would laugh at if he had the air. Neal's legs feel like they're on fire, but he keeps going. Neal runs.
Then stumbles.
Then falls, hard, tumbling, bruising, scraping, and stops.
Neal lays there, chest heaving, digging his ribs into the cement. He has no idea where he is because his eyes refuse to open. He has no idea if the bad guys are still on him. He can't take that chance, so pushes himself up, first onto trembling arms, then onto trembling legs. He's a newborn colt again, lurching and wavering, but he can't stay up. He catches himself on something cool and metal and looks up at a bronze statue of a child. He's in a park, alone, but he still can't take the chance. Pushing off of the statue, he stumbles down a cobblestone path. He manages five feet when his legs give out and he's on his knees. His thighs give out and he's on all fours. His body gives out, and he's back on his side, desperately gulping oxygen.
Adrenaline has abandoned him. He is beyond spent, beyond exhausted to something bone deep and painful that makes his heart feel like it might explode. He's cold, shaking, the blood roaring like a hurricane in his ears and he wonders if he's dying. Except he's not, he knows he's not because he's been like this before and didn't die then. But he will die if the goons find him. So he tries to crawl, sliding across the ground, and gets maybe three feet when he's back on the ground.
Time is elusive, like trying to grab water. Seconds could have passed, minutes, hours, days of him just laying there breathing and waiting for his heart to slow down. He can't hear anything over his own blood and rasping lungs, but he is sure (hoping) that if the goons really were still on him they would have found him by now. Neal drifts, wanting to sleep, jolted awake by the mental image of goons, hundreds of them, surrounding him, reaching for him, dragging him away to be a plaything to a stranger, hidden from the world. A warm, clammy hand grips Neal's shoulder and Neal fights, lashing out with his fist, kicking the goons trying to grab his legs.
“Neal, Neal! Damn it, Neal, calm down! It's me, Peter!”
Neal stills, not entirely because Peter told him to. He croaks, panting, uncertain and afraid, “Peter?”
“Yeah. It's me, buddy. Relax, I've got you.”
Neal swallows, his throat sticking together, making him cough. “How'd... you find...”
“Wasn't easy,” Peter says with a breathless chuckle, making Neal wonder if he'd been running, too. “Damn you can run far. I knew I'd find you passed out but not all the way over here. Still, it pays to be pursued shirtless by thugs. Makes for quite a memorable scene. Plenty of witnesses to point the way.” Something warm but slick settles over Neal's body – Peter's FBI jacket.
“You get 'em?” Neal asks next. His final question, taking too much out of him.
“Yeah, we did.” Neal feels Peter tap the cheap gold watch that is also a recording device. “Got it all on record. Plus, you know, lots of witnesses to testify about the five armed guys chasing the half-naked unarmed guy.”
Neal's reply is a noncommittal hum. The ground is hard, cold, but the jacket warm and all Neal wants to do is sleep. Peter doesn't let him, ordering him to stay awake then shaking him when he doesn't comply. The next time Peter wakes him, it's with a warm, gentle hand to his back.
“Cavalry's here. Think you could get to the car if I helped you?”
Neal nods. He ends up needing both Peter and Jones to keep him upright on legs that feel more like dead weights. Jones is still reeling over how quickly Alpha Male ordered Neal to be drugged. They knew the operation moved fast, but not that fast.
Once Neal is in the car, it is all moot to him. He drifts off.
And Peter wakes him, but it surprises Neal to look up and see June's house instead of the park entrance. It's just Peter who helps Neal inside and up the stairs, Neal rested enough to manage it, though it tires him so that by the time they reach his loft, his legs are giving up the ghost and Peter barely manages to get him to the bed.
Peter breathes an alarmed, “Jeez, kid,” then presses his fingers to Neal's throat at the pulse point. After, he moves quick, getting Neal a full glass of water and making him drink every drop. While Neal does this, Peter cleans his scrapes by dabbing them with a cloth moistened in rubbing alcohol, commenting on how they aren't as bad as they look but still need to be cleaned periodically. He then removes Neal's shoes.
The real testament to Neal's exhaustion is when Peter helps him out of his pants and he barely registers it. He's in front of Peter – the guy who chased him, caught him, put him prison – wearing only his boxers, and he doesn't care. Peter's not an Alpha or a goon or a stranger looking to humiliate. He's Peter, who does what he has to do and has lines he doesn't cross. Neal is still shaking, the cold lingering and his muscles quivering, having had enough. Peter pulls the covers back, then helps Neal get under them.
Neal is surrounded by softness and warmth, and his bones melt in relief. Peter's fingers press to his wrist, monitoring his heart rate until he finds it acceptable enough to finally let go, only for his hand to move to Neal's shoulder and squeeze.
“You did good, Neal,” he says. “Sleep late. I'll check on you tomorrow.” Removing his hand from his shoulder, Peter slips quietly from the room.
Neal sleeps.
The End
Rating: PG
Characters: Neal, some Peter
Summary: Neal running for his life - literally. This here is what we call in the business "plot without a point." I just wanted to write a story about Neal running for dear life. Not beta'd but edited extensively.
You do what you have to do. Whether for a con or a case, you mentally haul ass to see it through. But Neal has mastered the fine art of finding happy mediums, drawing lines and knowing when to say no and what to say no to. He can seduce without it leading to sex, invite himself to places without ever actually having to go, and make threats that have nothing to do with putting anyone's life in danger.
But you still do what you have to do.
Neal walks into a parlor that's all about male dominance – leather, metal, gradients of dark gray and black, and all four male occupants dressed to intimidate in suits that cost more than Peter's car, an equally pricey girl on each arm. Neal immediately identifies the alpha male as the one looking Neal up and down with a lazy smile.
“Well ain't you a pretty one,” Alpha Male simpers. The other males laugh. Neal gives them a tight, neutral smile that isn't an act. Neal's part is that of the professional thief looking for employment. As a professional thief, he's insulted by the insinuation that good looks equal incompetence.
But Neal knows what this is, and isn't surprised when Alpha Male tells him to remove his shirt. Neal makes sure to look mildly amused but mostly bewildered, the professional thief chalking this up to Alpha Male wanting a health check. Neal's young, fit, and will pass with flying colors.
It is a health check, but not to make sure that the professional thief is top of the line. Alpha Male has Neal hold out his arms. He circles Neal, feels along his biceps, passes a hand down his ribs, nods in approval and leaves Neal feeling suddenly empathetic toward cattle.
“Thin and fit,” Alpha Male says. “Nice.” It's approval Neal is used to. In his business, whether conning or on a case, thin and fit is good. Thin means fitting into tight spaces, fit means being able to endure. Right now, however, it's a purely shallow assessment.
Fit means a nice body to look at. Thin, a body easy to subdue.
The most dangerous jobs aren't the ones where you might end up dead. They're the ones where you end up in a situation worse than death. Neal could argue that there is no difference, but right here, right now, considering why he's being admired, considering where he might end up and that there is a good chance, a very good chance, that to end up there means never to be found again, Neal has to admit, hands down, that this is the most dangerous job he's ever done. But he knows how to do what needs to be done, and as long as Alpha Male's hand doesn't press too hard against his chest, feels his rapidly beating heart, then everything will be fine.
“Drug him,” Alpha says.
Neal has been waiting for those very words. He just didn't think they'd be said so soon. Neal feels the big guy behind him step closer, and he reacts just how Diana taught him before the operation began. Neal lashes out with his elbow, feels the pain of it connecting with Big Guy's nose, the sickening crunch of cartilage. Neal's body twists with the blow, turning him around toward the door. He shoves Big Guy aside and bolts, reaching the door just as the split-second distraction of alarm erupts into chaos.
Peter can laugh at Neal's choice of self-defense all he wants, but running is a damn fine way to stay alive. This, too, is why it pays to be fit, and thin, as well as graced with long legs. Neal dashes into the silver-doored elevators so fast he rebounds off the back wall, using it to flip him around enough to jam his thumb into the button. The doors close just as Alpha's goons are pounding down the black and gray hallway.
The elevator's descent is painfully slow, the ding of each floor like a smug smile as though the building itself loves suffering. The very second the doors start to open, before they fully part, Neal squeezes through and he's off again. He barely registers the gasp of startled patrons as he streaks through the lobby, dodging rich old ladies in faux fur and rich old men with heavy jowls and disapproving eyes. Neal's also good at taking in the scene even when most of the scene is a blur.
Until he hears the elevator's mocking ding behind him, the doors rolling open and the goons yelling at Neal to stop, and then all he sees is the cluster of glass doors that are his only exit. Alpha's goons are shouting, people are yelping in fear all around him and multiple feet are pounding toward him. Neal slams into the middle door, forgetting that they open inward. He yanks the brass handle, such a simple action, so excruciatingly slow. He's out the door just as thick, clammy fingers scrabble at his shoulder, blunt nails scraping his skin. He twists away which causes him to stumble, but he's good at running and rights himself as Big Guy continues to stagger over his missed grasp.
The cold air on Neal's exposed skin is like a slap to his face, waking him up and giving him an extra something that makes his legs and heart pump faster. But the goons stay on him, forcing him to dodge passer-bys, sometimes even shoving them aside, tossing them a breathless gasp of an apology. He makes a sharp turn down a dark alley, his eyes adjusting enough to show him shapes, garbage bins, boxes and a fence. Fences are nothing. Whether wood or chain link, Neal doesn't even need the boxes to scale them. He leaps as high as possible at the fence and grabs the top - a good thing because it's wood and taking a second leap would have cost him time. One push with his foot and pull with his hands, and he's up and over and off again.
Neal can hear the goons still on his tail but slowed because they do have to use the boxes. Neal makes turn after turn, running with everything he's got, his lungs burning and his heart a jackhammer in his chest. He runs and runs, turning, leaping, scaling another fence. He bursts onto a sidewalk, skidding, stumbling and barely avoiding his momentum carrying him into traffic. The sudden change in direction costs him and he's like a newborn colt staggering upright until he finally finds his balance and is moving again.
The only problem with running for dear life is that, sometimes, you don't know when to stop. Neal runs and feels like he's been running forever; that one day he woke up, ran and has been running ever since. Like it's all he knows how to do. It's a funny kind of irony that he would laugh at if he had the air. Neal's legs feel like they're on fire, but he keeps going. Neal runs.
Then stumbles.
Then falls, hard, tumbling, bruising, scraping, and stops.
Neal lays there, chest heaving, digging his ribs into the cement. He has no idea where he is because his eyes refuse to open. He has no idea if the bad guys are still on him. He can't take that chance, so pushes himself up, first onto trembling arms, then onto trembling legs. He's a newborn colt again, lurching and wavering, but he can't stay up. He catches himself on something cool and metal and looks up at a bronze statue of a child. He's in a park, alone, but he still can't take the chance. Pushing off of the statue, he stumbles down a cobblestone path. He manages five feet when his legs give out and he's on his knees. His thighs give out and he's on all fours. His body gives out, and he's back on his side, desperately gulping oxygen.
Adrenaline has abandoned him. He is beyond spent, beyond exhausted to something bone deep and painful that makes his heart feel like it might explode. He's cold, shaking, the blood roaring like a hurricane in his ears and he wonders if he's dying. Except he's not, he knows he's not because he's been like this before and didn't die then. But he will die if the goons find him. So he tries to crawl, sliding across the ground, and gets maybe three feet when he's back on the ground.
Time is elusive, like trying to grab water. Seconds could have passed, minutes, hours, days of him just laying there breathing and waiting for his heart to slow down. He can't hear anything over his own blood and rasping lungs, but he is sure (hoping) that if the goons really were still on him they would have found him by now. Neal drifts, wanting to sleep, jolted awake by the mental image of goons, hundreds of them, surrounding him, reaching for him, dragging him away to be a plaything to a stranger, hidden from the world. A warm, clammy hand grips Neal's shoulder and Neal fights, lashing out with his fist, kicking the goons trying to grab his legs.
“Neal, Neal! Damn it, Neal, calm down! It's me, Peter!”
Neal stills, not entirely because Peter told him to. He croaks, panting, uncertain and afraid, “Peter?”
“Yeah. It's me, buddy. Relax, I've got you.”
Neal swallows, his throat sticking together, making him cough. “How'd... you find...”
“Wasn't easy,” Peter says with a breathless chuckle, making Neal wonder if he'd been running, too. “Damn you can run far. I knew I'd find you passed out but not all the way over here. Still, it pays to be pursued shirtless by thugs. Makes for quite a memorable scene. Plenty of witnesses to point the way.” Something warm but slick settles over Neal's body – Peter's FBI jacket.
“You get 'em?” Neal asks next. His final question, taking too much out of him.
“Yeah, we did.” Neal feels Peter tap the cheap gold watch that is also a recording device. “Got it all on record. Plus, you know, lots of witnesses to testify about the five armed guys chasing the half-naked unarmed guy.”
Neal's reply is a noncommittal hum. The ground is hard, cold, but the jacket warm and all Neal wants to do is sleep. Peter doesn't let him, ordering him to stay awake then shaking him when he doesn't comply. The next time Peter wakes him, it's with a warm, gentle hand to his back.
“Cavalry's here. Think you could get to the car if I helped you?”
Neal nods. He ends up needing both Peter and Jones to keep him upright on legs that feel more like dead weights. Jones is still reeling over how quickly Alpha Male ordered Neal to be drugged. They knew the operation moved fast, but not that fast.
Once Neal is in the car, it is all moot to him. He drifts off.
And Peter wakes him, but it surprises Neal to look up and see June's house instead of the park entrance. It's just Peter who helps Neal inside and up the stairs, Neal rested enough to manage it, though it tires him so that by the time they reach his loft, his legs are giving up the ghost and Peter barely manages to get him to the bed.
Peter breathes an alarmed, “Jeez, kid,” then presses his fingers to Neal's throat at the pulse point. After, he moves quick, getting Neal a full glass of water and making him drink every drop. While Neal does this, Peter cleans his scrapes by dabbing them with a cloth moistened in rubbing alcohol, commenting on how they aren't as bad as they look but still need to be cleaned periodically. He then removes Neal's shoes.
The real testament to Neal's exhaustion is when Peter helps him out of his pants and he barely registers it. He's in front of Peter – the guy who chased him, caught him, put him prison – wearing only his boxers, and he doesn't care. Peter's not an Alpha or a goon or a stranger looking to humiliate. He's Peter, who does what he has to do and has lines he doesn't cross. Neal is still shaking, the cold lingering and his muscles quivering, having had enough. Peter pulls the covers back, then helps Neal get under them.
Neal is surrounded by softness and warmth, and his bones melt in relief. Peter's fingers press to his wrist, monitoring his heart rate until he finds it acceptable enough to finally let go, only for his hand to move to Neal's shoulder and squeeze.
“You did good, Neal,” he says. “Sleep late. I'll check on you tomorrow.” Removing his hand from his shoulder, Peter slips quietly from the room.
Neal sleeps.
