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elrhiarhodanTitle: The Place Where Wings Unfurl
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, well-implied future P/N, N/E, P/E/N
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~800
Summary: Incarceration and a two mile radius have taken their toll on Neal’s self-control. Written fordoctor_fangeek as an extra day for my Fic-Can-Ukah meme, for the prompt that’s the title of this story.
__________________
A/N: No beta. All mistakes are mine and mine alone.
Neal hadn’t flown for the better part of a decade, the four-plus years of incarceration and the four years on work release made it difficult. Although he had been on an airplane several times with Peter, but that wasn’t the type of flying that he missed.
No, what Neal missed was soaring on thermals that built on hot summer days, gliding around and around, circling a mountain valley, catching his reflection in the still waters of a distant lake.
Neal was always quick to say that boredom was the worst thing about prison – the sameness of daily life. But that was a lie. It wasn’t boredom, it wasn’t the regimentation and rules, and it wasn’t even the ever-present threat of physical danger. No, the worst thing about prison was the confinement – the small cell, the lack of privacy and space to spread his wings.
When the need became too much, after the lights went out and when the guards were at the far end of the cellblock, he’d strip down and stand facing the bars. He breathed deep, finding that golden trigger point, and bone and cartilage and muscle and skin reformed along his back. Feathers, from the deepest blue-black to bright silver erupted along the length of his wings.
But they’d bump against the cell walls and ceiling, the cement painful against the extraordinarily sensitive feathers. He tried to keep them contained and tightly furled, but the strain was too much and with another deep breath, the wings disappeared into his back again.
The apartment atop June’s mansion was both a blessing and a curse. The terrace, high enough and mostly blocked from prying eyes in nearby buildings, gave him the space he needed to let his wings unfurl. But never in the daylight – the heat of the sun on the stone created small thermals – just enough to give him uplift. He knew that his lack of impulse control would mean he’d be up on the ledge and would take flight without a thought for his tracking anklet and the two mile radius.
True freedom would have to wait for the day when the tracker came off for good. Everyone would think he was headed to Paris or London or Hong Kong, and that was fine. His immediately plans would keep him a little closer; his family still had an aerie amongst the craggy peaks on the White Mountains.
But even the best laid plans have a way of going awry. Neal should have locked the door, particularly since Peter had gotten into the habit of randomly coming over and checking up on him as his sentence was dwindling down, but he didn’t. Discovery was inevitable, but not quite as disastrous as it could have been.
Peter didn’t say anything, he didn’t even seem surprised. He just grinned, pulled off his shirt and tie, and let his own wings unfurl.
“Want to go for a quick flight?”
Neal was almost afraid to say yes. He just stuck out his ankle and let Peter unlock the tracker.
They hopped onto the stone balustrade, nearly tumbling on to the street when their wings tangled. Balance regained, Neal looked at Peter, and Peter nodded. They were almost too low, but the updraft from the nighttime traffic gave them the necessary buoyancy.
Neal screamed with delight – it had been so very long. Peter was as close as his wingtip and they turned west, following the summer breeze over Riverside Park, avoiding the cooler drafts from the Hudson. He had no sense of time during this flight; it could have lasted mere minutes or a few hours. But when Peter pointed him east, back home, he didn’t think of disobeying. His wings were weary and as his feet touched down on the stone floor of the terrace, it was difficult to stay upright.
Peter dropped down beside him and held him close as his wings furled and disappeared into his back.
“You – you!” He was still incoherent with shock – that Peter had been keeping this secret all along.
“Yes, me.”
Neal opened his mouth to say something, but Peter’s tongue in his mouth effectively shut him up. The warmth of those vast bronze wings and the massive erection rubbing against his own aroused cock stole whatever interest he had in arguing.
Peter finally released his mouth, only to play havoc with his higher brain function as his lips and teeth toyed with Neal’s earlobes.
“I can’t believe it took me four years to catch you.”
“I can’t believe you have wings, too.”
Peter’s chuckle was almost enough to kill him. His next words certainly did. “El can’t wait to go flying with you. You’re going to need to build up your stamina if you’re going to be able to fuck her on the wind.”
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, well-implied future P/N, N/E, P/E/N
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~800
Summary: Incarceration and a two mile radius have taken their toll on Neal’s self-control. Written for
doctor_fangeek as an extra day for my Fic-Can-Ukah meme, for the prompt that’s the title of this story.A/N: No beta. All mistakes are mine and mine alone.
Neal hadn’t flown for the better part of a decade, the four-plus years of incarceration and the four years on work release made it difficult. Although he had been on an airplane several times with Peter, but that wasn’t the type of flying that he missed.
No, what Neal missed was soaring on thermals that built on hot summer days, gliding around and around, circling a mountain valley, catching his reflection in the still waters of a distant lake.
Neal was always quick to say that boredom was the worst thing about prison – the sameness of daily life. But that was a lie. It wasn’t boredom, it wasn’t the regimentation and rules, and it wasn’t even the ever-present threat of physical danger. No, the worst thing about prison was the confinement – the small cell, the lack of privacy and space to spread his wings.
When the need became too much, after the lights went out and when the guards were at the far end of the cellblock, he’d strip down and stand facing the bars. He breathed deep, finding that golden trigger point, and bone and cartilage and muscle and skin reformed along his back. Feathers, from the deepest blue-black to bright silver erupted along the length of his wings.
But they’d bump against the cell walls and ceiling, the cement painful against the extraordinarily sensitive feathers. He tried to keep them contained and tightly furled, but the strain was too much and with another deep breath, the wings disappeared into his back again.
The apartment atop June’s mansion was both a blessing and a curse. The terrace, high enough and mostly blocked from prying eyes in nearby buildings, gave him the space he needed to let his wings unfurl. But never in the daylight – the heat of the sun on the stone created small thermals – just enough to give him uplift. He knew that his lack of impulse control would mean he’d be up on the ledge and would take flight without a thought for his tracking anklet and the two mile radius.
True freedom would have to wait for the day when the tracker came off for good. Everyone would think he was headed to Paris or London or Hong Kong, and that was fine. His immediately plans would keep him a little closer; his family still had an aerie amongst the craggy peaks on the White Mountains.
But even the best laid plans have a way of going awry. Neal should have locked the door, particularly since Peter had gotten into the habit of randomly coming over and checking up on him as his sentence was dwindling down, but he didn’t. Discovery was inevitable, but not quite as disastrous as it could have been.
Peter didn’t say anything, he didn’t even seem surprised. He just grinned, pulled off his shirt and tie, and let his own wings unfurl.
“Want to go for a quick flight?”
Neal was almost afraid to say yes. He just stuck out his ankle and let Peter unlock the tracker.
They hopped onto the stone balustrade, nearly tumbling on to the street when their wings tangled. Balance regained, Neal looked at Peter, and Peter nodded. They were almost too low, but the updraft from the nighttime traffic gave them the necessary buoyancy.
Neal screamed with delight – it had been so very long. Peter was as close as his wingtip and they turned west, following the summer breeze over Riverside Park, avoiding the cooler drafts from the Hudson. He had no sense of time during this flight; it could have lasted mere minutes or a few hours. But when Peter pointed him east, back home, he didn’t think of disobeying. His wings were weary and as his feet touched down on the stone floor of the terrace, it was difficult to stay upright.
Peter dropped down beside him and held him close as his wings furled and disappeared into his back.
“You – you!” He was still incoherent with shock – that Peter had been keeping this secret all along.
“Yes, me.”
Neal opened his mouth to say something, but Peter’s tongue in his mouth effectively shut him up. The warmth of those vast bronze wings and the massive erection rubbing against his own aroused cock stole whatever interest he had in arguing.
Peter finally released his mouth, only to play havoc with his higher brain function as his lips and teeth toyed with Neal’s earlobes.
“I can’t believe it took me four years to catch you.”
“I can’t believe you have wings, too.”
Peter’s chuckle was almost enough to kill him. His next words certainly did. “El can’t wait to go flying with you. You’re going to need to build up your stamina if you’re going to be able to fuck her on the wind.”
