White Collar Ficlet - The Fragile Sense
Aug. 24th, 2011 02:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: The Fragile Sense
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Far future fic, references death of a canon character
Word Count: ~500
Summary: Time steals, it never gives back. But love endures.
A/N: No beta. All mistakes are mine and mine alone. Written forcoffeethyme4me, for her prompt, “Peter or Neal, blind.”
__________________
He sits outside, the warmth of the sun easing the ache in his bones. Days like this are rare now. Winter is coming soon. The light is good, he likes the way the autumn colors run into each other, bleeding and blending in endless patterns. In winter, there are no colors, just white and gray and darkness. He closes his eyes and tries to remember the sharpness of a leaf edge, the intricate veining, mottled edges where some hungry insect took a bite.
As a child, he loved autumn, and more than anything, he loved the colors of autumn, and yet how he could still find summer in a brightly lit corner of the garden. Small flowers still blooming, untouched by frost – but the rest of the world garbed in a fantastical cloak of gold. The autumn of his youth was perfumed with the bitter scent of chrysanthemums and the song of the last leaves soughing in the wind was the music of change. The imminence of winter.
That was all memory now – and he supposed that memory was the most fragile sense of all.
But Peter is glad. He is glad it is him and not Neal – as if he is the one to chose this burden, this loss. He couldn’t bear to imagine Neal, who never stopped looking at the world through child-like eyes of wonder, cut off from the visible. Peter doesn’t live in darkness, but all the lines are blurred, details swallowed by time.
And as glad as he is, he is still filled with regret. Who wouldn’t be? He can’t see Neal’s face, the still striking beauty. And yet, if he breathes deep and holds himself very still, he can make out those eyes, still blazing blue and framed in black lashes. Still filled with love.
Peter summons a memory. Elizabeth – not as he last saw her, but as his bride, his wife, his partner. Maybe this is better, to be unable to see her headstone, to have her live in his memory as beautiful, vital, alive.
His guide dog, Melina, shifts and relaxes. She ignores distractions such as dancing leaves and adventurous squirrels. He knows about the squirrels only because Neal told him that they are obnoxious little beggars, harvesting the chestnuts and the apples that are ripening on the trees.
The light fades and he is chilled. The old bones are again achy. Peter gets up and goes inside. Melina follows; he doesn’t need her to make his way around the house, but she is always careful to make sure he doesn’t trip over her. Peter finds his way into the kitchen and Neal is cooking something that smells wonderful.
There is a smile in Neal’s voice as he greets him. Peter closes his eyes and tries to remember it.
FIN
Note: One hopes, within the next thirty years, that medical science will find a cure or a way to prevent macular degeneration.
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Far future fic, references death of a canon character
Word Count: ~500
Summary: Time steals, it never gives back. But love endures.
A/N: No beta. All mistakes are mine and mine alone. Written for
coffeethyme4me, for her prompt, “Peter or Neal, blind.”He sits outside, the warmth of the sun easing the ache in his bones. Days like this are rare now. Winter is coming soon. The light is good, he likes the way the autumn colors run into each other, bleeding and blending in endless patterns. In winter, there are no colors, just white and gray and darkness. He closes his eyes and tries to remember the sharpness of a leaf edge, the intricate veining, mottled edges where some hungry insect took a bite.
As a child, he loved autumn, and more than anything, he loved the colors of autumn, and yet how he could still find summer in a brightly lit corner of the garden. Small flowers still blooming, untouched by frost – but the rest of the world garbed in a fantastical cloak of gold. The autumn of his youth was perfumed with the bitter scent of chrysanthemums and the song of the last leaves soughing in the wind was the music of change. The imminence of winter.
That was all memory now – and he supposed that memory was the most fragile sense of all.
But Peter is glad. He is glad it is him and not Neal – as if he is the one to chose this burden, this loss. He couldn’t bear to imagine Neal, who never stopped looking at the world through child-like eyes of wonder, cut off from the visible. Peter doesn’t live in darkness, but all the lines are blurred, details swallowed by time.
And as glad as he is, he is still filled with regret. Who wouldn’t be? He can’t see Neal’s face, the still striking beauty. And yet, if he breathes deep and holds himself very still, he can make out those eyes, still blazing blue and framed in black lashes. Still filled with love.
Peter summons a memory. Elizabeth – not as he last saw her, but as his bride, his wife, his partner. Maybe this is better, to be unable to see her headstone, to have her live in his memory as beautiful, vital, alive.
His guide dog, Melina, shifts and relaxes. She ignores distractions such as dancing leaves and adventurous squirrels. He knows about the squirrels only because Neal told him that they are obnoxious little beggars, harvesting the chestnuts and the apples that are ripening on the trees.
The light fades and he is chilled. The old bones are again achy. Peter gets up and goes inside. Melina follows; he doesn’t need her to make his way around the house, but she is always careful to make sure he doesn’t trip over her. Peter finds his way into the kitchen and Neal is cooking something that smells wonderful.
There is a smile in Neal’s voice as he greets him. Peter closes his eyes and tries to remember it.
Note: One hopes, within the next thirty years, that medical science will find a cure or a way to prevent macular degeneration.
