White Collar Fic - Warmth
Sep. 23rd, 2011 03:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: Warmth
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Elizabeth/Neal, Peter/Elizabeth, Peter/Neal, Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Death Fic, Non-Canon death of canon character.
Word Count: ~2200
Summary: Elizabeth dies and Peter can’t seem to find a way to keep living.
A/N: Written for Promptfest VI, before the Mid-Season Finale. No beta. All mistakes are mine and mine alone.
__________________
He wondered if he’d ever be warm again, if he’d ever sleep again. In the three days since Elizabeth died, he’d barely slept. He couldn’t bear the thought of going to bed without her ever again.
The memorial service had been brief. The rabbi was eloquent and yet she understood that drawing out the service with long prayers wouldn’t benefit either the living or the dead.
Peter had wanted to speak. In the dark hours after she died, he sat at the kitchen table with pen and paper, pouring his heart out, trying to distill the best of the women he loved so much, to share her with everyone.
But at the service, he made it as far as the chapel lectern, but he couldn’t speak. Neal and Diana stepped in, she helped him back down to the seat and Neal read his farewell.
The service at the cemetery was a blur. The rabbi spoke again and her coffin was lowered into the earth. Peter remembered taking the shovel from the pile of soil and stone and sand. He remembered the crunch the blade of the shovel made as he took up an offering of dirt. He remembered his heart stopping as he tipped it over that vast, endless void in the ground. It didn’t start again in the long moments when the soil struck the plain pine box. It didn’t start as his pushed the shovel back into the dirt.
He stood there, aching, empty, dead, as his friends and colleagues joined in a grim parade, covering Elizabeth at her final rest.
Peter thought he’d choke on the final prayer, the difficult and unfamiliar Mourner’s Kaddish.
Then it was over. Someone, Neal maybe, steered him back to the waiting limo. He looked at his hands, they ached – he was surprised they weren’t raw and blistered. Someone said something, he didn’t answer. Peter just turned his face away and watched as the cars dispersed, taking other people back to their lives, their families.
El’s sister had offered to have the shiva at her house, Peter gratefully accepted. This wasn’t his part of his traditions, but he understood. She also had offered to help clean his house, take care of El’s clothes, but he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to erase her from his life so quickly.
Neal came with him; he was a quiet presence at his side. He spoke for Peter, made sure that no one got too close, made him at all uncomfortable. Evening came and it was time to go, time to be alone again. Forever.
Peter didn’t know how he was going to bear it. He was so cold.
__________________
Neal’s heart was breaking.
Once, in a moment of selfish thought, he wondered if he was cursed. The barriers between him and Peter, between him and Peter and Elizabeth had fallen and for a brief few months, they had been so happy together. His tracker was off, he was a free man, and it was his choice to stay.
Until Elizabeth got sick. She had brushed off the symptoms for months. The weight loss was because she was dieting, the lack of appetite was good – she was, after all, dieting. Neal had gently teased her that she was as bad as he was about going to the doctor. Then she started having abdominal pains, and neither Peter nor Neal would take no for an answer.
But it was too late. She had pancreatic cancer, and it had spread. There was nothing that could be done. The doctors said she had six to ten months – less than a year to live.
He had stood by, helpless as the circle of PeterandElizabeth closed, leaving him outside. There was no cruelty there – just necessity. A few days after the diagnosis, Peter came to him.
“You understand? I – we – need…” Peter could barely get the words out.
Neal rested a hand on Peter’s shoulder – once so strong, now bowed in defeat. “Of course – I wouldn’t expect it any other way.” He loved Elizabeth too, he didn’t want to be shut out – but he knew that there was only so much Peter could handle.
Peter didn’t pull away as Neal drew him close. “Thank you, thank you.”
“I’m here for you – what ever you need me do to – whenever. I can run errands, watch Satchmo, take care of things. And if you just want to talk, I’m here too.” He knew that Peter wouldn’t take him up on the last. He was too stoic, too proud, and no matter how close they were – this wasn’t something that he’d want to share.
That was in the early winter. Peter had continued to work for two months or so, but as Elizabeth got progressively weaker, he needed to be with her full time. Neal had made himself as useful as he could, which didn’t seem so much, or at least not as much as he wanted. He did spend time with Elizabeth, reading to her, keeping her company. He taught her how to cheat at cards and she taught him how to knit.
They talked, too. Neal was grateful that she didn’t shut him out completely. But she broke his heart.
“You’ll take care of Peter after I’m gone?”
“Elizabeth…”
“Neal – I’m dying. There’s no science that can fix me. Nothing is going delay the inevitable.” Neal had been constantly astonished by the grace with which she was accepting this. “He’s going to fight you. And he can be vicious when he’s in a bad way.”
Neal knew that all too well.
“Don’t let him drive you away, Neal.” Elizabeth coughed and shifted on her pillows. “He’s going to need you. He’s going to need your friendship, your loyalty, your love. Can you give him that?”
Neal nodded, trying to fight off the tears. He held her hand and promised.
Elizabeth went into residential hospice care a few days later. Peter barely left her side for the thirty hours she was there, and he was with her when she died.
So was Neal. Not in the room – he was waiting in the hall, giving them the privacy Peter had wanted. He waited as the hospice team cared for Elizabeth – her body. He waited as Peter sat there, holding her small, lifeless hand. He watched as the staff gently parted them, treating her, treating Peter, with courtesy and respect. Neal watched and waited as they took Elizabeth away.
Peter finally got up, he didn’t say a word. Neal took him to the car, buckling him in, making him as safe and secure as he could.
They got home – to Peter’s home – a little after 2 am. Neal parked and got out of the car, wondering if he was going to have a problem getting Peter into the house. But Peter opened the car door and climbed the front stairs on his own.
He would have followed him into the house, but Peter turned to him. “I need to be alone tonight. I – need…” This was the first thing Peter had said to him since the left the hospice unit.
“Peter …”
“Please, Neal – there are things I need to do. I just…”
“I don’t want you to be alone.” I don’t want to be alone.
“Neal, please. Thank you – but go.”
He watched from the street as Peter went into his empty house, but he wasn’t going to leave. He sat in his car until dawn, sending messages to everyone, keeping an eye on Peter’s shadow as he sat at the kitchen table, as he moved restlessly around the living room, finally lying down on the couch.
Neal let himself in a little after dawn. Peter was still on the couch, his tearstained face slack in deep sleep. Neal covered him with the afghan and set about the process of keeping Peter going. Keeping him living.
The days before the funeral were a blur – people came and went. He helped quietly, remained unobtrusive. Peter rarely spoke, but accepted his presence without argument.
The morning of Elizabeth’s funeral dawned bright and cool. The early birds – the robins and the sparrows – were vocal in their pleasure at the new spring day.
The chapel service seemed endless to Neal, but he remembered little of it, except for taking Peter’s place when he couldn’t speak the eulogy he had written.
The burial was worse, shoveling the dirt into her grave. The finality of that act, watching as each of the mourners helped cover the casket, was brutal. He shuddered at the sound of the dirt each time it struck the coffin.
He took care of Peter throughout the day, a silent witness to the other man’s grief. He hoped that helping Peter would help him, would giving meaning to the senselessness of this loss.
But even surrounded by friends – his friends as well as Peter’s – he still felt alone.
Cold.
__________________
Neal drove him back to the house and this time he didn’t insist on keeping Neal out. He didn’t say anything as he followed him inside.
Peter just sat on the couch, staring out into nothingness. Neal took his coat off him, like he was a small, helpless child. He was vaguely aware of Neal leaving, then coming back with Satchmo. The poor dog had spent so much time with the neighbors since Elizabeth had gotten … He couldn’t complete that thought – but he took small comfort from the warmth of the furry head that rested on his knee.
He was aware of time passing, but the apathy was too great to care. He heard Neal puttering around, straightening up. It sounded cozy, normal. Maybe if he listened hard enough, he could hear the echoes of El’s voice, the two of them chatting, plotting, conniving just a little.
But no – there were no voices. Neal was silent as he went about his business. A cup of something – tea – was pushed into his hand. He looked at it, not knowing what to do.
“Drink it.”
He did – it tasted like shit.
“Finish it – it will help you sleep.”
Sleep sounded good, so he emptied the cup. Neal pulled him to his feet and tried to get him upstairs.
“No – I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“Peter – you need to get some rest. You need to sleep in your bed.”
He dug in his heels – he couldn’t bear the thought of going into his bedroom, lying down on the bed that he shared with Elizabeth. “I can’t.”
Neal refused to let go, dragging him to the staircase. Peter didn’t have the strength to keep fighting and just let Neal pull him upstairs. He didn’t even balk as Neal directed him into the bedroom. He’d cooperate until Neal left and then go back downstairs. And stopped. There something was different here.
“The bed’s new.” Peter turned and stared at Neal.
“So is the bedding.”
“You can’t erase her like that.” Peter wanted to scream, but he couldn’t find the energy.
“I didn’t – Elizabeth arranged it. She knew you’d have difficulties sleeping in the old bed. She didn’t want you to suffer.”
Neal’s voice was quiet, halting. Peter looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in months. He was thin, his face drawn – those once sparkling eyes dull, weary. But Peter felt helpless to do anything about the other man’s grief. “Neal – I’m…”
He cut Peter off. “It’s okay.” In typical fashion, he deflected. “You need to get some sleep. I’ll wait while you wash up and change.”
It took too much effort to resist, and Peter found a small comfort in the nightly ritual, although his heart broke again. Someone – probably Neal – had cleaned up the bathroom, removing El’s toiletries. Peter didn’t know if this was better for him, or worse.
When he came back into the bedroom, the lights were dimmed and the covers were turned down. Neal was sitting in the reading chair, staring out the window, into the empty garden.
Peter stood there, aching, exhausted and terrified. The fear of going on, the long forever of loneliness was overwhelming. He couldn’t move as panic set in.
He must have made a sound, because Neal looked up, his face momentarily showing all of the grief he’d been trying to hide. It was smoothed to blandness, then an expression of gentle concern.
Neal got up, and as he had done for most of the day, he steered him to the bed. “Peter – don’t fight me.”
He let Neal take care of him – maybe just for this night. It was easier.
He didn’t object when Neal pushed him down onto the bed, he was so tired. The sheets were new, a little stiff, but that was good. They didn’t smell like Elizabeth.
After Neal turned off the light and left the room, Peter closed his eyes. Sleep came, but rest didn’t.
In his dreams, he was battered by the empty, ice cold darkness. Peter cried out, trying to make it stop. And it did. The bed dipped and strong arms surrounded him, holding him close.
They couldn’t keep the darkness at bay, but they could keep him warm.
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Elizabeth/Neal, Peter/Elizabeth, Peter/Neal, Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Death Fic, Non-Canon death of canon character.
Word Count: ~2200
Summary: Elizabeth dies and Peter can’t seem to find a way to keep living.
A/N: Written for Promptfest VI, before the Mid-Season Finale. No beta. All mistakes are mine and mine alone.
He wondered if he’d ever be warm again, if he’d ever sleep again. In the three days since Elizabeth died, he’d barely slept. He couldn’t bear the thought of going to bed without her ever again.
The memorial service had been brief. The rabbi was eloquent and yet she understood that drawing out the service with long prayers wouldn’t benefit either the living or the dead.
Peter had wanted to speak. In the dark hours after she died, he sat at the kitchen table with pen and paper, pouring his heart out, trying to distill the best of the women he loved so much, to share her with everyone.
But at the service, he made it as far as the chapel lectern, but he couldn’t speak. Neal and Diana stepped in, she helped him back down to the seat and Neal read his farewell.
The service at the cemetery was a blur. The rabbi spoke again and her coffin was lowered into the earth. Peter remembered taking the shovel from the pile of soil and stone and sand. He remembered the crunch the blade of the shovel made as he took up an offering of dirt. He remembered his heart stopping as he tipped it over that vast, endless void in the ground. It didn’t start again in the long moments when the soil struck the plain pine box. It didn’t start as his pushed the shovel back into the dirt.
He stood there, aching, empty, dead, as his friends and colleagues joined in a grim parade, covering Elizabeth at her final rest.
Peter thought he’d choke on the final prayer, the difficult and unfamiliar Mourner’s Kaddish.
Then it was over. Someone, Neal maybe, steered him back to the waiting limo. He looked at his hands, they ached – he was surprised they weren’t raw and blistered. Someone said something, he didn’t answer. Peter just turned his face away and watched as the cars dispersed, taking other people back to their lives, their families.
El’s sister had offered to have the shiva at her house, Peter gratefully accepted. This wasn’t his part of his traditions, but he understood. She also had offered to help clean his house, take care of El’s clothes, but he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to erase her from his life so quickly.
Neal came with him; he was a quiet presence at his side. He spoke for Peter, made sure that no one got too close, made him at all uncomfortable. Evening came and it was time to go, time to be alone again. Forever.
Peter didn’t know how he was going to bear it. He was so cold.
Neal’s heart was breaking.
Once, in a moment of selfish thought, he wondered if he was cursed. The barriers between him and Peter, between him and Peter and Elizabeth had fallen and for a brief few months, they had been so happy together. His tracker was off, he was a free man, and it was his choice to stay.
Until Elizabeth got sick. She had brushed off the symptoms for months. The weight loss was because she was dieting, the lack of appetite was good – she was, after all, dieting. Neal had gently teased her that she was as bad as he was about going to the doctor. Then she started having abdominal pains, and neither Peter nor Neal would take no for an answer.
But it was too late. She had pancreatic cancer, and it had spread. There was nothing that could be done. The doctors said she had six to ten months – less than a year to live.
He had stood by, helpless as the circle of PeterandElizabeth closed, leaving him outside. There was no cruelty there – just necessity. A few days after the diagnosis, Peter came to him.
“You understand? I – we – need…” Peter could barely get the words out.
Neal rested a hand on Peter’s shoulder – once so strong, now bowed in defeat. “Of course – I wouldn’t expect it any other way.” He loved Elizabeth too, he didn’t want to be shut out – but he knew that there was only so much Peter could handle.
Peter didn’t pull away as Neal drew him close. “Thank you, thank you.”
“I’m here for you – what ever you need me do to – whenever. I can run errands, watch Satchmo, take care of things. And if you just want to talk, I’m here too.” He knew that Peter wouldn’t take him up on the last. He was too stoic, too proud, and no matter how close they were – this wasn’t something that he’d want to share.
That was in the early winter. Peter had continued to work for two months or so, but as Elizabeth got progressively weaker, he needed to be with her full time. Neal had made himself as useful as he could, which didn’t seem so much, or at least not as much as he wanted. He did spend time with Elizabeth, reading to her, keeping her company. He taught her how to cheat at cards and she taught him how to knit.
They talked, too. Neal was grateful that she didn’t shut him out completely. But she broke his heart.
“You’ll take care of Peter after I’m gone?”
“Elizabeth…”
“Neal – I’m dying. There’s no science that can fix me. Nothing is going delay the inevitable.” Neal had been constantly astonished by the grace with which she was accepting this. “He’s going to fight you. And he can be vicious when he’s in a bad way.”
Neal knew that all too well.
“Don’t let him drive you away, Neal.” Elizabeth coughed and shifted on her pillows. “He’s going to need you. He’s going to need your friendship, your loyalty, your love. Can you give him that?”
Neal nodded, trying to fight off the tears. He held her hand and promised.
Elizabeth went into residential hospice care a few days later. Peter barely left her side for the thirty hours she was there, and he was with her when she died.
So was Neal. Not in the room – he was waiting in the hall, giving them the privacy Peter had wanted. He waited as the hospice team cared for Elizabeth – her body. He waited as Peter sat there, holding her small, lifeless hand. He watched as the staff gently parted them, treating her, treating Peter, with courtesy and respect. Neal watched and waited as they took Elizabeth away.
Peter finally got up, he didn’t say a word. Neal took him to the car, buckling him in, making him as safe and secure as he could.
They got home – to Peter’s home – a little after 2 am. Neal parked and got out of the car, wondering if he was going to have a problem getting Peter into the house. But Peter opened the car door and climbed the front stairs on his own.
He would have followed him into the house, but Peter turned to him. “I need to be alone tonight. I – need…” This was the first thing Peter had said to him since the left the hospice unit.
“Peter …”
“Please, Neal – there are things I need to do. I just…”
“I don’t want you to be alone.” I don’t want to be alone.
“Neal, please. Thank you – but go.”
He watched from the street as Peter went into his empty house, but he wasn’t going to leave. He sat in his car until dawn, sending messages to everyone, keeping an eye on Peter’s shadow as he sat at the kitchen table, as he moved restlessly around the living room, finally lying down on the couch.
Neal let himself in a little after dawn. Peter was still on the couch, his tearstained face slack in deep sleep. Neal covered him with the afghan and set about the process of keeping Peter going. Keeping him living.
The days before the funeral were a blur – people came and went. He helped quietly, remained unobtrusive. Peter rarely spoke, but accepted his presence without argument.
The morning of Elizabeth’s funeral dawned bright and cool. The early birds – the robins and the sparrows – were vocal in their pleasure at the new spring day.
The chapel service seemed endless to Neal, but he remembered little of it, except for taking Peter’s place when he couldn’t speak the eulogy he had written.
The burial was worse, shoveling the dirt into her grave. The finality of that act, watching as each of the mourners helped cover the casket, was brutal. He shuddered at the sound of the dirt each time it struck the coffin.
He took care of Peter throughout the day, a silent witness to the other man’s grief. He hoped that helping Peter would help him, would giving meaning to the senselessness of this loss.
But even surrounded by friends – his friends as well as Peter’s – he still felt alone.
Cold.
Neal drove him back to the house and this time he didn’t insist on keeping Neal out. He didn’t say anything as he followed him inside.
Peter just sat on the couch, staring out into nothingness. Neal took his coat off him, like he was a small, helpless child. He was vaguely aware of Neal leaving, then coming back with Satchmo. The poor dog had spent so much time with the neighbors since Elizabeth had gotten … He couldn’t complete that thought – but he took small comfort from the warmth of the furry head that rested on his knee.
He was aware of time passing, but the apathy was too great to care. He heard Neal puttering around, straightening up. It sounded cozy, normal. Maybe if he listened hard enough, he could hear the echoes of El’s voice, the two of them chatting, plotting, conniving just a little.
But no – there were no voices. Neal was silent as he went about his business. A cup of something – tea – was pushed into his hand. He looked at it, not knowing what to do.
“Drink it.”
He did – it tasted like shit.
“Finish it – it will help you sleep.”
Sleep sounded good, so he emptied the cup. Neal pulled him to his feet and tried to get him upstairs.
“No – I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“Peter – you need to get some rest. You need to sleep in your bed.”
He dug in his heels – he couldn’t bear the thought of going into his bedroom, lying down on the bed that he shared with Elizabeth. “I can’t.”
Neal refused to let go, dragging him to the staircase. Peter didn’t have the strength to keep fighting and just let Neal pull him upstairs. He didn’t even balk as Neal directed him into the bedroom. He’d cooperate until Neal left and then go back downstairs. And stopped. There something was different here.
“The bed’s new.” Peter turned and stared at Neal.
“So is the bedding.”
“You can’t erase her like that.” Peter wanted to scream, but he couldn’t find the energy.
“I didn’t – Elizabeth arranged it. She knew you’d have difficulties sleeping in the old bed. She didn’t want you to suffer.”
Neal’s voice was quiet, halting. Peter looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in months. He was thin, his face drawn – those once sparkling eyes dull, weary. But Peter felt helpless to do anything about the other man’s grief. “Neal – I’m…”
He cut Peter off. “It’s okay.” In typical fashion, he deflected. “You need to get some sleep. I’ll wait while you wash up and change.”
It took too much effort to resist, and Peter found a small comfort in the nightly ritual, although his heart broke again. Someone – probably Neal – had cleaned up the bathroom, removing El’s toiletries. Peter didn’t know if this was better for him, or worse.
When he came back into the bedroom, the lights were dimmed and the covers were turned down. Neal was sitting in the reading chair, staring out the window, into the empty garden.
Peter stood there, aching, exhausted and terrified. The fear of going on, the long forever of loneliness was overwhelming. He couldn’t move as panic set in.
He must have made a sound, because Neal looked up, his face momentarily showing all of the grief he’d been trying to hide. It was smoothed to blandness, then an expression of gentle concern.
Neal got up, and as he had done for most of the day, he steered him to the bed. “Peter – don’t fight me.”
He let Neal take care of him – maybe just for this night. It was easier.
He didn’t object when Neal pushed him down onto the bed, he was so tired. The sheets were new, a little stiff, but that was good. They didn’t smell like Elizabeth.
After Neal turned off the light and left the room, Peter closed his eyes. Sleep came, but rest didn’t.
In his dreams, he was battered by the empty, ice cold darkness. Peter cried out, trying to make it stop. And it did. The bed dipped and strong arms surrounded him, holding him close.
They couldn’t keep the darkness at bay, but they could keep him warm.
