Sometimes I wish for falling,
It was 6:21 P.M. on the second Saturday in October. The sun had just set over the horizon, however the sky was still that beautiful hue that contained so many colors. For this late in the year, it was amazing the weather was so accommodating. 64 degrees Fahrenheit- not exactly warm, but for a fall night in New York, it was comfortable.
He inhaled deeply through his parted mouth. There just did not seem to be enough air in this world right now. Granted, his nose was so stopped up that he couldn't and wouldn't properly know if there was enough air. Having a major sinus infection plus chest congestion seemed to do that.
Nonetheless, he closed his eyes. As a nebulous-like atmosphere surrounded him, reality started to sway; soon he had to leave the stars his mind had formed behind his eyelids because he got so astronomically dizzy he almost fell pre-maturely. He shook his head to reset his equilibrium, and adjusted himself atop the ledge. He listened to see if he could hear anyone coming. If he could hear THEM coming.
Nothing. Just the typical monotonous drone of hustle and bustle on the street below.
It felt as if he was up a thousand and five stories, standing, the breeze cooling the sweat the puddled on his face from the fever, and making his white shirt and plaid pajama pants brush up against his clammy skin. For such a nice evening, he sure was cold.
Wish for the release.
I wish for falling through the air,
To give me some relief.
He wanted to enjoy this. He wanted to fall backwards onto nothing at all. It would only last for a few seconds, but he wanted to feel every single ounce of the adrenaline high that came with the uncertainty, for it was one of the few things he could feel anymore. The numbness that had him in a threshold had become the norm for him, and had seemed to intensify with a virus raging on within his body. It didn't help that he was liquored up on NyQuil, and had drank a tad bit of wine to wash it down as well.
Maybe it was more like a glass or two. It's hard to get that after-taste out.
The NyQuil was beginning to abate his symptoms, and alongside eliminating the breathing difficulty, he became so tired.
So very tired.
Because falling is not the problem,
"I swear I'll send you right back to prison."
"Get out of my sight."
"You're just a criminal."
He was. He knew it. Just as he was a pathetic waste of space. He wanted to change, but no one to do it for. Except for possibly...
When I'm falling I'm at peace,
"I'll always have your back."
"You know, you're the only one."
"The only one what?"
"The only person in my life I trust."
"You said goodbye to everyone but me. Why?"
"I don't know."
"Yeah you do, tell me."
"I don't know, Peter."
"You know why."
"Tell me."
"Because you're the only one who could change my mind."
It's only when I hit the ground-
He teetered back onto the ball of his heels. The cold, dark oak edge beneath his figure poked a straight line into the exposed flesh on his feet as he slid further and further back.
Just a few more inches...
He slowly leaned back.
He spread his arms out.
His heart was pumping; his mind screamed at him to put his arms back to catch him from the pain of the fall. He willed against it.
He smiled as he flew. But, as with all things, it must come to an end.
That it causes all the grief.
He hit it.
And bounced slightly on the rebound.
The springs slowly but surely calmed down as he sighed in contentment. He was alone, but the solitary confinement would only last for a few more minutes.
Peter would be back eventually with Elizabeth to check on him, and most likely insist that he return to the Burke residence with him. Would El have it any other way? Maybe they did care about the con man.
He knew he would try to be better. To not cause grief. To not upset Peter Burke or Elizabeth. To not upset Mozzie. To not disappoint any of them: June, Mozzie, Peter, El, Diana, Jones- anyone. Too much, anyway. But he knew if he slipped up and fell, it would be all right. Falling was not always a bad thing for Neal Caffrey. As long as he knew that if he was in dire need of being caught, someone or something would have his back.
For now, Neal was happy with landing on the fluffy pillows, soft sheets, and the comfy mattress that caught him for his fall. He pulled the warm comforter up over his shivering body. He silently hoped that Peter would shut that window when he came back. And there he was, lightly rapping on the door, asking if he was asleep yet. Peter and Elizabeth had not been in the apartment to hear the bed squeak when Neal had fallen back onto it.
Neal closed his eyes and was out like a light before he could respond.
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A/N: Yeah, I don't know either. Please don't hurt me.
I don't own White Collar. I don't own the poem.