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o o o
Title: Was Blind and Now I See
Author: Amory Puck
Rating: Hard R/NC-17
Warnings: Dub-con, slash, Peter/Neal
Word Count: 5,533
Summary:Lost within the dark of his own mind, a comatose Neal takes comfort in Peter's touch while Peter expresses the love he was blind to in a questionable way.
Author's Notes: Written for the 'Unconsciousness' square on my Hurt/Comfort Bingo Card for hc_bingo
Second Note: With all the tragedy from Sandy, I am writing 'Buy It Now' fics for fandomaid on LJ, a fandom charity drive. $2.00 a piece for the first thousand words up to 5,000 words then $4.00 for every additional thousand words up to 25,000 words. (AKA, $6=3,000 words and $10=5,000 words but $14=6,000 words) If you're interested, PM me.
o o o
Was Blind and Now I See
o o o
His life was a steady beep, a spiked line on a screen. He couldn't see it, but he'd watched enough television to know what sight came with that particular sound.
Every night at ten o'clock the lights would dim, turning his already dark world into true blackness, and the shuffle of feet would dwindle down into silence. One hundred and forty six. The number of times the lights dimmed before Neal stopped counting.
Five percent chance, they said, that he would awake, but he was awake, wasn't he? Somewhere he was awake, because he could think and reason. He could write sonnets and have political debates and count how many brushstrokes it would take it forge a perfect copy of 'The Scream' by Edvard Munch, but he couldn't open his eyes.
Oh, 'The Scream…' Such a dark, desperate painting, a perfect representation of what Neal most longed to do: Lift his hands to his face and scream and scream and scream until he couldn't scream any more. But screaming was physical, and Neal didn't live in a physical world.
The door opened, and Neal knew who it was from his first step. Peter. In his previous life he had known people by their faces, now he knew them from their steps. Peter was heavy footed with a confident pace while Mozzie was soft and sneaky, flitting about. Elizabeth click-click-clicked, but not as sharply as Sara. Alex slid and Diana stomped. Clinton was almost as strong gaited as Peter, but with more grace to his walk. The man who called himself Neal's father, not that he'd been much of a father at all, was a shuffler. All day long he could stand there and shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. It drove Neal insane and nothing made him happier than days when Peter would chase James/Sam/Daddy Dearest out of the room.
"You didn't even know him," Peter would growl, and Neal could imagine his eyes flashing as he used his hulking form to run off the shuffler.
June was his favorite visitor, after Peter, because he couldn't hear her footsteps at all. It was always a surprise, and a nice one at that, when he heard her sweet voice next to his ear. Unlike the others, she didn't spend her time moping about. Instead she read him word puzzles and riddles, then left him to mull over them. The next week she would be back with the answers, along with another set of mind games. It gave Neal something to do, and he appreciated her confidence that he was still in there somewhere. The others talked about her like she was a fool, especially Clinton and Sara, calling her naive and silly, and if Neal ever awoke he planned on giving those two cynics a piece of his mind. God knew he'd had plenty of time to construct a speech.
Peter's footsteps were across the room now, and there was a scratching sound against the floor as he moved the metal bedside chair to the door, slipping it under the handle. At least Neal assumed that's what the man was doing since the only time the nurses had problems getting into his private room was when Peter was there.
Thanks to June's generous donations, Neal had his very own private room at the Rivergardens Coma Ward and Rehabilitation Clinic. Or so he'd heard his friends saying the day that they'd moved him out of the hospital. He was sure it was pretty because they opened the windows on spring days and the strong, sweet scent of roses and magnolias would drift through on the wind. He was fairly sure there was a fountain as well, or perhaps a creek if they'd moved him out of the city, because if he strained his ears he could hear the trickling.
Peter's steps were by Neal's bed now, his big, rough hand stroking through Neal's short-cropped hair. Neal breathed on his own, no machines to be found, but his breath didn't quicken like it would have Before. The beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor remained steady and true, no increase in pace to betray the fluttering feeling in Neal's stomach. But then, so-called fluttering feelings in the stomach were actually in the mind, weren't they? His brain was sending out signals, shouting at his body, but it received no response. 'Happy, excited, aroused, pleased.' Nothing. His mind was loud, but his body was silent.
"Hey, buddy," Peter said in a soft voice. "You really missed one today. We caught a guy forging—get this—collectible stamps. Seriously. It was this little yellow thing from some country in Europe, worth over a million dollars. Can you imagine paying a million dollars for a *stamp*?"
Neal smiled in his mind.
Peter chuckled, and Neal could hear him shaking his head, his chin catching on his collar. Then the soft sound of a loosening tie.
Neal's stomach fluttered again or, well, his mind made it feel like his stomach was fluttering. Wrong. This was so wrong. He knew it logically. And if he'd been the one looking in, he'd definitely have found it disgusting. Hell, he was pretty sure that Peter could go to jail for it. But he wanted it so badly.
Being in a coma didn't stop bodily functions, but wearing a diaper wasn't the solution to everything, especially when you were a man in your early thirties. Neal still got hard at night, still ejaculated in his sleep. It was a part of a man's anatomy, a basic function. If semen wasn't ejaculated then it could clog your system and cause infection. So, if you *didn't* ejaculate for a few nights, you got to have a special visit from the doctor so that he could stick a finger up your butt and massage at the prostate until the semen leaked out. *Not* a pleasant experience, especially since it seemed there were always at least three nurses and a med student in the room with the doctor when it happened.
Neal remembered how horrified Peter had looked when he'd walked in on it, how he'd actually tried to arrest the doctor. Apparently someone hadn't listened in health class, because the poor guy had no idea that if you didn't cum for a long period of time, you could fuck up your system.
That was when it had started. It wasn't every week, but at least twice a month. The first time had been awkward and terrifying. He'd lain there, unable to move, unable to see, trying desperately to figure out what Peter was doing, why he was lifting Neal's gown and climbing onto the little bed. His head had fallen to the side when Peter first pushed in, but the man had gently moved it back to its normal spot on the pillow, wiping off a drop of drool from Neal's lips. Then he had begun to thrust.
The experience had been… magical. Neal had never really considered having anal sex, though he couldn't deny that Peter's big, strong body had found its way into a few of Neal's most private fantasies. But he hadn't been able to believe how much he loved it when Peter slipped his cock inside him. It wasn't even that it was so deliriously pleasurable. Neal could still feel, but the sensations were muted, like being touched through a thick veil. It was the intimacy of it that excited his mind.
Peter had always been a toucher, throwing his arm over Neal's shoulders or rubbing a hand in his hair or playing with Neal's wrist for no reason. Neal was more reserved, but he enjoyed human contact as much as the next person, especially after his time in supermax. It was a horrifying existence, spending twenty-three hours a day in a cage by yourself. At the very end of his term he had finally been moved to maximum security, which allowed him three hours of freedom a day, just enough to plan his escape. But before then his life had been a ten by ten room with a toilet and a cot and a slit in the door for them to slide his tray through. He had one hour of human contact a day, when the guard took him to the shower. It had been torture, plain and simple. Neal didn't care what people thought—it *was* torture, and just like the TV celebrity who'd claimed waterboarding wasn't torture until he'd tried it himself, Neal was damn sure everyone in the world would agree it was inhumane if forced to live through it themselves.
The slam to the head that left Neal comatose had been like handcuffs hauling him back to that terrible place. No one wanted to touch you, laying there still and silent. Occasionally someone, usually a brave female, would dare to hold your hand, maybe even brush her fingers across your forehead, but even those touches were few and far between, something to be savored like a fine wine. It had come to the point that Neal actually looked forward to having his own shit washed off his body because at least it was something, at least he wasn't alone.
Neal now looked forward to Peter's visits to the hospice like he'd once looked forward to Kate's visits to the prison. Peter was brave, brave enough to touch Neal like he was still a human being, like he was still alive. When Peter's hands stroked his body, Neal no longer felt like a corpse.
There was a soft squeaking sound and Neal felt the mattress dip at the end. A moment later his legs were being spread apart. It was a strange feeling, having your body manipulated like a doll. It was as if you were hanging from a ventriloquist's strings, except the ventriloquist wasn't any good. Comatose bodies were heavy and unwieldy and had a tendency to do exactly what you didn't want them to do. Peter, however, had plenty of practice, and he managed to get Neal's legs up in the air with little effort. It also didn't hurt that he was really strong.
Peter stripped off Neal's undergarments with ease—they were made for easy removal—and there was a soft splattering noise that Neal had come to recognize as lubricant, probably from a little bottle. A moment later Peter's finger slipped inside him and Neal wished desperately that he could moan.
o o o
Peter stared down at the thin, sallow-looking man beneath him. This was so twisted, was always so twisted. Every time he promised himself that it would be the last time. He'd walk out of this miserable room that smelled like a depressing mix of human waste and antiseptic, get in his car, and never come back.
Of course, the real fantasy was that Neal would wake up so that Peter never *had* to come back. After ten months and twelve days, however, Peter was starting to think it would never happen.
Every night as he lay his head down on his pillow to sleep Peter would still his body like he was in coma himself, shut his eyes, and remember That Day.
"Peter!" Neal's voice had echoed through the warehouse, bouncing off the walls of concrete and steel. Peter looked over, saw that slim form running toward him. The thug in front of Peter had grunted and prepared to strike, a metal pipe in his hand, and Peter had lifted his arm to block it. His arm should have blocked it.
The pipe hit Neal hard just above the temple as he skidded to a stop between Peter and the thug. The ragged, rusty edge had ripped a hole in his scalp and lodged deep into the bone of his skull. The world had gone slow, Neal's eyes going dull as he took forever to fall to the ground. Peter had an eternity to turn, to drop to the floor, to retrieve his lost gun.
Kneeling in a quickly growing pool of his partner's blood, Peter had raised his weapon and fired once, twice, three times, into the bastard's chest. He had died instantly, but it hadn't saved Neal.
Dead. Peter had been sure Neal was dead. He'd crouched next to the body, afraid to touch it, not sure if he should pull out the metal lodged in his head or leave it alone. All he could think was that he'd waited too long to tell Neal how he felt, that he should have known better than to keep his feelings bottled inside. But he had been so sure that nothing like this could happen to the other man. He'd dropped his head to Neal's chest, tears rubbing down his cheeks, praying, pleading, begging. Neal's chest rose and fell and Peter wept in relief.
The memories were sort of blurry from there, running together. The ambulance had made it in minutes, though Neal had still nearly bled out. Peter had been covered in the blood. They'd rushed them both to the hospital, not believing Peter when he swore he was unhurt, and then he'd waited for Neal to awake. And waited. And waited.
Peter was still waiting.
His cock was hard in his hand and he spread it generously with lube. It wouldn't do to tear Neal and have the nurses discover the things he did.
Peter balanced Neal's legs on his shoulder, pulling them as close to his neck as he could and sort of lifting his shoulders so that they wouldn't fall off. It wasn't the most comfortable of positions, but it saved Peter the awkwardness of trying to turn over Neal's comatose body. It had taken some experimenting and a lot of embarrassing moments, but he'd finally decided that this was the best position for fucking someone who couldn't move.
It was time. Peter pulled Neal's ass up against him and slipped the head of his cock inside the tight hole. The sensation made his eyelashes flutter with pleasure and he let out a soft moan. Neal was, as always, unmoving, closed eyes staring up at nothing. Peter tipped forward to plant a long kiss on the other man's mouth, tasting the strong mouthwash they used on the patients here. The movement sent his dick a little deeper into Neal's body, and Peter lifted back up, slowly tugging Neal's hips toward him, cock inching slowly into his ass.
In and out, in and out, Peter thrust methodically. The physical pleasure was intense, but as always the bleak sadness warred with it, leaving Peter frustrated and exhausted. He was in balls deep now, and he reached out, wrapping his hands around Neal's cock.
It took a long time, longer than could be considered 'normal,' but eventually the comatose man began to harden, the blood flowing into his member. Peter slowed his thrusting, taking the time to gently stroke Neal's velvety head then running his fingers down its length to massage the base. He wrapped both hands around it, wrapping it up completely as he pumped. Ten minutes passed, maybe more, until wetness began to leak from the tip.
Peter began to thrust again, still using one hand to massage Neal's dick, and bit his lip as he felt his climax begin to rise. He'd gotten rather good at this, timing their orgasms. It was much easier to do the simultaneous thing when the person underneath you had no say in it at all. God knows he and El could never time it this well.
El. God, what would she think if she could see him now? Would she be disgusted? Maybe. More likely she would pity him, then schedule another appointment with that damn therapist. How many nights had he cried himself to sleep in her arms wondering why, why, why he had waited so long to tell Neal he loved him.
Peter sucked in a deep breath as his hips bucked forward and he came, spilling into the condom he was wearing. He'd have to put it in his pocket when he left so the nurses wouldn't find it. Neal followed in his hands, a small spurt of semen running down Peter's hand.
Blinking back tears, Peter pulled out, wiping his hand on his pants then fumbling to pull off the used rubber.
"I'm sorry," he whispered as he stared down at Neal's lifeless body. "I am so sorry." He leaned forward, pressing his lips against the other man's. He stayed there for a long moment, savoring the feeling, before he pulled back. A tear escaped, running down his cheek, and Peter wiped at his face with the sleeve of his shirt, wishing desperately that he could look into those big, blue eyes just once more.
"I love you," he said as he climbed down off the bed, reaching out to touch Neal's face. "I never told you, but I do."
o o o
It started with a twitch of the nose.
Neal hadn't meant to do it, hadn't even been trying. Yes, the bit of dander that had landed on his face was ticklish, but he'd stopped attempting to respond to things like that long ago. It wasn't worth the disappointment and despair as he was reminded, once again, that his body was no longer his own.
But on that day, that magnificent day, his nostrils had flared for the first time in, well, he didn't know how long, but it had been a long time indeed. Who would ever have thought it would be so exciting to twitch your nose? Forget long cons, music boxes, U-boat treasures, and stolen Raphaels. *This* was excitement at its best.
Next was his left hand. A week had passed since the Great Nostril Twitch, and Neal had begun to think he'd imagined it, maybe dreamed it even. The idea that maybe it was his hold on reality slipping away had turned the miracle into something terrifying but, late at night six Lights Out from the day he'd twitched his nose, he managed to move his thumb.
It was a slow process from there. Apparently his body liked to obey only in private, because it only happened late at night or early in the morning. But, eventually, Neal opened his eyes. The nurse had yelped like there was a ghost in the room when he did it again, but a few hours later the room was crowded with nurses and doctors talking excitedly.
And then it had happened. The most glorious, wondrous, amazing miracle ever.
Neal opened his eyes.
He shut them immediately, the sudden light painful against his neglected pupils, but then he'd forced them open again, tears rising up as he saw for the first time in forever.
Colors, beautiful, majestic, glorious colors everywhere! Vermillion, magenta, burnt orange, lilac, King Fisher blue, cadmium red, viridian green, Naples yellow… Mind numbingly fabulous colors!
And shapes… How could he have forgotten how glorious shapes were? Oh, look at that chair! So square and stout! What a wonderful chair. He should paint it. He should paint everything! Not that he could do more than twitch his arm, but still…
Neal had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.
o o o
Peter stared down at the stack of papers on his desk wishing they would disappear. He was tired, so tired, but then he was tired all the time these days. Maybe tired wasn't the right word for it, because he got plenty of sleep. The truth was, he just didn't care. He didn't care about much these days, beyond El. Cases didn't seem to matter anymore. Nothing seemed to matter. Without Neal to flash his big grin, Peter's days were monotonous, boring, depressing. He knew that if he didn't get his game up, he was going to get demoted but, as with everything, he really didn't care.
The stack of papers wasn't disappearing, though, so Peter grabbed one off the pile and stared down at it dully. An insurance scam. How exciting. He set it aside and grabbed another. Hm, a million dollar diamond stolen from a locked safe on a Navy ship by scuba divers. Neal would love this one. Too bad Neal wasn't around.
Peter let out a sigh as his cellphone began to ring. It was probably Jones calling to remind him to tie his shoes and wipe his butt. Since the accident everyone in the White Collar unit had been treating Peter like a pouty two year old. Of course, he'd sort of had the temperament of a pouty two year old lately, so he guessed that he couldn't blame them.
"This is Burke," he said, holding the phone to his ear. "Make it quick."
"Is this Special Agent Peter Burke?" a man's voice said.
Peter let out a growl of annoyance. "Yeah. Hence the 'this is Burke' thing. Who are you?"
"This is Dr. Robertson from Rivergardens."
Peter tensed, his whole body going stiff. Rivergardens was calling him? Had something happened to Neal? Or, of God, had they found out about Peter's more… illicit visits? No, they couldn't have. Peter had taken every precaution to be sure of that. But still… Peter tugged at his collar nervously.
"Is everything okay, Dr. Robertson? Has something happened to Neal?"
There was a long pause, long enough to make Peter sweat, then the doctor spoke again, his voice guarded.
"I don't know the best way to tell you this, Agent Burke, but… It looks as though Mr. Caffrey had awakened."
Awakened.
Awakened.
Awakened.
The word echoed through Peter's stunned mind. Awakened. Did that mean…?
"A-are you saying that Neal is *awake*?" Peter could barely force the words out, the rush of emotions slamming him in the chest was so great.
"Well," the doctor said, "he had opened his eyes and is responding to stimuli. He also seems to be able to move one of his hands. It is too soon to be absolutely sure, but it seems as though he had regained consciousness. The ability to move his hand is a good sign, indicating that his brain may be in the process of repairing the pathways that connect the mind to the body."
Peter clapped a hand over his mouth as he gave a dry sob, closing his eyes tight.
"Agent Burke? Are you there?"
"Yes! Yes, I'm here!" Peter said, standing up abruptly. "I'm coming! I'm coming now! I'll be there as soon as I can!" He hit the 'end' button on his phone, tears rising up in his eyes.
Awake. Neal was awake.
o o o
Neal was so tired that he was ready to shut his eyes again, something he *never* thought he'd want. How many times did they need to shine a goddamn penlight in his eyeballs? His eyes *hurt*, dammit. God, he wished he could speak so he could tell them all to fuck off. He just wanted to be left alone to concentrate on his body, on moving, on speaking, on becoming alive once more.
"I'm a federal agent! Get the hell out of my way!"
Neal's eyes flicked up at the sound, a rush of joy flooding through him. Peter! Peter was here! Peter, who loved him, who missed him, who had touched him when no one else would.
Fuck the chair. When Peter's big form appeared in the doorway, Neal was damn sure *that* was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.
"Neal!" the man cried out, actually shoving a nurse aside so that he could get to Neal's bedside. "Oh my God, Neal, can you hear me?"
All he could do was blink up at the man, still unable to move his head enough to nod, but that was apparently enough because a tear ran down Peter's cheek. Neal had never seen Peter cry before.
"Oh my God, Neal," he whispered as he knelt down next to the bed, grabbing his hand. "Oh, you have no idea how much I have missed you, buddy. No idea at all."
Neal smiled in his mind. Oh, he had some idea.
"Don't you ever leave me like that again, do you hear?" Peter said, voice tinged with fear. "You got it? Don't you ever leave me like that again!"
Neal focused his mind on his hand, mentally gritting his teeth as he fought through the sluggish tar holding him back to move it. One squeeze was all he could manage, but it was something.
Peter looked down at their intertwined fingers in disbelief. "You moved your hand," he whispered, an edge of disbelief to the words. "You moved your hand. Come back to us, Neal. Come back to us. I can't live without you anymore."
Three months had passed since Neal had first shown signs of consciousness. Immediately a dozen specialists had been called in, courtesy of the FBI in a show of support for the not-quite-agent injured on the job, and physical therapy had started immediately. While comatose Neal's muscles had shrunk back to nothing, and the only way to build them up was to physically support them while mimicking workout movements. It was tedious and awkward, but Peter had leapt on the chance to help. Neal *would* move again someday, and when he did, his muscles would be ready for it.
Every week there was progress, and setbacks too, of course, but Neal could now support his own head, move his arms and legs, and even bend at the waist. He couldn't quite stand without holding onto something, but it was close, and the therapist was hopeful that he'd be walking again within a year.
A paintbrush was back in his hand the moment he could dictate his finger movements and though the sloppy pictures weren't up to his old standards, there was a soulful depth to them that hadn't been there before. The shapes were crude but elegant, and the colors were magnificent. Just looking at them made you feel as though you were a blind man who could suddenly see, which Neal technically was. Even if he could never forge a master's work again, he was still an astounding artist. In fact, the manager of the gallery El had once worked for had expressed interest in displaying them.
The one thing Neal hadn't recovered, however, was his ability to speak. He could correspond through notes, but preferred not to, using sign language instead, which Peter found rather annoying since he didn't actually know sign language. June and Mozzie did, though, so maybe it was a required criminal skill. In fact, Neal didn't try to communicate much with Peter at all. He would smile silently at him for hours as he listened to Peter's tales about things that had happened while Neal was 'away,' but the most he ever gave in return were soft touches to the hand.
It made Peter a little nervous, if only because a heavy guilt was forever hovering at the edge of his mind like a raincloud in an old cartoon. Neal had been unconscious and Peter had misused him. That was certainly reason enough for Peter to be the one person Neal didn't trade notes with or sign around. There was no way he could remember, he had been in a *coma,* but still… it nagged endlessly at Peter. In fact, it was the primary reason that he *still* had not done the thing he had so often cursed himself for putting off. How could he look Neal in the eye and tell him he loved him when he'd done something so wicked?
The weight in his chest grew heavier with each day, to the point that he would actually feel as though he was going to be physically sick when Neal flashed him a particularly bright smile. He had betrayed the man he loved, and Neal didn't even know it. It was wrong, so wrong. Neal deserved to know what had happened to him while he was gone. He deserved to know what Peter had done to him. And so, one drizzly day, Peter had made up his mind.
He was going to tell him.
Peter took a deep breath as he stared at the door, trying to summon up the courage to open it. He wasn't sure what would happen today. Would Neal hate him? Would he cry? Would Peter be going to jail? He didn't deserve any less. Forget forging bonds and stealing art—Peter had raped a man in a coma, the man who was supposed to be his best friend. The man he supposedly loved.
He pushed open the door, steeling himself as he entered the little room. It was much less homogenous than it had once been, the bland hygienic feeling wiped away by vibrant paintings and vase after vase full of fresh flowers. Even the bedding had changed. Peter wasn't sure where June had found four hundred count silk sheets in hospital bed size, but she had managed. Hell, she'd probably had them custom made. There was a dopey looking stuffed dog next to Neal's bed wearing a collar that read SATCHMO #2, along with a couple of poetry books and a pamphlet titled 'Don't Lose Your Mind: How to recognize preparations for a lobotomy.'
Neal looked up as he entered, flashing him his million watt smile. God, Peter loved that smile. The way those pink lips curved upward… It was so beautiful. Everything about Neal was beautiful, from his finally re-grown hair to his shaky hands to his silk pajamas.
"Hey, buddy," Peter said quietly as he shut the door behind him. He paused, licking his lips nervously. The closed door gave them some privacy, but not enough for the talk they needed to have. After a moment's consideration, Peter grabbed the chair for visitors and dragged it over to the door, sticking it under the handle. There. Now they could talk in private. Well, Peter could talk, anyway.
When he turned back, Neal was looking at him strangely, the smile on his face a little more cautious than before.
"I, uh, kind of wanted to talk to you in private about something," Peter said, gesturing toward the chair. "You know those nurses, always barging in."
Neal nodded, motioning for Peter to come forward, and Peter did, settling down on the edge of Neal's little bed.
Peter took a deep breath, trying to summon up the courage to say what he needed to say, but it was so hard. Sitting there, looking into Neal's bright eyes knowing that this might be the last time he ever saw that smile was heartbreaking. Peter ducked his head to hide the tears that were building up already.
"Neal… While you were asleep, I did some things, things that I shouldn't have done." He forced himself to look up, meeting Neal's gaze. "I didn't want to tell you, because I didn't want to lose you, but keeping it secret is a betrayal of everything we have."
Neal's brow furrowed and he reached out, taking Peter's hand a squeezing it. Peter squeezed back, trying to ignore the pain in his chest.
"I-I did things with you, Neal. To you, actually, since you weren't really there." Peter made a choked sound. "I did it for good reasons, or that's what I told myself, anyway. I *didn't* do it to hurt you. I would *never* hurt you, not on purpose. But good reasons or no, it was wrong, and all I can do is ask for your forgiveness. Not that I deserve it." He breathed in deeply, straightening his shoulders up as he tried to prepare himself for whatever reaction he might get. "Neal, when you were asleep I-I…" He let out a bitter laugh. "God, look at me. I did it, but I can't even say it." He swallowed hard. "Neal, when you were asleep I—"
"Ah now, Peter."
Peter jumped at the words, eyes going wide. What the hell? Oh, God, was Neal really *talking*? A rush of joy swept Peter up before his mind brought him back down to earth as the meaning of the words processed. "Wh-what?"
Neal gave him a soft smile. "Ah know. Ah 'member." He reached out a little clumsily, pulling Peter toward him. "Ah luff you tuh."
A tear ran down Peter's cheek at the slurred, sluggish words. "You… you remember?"
Neal nodded, wrapping an arm around his neck. "Ah 'member all. Was nawt asleep." He ran his hand along Peter's face, shaky fingers tracing a line along his jaw. "Luff yah tuh." He leaned forward, pressing his lips against Peter's and Peter made a small sound. As they pulled apart another tear ran down Peter's face.
"When did you…" He gestured vaguely toward Neal's mouth.
Neal smiled. "Bin wurkin ahn it. Suhpwise?"
Peter let out a loud laugh, though he wasn't sure if it was from happiness or relief. "Oh Neal," he said, pulling the man tight against him. "I'm sorry I waited so long to tell you. I'm so sorry." He pulled back just enough so he could see the other man's eyes. "I love you. So much."
"Mah tuh, Peter." Neal leaned in, kissing him deeply. "Mah tuh."
The End