Okay, before you ask me what drugs I'm on, I assure you I am clean. And no, you did not read the summary wrong. So, um, yeah, don't be too scared, check out the fic, and don't throw eggs at me in the end? (I mean, snakes can swallow eggs whole, you see.) ;)
XXX
this is Tin Can Magic (and I'm Earthbound, you see)
XXX
The cold makes his skin itch.
A slow crawl that slowly makes its way down the bare lines of his arms, Neal wakes up at dawn. Opening murky blues when the sunlight cracks just over the high rise of New York. He blinks away the sleep but it is the floor, the feel of ice beneath his feet that wakes him up. And he is putting it to his imagination but he thinks he may be seeing puffs of condensation as he breathes.
It feels like there are icicles in his lungs making it hard to breathe.
He turns up the heat on his way to the bathroom and nearly winces when his feet touch the tiles. (But he adjusts, quickly enough. It's in his nature, you see.)
Neal doesn't scratch, afraid for when it comes undone, so soon. He hates it when it gets messy, hates that he is only ready at the seams. Patting water against his skin, he licks his lips wet, and when he looks up to see himself in the mirror, he flexes his jaw.
(And it feels sore and overused. Even though he hasn't been eating for the past few days now, but still the taste of rust and copper continues to linger.)
He sits in his bathrobe and drinks a tiny cup of espresso to drown out the taste of days old blood at the back of his throat, and it burns as it goes down. He likes that it does.
Neal doesn't hear his footsteps coming up the stairs. Rather, he feels it in the vibration from where he has his bare feet pressed flat against the floors. He only glances up from the morning paper when Peter steps into his apartment, specks of snow falling from his coat as he sits down in a huff.
"Traffic that bad?"
He asks with a light smile playing at his lips as Peter drags the pot of coffee over to himself. The steam, the aroma, it makes him crawl in delight in his skin, even when it is Peter's presence in his home that makes his heart twist tight.
He stretches his legs over to Peter's side of the table and tangles his bare feet with the other, pressing cold toes against the heated skin right above his socks.
"It's a Friday, I should've expected worst really." Peter murmurs as he inhales the scent of fresh Italian roast, "and with the first snow storm coming in, everyone is rushing to get out before the weekend."
They still have time on their hands, Peter isn't quite ready to let go of a good cup of coffee that doesn't taste like sludge, and Neal tries to toe the line as he folds the paper into a neat pile and lifts his feet into Peter's lap. "I was wondering…"
"Oh no."
"I haven't even said anything." Neal rolls his eyes at Peter's reflexive response. The agent only frowns, narrows his eyes like he is looking at the same puzzle for the hundredth time, and with Neal, it really is. "You want something, I can tell. You think I can't tell? It's going to be a no."
Neal sighs, rubs his temple with his thumb and says, admits it like it almost pains him to do so. "I just want the weekend off."
"Why?" And it is not quite an interrogation, Neal knows how Peter deals with those well enough to dodge every trick he has displayed in those one-way glass rooms.
"I think I might be getting sick."
Peter stares at him, suspicion second nature when it comes to Neal. It is in the way he tilts his head, smiles just right, displays the vulnerability card right at the start. He drops a hand to Neal's feet and drags him a little closer into his lap with fingers around his ankle. Fingertips branding warmth as he rubs at the skin.
But he is also seeing something that is usually not there, a dull sheen to his skin null by the sun. Peter knows he can ask, he also knows Neal won't tell.
Like why his eyes look cloudy, a murky resemblance of the usual sky blue, when he finally looks up at him with a soft smile stretching out too wide.
"I promise I'll stay at home and you can keep an eye on my tracker. I just need some rest."
Peter tightens his hold like Neal can slip away and tells him.
"I'll think about it."
000
The snow doesn't stop when they leave the office for lunch.
(Not that he has an appetite, not that he eats anyway but Peter doesn't know that.)
The extremes of the weather reminds Neal of mid-July, the heat wave that has nearly been enough to make him want to scratch white lines against the pink, red lines against the flesh. Eyes blinking back the sun, he wants to feel the earth against his skin when he walks down concrete sidewalks, feel the slide of fresh cut grass against his cheeks when he crosses over the asphalt roads.
He is cracking at the edge.
It's almost here, something coos from below ground. And this is not a curse at work. Though he has always been prone to danger, it's the same way that his counterpart is dangerous when the sun goes down.
But the snow is falling, and it doesn't look as though it will stop.
A car screeches to a halt, a hand wraps around his arm, reeling him in too quick, spinning the world to a tilt. Grip too tight, pulling him so close until he is pressed within the fold of his arms.
The car gives them a loud blaring sound of its horn, the pedestrians don't bat an eye. He blinks up to a scowling Peter snapping down at him. "What was that, Neal?"
And instead of a reply, he reaches up, urgency to soothe overriding the hesitation otherwise, and brushes the furrow between Peter's brows away before he extracts himself out of those arms with ease.
"Just a little out of it today, I guess."
Neal gives him a smile, tired at the brim, and Peter gives him an unconvinced frown.
They are standing at the edge of the sidewalk, Neal's face turning to the sun.
"I'll be okay."
He says it like a reassurance to the world listening in, and stumbles a step closer to Peter who automatically rests a hand on his lower back. A snowflake lands at the edge of his trilby and he leans in closer still, actively seeking for his warmth in the winter cold.
Neal likes that there is something to hold on to, likes that he has found some place safe.
At the end of the day, Peter gives him the two fingers point and gestures him into his office. Looking almost like he regrets it the moment it leaves his mouth, Neal wants to laugh if he hasn't been wrung out, washed grey through the hectic day.
"I'll take care of the paperwork. Take the weekend off, don't do anything stupid."
"I'll be good." He promises before adding with a slow grin. "Scout's honour."
"You were never even a Boy Scout."
"Peter, weren't you one? I'll promise on your honour then, how about that?"
Neal rubs the pad of his thumb against his temple, smile in the face of Peter's underlying amusement at his antics as he feels himself slowly splitting at the seams.
000
He spends Saturday in the dark.
Naked and curling around himself beneath the cocoon of sheets and thick blankets he has made for himself, Neal dreams.
He dreams of colours, a ghastly orange and black crayon beneath his nails.
There is chalk on rough brown paper and white bars separating him from the rest of the world. He remembers the way they would look at him on his early days, leering and interested in the worst possible way. The orange doesn't help him blend in, (his eyes too bright among the violent souls, his mouth too pretty a bow to go ignored) but his counterpart does.
Lights out at twelve, there are no jail bars he couldn't cross, locks and keys aside.
(And they can believe he is Lucifer coming down from the tree for their Eve.)
Because caged men learn quickly and no one tries to touch him afterwards. The lingering whispers of a man with eyes like a snake and enough magic on his side to walk through walls are enough to keep religious men at bay (and he is that, not at all, and so much more when he drops his charms in the centre of their outstretched palms.)
He wakes up in the dark, breathes in the winter air outside his cocoon and ignores the world, skin a hot burning itch now that he is alone to ride out the rest of this familiar cycle.
Neal closes his eyes, burrows deeper into the sheets and dreams again.
He dreams of the motel the FBI has intended for him to live in. And the moment he steps inside, the sense of dread nestles right into place. There is a musty quality to the air that makes it hard for him to breathe, low yellow lights that hurt his eyes as he squints.
But it is the name the old man behind the counter calls that nearly rips the balance from his feet. And it feels like a stark reminder smacking him across the face, that some can see what others can't, because New York is one for the strange.
You come to get away. (And Neal, he has always been one of the strange.)
He turns to Peter, plead bright in his eyes and he isn't above begging. The man behind the counter narrows his eyes at him as he hands him the key, Neal can only swallow thickly, ready to bolt. And he nearly does when the dog from down the hall barks as though it can smell the fresh taste of dirt and blood in his mouth.
He has spend too long jumping borders, running at the very first sign of even curiosity, he isn't used to recognition in the anonymity. And it all makes Neal uncomfortable in his own skin when he has been hiding for years.
A flitting smile in the dark, Neal still remembers Peter telling him to cowboy up.
000
He opens his eyes on Sunday night to unannounced knocking at his door.
And for a moment, there is a sudden panic that nearly short circuits his usual conman ways before he realizes it can only be Peter on the other side. There is no doubt he is barely ready to face the world but Neal has always made much more out of nothing at all.
His reply comes out muffled as he comes back to himself, and it feels strange again to see hands and fingers and dark bangs that fall into his vision. Neal gets out of bed and pads to the door, distracted still by the way his body fills his skin that is no longer moulting.
Neal unlocks the door with deft hands that no longer itch, cocking his head as he leans against the frame of the door with mussed hair and a pair of grey sweatpants that may belong to Peter.
"Here to check on me, Peter?"
And the con artist smiles when Peter stares just a little longer before replying, "just wondering how you're feeling."
"Could be better."
His smile goes sly, tongue swiping his lips wet as he watches him from beneath his lashes. And it is only courtesy to June and anyone else in the house that he lets Peter pull the door shut behind him before he steps into his space, crowding himself right up against his chest to bend to kiss along his jaw.
Neal doesn't say it, and Peter isn't one to point it out either, but he misses him, and he does too. It is how he kisses him hard, teeth grazing against his lips, biting soft little sighs from his throat.
Peter lets his fingers skip down his chest, drag a caress along his ribs before he finally rests a hand at Neal's hip, perfect fit along the curve of the bone. And he doesn't even need to slip a hand underneath to know that Neal is wearing nothing beneath those pants, slipping lower and lower at the rate Peter is pushing.
"Not even briefs…" Peter mutters against his lips, knowing Neal's protest before he murmurs it with a tug of the hair at the nape of his neck. "You're just overdressed."
Neal's tongue pushes forward into his mouth, demanding as his hands tug at the tie around his throat and work at the first few buttons of his dress shirt. Peter brushes his knuckles against the dip of his arched spine, curling Neal's body even closer to his own.
When Neal finally lets him pull back for a breath, Peter pushes back his bangs to see bright blue eyes looking back at him. And there is a knot loosening in his chest at the sight of bruised red lips and blood beneath the skin, unlike the grey ashen glint to Neal's cheeks just days ago.
"Bed."
Peter says, pushing a light press of his lips against the ridge of his cheekbone. Neal nods his approval, grinning in triumph as he drags Peter's tie to the ground, like it personally offends him.
Peter rolls his eyes and lets Neal catch his wrist, pulling him towards the bed. And it really isn't far but he has him turning around every few steps for a kiss, fingers slipping around his wrist and into the heat of his palms to lace their fingers together. He is shimmying out of his pants, he is pulling him out of his suit jacket, and they are both relishing the touch and taste of bare skin and flesh before his knees finally hit the edge of the bed.
"Neal…?"
Neal glances back to see Peter staring down at his feet.
And there, on his right foot, is the tracking anklet blinking green.
XXX Kuro
As you can tell, research basically consists of me typing snakes into wikipedia.