Work Text:
Neal had been feeling sick since he woke up in the hospital, the concussion shaking his brain like aftershocks, but it was the sight of his own face in the mirror that made him want to fall to his knees and flush his mediocre hospital meal down the toilet. Or better yet, flush himself down the toilet because that wasn't Neal Caffrey in the mirror. It wasn't Nick Halden or George Devore or any of the other aliases he'd cultivated over the years. He almost recognized Danny Brooks in his face in the mirror, but that was a memory better left in the distant past. The face in the mirror was not a boy and not handsome, not even striking; it was stricken. It was struck.
The plastic surgeon who came to consult on his case had reassured Neal that everything would heal. The broken bones in his nose and cheek were re-aligned, the lacerations expertly sutured. The bruises and swelling would fade, and the scrapes would scab over and fade away. It would take weeks, but the doctor assured Neal that his face would be his own again. He said it as if Neal should be grateful, and Neal was grateful that he wouldn't have to look at the handiwork of a desperate, coked-up man every time he looked in a mirror for the rest of his life.
The problem was, "weeks" was a long time, weeks could feel like years and he was sure they would feel like long years to Peter and El. They were so kind and they would try so hard to pretend that Neal wasn't disgusting, that the sight of him didn't wilt every hint of arousal. But neither of them was skilled at the con, especially not when it came to their personal lives, and Neal knew he would see it in every look, every careful glance that stuttered and slipped past his face. Peter already didn't want to look at him, and he was still in the hospital. When he was in their home, an eyesore in the middle of so much beauty, it would be even more difficult.
Looking at the Cubist interpretation of Frankenstein's monster in the mirror, Neal couldn't lie to himself. He didn't like to think of himself as shallow but he loved, had always loved, when people told him he was beautiful. When the person saying it was Peter or Elizabeth Burke, gorgeous and naked and perfect, he thought that he didn't need anything else to be happy. But he wasn't beautiful, he wouldn't be beautiful again for a long time, and no matter what the doctor said there was no guarantee he'd ever look the same again. Beauty was transient, a delicate balance of math and biology, and Neal thought that his had probably passed.
He wanted to hit the mirror with his fists. He wanted to his the mirror with his face. When he thought about Peter and Elizabeth turning away from him, asking him to leave when they finally couldn't bear to look at him any longer, darkness called to him from the most painful corner of his mind. When he thought about losing them, when he looked at his revolting face in the mirror and remembered what it was like to be alone, the voice from that dark corner whispered that he wanted to die.
~~~
Neal pulled himself together as best he could, which wasn't saying much. Brushing his teeth was painful with his jaw as sore as it was, but he got rid of the worst of the bad taste in his mouth then ran his fingers through his hair. A shower would have to wait until he got home, and that word, "home," made him wish he still had his own place, his own hole to crawl into. When the anklet was gone he had moved out of June's house, but she might still take him back. If she could bear to look at him. Neal tilted his head and stared at himself out of his one good eye, the one that would open most of the way; looking at himself hurt.
The first hit, the one to his jaw, had stunned Neal, shaken him hard enough that he'd felt the next two hits on a kind of tape delay. He hadn't felt his knees giving way, but he'd been aware of time and space shifting around him, and then there was nothing. After that, he remembered the harsh, panicked sound of Peter's voice and a hazy sideways view of a hospital hallway. It wasn't until later that he'd woken enough to realize just how screwed he was. Now he only wished he could forget.
Neal dressed himself in the suit he'd been wearing when he was attacked, with the fresh shirt Peter had brought him to replace the one that had been covered in blood from his nose. The suit was relatively unstained, but Neal could see traces if he looked close enough. He tried not to look close enough. Dressing himself was more difficult than it should have been; his whole head felt unsteady and fragile, and standing for too long left him exhausted. Fastening all of the buttons on his shirt and his suit felt as complicated as picking locks, and Neal had to do it with his eyes closed to better concentrate, unsteady fingers fitting smooth plastic through cotton and wool.
He just wanted to be ready when Peter came to pick him up. He wanted to be dressed and sitting in a chair rather than in bed in a hospital gown, completely pathetic. Peter had seen him that way enough in the last 24 hours, after all. Elizabeth had been out of town, flying back in that morning, and Neal hated that he couldn't give her something better to welcome her home, something better than his own broken face. Despite himself, Neal drifted off to sleep, and he woke to the sound of Peter's voice.
"Neal?"
Neal opened his eye and saw Peter reach a hand out to touch him then grimace and pull back. That was the way knew it would be, but he still hated it, hated his ruined face. He wanted to take Peter's hand, wanted the comfort, the sense of being held and owned that he would get from Peter's fingers cupping his skull, pushing through his hair. But he couldn't ask Peter to touch him, to touch the thing he'd become. "Are we going home?" Neal asked, wincing at the sound of his own voice because even that was wrong, mangled by a bruised jaw and swollen lip.
"You didn't think we were going to work, did you?" Peter sighed and rounded his shoulders, dropping his chin to his chest. "Look at you. Jesus, Neal."
"I know," Neal mumbled, his chest aching. "I'm sorry."
Peter shook his head, looking equally pained. "It's not your fault. Come on, are you ready to go?"
Neal nodded his head carefully, and he stood up to follow Peter out. If they waited around any longer, somebody would make Neal sit in a wheelchair, and that was the last thing he needed Peter to see. The drive to Brooklyn felt long, and by the time he was standing at the front door Neal was dizzy and exhausted. His eyes were barely open, and he didn't know until he heard her gasp that Elizabeth was home and standing in front of him.
"Oh, Neal!" she said, and when he forced his eye open he saw her reach out and pull away, just like Peter had. She frowned, her mouth turning down like she was about to cry, and Neal felt sick, that he was making her cry, that the sight of his face was making her cry.
"Do you mind if I go lay down?"
"Of course not! Why don't you rest on the sofa?"
"No, thank you." Neal didn't ask for either of them to go with him, and nobody followed him as he climbed the stairs with his hand tight on the banister. He felt dirty, but he was too tired to shower so he just stripped down to his underwear and climbed between the cold sheets on the guest room bed. He was alone, and he knew that this was what life would be like now.
~~~
When Neal woke up, there was nobody curled up in bed with him, no impression of a body in the sheets or a head in the pillow. His own head ached fiercely, brain and bone and eyes and skin throbbing in time with his heartbeat. The rest of his body was stiff from too many hours spent in all the wrong beds, and Neal longed for the warmth of Peter's body fit behind his in their comfortable bed, for the soft touch of Elizabeth's hands on his skin.
But looking at him made her cry, made Peter angry, made everything wrong.
Neal dragged himself out of bed to find the bottle of pain pills in his jacket pocket then took it with him to the bathroom. The hallway was quiet and dark, but Neal could hear the sound of the TV from below. Peter and Elizabeth would be heading to bed soon, and Neal wanted to be ready. Needed to be ready. In the bathroom, he took two of the pills and slowly, carefully brushed his teeth as best he could around his sore jaw and swollen lip. He avoided his own eyes in the mirror, and when his mouth was as clean as it was going to be he stripped down and stepped into the shower.
Considering the mess of his face, the rest of Neal's body was strangely untouched. He had a few light bruises from hitting the floor, but they were nothing. It was a kind of comfort, that his body was the same as always, but he'd never considered his body, the appearance of it, to be the best thing he had to offer his lovers. He was fit, but next to Peter he was scrawny and pale, a collection of bones that never wanted to hold the kind of muscle that settled so comfortably on Peter's broader frame. What his body could do was another thing, and Neal stood under the hot water of the shower, bending over to work the stiffness out of his back even though the heat and the added pressure worsened the ache behind his eyes.
When he was thoroughly clean, Neal found the bottle of lube tucked away under the sink and and prepared himself. Usually, when he took time to get himself ready like this, it was a struggle not to come in his own hand at the slick pressure in his ass and the thought of Peter fucking him, filling him, Elizabeth's hands on his cock, her taste in his mouth. This time, he didn't get hard, couldn't feel the pleasure through the haze of pain and grief and low-dose opiates. By the time he was done and washing the thick lube off of his fingers, Neal's head was hurting worse from the effort so he took another pill, and when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror he saw nothing but a broken stranger.
In the hallway, Neal listened long enough to realize that Peter and Elizabeth would be coming up to bed soon. He couldn't face spending the night alone in the guest room not knowing where he stood, so he went into their room, turned on the small, dim lamp by the bed and pulled back the covers. He climbed up and knelt in the middle of the bed; with his knees spread wide, he let his belly sink down to the mattress, his ass curving up into the air. The pain in his head was subsiding to a dull ache, but a gentle spin had taken its place. Neal rested his head on his forearms and tried to ground himself. He told himself that the world was steady, that he wasn't going anywhere.
He waited and he hoped and he wished he could believe.
~~~
"What the HELL?"
Neal heard Peter's voice before he realized that he wasn't alone. He had spaced out, too far off into his own head to hear the footsteps on the stairs or the voices in the hall.
"NEAL!" And Peter was angry. Neal had anticipated this, that Peter wouldn't want him in their bed, but he had to take the chance that he could turn it around. "Neal?" Peter's voice was quieter, closer, but still tense, and then Neal felt Peter's hand on his back, a warm, welcome weight that started to move toward the top of his ass and then pulled away. All Neal could see from his position was the sheets and his own arms, but he closed his eyes against even that.
"Hon?" El sounded further away, like she had just stepped into the room. "What's going--Neal?"
"I don't--" Peter cut himself off, sounding too furious to even speak, and Neal felt sick but he knew he had to try to convince them that this could work.
"You won't have to see my face," he said, struggling to make his voice clear despite the stiffness of his jaw and the thick feeling that had settled into all of his muscles, including his tongue. "You can fuck me without having to see my face. My body's still okay, and I got myself ready for you."
Neal heard a small gasp from Elizabeth and Peter's heavy footsteps backing away from the bed. "Damn it, Neal! No. Why would you think--"
Neal felt his stomach drop; he shouldn't have even hoped but he couldn't help wanting to hold on to this life he'd found, even if it wasn't really his. He didn't know who else to be, what other life he could go live instead. "Please." His eyes burned, and he could hear the naked begging in his voice but he didn't care. "Please, Peter. I know--I--I--" Neal lost track of his train of thought and he felt his heart racing as he tried to find it again in the throbbing darkness. He whispered, "please, please, please, please," in and out like breathing.
"Oh, sweetheart." There were tears in Elizabeth's voice, and Neal hated himself for doing that to her. "Neal, baby, stop. Shhhh." The bed dipped to the side, and Neal struggled to keep his balance until he felt Elizabeth's soft hand on his arm. She rubbed back and forth over his forearm next to his head, just a tiny movement but it felt terribly good to have her so close. "Look at me, sweetheart." Her voice was steady now, quiet but so steady.
Neal took a deep breath, wishing he could breathe through his nose, then turned his head to look at her. Her eyes were bright with tears but she smiled at him so gently even though she was lying so close to his ruined face. She looked up over Neal's head then, though she kept her hand on his arm. "Hon. Come here."
Neal shivered and let his eye close. He wasn't afraid of Peter's anger, not really, but the thought of Peter refusing to come over--or coming over and not touching him--made him wish he'd never had to wake up in the hospital, ugly and alone. He couldn't say that and he didn't know what else to say instead so he just held himself still and waited, suddenly feeling very, very naked. He didn't hear Peter walk closer, but there was a cool, dry touch on Neal's back and he startled until he realized it was a blanket, the silk fleece throw Elizabeth's sister had sent her for Christmas, perfectly smooth against his skin.
The bed dipped on the other side as Peter stretched out next to him, and then Peter put his hand on the far side of Neal's hip and tugged. Neal knew he should resist but he was too tired to try very hard, and Peter guided his movements gently, implacably until Neal was stretched out on his side with Peter spooned behind him, El curled up in front of him, a pillow wedged just right under his aching head.
"Neal," Peter said, his voice deep and steady and so close to Neal's ear, "I need you to tell me what you think is going on here."
The darkness behind Neal's eyelids tilted and turned, and he didn't know what to say. He'd been so certain he understood the situation but now he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure about anything.
~~~
"Neal?" A squeeze of Peter's hand around his wrist pulled him back into the moment. "Talk, please."
"I--I understand that I'm no good to you with my face like this." El and Peter both said his name, but Neal struggled to focus on pulling his thoughts together. "But I don't--I don't want to leave." It was getting harder to remember what he was thinking, and even speaking slowly he felt his tongue struggling to keep up. It was just so hard. "I--I can--"
There was a feather-light touch to his cheek, and Neal opened his eyes to see Elizabeth looking at him with fear in her pretty face. "Sweetheart?" she said, her voice so gentle he wanted to curl up inside it. "Did you take something? Pain pills?"
It didn't make any sense, and Neal drifted off, trying to follow the thread of thought that he had lost.
"Neal? Will you open your eyes?" Peter was insistent, and Neal wasn't strong enough to resist.
He forced his one eye open as far as it would go. "Can't."
Elizabeth frowned. "I know, baby. But I need to know how many you took."
The math was terribly difficult. Two and then one. "Th--three?"
Peter made a sound behind him, but El just nodded. "Okay. It's okay. You can go to sleep now if you want."
Neal let his eye close then opened it again as a stab of panic hit him. "I can stay?"
"You'd better," Peter said, his voice a soft growl that Neal could feel as much as hear.
Neal wanted to ask more, to figure things out, but he just couldn't think any more. He fell into the darkness but he wasn't alone. He wasn't alone.
~~~
Neal floated up from the depths of sleep but kept his eyes closed, his breathing slow and even, trying to keep himself under the fragile skin of the surface for as long as possible. He couldn't quite remember why he didn't want to wake up, but the desire to stay in the darkness was clearer than anything else in his mind. He was in a strange position, prone with his head and torso elevated at an incline, and his head ached from the bones of his face around to the base of his skull. Hospital, he thought, but then he realized that there were soft pillows under him rather than an institutional mattress. Then he heard the familiar hum of a bathroom fan in the near distance, and he knew where he was.
That understanding was quickly followed by hazy memories of what had happened before. His face. Peter's anger. Elizabeth's horror. He was in their bed but they hadn't fucked him so this was probably pity; there was no other reason to keep a man with a ruined face in their bed. He was going to have to be strong but he didn't feel strong, not at all. Neal heard a quiet cough nearby and realized that he wasn't alone, that Peter was there.
And Peter had been so angry. Neal couldn't remember everything that had happened before he fell asleep but Peter's anger was crystal clear. Peter hadn't wanted to touch him, hadn't wanted to even come near. Neal had pushed himself into Peter's bed, and now Peter was waiting in the room, waiting for Neal to wake up, waiting to end things. Neal's heart raced and he tried to still it but soon the sleep-like breathing he was forcing on himself couldn't keep up with the demands of his greedy heart and he gasped, starving for air as he tore through the skin of the darkness he'd been hiding under.
He opened his eyes and saw soft sunlight filtered through curtains with his good eye, a thin band of hazy light where his more swollen eye was able to open just the smallest increment. He turned his head and saw Peter sitting in the chair with his feet propped on the edge of the bed, watching him over a file that was open in his lap. His face was calm, carefully neutral, and Neal could imagine what was hidden behind that mask.
"Hi," Peter said too gently. "Good morning."
Neal swallowed hard and nodded. "Sorry," he said, surprised at how rough his voice sounded.
"Don't apologize, at least not yet. Do you think you could drink something?"
Neal nodded again, mute and apprehensive. He knew there was something he couldn't remember, and it made him want to run but he thought he'd fall over if he tried. Peter left the room, and Neal heard him talking to Elizabeth in the hallway but when Peter came back a minute or two later he was alone. He handed Neal a bottled smoothie--blueberry, his favorite--with a straw then went back to the chair and pretended to look at his file while Neal drank.
The cold, thick drink felt good in Neal's mouth and on his throat, and the sweetness settled into him and made him feel more awake, a little bit steadier. When Neal set the bottle down on the bedside table, Peter looked up, his forehead creasing in that tiny wince he couldn't control. The wince at having to look at Neal's face. Then he walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed facing Neal.
"How's your head?"
"Still sore. Not too bad." It was the truth, more or less.
"How's your head inside?" Peter raised his eyebrows, trying to make some kind of a point.
"I--okay?"
"You weren't okay in there last night, and I'm not so sure you are now. What do you remember?"
Neal sorted through his memories, trying to get them in focus, put them in order. "You didn't want to fuck me, and I don't blame you, I can't. I was just hoping, I guess. And you were so angry." Neal shook his head and looked down, feeling tears burn behind his eyes. "I'm sorry."
The touch of Peter's hand on his made Neal look up. "I wasn't angry. I was surprised, and I was upset because I didn't understand. I wasn't angry with you then, Neal. I am, on the other hand, a little bit angry with you now."
"I don't understand," Neal admitted, and it was more true than anything else he could say.
"You seem to think that I'm the kind of person--that El is the kind of person--who can fall in and out of love solely on the basis of a pretty face. And you seem to think that you don't have much to offer in this relationship other than unusually symmetrical features." Peter took a deep breath and let it out. "We could talk for hours about how wrong that is, and maybe we will eventually because I don't think all of that is due to what's going on right now, okay?"
Peter seemed to be waiting for a response so Neal blinked and agreed. "Um, okay."
"We called your doctor last night, the neurologist, and she thinks that some of this is being caused by your concussion. And as much as that makes me worry I have to say I hope she's right because damn it Neal." Peter looked off to the side, his lips pressed together as he suppressed some kind of emotion. "I hope you know us better than that. And I'm angry with myself that you don't understand how important you are to me. To us."
Neal's chest ached but he shook his head. "But you hate looking at me now, both of you. I know I'm not imagining that."
"God, Neal." Peter shifted closer and reached his hand out to almost touch Neal's face, but as Neal steadied himself for that touch Peter dropped his hand to Neal's shoulder. "It hurts to look at your face. It hurts because we know it hurts you, because it's wrong that somebody would do that to you. It hurts us that you were hurt. Do you understand?"
It made sense, it did, and Neal had been so sure he knew what was going on but now everything was realigning in his head. "I think I do."
Peter sighed in relief but he still looked tense, still a little bit angry.
"What else?" Neal asked, just above a whisper.
"I know you probably didn't do this on purpose, and I know it's not really your fault, but I can't help being angry that you were so careless with yourself." Neal opened his mouth to argue, but Peter held up his hand. "Not that you got hurt. But Neal, last night you took three of the prescription pain pills, and you were supposed to take one. The doctor said it wasn't enough of an overdose that you needed medical attention, but it could've been dangerous, especially on an empty stomach. We took turns staying up with you all night."
Neal could barely remember taking the pills at all, but it was humiliating. "I'm sorry you had to do that."
"I don't give a damn about the lost sleep, Neal. I give a damn about you."
Neal took a steadying breath, feeling overwhelmed and on the spot, but one thing still didn't made sense. "But you wouldn't fuck me. You wouldn't even hardly touch me. I thought at least my body--"
Peter's eyes went wide with a flash of anger. "Your body? Neal, putting aside the fact that there are things about you that matter a lot more than the way you look, your body is amazing. Exquisitely beautiful. When I saw you like that, spread open wide in the middle of this bed, I got hard so fast my head spun."
Neal felt a swell of hope in his chest, but clearly there was more. "But?"
"But Jesus, Neal. Then I thought about how much it had to hurt your head to be pushed down like that, how tired you had to be. It made me sick with myself, that all I wanted to do was ride you flat into the mattress when you were in such bad shape. And then we realized that you were slurring your words too much to be excused by your fat lip." Peter shook his head. "I'm not that guy."
"I know. I'm sorry Peter, I do know that. I was thinking that if you just didn't have to see my face..." Neal trailed off. He'd been so wrong, and even if it didn't all make sense yet in his head or in his heart he understood that he'd been completely wrong.
"Your face." Peter sighed then knelt up on the bed and moved closer until his knees were bracketing Neal's legs. He put his hands on Neal's shoulders and slowly bent closer. Neal tensed his body, waiting for pain, but Peter's lips brushed over his face so lightly that they were barely making contact. Neal felt the light, try touch of Peter's lips and the warmth of his breath travel over the broken, stitched, swollen and bruised skin of his cheeks and lips, eyes and forehead.
The tension and worry Neal had been holding inside loosened and began to flow away, some of it in the form of tears seeping from his puffy eyes, but if Peter noticed he didn't say anything. He moved his attention lower, pressing firm kisses to Neal's neck and the hollow of his throat. Neal grabbed hold of the back of Peter's t-shirt and held him close, held him still, held him just where he needed him to be.
When Neal felt steadier, he let go of Peter's shirt and Peter sat up and moved back to the edge of the bed, wincing at stiff knees. "Better?"
"Thank you." Neal nodded, but one part of the equation was still unresolved. "Where's Elizabeth?"
"She's downstairs. We thought it might be better not to overwhelm you right now, that this might be easier one-on-one. You feel up to going down there?"
"I think so. I need the bathroom, too."
"No doubt." Peter stood up and went to open one of Neal's drawers in the dresser then handed Neal his favorite lounge pants and the soft black Henley that Elizabeth loved. He held Neal steady as he stood up and pulled on the clothes then waited in the hall while Neal used the toilet and washed up, delicately dabbing at his injured face with a washcloth.
Downstairs, Neal reminded himself that the look in Elizabeth's eyes was for the way his face felt more than the way it looked and he took her in his arms before she could say anything. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I misunderstood."
"Oh, sweetheart. You scared us, but it wasn't your fault." She squeezed him tight then pulled him down and pressed a light, chaste kiss to his lips. "Did that hurt?"
"Not at all."
She smiled sadly and slipped her hands under his shirt, exploring his skin while he leaned into her gentle strength. "Good," she said, "because when you hurt we hurt too. Do you get that?"
"It's starting to sink in."
Neal's head still ached; he was still exhausted and uncertain and full of emotions that wanted to spill past the boundaries he normally kept around them, but Peter and Elizabeth were there with warm touches and hot coffee. In the absence of evidence to the contrary, Neal had to let himself believe that everything was going to be okay. Even with a monster looking at him in the mirror, it was possible that everything would be okay.