White Collar - "At The Mercy Of Fate"
Jun. 29th, 2011 10:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tj_teejayTitle: At The Mercy Of Fate
Author: TeeJay
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whitecollar100 Prompt: Dark (special prompt)
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Peter, Neal
Word Count: 200
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Peter holds vigil at Neal's bedside in the middle of the night.
Author's Note: By popular demand, continuation of my two previous stories, "And Isn't It Ironic, Don't You Think?" and "Thou Shalt Not Kill".
Disclaimer: White Collar, its characters and its settings belong to Jeff Eastin and USA Network. And, guys? Your characters are not only welcome, they're wonderful. I'm just borrowing, I promise.
Some would call it fate, some Murphy's Law, some bad luck. What it really was, was tragic and unfair, and really, really bad timing.
Peter stared out the ICU window into the night, watching the headlights of the cars pulsing to the rhythm of the constant beeping of the medical machinery. It never got truly dark in New York, there were always streetlights or illuminated billboards or lit storefronts.
He'd gotten the call from Mount Sinai two nights before, and he'd barely slept since. Neal had made it through the surgery, and they kept repeating vague reassurances and cautious optimism.
Neal had yet to regain consciousness, and it was killing Peter to just stand by helplessly. He'd sworn and anguished, even shed a few tears in a moment of quiet despair.
A wave of bone-deep exhaustion washed over him, and Peter wanted to curse fate, Murphy and the universe. He couldn't take this—the sight of the confident, suave, young man reduced to a jumble of tubes and machines.
He sent a silent prayer to the Powers That Be that Neal would make it through this as he slunk away to the scant comfort he hoped his home could offer.
+-+-+-+-+
to be continued in
"Through The Haze"
Author: TeeJay
whitecollar100 Prompt: Dark (special prompt)Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Peter, Neal
Word Count: 200
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Peter holds vigil at Neal's bedside in the middle of the night.
Author's Note: By popular demand, continuation of my two previous stories, "And Isn't It Ironic, Don't You Think?" and "Thou Shalt Not Kill".
Disclaimer: White Collar, its characters and its settings belong to Jeff Eastin and USA Network. And, guys? Your characters are not only welcome, they're wonderful. I'm just borrowing, I promise.
+-+-+-+-+
Some would call it fate, some Murphy's Law, some bad luck. What it really was, was tragic and unfair, and really, really bad timing.
Peter stared out the ICU window into the night, watching the headlights of the cars pulsing to the rhythm of the constant beeping of the medical machinery. It never got truly dark in New York, there were always streetlights or illuminated billboards or lit storefronts.
He'd gotten the call from Mount Sinai two nights before, and he'd barely slept since. Neal had made it through the surgery, and they kept repeating vague reassurances and cautious optimism.
Neal had yet to regain consciousness, and it was killing Peter to just stand by helplessly. He'd sworn and anguished, even shed a few tears in a moment of quiet despair.
A wave of bone-deep exhaustion washed over him, and Peter wanted to curse fate, Murphy and the universe. He couldn't take this—the sight of the confident, suave, young man reduced to a jumble of tubes and machines.
He sent a silent prayer to the Powers That Be that Neal would make it through this as he slunk away to the scant comfort he hoped his home could offer.
+-+-+-+-+
to be continued in
"Through The Haze"
