White Collar - "Living Target"
Jul. 20th, 2011 11:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tj_teejayTitle: Living Target
Author: TeeJay
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whitecollar100 Prompt: #55 Drip
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Peter
Word Count: 300
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for 3x07 "Taking Account"
Summary: With Brower knowing Neal's identity, he's become a living target.
Author's Note:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rabidchild67 so aptly said in her journal: Fics I need right now™: Neal complaining that if he comes into the open, Brower will take a shot at him makes me want it so bad! HC GOLD (Please, please, please, I want someone to write this. All the angst!) Well, RC, It's not too terribly angsty, but it's all I can do in 300 words.
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.
You had meant it to be a joking quip more than anything when you told Peter that after leaking the security footage, Brauer would use you as a living target. Mozzie was the paranoid one, and you hadn't given rifles and bullets a second thought when you stepped out into the street.
You actually heard the shot whizzing past your head. The sharp pain near your temple hits a second later. Something primal commands your brain to duck, seek cover.
Minutes later—maybe two, maybe ten—you hear Peter's booming voice, more than slightly panicked.
"Neal? Neal?!"
You realize you're cowering behind the silver sedan, faintly aware that something is dripping from your chin onto your shirt. You wipe at it with your hand, and it comes away with a red smear on the back.
"Neal!" Peter calls again.
Peter's face is suddenly level with yours, barely contained panic giving way to relief and concern. "Neal, you're bleeding, are you hit?"
"I don't know," you stammer.
"Let me see," he says, prodding where it hurts the most.
"Ow," you flinch away. You're not squeamish, but, damn, it hurts!
Relief is tangible in Peter's voice when he says, "I think you got lucky. Looks like the shot only grazed your brow."
Lucky, huh? You barely have time to process this when Peter asks, "Can you get up?"
You nod before your brain catches up and you feel yourself sway with dizziness as you move upright.
"Whoa," Peter grabs your elbow, steadies you. "Easy there. Let's get you to a hospital."
"No," you suddenly protest. Brauer could still be out there, you're still a target. You value your life.
"It's okay, Neal," Peter tells you, and you don't know why, but somehow, with Peter next to you, you think maybe it is.
Author: TeeJay
whitecollar100 Prompt: #55 DripGenre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Peter
Word Count: 300
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for 3x07 "Taking Account"
Summary: With Brower knowing Neal's identity, he's become a living target.
Author's Note:
rabidchild67 so aptly said in her journal: Fics I need right now™: Neal complaining that if he comes into the open, Brower will take a shot at him makes me want it so bad! HC GOLD (Please, please, please, I want someone to write this. All the angst!) Well, RC, It's not too terribly angsty, but it's all I can do in 300 words.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.
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You had meant it to be a joking quip more than anything when you told Peter that after leaking the security footage, Brauer would use you as a living target. Mozzie was the paranoid one, and you hadn't given rifles and bullets a second thought when you stepped out into the street.
You actually heard the shot whizzing past your head. The sharp pain near your temple hits a second later. Something primal commands your brain to duck, seek cover.
Minutes later—maybe two, maybe ten—you hear Peter's booming voice, more than slightly panicked.
"Neal? Neal?!"
You realize you're cowering behind the silver sedan, faintly aware that something is dripping from your chin onto your shirt. You wipe at it with your hand, and it comes away with a red smear on the back.
"Neal!" Peter calls again.
Peter's face is suddenly level with yours, barely contained panic giving way to relief and concern. "Neal, you're bleeding, are you hit?"
"I don't know," you stammer.
"Let me see," he says, prodding where it hurts the most.
"Ow," you flinch away. You're not squeamish, but, damn, it hurts!
Relief is tangible in Peter's voice when he says, "I think you got lucky. Looks like the shot only grazed your brow."
Lucky, huh? You barely have time to process this when Peter asks, "Can you get up?"
You nod before your brain catches up and you feel yourself sway with dizziness as you move upright.
"Whoa," Peter grabs your elbow, steadies you. "Easy there. Let's get you to a hospital."
"No," you suddenly protest. Brauer could still be out there, you're still a target. You value your life.
"It's okay, Neal," Peter tells you, and you don't know why, but somehow, with Peter next to you, you think maybe it is.
