Astra's actionfigures in Action

I am cleaning my inbox (some of you may have wondering why I am commenting on months or years old stuff) and just found this recommendation again that I sent to analineblue a long time ago. In November 2014 to be precise. Wonder if you ever read it? ;)

So I'll be able to delete this message, I'll keep the links in here now. And maybe someone else may be interested as well.

I really love such clever fics.

In the first, Neal wakes up in his apartment but suddenly it is only a film set and everyone thinks he is this actor Matt Bomer and he has to get adjusted to this role.

http://archiveofourown.org/works/508802

And the second is the other way around, Tim gets a bang to his head on set and wakes up in White Collar land – and Neal actually recognizes that this is not “his” Peter and tries to teach him everything he needs to know as a “real” FBI agent.

http://archiveofourown.org/works/959706

Have fun!

Tumblr threw this picture of the Winchester brothers at me. It reminded me of Peter and Neal from White Collar:

A few days ago my friend kanarek13 posted another one of her always very beautiful "White Collar" artwork pieces. If you don't know her stuff yet but are a fan of Peter and Neal, head over to her place and have a look. The one I am talking about can be found here: http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/141050.html

However I would prefer if you only looked at the picture after reading the little thing I wrote about the scene. I got quite inspired. Many thanks also to elrhiarhodan who did a quick beta!

It's just a little scene not a whole story. So here without further ado - enjoy!

*********

The hard ground dug mercilessly into his knees. The thin layer of carpet did nothing to help against the unforgiving concrete underneath. He debated to subtly shift to at least temporarily release the pressure but thought better of it. Better not bringing attention to himself. Better not make the other man angry. There might be punishment. And if anything Neal didn’t need tonight, it was more punishment.

And he was good at kneeling. He was used to this. He could do it.

Just a little while longer.

He felt uneasy, not knowing what was going on behind him. He was not allowed to turn. He had tried once and received a smack to the head. He didn’t try again. Surprisingly, he had not been blindfolded. He wished he had, it would have made things easier.

Easier to pretend.

To pretend that this was just like any other game they played on a Friday night. To pretend that even though his blood rushed, it was because of excitement and arousal and not dreadful fear. To pretend that if it ever became too much to bear he could use his safeword and Peter would be there, releasing him, holding him, soothing him.

Sadly, no safeword would get him out of this.

At least he wasn’t alone. Peter was there, right beside him. On his knees as well. And right now he looked over, with a worried expression. It was very difficult to keep anything from him. Neal tried his best anyway, tried not to show how excruciating the pain was that his ribs were giving him. One may be cracked, broken even after that harsh kick. It had forced the breath right out of his lungs and made him double over.

And the longer this went on, the harder it got to breathe. He forced himself to take slow breathes. In. Out. In. Out. Don’t panic, Neal. Panicking would only make things worse.

It was hard to tell for how long they already were kneeling here. In such situations, minutes seemed to stretch like hours.

The bad part was, nobody was going to miss them. They had worked late in the office, just the two of them. Elizabeth was out of town and would only return the day after tomorrow. Plenty of time to get into serious trouble with whoever it was that paid them this surprise visit.

He tried to think who could be behind this but unfortunately in their line of work they made so many enemies, the list was very long. And so far they hadn’t said much, just used them as punching bags. It seemed as if they were waiting for something. Or someone? It also seemed as if they were not in a hurry to kill them. Thank God for small mercies.

Of course he had tried to get out of the handcuffs as soon as they had been put on him. But these guys had been briefed well. They seemed to know what he was capable of, and for once none of his tricks worked. The cuffs were so tight that there was no room to wriggle at all. The more he tried, the tighter they became. Until he had to stop because the blood flow to his hands was almost non-existent.

Initially, he and Peter had struggled but soon had to realize that it was useless. Then Peter had switched to talking. He was good at that. He promised they would cooperate, he promised to do everything they wanted; he would have promised to get the moon down as long as it kept Neal safe.

One evening, sitting on the patio with a bottle of beer in Peter’s case, and a glass of wine in Neal’s case, they had mused who of them had it worse in situations like this. Neal, who always seemed to receive more blows and injuries than Peter; or Peter, who only helplessly could watch and not do anything. Peter had admitted then that it drove him crazy, that it was almost unbearable and that he would change places with Neal anytime.

Neal wasn’t so sure he wanted to change places with Peter though.

THE END - that's it already, sorry!

Title: Feet
Author: dieastra
Beta: Thank you Beth for all the hard work!
Rating: K
Category: Angst, Humor
Characters: Neal Caffrey, Mozzie, June
Word Count: 1.079

Summary: Neal has been asked to do something but suddenly got cold feet. But it’s the start of his new life. -

Notes: This is a sequel to my other story Hands but can be read alone as well.




Feet

Neal looked down at his feet. They had used to be on the move constantly. They had jumped out of windows, leapt down from buildings, dangled from heights far above the ground. They had kicked open doors, moved up ladders, sneaked into buildings, and danced along the corridor to the evidence room in the FBI building. Once or twice they had even managed to keep him from drowning, when his only way out had been jumping into water. But most of the time, they had been running. In all his years as a con man, he never stayed in one place for too long. Always afraid of being caught.

Even after his days as a con man were over, and he had started working for the FBI, he still had needed to run away a lot. People always were shooting at him with firearms, or bows and arrows. Staying on the move meant staying alive.

But right now, his feet would not move one inch. It actually weren’t his feet that were the problem, his knees were. They were locked and didn’t budge at all. Neal knew he couldn’t stay here indefinitely, that he had to walk those last few steps through the door ahead, but he just couldn’t. He was terrified.

Aside from his feet and knees, his voice was failing him as well. He was used to being able to talk his way out of every situation, always knew how to read his opponents, and instinctively knew the right approach to winning them over, to make them consider hearing him out instead of simply shooting him. His voice could be charming, coaxing, and smooth; it also could be loud and angry and hurt, but right now, it was nonexistent. He seemed to have lost it; it seemed stuck in his throat, and he was unable to say even one word. Let alone do what was expected of him any minute now!

He should never have agreed to this. What would Peter think of him? And Elizabeth, Jones and Diana? He did not need to guess what Mozzie would be thinking; he was in on this, and had actively helped prepare Neal during the past weeks. ( Read on here: Still he felt he wasn’t ready, not at all... )

Also posted on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2619854

Also posted on FF.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10826321/1/

My first "White Collar" fanfiction! This was bound to be to happen. Can't wait for Thursday and the 6th season to start. In the meantime, enjoy - hopefully!

Title: Hands
Author: dieastra
Beta: Thank you Beth for all the hard work and tardisjournal for some additional suggestions!
Rating: T
Category: Hurt/Comfort
Characters: Neal Caffrey, Mozzie, June, Peter, Diana
Word Count: 3.532
Spoilers last episode of season 5

Summary: After having been released from his kidnappers, Neal has to learn to accept some changes in his life.

Notes: Another one of those "What happened to Neal after the season 5 finale" stories. Still I hope I found a different approach.

*****

Hands

Neal looked down at his hands. He always had liked to be busy. All those years behind bars, where he only could sit and stare at the walls, waiting for the day to be over. It had almost driven him crazy.

His hands had been his tools, they had done so many things. Sketched on paper. Painted canvas. Forged Whiskey. Chiselled a block of marble. Swung swords and billiard cues. Flipped a hat around. Picked locks. Opened safes. Grabbed briefcases from pockets and watches from wrists. Slipped out of countless handcuffs. They had hugged Peter, clapped his shoulder, taught him how to mix drinks. They had taken oaths he had not intended to keep, and also a few he actually had meant to keep, until circumstances prevented it. They also had opened many wine bottles, held even more countless women, stroked them tenderly, cooked meals for them. They had typed away on a keyboard, written FBI reports, and they even had punched a face and shot a gun once or twice. And if they hadn’t been busy with any of that, they liked to fiddle with a pen at least. Always keeping busy.

Even when he had been “retired” to that island – yeah, didn’t last long, that – he had not just sat down and relaxed. He had still liked to paint, and maybe one day he might even have started on some original work. And his hands had sculpted that sand castle of the New York skyline. The view from his apartment window.

But now all of this was in the past. Now his fingers looked and felt like useless claws. “They” had done their best to ensure that he’d never use them again properly. Every single finger broken, some even two or three times. The doctors had done what they could, but his days as con man were officially over. His fingers were stiff now, and hurt occasionally. Some of the fractures hadn’t healed properly. He was able to get by in his daily life, but ever so often he was reminded of his limitations. Every single task took twice as long as it should have.

And to this day he didn’t know who “they” were. So he couldn’t even plan any revenge. The man (or woman?) behind his kidnapping had been careful to never show their face. And they had known what they were doing, grabbing Neal at a time when nobody would miss him. Neal had spent months as a prisoner – again – trying to survive, doing what they wanted. Waiting for Peter to come and find him. Again. Only, Peter never came. And Neal continued to suffer.

Oh, they had been careful to not damage his eyes or his hands. They needed him to forge all kinds of stuff for them. He was valuable. The rest of his body, not so much. But they had been careful to not inflict any permanent damage. Nothing that wouldn’t heal on its own. Neal had soon stopped to count all the marks on his body. He’d tried to resist, at first, hoping against hope that in a few hours some people would storm through the door, shouting “FBI! Put your weapons down!”

More than once he had wished he had told Peter about the man following him. Things might have been different then.

But the longer he waited, and the more they “insisted”, the more his resistance crumbled. Especially when they got out the electric wires.

He’d tried a new tactic then, pretending to work willingly, while trying to hide hints in his work. Hints for Peter to pick up on. Sometimes they caught him doing it, which resulted in another beating, sometimes they didn’t. But it made no difference, Peter still didn’t come.

And they had known him so well. They had kept him in a room that had nothing he could work with, to try to get out on his own.

The room was absolutely bare. He slept on the naked concrete. He got only food that needed no cutting, no knife. Of course not. But he did not even have a bowl for his “personal needs” which he could have smashed onto the head of one of his captors. He had to wait for the few times a day when someone would accompany him to the toilet. Standing right next to him with a gun in his back actually. He’d tried to not let the humiliation get to him, acting nonchalant instead – hey, he was Neal Caffrey, always a smile on his lips!

His world also had become very quiet. Nobody ever talked to him. The only noise was the grunting of the men who beat him, and his own moans when he couldn’t suppress them any longer. Sometimes, when he was alone in his cell, he talked loudly to himself, just to hear his voice.

He’d completely lost track of time. The room they kept him in had no window. He knew no day, no night. They amused themselves with startling him awake at irregular hours, which soon left him exhausted and confused. All he knew was that he had been here for a long time already, and that this was what the rest of his life would be like.

That’s when he stopped doing anything at all. They beat him – he didn’t care. They threatened to kill him – he didn’t care. He stopped eating entirely and lost quite some weight until they realized he was serious, he wanted out of this, one way or the other.

Surprisingly, they didn’t just kill him. Sometimes he wished they had. Instead they dropped him off at some street corner far away from home, almost as good as new, except for that last gift they had left him with.

They had taken the most important thing from him, the ultimate punishment. As far as Neal was concerned, his life was over.

It had been a long and excruciating walk home. He had no money, no phone, and he didn’t dare ask a police officer for help, as he wasn’t sure they wouldn’t shoot first and ask questions later.

He had collapsed at June’s front door. Having not eaten anything in days took its toll, and that’s when the frenzy of activity had set in. He was poked and prodded by doctors and almost wished himself back into the quiet of his cell sometimes. He hadn’t been his own man then, and he wasn’t his own man now. He had to suffer countless interrogations from the FBI, even though he was not able to tell them much. He had been unconscious on the trip; he might have been in another city for all he knew. And his kidnappers had been careful to never show their faces or even talk to him to avoid him identifying their voices. All of his instructions had been in writing. And they had made sure he did not keep any of those notes.

( Finally he was released from the hospital... )

Also posted at fanfiction.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10798745/1/

Also posted at AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2555972