White Collar Fic - The Language of Love
Dec. 20th, 2014 06:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: The Language of Love
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Peter/Elizabeth
Spoilers: All S6 episodes up to S6.05 – Whack-a-Mole
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Tiny angsty moment about pregnancy. Tiny angsty Neal moment.
Word Count: ~1100
Beta Credit:sinfulslasher
Summary: Peter and Elizabeth have their own special language.
A/N: Written for the fifth night of Fic-Can-Ukah, for my friendaragarna. She picked "Beyond the confines of ordinary language" and asked for a story featuring Peter and Elizabeth. Also, written before the series finale aired.
__________________
They've always had their own language, even beyond the shorthand for the deep love they shared. It was more than the looks between them that spoke as loud as any words: I want you, You've messed up, I'm sorry.
There was another language between them.
The first time they'd made love, Peter whispered one of Catullus' love poems to her. In Latin.
Soles occidere et redire possunt:
nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux,
nox est perpetua una dormienda.
da mi basia mille, deinde centum,
dein mille altera, dein secunda centum
She'd responded with one of Petrarch's sonnets to Laura, in Italian. Very badly mangled Italian. But Peter hadn't laughed. He hadn't corrected her. He'd just kissed her as if his soul's existence depended on the touch of her lips.
The next time, he'd whispered something that might have been Greek. She had replied in perfect French, quoting Proust, the most romantic thing she could remember from her college French classes. He'd looked at her, adoringly baffled. "I don't speak French."
She smiled and brushed her fingers against his cheek, relishing the slight scratchiness of his beard. "You don't have to. Your lips speak the language of love every time you say my name, every time you kiss me."
Peter blushed and ducked his head, her praise embarrassing him. They hadn't used the word "love" for what lay between them, but even in these early days, she knew that Peter held her heart.
"Actually, I do know a little French." He had recovered from his embarrassment, but his face was grave, his eyes intense.
"You do?"
Peter nodded. "Je t'aime, Elizabeth. Je t'aime."
Over the years, he'd said those words to her many times, and as many times as he said them, she longed to hear them again.
And thankfully, Peter never got tired of saying them. It was a part of their secret language. The words were so simple, they could be so banal, but they made her heart sing every time he uttered them. Elizabeth knew that when she would be a doddering old woman, barely able to hold a thought in her brain, she'd long to hear those words.
Elizabeth also knew that she might be a little smug about her marriage – at least to outsiders. She never worried that Peter would stray, or that he'd get bored with her, or that he'd long for someone new and different, someone who might be a little easier.
Her only worry about her marriage was the one that went to the core of who her husband was – an FBI agent. Of course, she worried about all the harm that could come to him in the course of his duties, but this worry was different. That he'd completely forget about her in his relentless pursuit of justice. Over the years, she had reconciled herself to occasionally coming in second to the job. There were forgotten dinners, forgotten birthdays and anniversaries, milestones in their lives that slipped by, unremarked, because Peter was, first and foremost, an FBI agent.
He'd forget and remember too late and he'd ask for forgiveness.
And she did forgive, because …
"Je t'aime, Elizabeth. Je t'aime."
The baby was, in modern parlance, a game-changer. Peter missed the sonogram – and yes, someone died – but in his relentless pursuit of justice, he had forgotten about her. She hated doing it, but she laid down her own law. Missed anniversaries and birthdays were one thing, but this was their child and he needed to come first.
Peter took her words to heart. And of course things were different now. Peter had made a decision, a hard one. But it was for the best and if Elizabeth ever had any doubts about what came first in Peter's life, she didn't have them now.
She sailed through her first trimester with some light morning sickness. By her second trimester, everyone said she was simply "blooming". And she was. She never felt better and if she was the type of woman who saw shadows at noon, she'd worry that things were going too well. But she didn't, her worries were confined to the usual things that pregnant women worried about.
Peter was wonderful. He was attentive and loving and he didn't smother her, as she thought he might. He didn't make any more jokes about tiny tracking anklets, though, and they both avoided that conversation. It was the only dark spot in their otherwise perfect life.
And every night, Peter held her and told her, "Je t'aime, Elizabeth. Je t'aime."
The third trimester was difficult. Something went a little wrong and then a whole lot wrong. Maybe Elizabeth should have seen the shadows, because she went into premature labor in the middle of her seventh month. If she wanted the baby to stay as close to full term as possible, she had to be on near-complete bed rest.
Having Peter home every day was a blessing beyond words. She didn't know how she would have managed.
She followed her doctor's orders and stayed in bed for six and a half weeks, letting Little Boy Burke cook as long as possible. Three weeks before her due date, her water broke and there was no turning back. Despite the weeks of drama and worry, her labor was relatively easy and free from complications. Neal William Burke arrived in the world wet and covered in goo and screaming at the indignity of it.
And through it all, Peter held her hand, told her when to breathe and whispered, "Je t'aime, Elizabeth. Je t'aime" even when she threatened to rip his balls off.
Two weeks after Neal was born, they'd settled into a routine. She cared for their son during the day and Peter took the night shift. Neal was a good baby, as unfussy as Satchmo, who'd taken to standing guard whenever she or Peter was out of the room.
Despite all of the bed rest and the relatively easy labor, Elizabeth was still exhausted. She fell asleep and stayed asleep, knowing that Peter would see to their son and wake her if he needed her.
But there were times at night when her recovering body made its needs known and she had to get up to take care of business. Nothing unusual or worrisome about that. Peter would wake briefly, ask if she needed anything and then fall back to sleep. Except for one night.
She was in the bathroom a little longer than usual, and when she came out, her bedroom light was on. So was the light in the nursery. Instead of going back to bed, she went to join Peter and Neal, needing to see them, needing to hold her son, and perhaps be held by her husband.
Elizabeth paused in the doorway and watched as Peter rocked their baby. At first, she thought Peter was singing to Neal, but then she recognized the softly spoken words,
"Je t'aime, mon fils. Je t'aime."
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Peter/Elizabeth
Spoilers: All S6 episodes up to S6.05 – Whack-a-Mole
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Tiny angsty moment about pregnancy. Tiny angsty Neal moment.
Word Count: ~1100
Beta Credit:
sinfulslasher Summary: Peter and Elizabeth have their own special language.
A/N: Written for the fifth night of Fic-Can-Ukah, for my friend
aragarna. She picked "Beyond the confines of ordinary language" and asked for a story featuring Peter and Elizabeth. Also, written before the series finale aired.They've always had their own language, even beyond the shorthand for the deep love they shared. It was more than the looks between them that spoke as loud as any words: I want you, You've messed up, I'm sorry.
There was another language between them.
The first time they'd made love, Peter whispered one of Catullus' love poems to her. In Latin.
nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux,
nox est perpetua una dormienda.
da mi basia mille, deinde centum,
dein mille altera, dein secunda centum
She'd responded with one of Petrarch's sonnets to Laura, in Italian. Very badly mangled Italian. But Peter hadn't laughed. He hadn't corrected her. He'd just kissed her as if his soul's existence depended on the touch of her lips.
The next time, he'd whispered something that might have been Greek. She had replied in perfect French, quoting Proust, the most romantic thing she could remember from her college French classes. He'd looked at her, adoringly baffled. "I don't speak French."
She smiled and brushed her fingers against his cheek, relishing the slight scratchiness of his beard. "You don't have to. Your lips speak the language of love every time you say my name, every time you kiss me."
Peter blushed and ducked his head, her praise embarrassing him. They hadn't used the word "love" for what lay between them, but even in these early days, she knew that Peter held her heart.
"Actually, I do know a little French." He had recovered from his embarrassment, but his face was grave, his eyes intense.
"You do?"
Peter nodded. "Je t'aime, Elizabeth. Je t'aime."
Over the years, he'd said those words to her many times, and as many times as he said them, she longed to hear them again.
And thankfully, Peter never got tired of saying them. It was a part of their secret language. The words were so simple, they could be so banal, but they made her heart sing every time he uttered them. Elizabeth knew that when she would be a doddering old woman, barely able to hold a thought in her brain, she'd long to hear those words.
Elizabeth also knew that she might be a little smug about her marriage – at least to outsiders. She never worried that Peter would stray, or that he'd get bored with her, or that he'd long for someone new and different, someone who might be a little easier.
Her only worry about her marriage was the one that went to the core of who her husband was – an FBI agent. Of course, she worried about all the harm that could come to him in the course of his duties, but this worry was different. That he'd completely forget about her in his relentless pursuit of justice. Over the years, she had reconciled herself to occasionally coming in second to the job. There were forgotten dinners, forgotten birthdays and anniversaries, milestones in their lives that slipped by, unremarked, because Peter was, first and foremost, an FBI agent.
He'd forget and remember too late and he'd ask for forgiveness.
And she did forgive, because …
"Je t'aime, Elizabeth. Je t'aime."
The baby was, in modern parlance, a game-changer. Peter missed the sonogram – and yes, someone died – but in his relentless pursuit of justice, he had forgotten about her. She hated doing it, but she laid down her own law. Missed anniversaries and birthdays were one thing, but this was their child and he needed to come first.
Peter took her words to heart. And of course things were different now. Peter had made a decision, a hard one. But it was for the best and if Elizabeth ever had any doubts about what came first in Peter's life, she didn't have them now.
She sailed through her first trimester with some light morning sickness. By her second trimester, everyone said she was simply "blooming". And she was. She never felt better and if she was the type of woman who saw shadows at noon, she'd worry that things were going too well. But she didn't, her worries were confined to the usual things that pregnant women worried about.
Peter was wonderful. He was attentive and loving and he didn't smother her, as she thought he might. He didn't make any more jokes about tiny tracking anklets, though, and they both avoided that conversation. It was the only dark spot in their otherwise perfect life.
And every night, Peter held her and told her, "Je t'aime, Elizabeth. Je t'aime."
The third trimester was difficult. Something went a little wrong and then a whole lot wrong. Maybe Elizabeth should have seen the shadows, because she went into premature labor in the middle of her seventh month. If she wanted the baby to stay as close to full term as possible, she had to be on near-complete bed rest.
Having Peter home every day was a blessing beyond words. She didn't know how she would have managed.
She followed her doctor's orders and stayed in bed for six and a half weeks, letting Little Boy Burke cook as long as possible. Three weeks before her due date, her water broke and there was no turning back. Despite the weeks of drama and worry, her labor was relatively easy and free from complications. Neal William Burke arrived in the world wet and covered in goo and screaming at the indignity of it.
And through it all, Peter held her hand, told her when to breathe and whispered, "Je t'aime, Elizabeth. Je t'aime" even when she threatened to rip his balls off.
Two weeks after Neal was born, they'd settled into a routine. She cared for their son during the day and Peter took the night shift. Neal was a good baby, as unfussy as Satchmo, who'd taken to standing guard whenever she or Peter was out of the room.
Despite all of the bed rest and the relatively easy labor, Elizabeth was still exhausted. She fell asleep and stayed asleep, knowing that Peter would see to their son and wake her if he needed her.
But there were times at night when her recovering body made its needs known and she had to get up to take care of business. Nothing unusual or worrisome about that. Peter would wake briefly, ask if she needed anything and then fall back to sleep. Except for one night.
She was in the bathroom a little longer than usual, and when she came out, her bedroom light was on. So was the light in the nursery. Instead of going back to bed, she went to join Peter and Neal, needing to see them, needing to hold her son, and perhaps be held by her husband.
Elizabeth paused in the doorway and watched as Peter rocked their baby. At first, she thought Peter was singing to Neal, but then she recognized the softly spoken words,
"Je t'aime, mon fils. Je t'aime."
