FIC : Passing Inspection (White Collar, PG-13)
I AM A BOSS.
Title : Passing Inspection
Fandom : White Collar
Characters/Pairing : Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke; pre-Neal/Peter
Rating : PG-13
Warnings : none.
Word Count : 1749
Summary : The theft of a painting provides Neal with the chance to fulfill an old promise; Peter worries what will happen if he takes it.
A/Ns : part five in the 'driven' verse-- parts one thru four here-- with peter pov this time! for the prompt "peter/neal, i can handle temptation" for smallfandomfest, though i didn't get it done in time to post this round of the fest. the westing gallery is not real, and loosely based on my memory of the isabella stewart gardiner museum in boston. x-posted to AO3 and whitecollarfic; many thanks to everyone who's given encouragement on the series so far, i've really loved and appreciated every single comment. and extra love to laulan for the usual stellar accomplice beta job. ♥
---
"I just don't get what the big deal is," Peter said finally, looking down at the painting laid flat on the desk. It was small, not even two feet across, and without the frame it seemed dwarfed by the size of the oak and mahogany surface on which it sat.
"You're kidding, right?" Neal stood next to him, almost shoulder to shoulder, touching one corner of the painting with a white-gloved hand and giving Peter a look of incredulous disdain. "I mean, you're just messing with me, and it's not very funny to joke about--"
Peter leveled his best unimpressed eyebrow Neal's way, shutting him up. "Why would I joke about this?"
Neal shrugged, simultaneously rolling his eyes and not taking them off the painting. "I just didn't think even you could be so blase about standing in the presence of a masterpiece like this."
"I thought we'd already established I have no appreciation for art," Peter pointed out. It wasn't his thing; it was Elle's, and it was Neal's, and Peter was happy to leave them to it.
Neal waved his hand in Peter's face. "A blind person could appreciate how cool this is, Peter. Don't be deliberately obtuse."
Peter shrugged, unconcerned. "Well someone's got to act rational about this," he said. "It may be a masterpiece but it's still evidence, potentially dangerous evidence at that." They'd found their stolen painting, but the thief himself was nowhere to be seen, and it was a long four hours back to the Manhattan field office with two million dollars of art in the backseat. Anything could happen. Peter was just praying it wouldn't.
Neal rolled his eyes again. "Well I'm sorry I'm not afraid for my life," he said, the words dripping with 'you're overreacting' vibes. "I'm actually touching a Philippe Toulour, I'm pretty sure if Marcus's goons came through that door guns blazing I'd still die happy."
Peter didn't enjoy the way his insides clenched at the thought of that actually happening (though on the other hand, it wouldn't be the first time Neal had almost given him an ulcer with his recklessness), and if his voice was harsher than necessary, he didn't really care. "You should be glad I'm concerned. We could both end up in trouble otherwise-- would you stop it?" he interrupted himself, turning to face Neal with a stern expression. "You're practically bouncing."
Neal stepped back a bit, but left his hand on the corner of the painting, like he couldn't bring himself to pull it away. He ran a hand through his hair and shrugged, unapologetic. "I can't help it, Peter. This is a really big deal to me."
Peter knew it was a big deal. He wished he didn't know that Neal had once spent a month in Montreal trying to steal this painting. He also wished he didn't know that during Neal's second year in prison, Kate Moreau had spent nine weeks flying to and from the south of Greece, presumably for the same reason.
The list of things Peter wished he didn't know about Neal was growing, and it was getting pretty annoying trying to be friends with someone who was really two people-- Neal the con man, about whom Peter knew almost everything, and Neal the regular person, about whom Peter knew almost nothing. At least, that was how it felt most days, and that annoyed him too.
Thinking about it wasn't going to improve his mood, though, so he reined himself in. Now was definitely not the time for brooding, especially not when he had to spend extra time coercing Neal into acting like a grownup for the next few hours. Resisting the urge to grab Neal by the chin, he angled himself into Neal's line of vision until he had his attention. "Try not to act like it's Christmas come early, okay?" he said, letting some of his tension seep into his voice and hanging onto eye contact for all he was worth. "You keep obsessing like this, I'll have to start being suspicious."
Neal didn't step back like Peter expected, but he drew up to his full height, eyebrows as high as they could go. "Of what?" he demanded. "Of me? Peter, you can't think--"
"I think of everything," Peter interrupted, "that's how I caught you twice, remember?" Cheap shot, maybe, but it hadn't stopped making him smile yet.
"Come on, give me a little credit here," Neal protested, spreading his hands wide.
Peter shook his head. "Nope."
He thought about stepping back; this was starting to look like a real confrontation, and he didn't want it to become one. But then Neal smirked at him, smug and bemused, and Peter could've sworn Neal leaned in towards him as he challenged, "What do you even think I'd do?"
After a pause, Peter admitted, "I don't know-- and I don't want either of us to find out."
That was the end of it, as Cruz and a couple of junior agents came in with the transport crates. There were four, three of them decoys in case the house was still being watched. There was no time for the local FBI archivist to drive down and handle the painting, so Neal had to do the honors himself. Peter stood to the side, watching as Neal took the roll of glassine paper from Cruz without so much as a smile. Now he was working; Peter could see it in the furrow between his eyebrows, the focus in his eyes.
Neal moved to stand in front of the painting, and his face changed. The look of reverence as he folded the thick waxy paper over the face of the painting was pure and intimate, and it twisted hotly through Peter's stomach. He knew he should look away, but couldn't make his eyes move; everything seemed to slow down and freeze that image in his mind, of Neal's blue eyes wide and awestruck, his face a little flushed, lower lip caught between his teeth as he lifted the painting and slipped spacers onto the corners.
Then Neal turned toward him and the moment was over, his face shuttered again, adoration replaced with the easy confidence Peter was so familiar with. Neal slid the painting into one of the crates and watched Cruz seal it up again. "Put that one in our car," he told her, and when she looked to Peter for confirmation he nodded right away.
They were almost halfway home before Neal gave up on small talk and went back to the conversation Peter had known wasn't even close to over. "What bugs you more," he asked, half turning in his seat to take in both Peter and the painting on the back seat with one glance, "that I might try to steal it or that I might get away with it right under your nose?"
Peter snorted. "You wouldn't get away with it."
"But if I did," he insisted. "Would it bother you more that I'd stolen something or that I'd done it with you right here?"
Flustered by the question and annoyed with himself for letting Neal get under his skin, he snapped his eyes back to the road and said quickly, "Either. Both. I don't know, Neal, why does it matter? Are you going to steal it?"
Turning away to face forward again, Neal laid his head back against the headrest and shut his eyes, the corner of his mouth turned up. "I guess you'll have to wait and see."
Two days later it was Saturday, and in the middle of the basketball game Peter's cell went off. It was Jones. "He's outside his radius, but he's been in the same place for two hours. You want me to...?"
"No, I'm on it. What's the address?" Jones recited it and Peter had to smother a laugh. When he pulled up outside the Westing gallery half an hour later he sat in his car for a minute before he got out, thinking.
He took a map from the docent and made his way to the third floor. The second room on the left was unoccupied except for Neal, sitting on a bench across from Summer on the River by Philippe Toulour, restored to its rightful place that morning. He sat leaning back on his hands, and didn't twitch when Peter entered.
It was a beautiful painting, he had to admit. He could understand loving it, wanting to look at it every day. Like most things Neal loved-- like most things Neal stole-- it was one of a kind.
"Kate first showed it to me when we lived in Rouen for a summer," Neal said softly, not turning around. "It was one of her favorites. I used to tell her I'd steal it for her someday."
"But-- you didn't," Peter said, feeling clumsy. He hated talking about Kate, hated thinking about her, hated how badly he wanted her to go away and how angry she made him for not doing it. Mostly he hated admitting he'd gotten so protective of Neal that anyone who threatened him made Peter see red.
"No." Neal got slowly to his feet and came around the bench to stand in front of Peter, between him and the painting. His hands were in his pockets and his shoulders were straight, and he met Peter's gaze and held it for a moment that dragged on into a minute that dragged on into two, until Peter's palms itched and a trickle of adrenaline threaded its way through him. Staring contest, he thought, Don't blink or look away. He didn't know if that was an accurate assessment of the challenge he saw in Neal's eyes, but it was the first and easiest thing he could think of.
"I can resist temptation, Peter," Neal said finally, quiet and thick with feeling.
He brushed past Peter and headed for the door. As he passed out into the open center of the house and started down the stairs, Peter could hear him start to whistle.
After a minute or so had gone by, Peter sat down on the bench in front of the Toulour, staring at it in unsettled contemplation. He felt more than ever like he'd never learn to read Neal the person as well as he read Neal the con-man. The line between the two was definitely starting to blur, and the resulting gray area was going to be hard as hell to navigate without drowning.
Title : Passing Inspection
Fandom : White Collar
Characters/Pairing : Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke; pre-Neal/Peter
Rating : PG-13
Warnings : none.
Word Count : 1749
Summary : The theft of a painting provides Neal with the chance to fulfill an old promise; Peter worries what will happen if he takes it.
A/Ns : part five in the 'driven' verse-- parts one thru four here-- with peter pov this time! for the prompt "peter/neal, i can handle temptation" for smallfandomfest, though i didn't get it done in time to post this round of the fest. the westing gallery is not real, and loosely based on my memory of the isabella stewart gardiner museum in boston. x-posted to AO3 and whitecollarfic; many thanks to everyone who's given encouragement on the series so far, i've really loved and appreciated every single comment. and extra love to laulan for the usual stellar accomplice beta job. ♥
---
"I just don't get what the big deal is," Peter said finally, looking down at the painting laid flat on the desk. It was small, not even two feet across, and without the frame it seemed dwarfed by the size of the oak and mahogany surface on which it sat.
"You're kidding, right?" Neal stood next to him, almost shoulder to shoulder, touching one corner of the painting with a white-gloved hand and giving Peter a look of incredulous disdain. "I mean, you're just messing with me, and it's not very funny to joke about--"
Peter leveled his best unimpressed eyebrow Neal's way, shutting him up. "Why would I joke about this?"
Neal shrugged, simultaneously rolling his eyes and not taking them off the painting. "I just didn't think even you could be so blase about standing in the presence of a masterpiece like this."
"I thought we'd already established I have no appreciation for art," Peter pointed out. It wasn't his thing; it was Elle's, and it was Neal's, and Peter was happy to leave them to it.
Neal waved his hand in Peter's face. "A blind person could appreciate how cool this is, Peter. Don't be deliberately obtuse."
Peter shrugged, unconcerned. "Well someone's got to act rational about this," he said. "It may be a masterpiece but it's still evidence, potentially dangerous evidence at that." They'd found their stolen painting, but the thief himself was nowhere to be seen, and it was a long four hours back to the Manhattan field office with two million dollars of art in the backseat. Anything could happen. Peter was just praying it wouldn't.
Neal rolled his eyes again. "Well I'm sorry I'm not afraid for my life," he said, the words dripping with 'you're overreacting' vibes. "I'm actually touching a Philippe Toulour, I'm pretty sure if Marcus's goons came through that door guns blazing I'd still die happy."
Peter didn't enjoy the way his insides clenched at the thought of that actually happening (though on the other hand, it wouldn't be the first time Neal had almost given him an ulcer with his recklessness), and if his voice was harsher than necessary, he didn't really care. "You should be glad I'm concerned. We could both end up in trouble otherwise-- would you stop it?" he interrupted himself, turning to face Neal with a stern expression. "You're practically bouncing."
Neal stepped back a bit, but left his hand on the corner of the painting, like he couldn't bring himself to pull it away. He ran a hand through his hair and shrugged, unapologetic. "I can't help it, Peter. This is a really big deal to me."
Peter knew it was a big deal. He wished he didn't know that Neal had once spent a month in Montreal trying to steal this painting. He also wished he didn't know that during Neal's second year in prison, Kate Moreau had spent nine weeks flying to and from the south of Greece, presumably for the same reason.
The list of things Peter wished he didn't know about Neal was growing, and it was getting pretty annoying trying to be friends with someone who was really two people-- Neal the con man, about whom Peter knew almost everything, and Neal the regular person, about whom Peter knew almost nothing. At least, that was how it felt most days, and that annoyed him too.
Thinking about it wasn't going to improve his mood, though, so he reined himself in. Now was definitely not the time for brooding, especially not when he had to spend extra time coercing Neal into acting like a grownup for the next few hours. Resisting the urge to grab Neal by the chin, he angled himself into Neal's line of vision until he had his attention. "Try not to act like it's Christmas come early, okay?" he said, letting some of his tension seep into his voice and hanging onto eye contact for all he was worth. "You keep obsessing like this, I'll have to start being suspicious."
Neal didn't step back like Peter expected, but he drew up to his full height, eyebrows as high as they could go. "Of what?" he demanded. "Of me? Peter, you can't think--"
"I think of everything," Peter interrupted, "that's how I caught you twice, remember?" Cheap shot, maybe, but it hadn't stopped making him smile yet.
"Come on, give me a little credit here," Neal protested, spreading his hands wide.
Peter shook his head. "Nope."
He thought about stepping back; this was starting to look like a real confrontation, and he didn't want it to become one. But then Neal smirked at him, smug and bemused, and Peter could've sworn Neal leaned in towards him as he challenged, "What do you even think I'd do?"
After a pause, Peter admitted, "I don't know-- and I don't want either of us to find out."
That was the end of it, as Cruz and a couple of junior agents came in with the transport crates. There were four, three of them decoys in case the house was still being watched. There was no time for the local FBI archivist to drive down and handle the painting, so Neal had to do the honors himself. Peter stood to the side, watching as Neal took the roll of glassine paper from Cruz without so much as a smile. Now he was working; Peter could see it in the furrow between his eyebrows, the focus in his eyes.
Neal moved to stand in front of the painting, and his face changed. The look of reverence as he folded the thick waxy paper over the face of the painting was pure and intimate, and it twisted hotly through Peter's stomach. He knew he should look away, but couldn't make his eyes move; everything seemed to slow down and freeze that image in his mind, of Neal's blue eyes wide and awestruck, his face a little flushed, lower lip caught between his teeth as he lifted the painting and slipped spacers onto the corners.
Then Neal turned toward him and the moment was over, his face shuttered again, adoration replaced with the easy confidence Peter was so familiar with. Neal slid the painting into one of the crates and watched Cruz seal it up again. "Put that one in our car," he told her, and when she looked to Peter for confirmation he nodded right away.
They were almost halfway home before Neal gave up on small talk and went back to the conversation Peter had known wasn't even close to over. "What bugs you more," he asked, half turning in his seat to take in both Peter and the painting on the back seat with one glance, "that I might try to steal it or that I might get away with it right under your nose?"
Peter snorted. "You wouldn't get away with it."
"But if I did," he insisted. "Would it bother you more that I'd stolen something or that I'd done it with you right here?"
Flustered by the question and annoyed with himself for letting Neal get under his skin, he snapped his eyes back to the road and said quickly, "Either. Both. I don't know, Neal, why does it matter? Are you going to steal it?"
Turning away to face forward again, Neal laid his head back against the headrest and shut his eyes, the corner of his mouth turned up. "I guess you'll have to wait and see."
Two days later it was Saturday, and in the middle of the basketball game Peter's cell went off. It was Jones. "He's outside his radius, but he's been in the same place for two hours. You want me to...?"
"No, I'm on it. What's the address?" Jones recited it and Peter had to smother a laugh. When he pulled up outside the Westing gallery half an hour later he sat in his car for a minute before he got out, thinking.
He took a map from the docent and made his way to the third floor. The second room on the left was unoccupied except for Neal, sitting on a bench across from Summer on the River by Philippe Toulour, restored to its rightful place that morning. He sat leaning back on his hands, and didn't twitch when Peter entered.
It was a beautiful painting, he had to admit. He could understand loving it, wanting to look at it every day. Like most things Neal loved-- like most things Neal stole-- it was one of a kind.
"Kate first showed it to me when we lived in Rouen for a summer," Neal said softly, not turning around. "It was one of her favorites. I used to tell her I'd steal it for her someday."
"But-- you didn't," Peter said, feeling clumsy. He hated talking about Kate, hated thinking about her, hated how badly he wanted her to go away and how angry she made him for not doing it. Mostly he hated admitting he'd gotten so protective of Neal that anyone who threatened him made Peter see red.
"No." Neal got slowly to his feet and came around the bench to stand in front of Peter, between him and the painting. His hands were in his pockets and his shoulders were straight, and he met Peter's gaze and held it for a moment that dragged on into a minute that dragged on into two, until Peter's palms itched and a trickle of adrenaline threaded its way through him. Staring contest, he thought, Don't blink or look away. He didn't know if that was an accurate assessment of the challenge he saw in Neal's eyes, but it was the first and easiest thing he could think of.
"I can resist temptation, Peter," Neal said finally, quiet and thick with feeling.
He brushed past Peter and headed for the door. As he passed out into the open center of the house and started down the stairs, Peter could hear him start to whistle.
After a minute or so had gone by, Peter sat down on the bench in front of the Toulour, staring at it in unsettled contemplation. He felt more than ever like he'd never learn to read Neal the person as well as he read Neal the con-man. The line between the two was definitely starting to blur, and the resulting gray area was going to be hard as hell to navigate without drowning.