OH MY GOD I CAN'T STOP WRITING WHITE COLLAR FIC
This plot bunny infestation has got to be bad for my health.
SERIOUSLY. SOMEBODY STOP ME.
Title: Insomnia's Net Worth
Rating: PG?
Pairing: Neal/Peter, offscreen Neal/Peter/El
Spoilers: Nope. The things that are referenced therein are of my own musing, not from an episode you may have missed :D
Warnings: Be warned: I HAVE WRITTEN TOO MUCH WHITE COLLAR FIC THIS WEEK. Also, I kind of cobbled together the art stuff from what I, um, vaguely remember from a few classes in high school. Sorry.
Summary: In which Peter can't sleep, and Neal's late night television habits leave something to be desired.
Peter woke suddenly, starting with it. He couldn't...quite...remember--a vague image of the man who had shot him was already slipping out of his mental focus, like smoke. Instinctively, he glanced first to his left, where El usually slept, before recalling that she was still in Boston for that gala.
Then he looked to his right, where Neal, by all rights, should have been, and discovered that spot was vacant as well.
"What is the point," he muttered grouchily, "of adopting a second bedmate if you're going to wake up alone?" Yawning, he stretched--the still healing flesh from the bullet wound screamed at him, and he told it firmly to shut up. Then he stood and made his way downstairs, knowing, despite himself, where he was likely to find Neal.
He wasn't mistaken. Neal was stretched out on the couch, wearing those coke-bottle glasses he never took out of the house and one of Peter's old sweatshirts, staring at the television. Peter couldn't help but smile--Neal looked ridiculous. He cleared his throat as he stepped off the last stair, and Neal jerked his head, startled.
"Hey," he said, softly, surprised. Then he hit the mute button on the remote and added "You're supposed to be in bed."
"You're supposed to be in prison," Peter returned, "and yet, here we are." Neal just gave him a chastising look, and Peter yawned and made a scooting motion with his hand. Neal sat up and moved over, and Peter sank into the couch next to him. "Woke myself up," he admitted, "and then the bed was empty. Couldn't go back to sleep." He hadn't really tried all that hard, but there wasn't any point in telling Caffrey that.
Neal made a soft tutting noise. "Bullet holes don't close up on their own, you know."
"I didn't get up to go for a run, if that's what you're worried about." He leaned against Neal, who sighed and raised his arm, allowing Peter to stretch out and place his head on one of Neal's legs.
He was not putting his head in Neal's lap, of course. That would be horrifying. Still, this was very comfortable. He made a soft humming noise of pleasure and said "Mind if I watch with you for a minute?"
Neal raised an eyebrow. "Don't have much of a choice, do I?" he said, but he was smiling. He pressed the mute button again, and sound flowed back into the room. "You're not going to like the show."
Peter opened one already-closed eye and peered blearily at the television. "Neal," he said, slowly, "are you watching Antiques Roadshow?"
Neal laughed. "No one's making you watch it."
Peter opened his mouth to argue, realized that was true, and made an petulant little sound anyway. Neal laughed again, and ran his fingers idly through Peter's hair.
It was...really very comfortable, laying like this, warm from Neal's thigh and from the blanket he'd pulled from the back of the couch. He was just considering falling asleep again when Neal's voice, soft and slow, drifted down to him.
"That woman's scamming them," he said, and Peter opened his eyes to see a woman talking animatedly about a large wooden chest in front of her.
"Hmm?" he asked. Neal grinned, his eyes gleaming.
"She's saying that's 14th century baroque," he said, "and it's a passable impression. But see the inward curves to the corners? That's not 14th century, more like 16th, except that the rest of the piece doesn't fit with 16th century work at all. It's a forgery; not a very good one, either."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "You watch this show to catch people passing fakes?"
"Simple pleasures," Neal said, waving a hand. Peter sighed, closed his eyes again, and burrowed himself a little deeper under the blanket.
"That's just adorable," he murmured, trying for sarcasm and falling rather short. Neal chuckled, a light, quiet sound.
"You must be really tired," he said softly. Peter nodded against his leg, and Neal stopped talking.
He wasn't sure how long it had been when Neal said, suddenly, "I was on this show once."
"I can just see it," Peter muttered. He affected a very bad impression of Neal's slightly higher tone and said "'This is classic 3rd century etching. The brushstrokes on the upper left quadrant demonstrate the artist's commitment to--'"
"I was a kid," Neal interrupted him, smiling. "And I don't sound like that."
"Yes you do," Peter argued. "Bet you always have."
"I was eleven," Neal murmured.
"Eleven-year-olds can be obnoxious too." Peter stretched again, a little too hard, and it hurt. "Fuck," he hissed, before he could stop himself, and Neal's hand in his hair stilled at once.
"Peter," he started, "you should really--"
"Don't even try to send me back up," Peter snapped. He was comfortable, goddamn it, and the idea of spending all the effort to go up the stairs only to climb into an empty bed wasn't one he relished. "I'm fine. Just pulled at it a little."
"You are so much easier to deal with when El's in town," Neal muttered, but he resumed running his hand through Peter's hair. Peter sighed contentedly.
"So tell me about your brush with fame."
"Which one?"
Peter rolled his eyes. "The one on this show, genius."
Neal smiled absently. "I read a lot of art books when I was a kid," he said. Peter thought about pointing out that this wasn't exactly the story he'd asked for, but he really was awfully tired. "In the library. It was...quiet, there." He shrugged; Peter felt the motion of his body and leaned into it without meaning to. "I thought it was interesting."
"Mmm," Peter mumbled. Neal's hand drifted from Peter's hair to his back, rubbing small circles, careful to avoid the spot near his right hip where the bullet wound was healing.
"Anyway," he continued, "when I was eleven, I was placed with a family in Queens, and the show came through right after." Peter frowned against his leg--he remembered, vaguely, knowing that Neal had spent some of his childhood in the system. It was just--well, the Neal he'd gotten to know from files and records and the Neal whose leg his head was resting on seemed like different people most of the time.
Neal smiled--Peter could hear it in his voice. "Helen, the mom--she took me to the show with her because I told her I liked it. And they were going to give her $500 for this Ming vase she'd brought and I--" he laughed, and paused. "God, I was obnoxious," he admitted. "I told them that the flowering on the bottom right corner wasn't consistent with the rest of the work, and I was right." He ran his hand back up into Peter's hair almost absently, and Peter shivered.
"Her son, Ryan....she told him she'd buy him a new lacrosse stick if she made any money." He laughed again, a low chuckle, huffing faintly into the quiet room. "He beat this shit out of me for that."
Peter frowned again. Neal didn't sound particularly broken up about it, or even like he was covering being broken up about it--Peter had gotten pretty good at noticing that. Still, it wasn't the world's most pleasant memory, and he wanted to do something.
"Knew you were an annoying even when you were eleven," he murmured, and hoped it would be enough.
"Smart man," Neal said. "Got me dead to rights."
"Every time," Peter answered. He was...definitely going to fall asleep, and when Neal started talking again--about the reasons that brooch wasn't worth as much as the appraiser thought--he let himself drift on the sound.
"These people never know how to really look at what's in front of them," Neal said, a soft reassurance in his voice, and Peter slept.
SERIOUSLY. SOMEBODY STOP ME.
Title: Insomnia's Net Worth
Rating: PG?
Pairing: Neal/Peter, offscreen Neal/Peter/El
Spoilers: Nope. The things that are referenced therein are of my own musing, not from an episode you may have missed :D
Warnings: Be warned: I HAVE WRITTEN TOO MUCH WHITE COLLAR FIC THIS WEEK. Also, I kind of cobbled together the art stuff from what I, um, vaguely remember from a few classes in high school. Sorry.
Summary: In which Peter can't sleep, and Neal's late night television habits leave something to be desired.
Peter woke suddenly, starting with it. He couldn't...quite...remember--a vague image of the man who had shot him was already slipping out of his mental focus, like smoke. Instinctively, he glanced first to his left, where El usually slept, before recalling that she was still in Boston for that gala.
Then he looked to his right, where Neal, by all rights, should have been, and discovered that spot was vacant as well.
"What is the point," he muttered grouchily, "of adopting a second bedmate if you're going to wake up alone?" Yawning, he stretched--the still healing flesh from the bullet wound screamed at him, and he told it firmly to shut up. Then he stood and made his way downstairs, knowing, despite himself, where he was likely to find Neal.
He wasn't mistaken. Neal was stretched out on the couch, wearing those coke-bottle glasses he never took out of the house and one of Peter's old sweatshirts, staring at the television. Peter couldn't help but smile--Neal looked ridiculous. He cleared his throat as he stepped off the last stair, and Neal jerked his head, startled.
"Hey," he said, softly, surprised. Then he hit the mute button on the remote and added "You're supposed to be in bed."
"You're supposed to be in prison," Peter returned, "and yet, here we are." Neal just gave him a chastising look, and Peter yawned and made a scooting motion with his hand. Neal sat up and moved over, and Peter sank into the couch next to him. "Woke myself up," he admitted, "and then the bed was empty. Couldn't go back to sleep." He hadn't really tried all that hard, but there wasn't any point in telling Caffrey that.
Neal made a soft tutting noise. "Bullet holes don't close up on their own, you know."
"I didn't get up to go for a run, if that's what you're worried about." He leaned against Neal, who sighed and raised his arm, allowing Peter to stretch out and place his head on one of Neal's legs.
He was not putting his head in Neal's lap, of course. That would be horrifying. Still, this was very comfortable. He made a soft humming noise of pleasure and said "Mind if I watch with you for a minute?"
Neal raised an eyebrow. "Don't have much of a choice, do I?" he said, but he was smiling. He pressed the mute button again, and sound flowed back into the room. "You're not going to like the show."
Peter opened one already-closed eye and peered blearily at the television. "Neal," he said, slowly, "are you watching Antiques Roadshow?"
Neal laughed. "No one's making you watch it."
Peter opened his mouth to argue, realized that was true, and made an petulant little sound anyway. Neal laughed again, and ran his fingers idly through Peter's hair.
It was...really very comfortable, laying like this, warm from Neal's thigh and from the blanket he'd pulled from the back of the couch. He was just considering falling asleep again when Neal's voice, soft and slow, drifted down to him.
"That woman's scamming them," he said, and Peter opened his eyes to see a woman talking animatedly about a large wooden chest in front of her.
"Hmm?" he asked. Neal grinned, his eyes gleaming.
"She's saying that's 14th century baroque," he said, "and it's a passable impression. But see the inward curves to the corners? That's not 14th century, more like 16th, except that the rest of the piece doesn't fit with 16th century work at all. It's a forgery; not a very good one, either."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "You watch this show to catch people passing fakes?"
"Simple pleasures," Neal said, waving a hand. Peter sighed, closed his eyes again, and burrowed himself a little deeper under the blanket.
"That's just adorable," he murmured, trying for sarcasm and falling rather short. Neal chuckled, a light, quiet sound.
"You must be really tired," he said softly. Peter nodded against his leg, and Neal stopped talking.
He wasn't sure how long it had been when Neal said, suddenly, "I was on this show once."
"I can just see it," Peter muttered. He affected a very bad impression of Neal's slightly higher tone and said "'This is classic 3rd century etching. The brushstrokes on the upper left quadrant demonstrate the artist's commitment to--'"
"I was a kid," Neal interrupted him, smiling. "And I don't sound like that."
"Yes you do," Peter argued. "Bet you always have."
"I was eleven," Neal murmured.
"Eleven-year-olds can be obnoxious too." Peter stretched again, a little too hard, and it hurt. "Fuck," he hissed, before he could stop himself, and Neal's hand in his hair stilled at once.
"Peter," he started, "you should really--"
"Don't even try to send me back up," Peter snapped. He was comfortable, goddamn it, and the idea of spending all the effort to go up the stairs only to climb into an empty bed wasn't one he relished. "I'm fine. Just pulled at it a little."
"You are so much easier to deal with when El's in town," Neal muttered, but he resumed running his hand through Peter's hair. Peter sighed contentedly.
"So tell me about your brush with fame."
"Which one?"
Peter rolled his eyes. "The one on this show, genius."
Neal smiled absently. "I read a lot of art books when I was a kid," he said. Peter thought about pointing out that this wasn't exactly the story he'd asked for, but he really was awfully tired. "In the library. It was...quiet, there." He shrugged; Peter felt the motion of his body and leaned into it without meaning to. "I thought it was interesting."
"Mmm," Peter mumbled. Neal's hand drifted from Peter's hair to his back, rubbing small circles, careful to avoid the spot near his right hip where the bullet wound was healing.
"Anyway," he continued, "when I was eleven, I was placed with a family in Queens, and the show came through right after." Peter frowned against his leg--he remembered, vaguely, knowing that Neal had spent some of his childhood in the system. It was just--well, the Neal he'd gotten to know from files and records and the Neal whose leg his head was resting on seemed like different people most of the time.
Neal smiled--Peter could hear it in his voice. "Helen, the mom--she took me to the show with her because I told her I liked it. And they were going to give her $500 for this Ming vase she'd brought and I--" he laughed, and paused. "God, I was obnoxious," he admitted. "I told them that the flowering on the bottom right corner wasn't consistent with the rest of the work, and I was right." He ran his hand back up into Peter's hair almost absently, and Peter shivered.
"Her son, Ryan....she told him she'd buy him a new lacrosse stick if she made any money." He laughed again, a low chuckle, huffing faintly into the quiet room. "He beat this shit out of me for that."
Peter frowned again. Neal didn't sound particularly broken up about it, or even like he was covering being broken up about it--Peter had gotten pretty good at noticing that. Still, it wasn't the world's most pleasant memory, and he wanted to do something.
"Knew you were an annoying even when you were eleven," he murmured, and hoped it would be enough.
"Smart man," Neal said. "Got me dead to rights."
"Every time," Peter answered. He was...definitely going to fall asleep, and when Neal started talking again--about the reasons that brooch wasn't worth as much as the appraiser thought--he let himself drift on the sound.
"These people never know how to really look at what's in front of them," Neal said, a soft reassurance in his voice, and Peter slept.