There Once Was a Dashing Young Thief
Title: There Once Was a Dashing Young Thief
A/N: written for the run the con challenge with the prompt ( blankets )
Author: hurinhouse
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: G
Characters: Peter, Neal
Summary: Capes, warmth, and hiding places all come from one source.
Disclaimer: Entirely fiction
Spoilers: set sometime after Diminishing Returns
1,348 words
"You're smothering me, P'ter."
Neal's hands are the only part Peter can see. It reminds him of Sunday school and he bites back a laugh. "Quiet or I'll rap your knuckles."
The squirming stops for a moment and he just knows Neal's brow is raised in question beneath the blanket.
"So… you were a headmaster in another life?"
"Seeing that you're a 35 year old teenager in this life, I think it fits."
He's surprised he can understand Neal given how drunk the man is. Maybe that's a testament to how far gone Peter is, as well.
"How's Elizabeth able to hold you up?"
"If you'd keep still I'd be done by now."
"Could I at least breathe?" Neal's wiggling tickles this time so he pushes him further into the floor in retaliation. He does pull the blanket back from Neal's face, though. Playing peek-a-boo with Neal Caffrey at 1:00 am. Who would've thunk?
"'kay, I'm good."
"Not hypothermic anymore then?"
"Claustrophobic now."
Sure. Peter finishes pouring for them both and pushes off of Neal for the third time tonight, sitting back on his own side again. He's careful not to bump his head against the table this time.
"You didn't mind the nurse manhandling you."
"Her curves fit in the right spots. Yours, not so much."
"You shouldn’t be hoarding the bottle then. Your turn."
He knows damned well why the bottle's on the other side of Neal, but Neal would never actually ask for the warmth he needs. Enter Peter the Boy Scout, delivering recurrent body checks in the guise of drunken camaraderie to salvage Neal's pride.
The hypothermia had been mild and it'd been hours since they'd warmed Neal's core so he'd given in when Neal had insisted on a drink. A bottle and a half later and they're under the table in Fort Caffrey, blankets blocking the floodlights coming from the construction site across the street. Peter's not the one slurring, but he's not driving home any time soon, either.
"How long have you had your own Hollywood stage out there?"
Even with the darkest blanket on the terrace side of the table, Neal's silhouette is distinctive. Straight nose, hair a mop. His hand emerges from the cashmere throw he's cocooned in and he picks up a little white disc.
"They've turned them off by 9:00 all the other nights. Must be behind schedule. Did you eat all the pretzels?"
Neal places his disc in a spot Peter hadn't noticed, then flips eleven black discs over to white. Peter'd thought a mostly sober Burke could beat a quite drunk Caffrey at a board game but apparently even impaired Caffreys are savants.
"A new park pavilion is that urgent?"
"S'alright, easier to see the game."
"If you had curtains in this greenhouse we wouldn't need to hide on the hard floor behind blankets in the first place."
"We wouldn’t need t' brandy either but why suck the fun from absolutely everything, Agent Burke?"
Peter could argue with this sloshed logic but instead he scrambles out of the safety zone, past the Batman blanket he'd meant to ask about, and scrounges through Neal's fridge.
Mmmm he has pecan praline. Dairy's probably not a good mix with their stomachs right now, though. And who keeps homemade bruschetta ready to go in the fridge?
"There once was a dashing young thieffff.. "
Oh Geez. Neal's farther gone than he'd thought.
"Gave a bored FBI agent grief… "
But there's French bread on the counter so Peter can deal.
The agent was spiteful,
Till he learned the thief is delightful,
Now his time on the job's a relief."
Peter chuckles as he wedges his way back into the fort, "Delightful, huh?"
"Can't argue wi' the facts, Peter." Neal lowers his blanket again, takes another swallow and grabs for the bread.
"You know, brandy doesn't actually make you warmer. It's a myth."
"Moz's does."
"Mozzie makes his own?… never mind. Neal, you're an authority at everything but fighting. You don't know simple science?"
He laughs, Neal freaking laughs at him, head lolling back and rambling about secret ingredients and Peter's not sure Neal needs any more alcohol if Mozzie's going to seep out of his ears. Time to sober up a bit and get to the reason they're here...
"So, what happened out there?"
"Where?"
"You're a good swimmer, Neal."
Neal shrugs, "Must've swallowed some water."
"You were comatose, not coughing. Well... at first."
"Bit of an exaggeration."
It had looked to Peter like Neal was catatonic for the first three seconds as he fell off the barge into the East River. Then he hit the water. He'd never seen Neal Caffrey panicked. Peter had lost the smugglers in favor of getting help to Neal.
"Neal, I need to know if I should keep you away from water."
"Juss staying in character. George Devore can't swim."
"Diana's afraid of heights."
Silence. "Okay. Tha's not at all random."
"She's dealt with it, but if there's a choice and another agent can do the job, I'll have her sit out."
"I'm sure that goes over well."
"Oh yeah. I get a Hallmark thank you every time."
"I bet," Neal snorts. "It was nothing, Peter."
"It was something today."
"Your turn."
Peter sighs, surveys the board. Normally he excels at games, but his brain is fuzzy and the most interesting puzzle's on the other side of the fort. He turns four whites to black.
"Mom wanted to take me on one of those riverboat cruises on the Mississippi."
Peter can't see his face and he knows now why Neal insisted on sitting with his back to the light.
"I musta been six or seven. Sounded like fun and I couldn't figure out why Ellen argued 'bout it till later. But Mom'd been good the few weeks before that, so Ellen gave in."
Neal takes another hit of brandy. "Mom was a little out of it, we got too close to the railing… " He shrugs.
"You went over."
Neal nods. "I looked up from the water, saw her leaning against the railing, calling to the deck for someone named 'Neal'. 'blivious. That was the first thing I thought of when Ellen told me my real name years later."
"Somebody must have seen you."
"One of the crew jumped in. He was a hero, I was smothered in blankets, and together we were the potential story of the week."
"Your mom?"
Neal's head barely shakes but it's obvious he's not going to elaborate on her. "Ellen was at the pier when we got to shore, punched a reporter and took his camera."
"Publicity. The enemy of WitSec."
"Didn't let me out of her sight for days."
Neal reaches over and plays his last disc, turning more than three-fourths of the board white.
"Wait. That row didn't… " Ah hell. He's probably been cheating all along. He probably does it unconsciously. Peter's back digs into the table leg behind him. Hopefully El will give him a massage in the morning.
"So, Batman?"
Neal's eyes swing to the blanket behind Peter and he can see the man's face widening into that grin… "The Caped Crusader is a consummate conman, P'ter. An inspiration."
"Doing the right things for the wrong reasons. Sounds familiar in an opposite kind of way. From Ellen?"
"She kept some o' my stuff. You want me to find a Robin cape for you? We can wear them t' the office."
"No thanks, Pointy-ears. I'll keep my status as top dog."
"You jus don't like the name Boy Wonder."
"I'm just not wearing tights."
His last move nets him three more blacks. For a total of ten on the board. Othello was never his game.
"I'm past the water thing, Peter. I'll be fine now."
"Okay."
They sit in silence long enough that Peter knocks his head against the table when Neal speaks, "You think it's getting colder in here?"
Peter looks past Neal. The bottle has maybe two sips left. He stretches out across Neal to pour anyway.
"Yeah. I think we need a refill."
A/N: written for the run the con challenge with the prompt ( blankets )
Author: hurinhouse
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: G
Characters: Peter, Neal
Summary: Capes, warmth, and hiding places all come from one source.
Disclaimer: Entirely fiction
Spoilers: set sometime after Diminishing Returns
1,348 words
"You're smothering me, P'ter."
Neal's hands are the only part Peter can see. It reminds him of Sunday school and he bites back a laugh. "Quiet or I'll rap your knuckles."
The squirming stops for a moment and he just knows Neal's brow is raised in question beneath the blanket.
"So… you were a headmaster in another life?"
"Seeing that you're a 35 year old teenager in this life, I think it fits."
He's surprised he can understand Neal given how drunk the man is. Maybe that's a testament to how far gone Peter is, as well.
"How's Elizabeth able to hold you up?"
"If you'd keep still I'd be done by now."
"Could I at least breathe?" Neal's wiggling tickles this time so he pushes him further into the floor in retaliation. He does pull the blanket back from Neal's face, though. Playing peek-a-boo with Neal Caffrey at 1:00 am. Who would've thunk?
"'kay, I'm good."
"Not hypothermic anymore then?"
"Claustrophobic now."
Sure. Peter finishes pouring for them both and pushes off of Neal for the third time tonight, sitting back on his own side again. He's careful not to bump his head against the table this time.
"You didn't mind the nurse manhandling you."
"Her curves fit in the right spots. Yours, not so much."
"You shouldn’t be hoarding the bottle then. Your turn."
He knows damned well why the bottle's on the other side of Neal, but Neal would never actually ask for the warmth he needs. Enter Peter the Boy Scout, delivering recurrent body checks in the guise of drunken camaraderie to salvage Neal's pride.
The hypothermia had been mild and it'd been hours since they'd warmed Neal's core so he'd given in when Neal had insisted on a drink. A bottle and a half later and they're under the table in Fort Caffrey, blankets blocking the floodlights coming from the construction site across the street. Peter's not the one slurring, but he's not driving home any time soon, either.
"How long have you had your own Hollywood stage out there?"
Even with the darkest blanket on the terrace side of the table, Neal's silhouette is distinctive. Straight nose, hair a mop. His hand emerges from the cashmere throw he's cocooned in and he picks up a little white disc.
"They've turned them off by 9:00 all the other nights. Must be behind schedule. Did you eat all the pretzels?"
Neal places his disc in a spot Peter hadn't noticed, then flips eleven black discs over to white. Peter'd thought a mostly sober Burke could beat a quite drunk Caffrey at a board game but apparently even impaired Caffreys are savants.
"A new park pavilion is that urgent?"
"S'alright, easier to see the game."
"If you had curtains in this greenhouse we wouldn't need to hide on the hard floor behind blankets in the first place."
"We wouldn’t need t' brandy either but why suck the fun from absolutely everything, Agent Burke?"
Peter could argue with this sloshed logic but instead he scrambles out of the safety zone, past the Batman blanket he'd meant to ask about, and scrounges through Neal's fridge.
Mmmm he has pecan praline. Dairy's probably not a good mix with their stomachs right now, though. And who keeps homemade bruschetta ready to go in the fridge?
"There once was a dashing young thieffff.. "
Oh Geez. Neal's farther gone than he'd thought.
"Gave a bored FBI agent grief… "
But there's French bread on the counter so Peter can deal.
The agent was spiteful,
Till he learned the thief is delightful,
Now his time on the job's a relief."
Peter chuckles as he wedges his way back into the fort, "Delightful, huh?"
"Can't argue wi' the facts, Peter." Neal lowers his blanket again, takes another swallow and grabs for the bread.
"You know, brandy doesn't actually make you warmer. It's a myth."
"Moz's does."
"Mozzie makes his own?… never mind. Neal, you're an authority at everything but fighting. You don't know simple science?"
He laughs, Neal freaking laughs at him, head lolling back and rambling about secret ingredients and Peter's not sure Neal needs any more alcohol if Mozzie's going to seep out of his ears. Time to sober up a bit and get to the reason they're here...
"So, what happened out there?"
"Where?"
"You're a good swimmer, Neal."
Neal shrugs, "Must've swallowed some water."
"You were comatose, not coughing. Well... at first."
"Bit of an exaggeration."
It had looked to Peter like Neal was catatonic for the first three seconds as he fell off the barge into the East River. Then he hit the water. He'd never seen Neal Caffrey panicked. Peter had lost the smugglers in favor of getting help to Neal.
"Neal, I need to know if I should keep you away from water."
"Juss staying in character. George Devore can't swim."
"Diana's afraid of heights."
Silence. "Okay. Tha's not at all random."
"She's dealt with it, but if there's a choice and another agent can do the job, I'll have her sit out."
"I'm sure that goes over well."
"Oh yeah. I get a Hallmark thank you every time."
"I bet," Neal snorts. "It was nothing, Peter."
"It was something today."
"Your turn."
Peter sighs, surveys the board. Normally he excels at games, but his brain is fuzzy and the most interesting puzzle's on the other side of the fort. He turns four whites to black.
"Mom wanted to take me on one of those riverboat cruises on the Mississippi."
Peter can't see his face and he knows now why Neal insisted on sitting with his back to the light.
"I musta been six or seven. Sounded like fun and I couldn't figure out why Ellen argued 'bout it till later. But Mom'd been good the few weeks before that, so Ellen gave in."
Neal takes another hit of brandy. "Mom was a little out of it, we got too close to the railing… " He shrugs.
"You went over."
Neal nods. "I looked up from the water, saw her leaning against the railing, calling to the deck for someone named 'Neal'. 'blivious. That was the first thing I thought of when Ellen told me my real name years later."
"Somebody must have seen you."
"One of the crew jumped in. He was a hero, I was smothered in blankets, and together we were the potential story of the week."
"Your mom?"
Neal's head barely shakes but it's obvious he's not going to elaborate on her. "Ellen was at the pier when we got to shore, punched a reporter and took his camera."
"Publicity. The enemy of WitSec."
"Didn't let me out of her sight for days."
Neal reaches over and plays his last disc, turning more than three-fourths of the board white.
"Wait. That row didn't… " Ah hell. He's probably been cheating all along. He probably does it unconsciously. Peter's back digs into the table leg behind him. Hopefully El will give him a massage in the morning.
"So, Batman?"
Neal's eyes swing to the blanket behind Peter and he can see the man's face widening into that grin… "The Caped Crusader is a consummate conman, P'ter. An inspiration."
"Doing the right things for the wrong reasons. Sounds familiar in an opposite kind of way. From Ellen?"
"She kept some o' my stuff. You want me to find a Robin cape for you? We can wear them t' the office."
"No thanks, Pointy-ears. I'll keep my status as top dog."
"You jus don't like the name Boy Wonder."
"I'm just not wearing tights."
His last move nets him three more blacks. For a total of ten on the board. Othello was never his game.
"I'm past the water thing, Peter. I'll be fine now."
"Okay."
They sit in silence long enough that Peter knocks his head against the table when Neal speaks, "You think it's getting colder in here?"
Peter looks past Neal. The bottle has maybe two sips left. He stretches out across Neal to pour anyway.
"Yeah. I think we need a refill."