Black Never Goes Out of Style
Title: Black Never Goes Out of Style
Author:kaylynnkie
Disclaimer: Not mine
Pairing: Neal/Peter/El friendship
Summary: Neal and El at a funeral
Word Count: 680
Warnings/Rating: G
Notes: Written for scripps ' prompt over at comment_fic; “White Collar, Neal and Elizabeth, dealing with Peter's death.”
Elizabeth had on her stylish black pumps and a silver anklet with an engraving. Neal was willing to put money down on it being a gift from her husband. She had one of Neal's fedoras pulled down as far as it could, so she could hide her eyes behind her hair. No make-up though, so that was different. She was like a slashed canvas - a beautiful work of art with an ugly gaping hole in the middle.
The church on 82nd was one of the few Peter actually liked. There were stone angels on the roof and in the stained glass windows, and the man had a soft spot for them. Neal liked to give him flak for it. A tough FBI agent with a penchant for angelic beauty was too hysterical.
There were two floors, and Neal had taken to the balcony. His legs were dangling over the edge, while men and women milled about on the main floor. He watched as they approached Elizabeth and gave her hugs and kisses, and she awkwardly patted them on the back. He twisted the memorial card around in his hands, folding the corners up until the curled prettily. Gradually, a rose took shape, and on the interior of one of the petals, the name Peter Burke flashed in silver.
Diana was wearing a black dress and a veil, while another woman followed her around with a hand on her back. El approached her and drew her close. It was the only embrace she had made all afternoon that didn't look painful. A horrific crash made them jump apart, and a little boy looked sheepishly at them and then, at the newly shattered vase on the floor. His mother materialized and led him away, looking red faced and nervous.
El smiled suddenly and giggled, wiping away tears. “Peter would have liked that.” Then, she frowned, “But he probably would have figured Neal to be responsible for it.”
Neal rolled his eyes when she looked up at him. He motioned her over, and when she was exactly beneath him, he dropped the paper rose. It floated down like a feather, and she plucked it out of the air. She offered him a watery smile. Thanks she mouthed.
Hughes was sitting down in one of the pews with his tie wrapped around his hands. An older and beautiful woman was sitting next to him, her hand on his knee. Abruptly, he stood and laid down one black rose on the casket. He nodded at El, then left with the woman. She stopped, though, and hugged El tightly.
At the house, Satchmo was there to greet them. Once Neal and El had both offered him a pat on the head, he walked past them and stood in the doorway. El burst into tears. Neal's hands trembled as he pulled two beers from the fridge. He opened one for himself, then placed the bottle opener and the other bottle on the counter in front of El. He took a swig and relished in how it tasted just like Peter at six o' clock at night. The smell made him think of Sunday night football games and of El draped across the couch in one of Peter's shirts.
When El stood up and went to the bathroom, he returned the unopened beer to the fridge. Peter's shoes were by the front door. The old, ratty sneakers he wore to the gym. Sitting down heavily, he ran his hand over hid face. Peter's shoes were by the door, and he was never going to wear them again. Neal laced his fingers together to try and minimize the shaking. On the table, there was a stack of mail that had been piling up.
He shifted them around until he pulled out the crossword puzzle from The New York Times . Peter's handwriting was familiar, and in the margin next to a clue for the “actor who conned at 16,” Peter had written down Neal with a smiley face. In the boxes, though, he had written “Leo.” Neal grinned through his tears.
Author:kaylynnkie
Disclaimer: Not mine
Pairing: Neal/Peter/El friendship
Summary: Neal and El at a funeral
Word Count: 680
Warnings/Rating: G
Notes: Written for scripps ' prompt over at comment_fic; “White Collar, Neal and Elizabeth, dealing with Peter's death.”
Elizabeth had on her stylish black pumps and a silver anklet with an engraving. Neal was willing to put money down on it being a gift from her husband. She had one of Neal's fedoras pulled down as far as it could, so she could hide her eyes behind her hair. No make-up though, so that was different. She was like a slashed canvas - a beautiful work of art with an ugly gaping hole in the middle.
The church on 82nd was one of the few Peter actually liked. There were stone angels on the roof and in the stained glass windows, and the man had a soft spot for them. Neal liked to give him flak for it. A tough FBI agent with a penchant for angelic beauty was too hysterical.
There were two floors, and Neal had taken to the balcony. His legs were dangling over the edge, while men and women milled about on the main floor. He watched as they approached Elizabeth and gave her hugs and kisses, and she awkwardly patted them on the back. He twisted the memorial card around in his hands, folding the corners up until the curled prettily. Gradually, a rose took shape, and on the interior of one of the petals, the name Peter Burke flashed in silver.
Diana was wearing a black dress and a veil, while another woman followed her around with a hand on her back. El approached her and drew her close. It was the only embrace she had made all afternoon that didn't look painful. A horrific crash made them jump apart, and a little boy looked sheepishly at them and then, at the newly shattered vase on the floor. His mother materialized and led him away, looking red faced and nervous.
El smiled suddenly and giggled, wiping away tears. “Peter would have liked that.” Then, she frowned, “But he probably would have figured Neal to be responsible for it.”
Neal rolled his eyes when she looked up at him. He motioned her over, and when she was exactly beneath him, he dropped the paper rose. It floated down like a feather, and she plucked it out of the air. She offered him a watery smile. Thanks she mouthed.
Hughes was sitting down in one of the pews with his tie wrapped around his hands. An older and beautiful woman was sitting next to him, her hand on his knee. Abruptly, he stood and laid down one black rose on the casket. He nodded at El, then left with the woman. She stopped, though, and hugged El tightly.
At the house, Satchmo was there to greet them. Once Neal and El had both offered him a pat on the head, he walked past them and stood in the doorway. El burst into tears. Neal's hands trembled as he pulled two beers from the fridge. He opened one for himself, then placed the bottle opener and the other bottle on the counter in front of El. He took a swig and relished in how it tasted just like Peter at six o' clock at night. The smell made him think of Sunday night football games and of El draped across the couch in one of Peter's shirts.
When El stood up and went to the bathroom, he returned the unopened beer to the fridge. Peter's shoes were by the front door. The old, ratty sneakers he wore to the gym. Sitting down heavily, he ran his hand over hid face. Peter's shoes were by the door, and he was never going to wear them again. Neal laced his fingers together to try and minimize the shaking. On the table, there was a stack of mail that had been piling up.
He shifted them around until he pulled out the crossword puzzle from The New York Times . Peter's handwriting was familiar, and in the margin next to a clue for the “actor who conned at 16,” Peter had written down Neal with a smiley face. In the boxes, though, he had written “Leo.” Neal grinned through his tears.