White Collar Fanfic: Adventures in Neal-Sitting (3/?)
Title: Adventures in Neal-Sitting
Author:lee_bub_stamper
Rating: PG
Characters: El, Neal, and a little bit of Peter
Summary: "But Elizabeth." It's half a horrified gasp, half a whine, and Elizabeth is amazed to hear it come out of a grown man's mouth. She takes it in stride, though, because if Peter can handle Neal, Elizabeth can handle Neal. Not that it's a competition, it's just truth. Fact. Elizabeth is perfectly capable of doing this, and doing it right.
Author's Note: A story to satisfy a desire I have for Neal and El bonding.
Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |
"Where is he."
She'd come back from work feeling tired and hungry and ready to slap many a person across the face for far too many changing demands in too short a time. It was a long day in more than feeling. She didn't walk through her front door until 9:45 pm to find the house empty except for Satchmo, the house dark except for one lamp kept on to comfort Satchmo. Satchmo, but no Neal and now here she is. At 9:58 pm, here she is, two phones in two hands calling one person, but not the other.
"I won't call Peter," she tells herself and Satchmo cocks his head, looking at her expectantly. She brightens her tone just for his amusement, speaks in that baby voice she and Peter have taken with the dog since he was a puppy sliding across their hardwood floors. "No, I won't. I won't call Peter."
But Neal isn't picking up his phone. She calls for a third time, leaves him a message with a simple, "Neal, it's Elizabeth. Remember to be home in two minutes. More like one minute and nine seconds. Remember to be home in one minute." And she hangs up the phone.
One minute later, her text includes two simple words in all caps: BIG TROUBLE.
She doesn't know what BIG TROUBLE entails exactly, and she's certain that when or if Neal sees it, he just laughs, but Elizabeth is quite serious. There will be BIG TROUBLE. Maybe not Peter big, not supermax big, but Elizabeth big.
She snorts derisively at her own Elizabethan machismo. What is she going to do? Wag her finger at him and speak demeaningly to him about his 'misbehavior?' That's what Peter does. Maybe she should just threaten to call Peter. Her mind reels back to being seven years old, riding her bike a block too far and coming home with a scraped knee from the resulting fall, pleading with her mother not to tell her father of her own mild disobedience because Elizabeth knew where her boundaries were and on most occasions, respected them with the air a child usually does. Boundaries existed because your parents made them, and when you crossed them, your Barbies got taken away for a designated period of time and then how were you supposed to take all their clothes off and make them walk around all silly and naked?
This time Elizabeth giggles to herself, because she's a woman with no child-sized people running around, and sometimes when she's sure that Neal's a blipping dot in a Manhattan apartment, she makes Peter walk around like she did her Ken dolls. He's getting older, but he's still beautiful and tall, and it works for her, him being silly and naked and wonderful. Besides, those with the dangerous job owe it to the people around them to be silly and naked. It's an unwritten law, and Peter adheres to it, blushes and leans down into her kisses when she tilts up onto her toes with her lips smiling and ready.
Why is she thinking about this again?
Oh, right. Ken. Barbies. Her mother calling her father. And what would her father do? Her father would take one look at her tear-stained face and take her out for ice cream, ending the night in a tickle battle that would have her howling with laughter and more tears, but the right kind this time.
Peter is not her father. Peter would not tickle Neal, or take one look at Neal's face and take him out for ice cream. He'd be more apt to say, "You just wait until I get home." or "What am I going to do with you?" or give one of those disapproving lectures in that disappointed voice and Neal would look at her, would look at Elizabeth, with big blue eyes and one ear to the phone, silently begging for an interruption.
Please, please. No, stay. Don't go, he said once, holding out his hand pleadingly, but Elizabeth walked away.
She's tough like that. And Peter is the perfect threat. She'll hold that one in her back pocket for next time, because she hears the door now, the gentle, slow turning of the knob, like a circumspect someone is out there trying to enter extremely quietly.
Neal George Caffrey, her mother would say.
Elizabeth is not her mother. "Where the hell have you been?" she asks as soon as the door cracks open, and then the vintage toe of a vintage shoe steps inside, then a hand holding out a white plastic bag filled with a rather large box of dog treats, and a surrendering voice, "Satch was all out of dog treats."
Elizabeth sighs and rolls her eyes. "Get in here, Neal."
She crisply takes the bag into her hand, and walks into the kitchen with Neal at her heels. "Why didn't you pick up your phone?" she asks, placing the dog treats in the cabinet she keeps for Satchmo's things.
"I didn't hear it go off?"
"That's a question?"
"No, uh, I didn't, Elizabeth. I didn't hear it go off."
She turns to him. He's looking down at his feet like a chastised child, his limbs stiff, his breathing deep like he's waiting for something. It looks normal, natural, not like a lie, but Neal knows how to lie. She wonders if he had a mother once, or a father, if either of them were ever aware. When did his talents manifest? Has he been so convincingly transformative since the womb?
"You didn't check the time."
He holds out his wrist. "I have a watch."
He does, and it's a nice watch. Of course it's a nice watch.
"Take out your phone," she says, and he glances at her first, blue peeking out from under dark lashes and it's a moment to melt the earth, that one look, full of apology and self-flagellation. Neal Caffrey's charm, his very essence, seeps through the room so thick Elizabeth can barely see through it. "Take it out," she insists, wondering how she can even breathe, he's laying it on so thick.
He does. He holds it in his hand and stares at it, then at the ground. "You called three times."
"I called three times."
"You spelled 'big trouble' in all caps."
She did that, too. She nods.
"I'm sorry, Elizabeth. It won't happen-"
"Where were you? And don't say you were getting Satchmo treats. It does not take that long, nor is it that important to get Satchmo treats. Not at this time of night. What were you doing all day that you had to get Satchmo treats when you were supposed to be home?"
He gapes at her momentarily, before realizing what he's doing and containing himself. There's something uncomfortable writhing around with Elizabeth's insides. Neal's an adult and all this prodding suddenly doesn't feel right; it feels like an invasion.
"Neal-"
"I was painting," he says. "At June's. I was painting. I lose track of time sometimes when I'm doing that. I'm so, so sorry, Elizabeth."
An alarm goes off in Elizabeth's head at the admission, because she knows what Peter knows because Peter tells her everything he knows. When Neal paints, he's usually up to something. Or he's thinking about something too hard. And because she doesn't want to think the former, and because she's already feeling far too hyper-vigilant, she's going to give him the benefit of a doubt.
The benefit of a doubt being that Neal is in some sort of deep emotional turmoil and needs her constant attention so he doesn't do anything stupid.
"You can bring your paints here," she tells him. "Or we can get you some supplies in. There's an art store close to my work-"
"I don't want to make a mess of your beautiful home-"
"Your art isn't a mess," she says. "You know that. We can at least get you a sketchpad and some drawing utensils if you don't want to paint here. Not that you're not allowed to go to June's, but Peter's told me that when you paint, you-"
"I swear I'm not up to anything," he says, a little too quickly, and she narrows her eyes.
"I believe you," she lies. "But I want you to come to work with me tomorrow, anyway. I could use your eye and your palate."
His eyes go to the ground again, and he shifts on his feet like he's just received a harsh and decidedly well-deserved sentence. She can't believe its only the second day of this and she's already being forced to engage in Take Your Conman To Work Day, which, in her mind, she has somehow concocted as a sentence lighter than the threat of calling Peter.
"Of course, Elizabeth," he mumbles, and then, unconvincingly, "I'd love to."
"Good," she says, and reaches forward to pat his arm. "Good talk."
Whatever kind of talk that was. But she's a tough one, Elizabeth is, just like her husband. She's not usually given to his lack of emotional prowess, however, and now, looking at Neal's downtrodden face and his slumped shoulders, she realizes that she just handled this situation in a way that was Pure Peter. Not one ounce El. And while she's standing in, she can't substitute herself. Neal needs a Peter and an El, not just a Peter. She has to be both for him.
He almost squeaks when she throws her arms around him and kisses his cheek. "Oh, Neal, what am I going to do with you?"
He chuckles, and she feels like she's done something right, found the right combination, the right amount of Elizabeth and the right amount of Peter for a curfew-breaking convict. It may not be tickles and it may not be ice cream, and it sure as hell isn't heinous parental Barbie-thievery, but whatever it is, it's right.
Author:lee_bub_stamper
Rating: PG
Characters: El, Neal, and a little bit of Peter
Summary: "But Elizabeth." It's half a horrified gasp, half a whine, and Elizabeth is amazed to hear it come out of a grown man's mouth. She takes it in stride, though, because if Peter can handle Neal, Elizabeth can handle Neal. Not that it's a competition, it's just truth. Fact. Elizabeth is perfectly capable of doing this, and doing it right.
Author's Note: A story to satisfy a desire I have for Neal and El bonding.
Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |
"Where is he."
She'd come back from work feeling tired and hungry and ready to slap many a person across the face for far too many changing demands in too short a time. It was a long day in more than feeling. She didn't walk through her front door until 9:45 pm to find the house empty except for Satchmo, the house dark except for one lamp kept on to comfort Satchmo. Satchmo, but no Neal and now here she is. At 9:58 pm, here she is, two phones in two hands calling one person, but not the other.
"I won't call Peter," she tells herself and Satchmo cocks his head, looking at her expectantly. She brightens her tone just for his amusement, speaks in that baby voice she and Peter have taken with the dog since he was a puppy sliding across their hardwood floors. "No, I won't. I won't call Peter."
But Neal isn't picking up his phone. She calls for a third time, leaves him a message with a simple, "Neal, it's Elizabeth. Remember to be home in two minutes. More like one minute and nine seconds. Remember to be home in one minute." And she hangs up the phone.
One minute later, her text includes two simple words in all caps: BIG TROUBLE.
She doesn't know what BIG TROUBLE entails exactly, and she's certain that when or if Neal sees it, he just laughs, but Elizabeth is quite serious. There will be BIG TROUBLE. Maybe not Peter big, not supermax big, but Elizabeth big.
She snorts derisively at her own Elizabethan machismo. What is she going to do? Wag her finger at him and speak demeaningly to him about his 'misbehavior?' That's what Peter does. Maybe she should just threaten to call Peter. Her mind reels back to being seven years old, riding her bike a block too far and coming home with a scraped knee from the resulting fall, pleading with her mother not to tell her father of her own mild disobedience because Elizabeth knew where her boundaries were and on most occasions, respected them with the air a child usually does. Boundaries existed because your parents made them, and when you crossed them, your Barbies got taken away for a designated period of time and then how were you supposed to take all their clothes off and make them walk around all silly and naked?
This time Elizabeth giggles to herself, because she's a woman with no child-sized people running around, and sometimes when she's sure that Neal's a blipping dot in a Manhattan apartment, she makes Peter walk around like she did her Ken dolls. He's getting older, but he's still beautiful and tall, and it works for her, him being silly and naked and wonderful. Besides, those with the dangerous job owe it to the people around them to be silly and naked. It's an unwritten law, and Peter adheres to it, blushes and leans down into her kisses when she tilts up onto her toes with her lips smiling and ready.
Why is she thinking about this again?
Oh, right. Ken. Barbies. Her mother calling her father. And what would her father do? Her father would take one look at her tear-stained face and take her out for ice cream, ending the night in a tickle battle that would have her howling with laughter and more tears, but the right kind this time.
Peter is not her father. Peter would not tickle Neal, or take one look at Neal's face and take him out for ice cream. He'd be more apt to say, "You just wait until I get home." or "What am I going to do with you?" or give one of those disapproving lectures in that disappointed voice and Neal would look at her, would look at Elizabeth, with big blue eyes and one ear to the phone, silently begging for an interruption.
Please, please. No, stay. Don't go, he said once, holding out his hand pleadingly, but Elizabeth walked away.
She's tough like that. And Peter is the perfect threat. She'll hold that one in her back pocket for next time, because she hears the door now, the gentle, slow turning of the knob, like a circumspect someone is out there trying to enter extremely quietly.
Neal George Caffrey, her mother would say.
Elizabeth is not her mother. "Where the hell have you been?" she asks as soon as the door cracks open, and then the vintage toe of a vintage shoe steps inside, then a hand holding out a white plastic bag filled with a rather large box of dog treats, and a surrendering voice, "Satch was all out of dog treats."
Elizabeth sighs and rolls her eyes. "Get in here, Neal."
She crisply takes the bag into her hand, and walks into the kitchen with Neal at her heels. "Why didn't you pick up your phone?" she asks, placing the dog treats in the cabinet she keeps for Satchmo's things.
"I didn't hear it go off?"
"That's a question?"
"No, uh, I didn't, Elizabeth. I didn't hear it go off."
She turns to him. He's looking down at his feet like a chastised child, his limbs stiff, his breathing deep like he's waiting for something. It looks normal, natural, not like a lie, but Neal knows how to lie. She wonders if he had a mother once, or a father, if either of them were ever aware. When did his talents manifest? Has he been so convincingly transformative since the womb?
"You didn't check the time."
He holds out his wrist. "I have a watch."
He does, and it's a nice watch. Of course it's a nice watch.
"Take out your phone," she says, and he glances at her first, blue peeking out from under dark lashes and it's a moment to melt the earth, that one look, full of apology and self-flagellation. Neal Caffrey's charm, his very essence, seeps through the room so thick Elizabeth can barely see through it. "Take it out," she insists, wondering how she can even breathe, he's laying it on so thick.
He does. He holds it in his hand and stares at it, then at the ground. "You called three times."
"I called three times."
"You spelled 'big trouble' in all caps."
She did that, too. She nods.
"I'm sorry, Elizabeth. It won't happen-"
"Where were you? And don't say you were getting Satchmo treats. It does not take that long, nor is it that important to get Satchmo treats. Not at this time of night. What were you doing all day that you had to get Satchmo treats when you were supposed to be home?"
He gapes at her momentarily, before realizing what he's doing and containing himself. There's something uncomfortable writhing around with Elizabeth's insides. Neal's an adult and all this prodding suddenly doesn't feel right; it feels like an invasion.
"Neal-"
"I was painting," he says. "At June's. I was painting. I lose track of time sometimes when I'm doing that. I'm so, so sorry, Elizabeth."
An alarm goes off in Elizabeth's head at the admission, because she knows what Peter knows because Peter tells her everything he knows. When Neal paints, he's usually up to something. Or he's thinking about something too hard. And because she doesn't want to think the former, and because she's already feeling far too hyper-vigilant, she's going to give him the benefit of a doubt.
The benefit of a doubt being that Neal is in some sort of deep emotional turmoil and needs her constant attention so he doesn't do anything stupid.
"You can bring your paints here," she tells him. "Or we can get you some supplies in. There's an art store close to my work-"
"I don't want to make a mess of your beautiful home-"
"Your art isn't a mess," she says. "You know that. We can at least get you a sketchpad and some drawing utensils if you don't want to paint here. Not that you're not allowed to go to June's, but Peter's told me that when you paint, you-"
"I swear I'm not up to anything," he says, a little too quickly, and she narrows her eyes.
"I believe you," she lies. "But I want you to come to work with me tomorrow, anyway. I could use your eye and your palate."
His eyes go to the ground again, and he shifts on his feet like he's just received a harsh and decidedly well-deserved sentence. She can't believe its only the second day of this and she's already being forced to engage in Take Your Conman To Work Day, which, in her mind, she has somehow concocted as a sentence lighter than the threat of calling Peter.
"Of course, Elizabeth," he mumbles, and then, unconvincingly, "I'd love to."
"Good," she says, and reaches forward to pat his arm. "Good talk."
Whatever kind of talk that was. But she's a tough one, Elizabeth is, just like her husband. She's not usually given to his lack of emotional prowess, however, and now, looking at Neal's downtrodden face and his slumped shoulders, she realizes that she just handled this situation in a way that was Pure Peter. Not one ounce El. And while she's standing in, she can't substitute herself. Neal needs a Peter and an El, not just a Peter. She has to be both for him.
He almost squeaks when she throws her arms around him and kisses his cheek. "Oh, Neal, what am I going to do with you?"
He chuckles, and she feels like she's done something right, found the right combination, the right amount of Elizabeth and the right amount of Peter for a curfew-breaking convict. It may not be tickles and it may not be ice cream, and it sure as hell isn't heinous parental Barbie-thievery, but whatever it is, it's right.