White Collar, Peter/Neal - "Buss Stop."
I've started to write three stories this week, and this is the first one that actually got finished. just too long to post at comment_fic, this was based on thefannishwaldo's prompt: White Collar, Peter/Neal, a confrontation with a suspect leaves Neal hurt - but just a little.
Buss Stop
"Man down!"
Neal didn't open his eyes for a second, listening to the commotion around him. He knew that Sullivan and Marquez were being taken down, thanks to the not-insubstantial amount of FBI agents swarming about in the immediate vicinity. Still, he couldn't help but wish that they'd gotten there _before_ bullets had started flying, rather than after.
Well, okay. Bullet.
Still. It flew past _him_, and that was just wrong.
"Neal? Neal! Are you okay? Cruz, are those paramedics coming or not, dammit? Neal!"
Neal opened his eyes. Peter was leaning right over him, looking concerned.
"Are you hurt?"
Neal nodded.
"Where?" Peter started patting him down, like he could somehow find a gunshot wound that way. Neal thought that Peter was kind of bad at discerning gunshot wounds.
Neal held up his finger.
Peter frowned at him. "What?"
"My finger."
"Yes, Neal," Peter said, patiently, or patiently-ish, since said patience was almost visibly waning. "I can see it's your finger. What _about_ your finger?"
"You asked if I was hurt," Neal said, sitting up and leaning on the elbow of his undamaged side. "I _am_ hurt. I hurt my finger."
"You hurt your finger," Peter said, skeptically.
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Right there," Neal said, holding his finger closer to Peter's face.
Peter leaned back a little, peering. "I don't see anything."
"It's right _there_," Neal said. He used another finger to point out his injury.
Peter squinted. "That hangnail?"
"I do not have hangnails!" Neal said, affronted. "I cut it when I fell in the shootout."
"Technically, it wasn't a shootout," Peter said.
"There was shooting," Neal argued.
"There was _one_ person shooting _one_ time," Peter said. "A shootout generally implies multiple shots are being fired."
"Fine, whatever, I'm still injured."
"Cruz, you can cancel those paramedics," Peter shouted, standing up and dusting his pants off.
"It could get infected," Neal said, also pushing up to his feet. "This could be serious, you know."
"I'll get you a band-aid. Cruz!" Peter shouted, walking away towards some of the flashing lights. "Get Caffrey a band-aid!"
"You could do something yourself, you know," Neal said, hurrying up to follow him.
"Like what?" Peter asked, still striding purposefully.
"Kiss it better?" Neal suggested, dropping his voice down so it wouldn't carry to anyone except Peter.
Peter stopped, turned around, and looked at him. Neal couldn't discern any humour behind the dark shades that he was wearing, nor in the corners of his mouth, which appeared perfectly still.
"I'm just saying," Neal said, quickly, with a shrug. "It could help."
A single eyebrow rose over his sunglasses, and then Peter barked out another order. "Jones!" he said. "Come here."
Neal narrowed his eyes. "Peter - "
Jones appeared suddenly from amongst the swarm of navy jackets. "Yes, boss?"
"Caffrey wants you to kiss his finger better."
"I didn't say that!" Neal protested.
"Sounded like that to me," Peter said, and just then, Neal saw his mouth twitch.
Jones was looking at both of them, back and forth, and appeared to be struggling somewhat to maintain his own composure, but it remained impeccable. "I'm taking it I can go?" he asked Peter, who nodded at him.
"What did you do that for?" Neal asked, when Jones was once again out of earshot.
"You said it would help," Peter shrugged.
"Yes, if _you_ did it, not Jones," Neal said.
"And what have _I_ said about appropriate workplace behaviour?" Peter asked, patiently.
"No kissing at crime scenes?" Neal repeated, monotonously. "You didn't specify on the hand," he pointed out.
"I was being comprehensive," Peter said, dryly. "Assume I mean anywhere."
"Anywhere on my body, or - "
"_Anywhere_," Peter said, firmly.
"Even when we're alone?"
"If it's a crime scene, yes."
"What if we're stuck somewhere, alone, together, for a significant length of time?"
"Neal - "
"I'm being comprehensive," Neal said, holding up his hands.
Peter shook his head, rolling his eyes. "Are there cameras involved?"
"Ooh, kinky," Neal grinned.
"Neal - "
"No cameras involved."
"I'll consider it," Peter said. "On a case-by-case basis. I reserve the right to impose the rule at my own discretion, since you don't have any."
"I have _some_," Neal said. Peter stared at him. "I do!"
"Uhhuh." Peter nodded at Neal's 'injury.' "You still need that kissed? I don't think Cruz is doing anything, at the moment."
"No," Neal said. "It can wait until we get home." He dimpled into a smile. "I'll get Elizabeth to do it."
Buss Stop
"Man down!"
Neal didn't open his eyes for a second, listening to the commotion around him. He knew that Sullivan and Marquez were being taken down, thanks to the not-insubstantial amount of FBI agents swarming about in the immediate vicinity. Still, he couldn't help but wish that they'd gotten there _before_ bullets had started flying, rather than after.
Well, okay. Bullet.
Still. It flew past _him_, and that was just wrong.
"Neal? Neal! Are you okay? Cruz, are those paramedics coming or not, dammit? Neal!"
Neal opened his eyes. Peter was leaning right over him, looking concerned.
"Are you hurt?"
Neal nodded.
"Where?" Peter started patting him down, like he could somehow find a gunshot wound that way. Neal thought that Peter was kind of bad at discerning gunshot wounds.
Neal held up his finger.
Peter frowned at him. "What?"
"My finger."
"Yes, Neal," Peter said, patiently, or patiently-ish, since said patience was almost visibly waning. "I can see it's your finger. What _about_ your finger?"
"You asked if I was hurt," Neal said, sitting up and leaning on the elbow of his undamaged side. "I _am_ hurt. I hurt my finger."
"You hurt your finger," Peter said, skeptically.
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Right there," Neal said, holding his finger closer to Peter's face.
Peter leaned back a little, peering. "I don't see anything."
"It's right _there_," Neal said. He used another finger to point out his injury.
Peter squinted. "That hangnail?"
"I do not have hangnails!" Neal said, affronted. "I cut it when I fell in the shootout."
"Technically, it wasn't a shootout," Peter said.
"There was shooting," Neal argued.
"There was _one_ person shooting _one_ time," Peter said. "A shootout generally implies multiple shots are being fired."
"Fine, whatever, I'm still injured."
"Cruz, you can cancel those paramedics," Peter shouted, standing up and dusting his pants off.
"It could get infected," Neal said, also pushing up to his feet. "This could be serious, you know."
"I'll get you a band-aid. Cruz!" Peter shouted, walking away towards some of the flashing lights. "Get Caffrey a band-aid!"
"You could do something yourself, you know," Neal said, hurrying up to follow him.
"Like what?" Peter asked, still striding purposefully.
"Kiss it better?" Neal suggested, dropping his voice down so it wouldn't carry to anyone except Peter.
Peter stopped, turned around, and looked at him. Neal couldn't discern any humour behind the dark shades that he was wearing, nor in the corners of his mouth, which appeared perfectly still.
"I'm just saying," Neal said, quickly, with a shrug. "It could help."
A single eyebrow rose over his sunglasses, and then Peter barked out another order. "Jones!" he said. "Come here."
Neal narrowed his eyes. "Peter - "
Jones appeared suddenly from amongst the swarm of navy jackets. "Yes, boss?"
"Caffrey wants you to kiss his finger better."
"I didn't say that!" Neal protested.
"Sounded like that to me," Peter said, and just then, Neal saw his mouth twitch.
Jones was looking at both of them, back and forth, and appeared to be struggling somewhat to maintain his own composure, but it remained impeccable. "I'm taking it I can go?" he asked Peter, who nodded at him.
"What did you do that for?" Neal asked, when Jones was once again out of earshot.
"You said it would help," Peter shrugged.
"Yes, if _you_ did it, not Jones," Neal said.
"And what have _I_ said about appropriate workplace behaviour?" Peter asked, patiently.
"No kissing at crime scenes?" Neal repeated, monotonously. "You didn't specify on the hand," he pointed out.
"I was being comprehensive," Peter said, dryly. "Assume I mean anywhere."
"Anywhere on my body, or - "
"_Anywhere_," Peter said, firmly.
"Even when we're alone?"
"If it's a crime scene, yes."
"What if we're stuck somewhere, alone, together, for a significant length of time?"
"Neal - "
"I'm being comprehensive," Neal said, holding up his hands.
Peter shook his head, rolling his eyes. "Are there cameras involved?"
"Ooh, kinky," Neal grinned.
"Neal - "
"No cameras involved."
"I'll consider it," Peter said. "On a case-by-case basis. I reserve the right to impose the rule at my own discretion, since you don't have any."
"I have _some_," Neal said. Peter stared at him. "I do!"
"Uhhuh." Peter nodded at Neal's 'injury.' "You still need that kissed? I don't think Cruz is doing anything, at the moment."
"No," Neal said. "It can wait until we get home." He dimpled into a smile. "I'll get Elizabeth to do it."