WC Fic: Five Times the Van Got Involved
Title: Five Times the Van Got Involved
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Peter, Moz, Jones, Calloway, the van
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: Mild smut; hurt/comfort; crack
Word Count: ~2,200
Summary: What it says on the tin.
A/N: Seriously, blame angelita26. No vans were harmed in the writing of this fic.
----
1.
“Gimme some of that.”
“Get yer own.”
“I got my own - you’re eating it.”
“Hey!”
Neal stood and glared at Peter and Jones, taking in the spilled hot and sour soup decorating the sleeve of his jacket. “Don’t make me turn this van around, children,” he admonished. They were on a long stakeout in the van, and Neal just couldn’t wait until his shift was over - if Peter would let him leave, of course. He sighed and began to try to sop up the spilled soup from the counter with a pile of paper napkins.
Peter watched him with a bland look on his face. “He started it.” Jones scowled.
Neal went to find the Lysol wipes he’d stowed in the small storage cubby behind the driver’s seat and cleaned up the remaining spill, then turned his attention to his sleeve.
“You missed a spot,” Peter pointed out, indicating a bit of soup on the floor with an amused, not-quite smile.
Neal gave him a dark look. “You guys have no respect for the workspace.”
“It’s the van,” Jones said with a shrug. “They clean it after we turn it back in.” He reached for Peter’s last spring roll, and Peter smacked his hand away.
“It doesn’t mean you can’t be careful.” Neal removed his jacket and folded it over the back of his chair.
“It’s cuz we ruined your jacket, isn’t it?” Peter asked, looking only a little contrite.
“It is not,” Neal insisted, though he’d admit to himself it played a small part. “Every artist has to respect his tools, honor them. In the art of surveillance, the van is our tool and we should just consider that, that’s all I’m saying.” He patted the side of the console he’d been working at and took his seat again.
“I thought you hated the van?” Peter asked around a mouthful of moo shu.
“I hate being in the van, not the van per se. It’s a nice van, actually. Slap a new coat of paint on it, and I could see it being a food truck someday, or one of those library vans, you know, that take books to needy kids? Maybe?”
“You gonna marry it? Settle down?” Jones cracked.
Neal glared at him and pulled his headphones back on - someone needed to listen in on their suspect or this night would never end. A few minutes later, over the drone of their target’s apparent enjoyment of a Karate Kid marathon, he could hear the soothing strains of a violin being played. The sound gradually grew louder and he recognized it immediately - it was Prokofiev’s Violin Concerto Number 1, and if he wasn’t mistaken, it was Jascha Heifetz playing it. He glanced over at Peter, eyebrows raised.
“What?” Peter asked.
“Prokofiev,” Neal said approvingly. He wouldn’t have credited their suspect with enough cultural knowledge to be in possession of such a rare recording.
“God bless you.”
Neal frowned. “Aren’t you hearing it? The violin?”
Peter pulled his right headphone aside. “Violin? No.”
Neal's eyebrows knit together and he glanced at Jones. “All I’m hearin’ is wax on, wax off, Neal-san,” Jones said.
“Must be picking up interference,” Neal said, reaching for the knobs on the receiver, but his hand paused over them. He glanced over at Peter and Jones bickering over the fortune cookies, then at the receiver, and decided to wait for the performance to be nearly done before he re-tuned it.
2.
“Dammit, Moz, a two-hour detour to the basement of the Guggenheim was not what I had in mind today. Don’t you know Calloway’s in the van supervising everyone with Peter out of town? She’s been watching me like a hawk ever since the Pederson case fiasco last month!”
“Did I tell you to commandeer a parade float to pursue the suspect, mon frère?” Moz deadpanned. “Besides, you’re practically doing a public service - the security down there is laughable.”
Thanks to a miscommunication, Moz’s friend Reggie Hesher had stolen what he thought was a rare Picasso sketch owned by a multinational corporation; when he learned it was, in fact, the property of a sweet old retired music teacher in Yonkers who had lent it to the museum, he asked Moz for help to put it back. Moz, in turn, had dragooned Neal into helping him with the break-in, which had to go down today before the piece was to be put on display for an exhibition.
Neal glared at him. “I’m sure I’ll find it hysterical when I’m serving out the rest of my sentence as a guest of the Federal prison system,” he said darkly as he turned to go, rushing to get down Madison to where he was supposed to have met the team at the van half an hour before.
The ten minute walk took him five, but by the time he arrived he was panting slightly and, he realized with distaste, sweaty. That would not do when he presented himself to Peter’s boss - sweaty, shifty former conmen did not exactly instill confidence. He paused a moment outside the van to straighten himself out, though he still felt a little wild-eyed as he stepped inside.
“Oh, Caffrey, there you are,” Calloway said. Neal swallowed as he realized she had the tracking application for his anklet up on the screen behind her. “You’re late.”
“About that,” Neal began, mind racing for an excuse and coming up blank.
“What were you in for? Cleaning?”
“Ummm…” Neal tried not to let his confusion show on his face, but he wasn’t sure how successful he was.
“At the dentist? Were you in for a cleaning?”
Neal's eyes focused on the tracking program; it showed a route from his dentist’s office at East 90th and Lex to the van; it largely overlapped with the route he’d actually taken from the museum. He raised a hand to his jaw. “Cavity,” he said, thinking fast. “You know, that office is always overbooking patients. I’d complain, but what can I do - they’re on our policy.”
She made sympathetic tutting noises and patted his arm. “Believe me, I get it. Now about our informant - what can you tell us about him?”
Neal focused on the conversation at hand and thanked whatever glitch in the tracking system’s data helped him out of the fire this time.
3.
“Oh, God, yeah. Right there!” Neal threw his head back to give Peter’s lips better access to the spot behind his ear that drove him wild. They were making out in the van, Neal leaning against the center counter as Peter leaned over him, ravishing him with his mouth. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop,” he breathed.
“Have to stop,” Peter panted.
“No, please.”
Peter reached down and palmed Neal's crotch. “I do if we ever want this to go anywhere beyond heavy petting,” he said with a lopsided grin.
Neal drew a shaky breath. “OK, you can stop.”
Peter kissed him on the lips even as he pulled away. Stepping back, he straightened up to remove his own suit jacket and proceeded to bash his head against the door of the wiring cupboard that was suddenly hanging open. “Ow!”
“What happened?”
Peter turned, a hand on the back of his head. “I dunno - the stupid cabinet!”
“It wasn’t open a second ago,” Neal pointed out. He reached out to Peter, the pained expression on the man’s face igniting his sympathy. “Aww, let me kiss it better.”
Pouting, Peter took a seat on the outer edge of counter beside Neal and let him. Soon they were making out like teenagers again, and just as Neal was reaching for Peter’s belt buckle, there was a loud SNAP as the end of the counter sheared off where it had been riveted together, dumping Peter unceremoniously onto the floor.
Neal tried not to laugh.
“Not funny!” Peter protested, rolling over onto his hands and knees and pushing himself to a standing position. He kept a hand on his right butt cheek. “That really hurt,” he groaned, rubbing.
“Well, I’m not kissing that better,” Neal pointed out.
“No?” Peter asked, pouting some more.
“Well, maybe,” Neal allowed, finding his lover irresistible. He wrapped his right hand in Peter’s tie and pulled him into a kiss. They stood, kissing and swaying against each other for several minutes before Peter lowered Neal to the floor where they’d be more comfortable.
Just as Peter was fumbling with Neal's tie, the radio behind them squawked to life, making both men jump. “Boss, you there? Agent Burke, please come in,” came Jones’ urgent-sounding voice over the speaker.
Neal moaned in frustration as Peter left him, walking over to the radio on his knees to answer the call from Jones.
“Agent Burke here, over,” he said, eyes still on Neal, who sat up, a questioning look in his eyes.
“We got a distress signal from your location, a Code Red. Local police have been dispatched and SWAT’s on standby. Over.”
“Code Red?” Peter stood and lifted the mic to his mouth; a Code Red meant armed gunmen, proceed with caution. “No, Jones, there’s no armed gunmen here…” Peter and Neal looked at each other, confused.
Neal got to his feet and began to straighten his clothes out - they’d have company soon. So much for the nice ending to their nice dinner. He sighed as the distant sound of sirens began and wandered up to sit in the driver’s seat.
As he did, he noticed suddenly that the seat warmer had come on, warming his back and butt, which he didn’t realize had grown cold after his and Peter’s romp on the drafty floor, and settled into the plush leather comfortably.
4.
“Neal? Come on, buddy, wake up, huh? Let me see those baby blues?” Peter’s voice sounded so strained and earnest - worried, too - that Neal had to oblige him. He groaned as the bright lights awakened a stab of agony in his head.
“Ow,” he whined.
Peter sighed in relief and Neal felt him grab his hand and kiss it. “I was beginning to think you’d never wake,” Peter said, his voice rough. “God, I don’t know what I’d have done.”
Used to the light now, Neal peered up at Peter, who stood over his hospital bed looking haggard.
“How long…?” Neal managed, his voice scratchy.
“You’ve been out almost two days. They were beginning to talk surgery… God!” Peter turned to face away from Neal, but still held onto his hand. Neal attempted to squeeze back reassuringly, but he wasn’t sure if it worked.
“It’s a good thing you found me, then,” Neal admitted. “I thought I was a goner for sure.”
Peter turned back to him, confused. “Found you?”
“Well, yeah. Naveed worked me over, but I still managed to slip the cuffs and get out of there. Next thing I knew, there was the van on the corner. Thank God you found me.”
Peter’s words were halting. “I… didn’t find you, Neal.”
“Well then, Jones, probably.”
“No, he and I were both in Queens executing a search warrant on Naveed’s second wife’s house. We… thought we’d find you there, along with the stolen Matisse.”
It was Neal's turn to look confused. “Was it Diana? I know what I saw, Peter.”
“You know what you think you saw. You have a really bad concussion.”
Neal tried to breathe calmly through his nose - not only did he remember, vividly, finding the van, he also recalled portions of the ride to the hospital. “How did I get here, then?”
“Docs couldn’t say - you were just here,” Peter said gently, sensing Neal's upset and stroking the back of his hand with his thumb. “Maybe a Good Samaritan?”
“Sure,” Neal said, suddenly exhausted. “Maybe. OK.” Probably it was the blows he’d taken to the head, and he was confused.
Probably.
5.
“Neal,” Peter began in his Slightly Disapproving Voice. “What have you done?”
“I got the van detailed. It really needed it - look how much better the paint looks!”
“You know, Bureau Fleet Services are supposed to work on the vehicles - you could get into a lot of trouble.”
Neal waved a hand dismissively. “I paid for it with my own money, and I supervised everything from the inside out. The floor’s so clean, you could eat off it!”
“Oh yeah?”
“Or… do other things,” Neal said in a low voice and Peter gave him that private smile - the one that crinkled up his eyes and made them twinkle - before squeezing his arm and heading for the parking garage’s elevator.
Neal watched him go with a smile and then climbed into the van alone. He slid into the driver’s seat and brushed away an invisible mote of dust on the dash, his hand running along it fondly. “Only the best treatment for my girl,” he murmured as the seat warmer gently enveloped him with a low-grade, comforting heat. “Only next time I’m alone with Peter, try not to be as much of a cockblock, OK?”
The engine roared to life and Neal clucked his tongue. “Come on, I promise I’ll get you those new rims I showed you.” The engine soon settled into something resembling a contented purr as Neal reclined in the driver’s seat and rested a foot on the dash.
----
Thank you for your time.
Author’s Note: I do not know if the Guggenheim has a basement. Or if Heifetz ever recorded Prokofiev’s Piano Concerto No. 1.
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Peter, Moz, Jones, Calloway, the van
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: Mild smut; hurt/comfort; crack
Word Count: ~2,200
Summary: What it says on the tin.
A/N: Seriously, blame angelita26. No vans were harmed in the writing of this fic.
----
1.
“Gimme some of that.”
“Get yer own.”
“I got my own - you’re eating it.”
“Hey!”
Neal stood and glared at Peter and Jones, taking in the spilled hot and sour soup decorating the sleeve of his jacket. “Don’t make me turn this van around, children,” he admonished. They were on a long stakeout in the van, and Neal just couldn’t wait until his shift was over - if Peter would let him leave, of course. He sighed and began to try to sop up the spilled soup from the counter with a pile of paper napkins.
Peter watched him with a bland look on his face. “He started it.” Jones scowled.
Neal went to find the Lysol wipes he’d stowed in the small storage cubby behind the driver’s seat and cleaned up the remaining spill, then turned his attention to his sleeve.
“You missed a spot,” Peter pointed out, indicating a bit of soup on the floor with an amused, not-quite smile.
Neal gave him a dark look. “You guys have no respect for the workspace.”
“It’s the van,” Jones said with a shrug. “They clean it after we turn it back in.” He reached for Peter’s last spring roll, and Peter smacked his hand away.
“It doesn’t mean you can’t be careful.” Neal removed his jacket and folded it over the back of his chair.
“It’s cuz we ruined your jacket, isn’t it?” Peter asked, looking only a little contrite.
“It is not,” Neal insisted, though he’d admit to himself it played a small part. “Every artist has to respect his tools, honor them. In the art of surveillance, the van is our tool and we should just consider that, that’s all I’m saying.” He patted the side of the console he’d been working at and took his seat again.
“I thought you hated the van?” Peter asked around a mouthful of moo shu.
“I hate being in the van, not the van per se. It’s a nice van, actually. Slap a new coat of paint on it, and I could see it being a food truck someday, or one of those library vans, you know, that take books to needy kids? Maybe?”
“You gonna marry it? Settle down?” Jones cracked.
Neal glared at him and pulled his headphones back on - someone needed to listen in on their suspect or this night would never end. A few minutes later, over the drone of their target’s apparent enjoyment of a Karate Kid marathon, he could hear the soothing strains of a violin being played. The sound gradually grew louder and he recognized it immediately - it was Prokofiev’s Violin Concerto Number 1, and if he wasn’t mistaken, it was Jascha Heifetz playing it. He glanced over at Peter, eyebrows raised.
“What?” Peter asked.
“Prokofiev,” Neal said approvingly. He wouldn’t have credited their suspect with enough cultural knowledge to be in possession of such a rare recording.
“God bless you.”
Neal frowned. “Aren’t you hearing it? The violin?”
Peter pulled his right headphone aside. “Violin? No.”
Neal's eyebrows knit together and he glanced at Jones. “All I’m hearin’ is wax on, wax off, Neal-san,” Jones said.
“Must be picking up interference,” Neal said, reaching for the knobs on the receiver, but his hand paused over them. He glanced over at Peter and Jones bickering over the fortune cookies, then at the receiver, and decided to wait for the performance to be nearly done before he re-tuned it.
2.
“Dammit, Moz, a two-hour detour to the basement of the Guggenheim was not what I had in mind today. Don’t you know Calloway’s in the van supervising everyone with Peter out of town? She’s been watching me like a hawk ever since the Pederson case fiasco last month!”
“Did I tell you to commandeer a parade float to pursue the suspect, mon frère?” Moz deadpanned. “Besides, you’re practically doing a public service - the security down there is laughable.”
Thanks to a miscommunication, Moz’s friend Reggie Hesher had stolen what he thought was a rare Picasso sketch owned by a multinational corporation; when he learned it was, in fact, the property of a sweet old retired music teacher in Yonkers who had lent it to the museum, he asked Moz for help to put it back. Moz, in turn, had dragooned Neal into helping him with the break-in, which had to go down today before the piece was to be put on display for an exhibition.
Neal glared at him. “I’m sure I’ll find it hysterical when I’m serving out the rest of my sentence as a guest of the Federal prison system,” he said darkly as he turned to go, rushing to get down Madison to where he was supposed to have met the team at the van half an hour before.
The ten minute walk took him five, but by the time he arrived he was panting slightly and, he realized with distaste, sweaty. That would not do when he presented himself to Peter’s boss - sweaty, shifty former conmen did not exactly instill confidence. He paused a moment outside the van to straighten himself out, though he still felt a little wild-eyed as he stepped inside.
“Oh, Caffrey, there you are,” Calloway said. Neal swallowed as he realized she had the tracking application for his anklet up on the screen behind her. “You’re late.”
“About that,” Neal began, mind racing for an excuse and coming up blank.
“What were you in for? Cleaning?”
“Ummm…” Neal tried not to let his confusion show on his face, but he wasn’t sure how successful he was.
“At the dentist? Were you in for a cleaning?”
Neal's eyes focused on the tracking program; it showed a route from his dentist’s office at East 90th and Lex to the van; it largely overlapped with the route he’d actually taken from the museum. He raised a hand to his jaw. “Cavity,” he said, thinking fast. “You know, that office is always overbooking patients. I’d complain, but what can I do - they’re on our policy.”
She made sympathetic tutting noises and patted his arm. “Believe me, I get it. Now about our informant - what can you tell us about him?”
Neal focused on the conversation at hand and thanked whatever glitch in the tracking system’s data helped him out of the fire this time.
3.
“Oh, God, yeah. Right there!” Neal threw his head back to give Peter’s lips better access to the spot behind his ear that drove him wild. They were making out in the van, Neal leaning against the center counter as Peter leaned over him, ravishing him with his mouth. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop,” he breathed.
“Have to stop,” Peter panted.
“No, please.”
Peter reached down and palmed Neal's crotch. “I do if we ever want this to go anywhere beyond heavy petting,” he said with a lopsided grin.
Neal drew a shaky breath. “OK, you can stop.”
Peter kissed him on the lips even as he pulled away. Stepping back, he straightened up to remove his own suit jacket and proceeded to bash his head against the door of the wiring cupboard that was suddenly hanging open. “Ow!”
“What happened?”
Peter turned, a hand on the back of his head. “I dunno - the stupid cabinet!”
“It wasn’t open a second ago,” Neal pointed out. He reached out to Peter, the pained expression on the man’s face igniting his sympathy. “Aww, let me kiss it better.”
Pouting, Peter took a seat on the outer edge of counter beside Neal and let him. Soon they were making out like teenagers again, and just as Neal was reaching for Peter’s belt buckle, there was a loud SNAP as the end of the counter sheared off where it had been riveted together, dumping Peter unceremoniously onto the floor.
Neal tried not to laugh.
“Not funny!” Peter protested, rolling over onto his hands and knees and pushing himself to a standing position. He kept a hand on his right butt cheek. “That really hurt,” he groaned, rubbing.
“Well, I’m not kissing that better,” Neal pointed out.
“No?” Peter asked, pouting some more.
“Well, maybe,” Neal allowed, finding his lover irresistible. He wrapped his right hand in Peter’s tie and pulled him into a kiss. They stood, kissing and swaying against each other for several minutes before Peter lowered Neal to the floor where they’d be more comfortable.
Just as Peter was fumbling with Neal's tie, the radio behind them squawked to life, making both men jump. “Boss, you there? Agent Burke, please come in,” came Jones’ urgent-sounding voice over the speaker.
Neal moaned in frustration as Peter left him, walking over to the radio on his knees to answer the call from Jones.
“Agent Burke here, over,” he said, eyes still on Neal, who sat up, a questioning look in his eyes.
“We got a distress signal from your location, a Code Red. Local police have been dispatched and SWAT’s on standby. Over.”
“Code Red?” Peter stood and lifted the mic to his mouth; a Code Red meant armed gunmen, proceed with caution. “No, Jones, there’s no armed gunmen here…” Peter and Neal looked at each other, confused.
Neal got to his feet and began to straighten his clothes out - they’d have company soon. So much for the nice ending to their nice dinner. He sighed as the distant sound of sirens began and wandered up to sit in the driver’s seat.
As he did, he noticed suddenly that the seat warmer had come on, warming his back and butt, which he didn’t realize had grown cold after his and Peter’s romp on the drafty floor, and settled into the plush leather comfortably.
4.
“Neal? Come on, buddy, wake up, huh? Let me see those baby blues?” Peter’s voice sounded so strained and earnest - worried, too - that Neal had to oblige him. He groaned as the bright lights awakened a stab of agony in his head.
“Ow,” he whined.
Peter sighed in relief and Neal felt him grab his hand and kiss it. “I was beginning to think you’d never wake,” Peter said, his voice rough. “God, I don’t know what I’d have done.”
Used to the light now, Neal peered up at Peter, who stood over his hospital bed looking haggard.
“How long…?” Neal managed, his voice scratchy.
“You’ve been out almost two days. They were beginning to talk surgery… God!” Peter turned to face away from Neal, but still held onto his hand. Neal attempted to squeeze back reassuringly, but he wasn’t sure if it worked.
“It’s a good thing you found me, then,” Neal admitted. “I thought I was a goner for sure.”
Peter turned back to him, confused. “Found you?”
“Well, yeah. Naveed worked me over, but I still managed to slip the cuffs and get out of there. Next thing I knew, there was the van on the corner. Thank God you found me.”
Peter’s words were halting. “I… didn’t find you, Neal.”
“Well then, Jones, probably.”
“No, he and I were both in Queens executing a search warrant on Naveed’s second wife’s house. We… thought we’d find you there, along with the stolen Matisse.”
It was Neal's turn to look confused. “Was it Diana? I know what I saw, Peter.”
“You know what you think you saw. You have a really bad concussion.”
Neal tried to breathe calmly through his nose - not only did he remember, vividly, finding the van, he also recalled portions of the ride to the hospital. “How did I get here, then?”
“Docs couldn’t say - you were just here,” Peter said gently, sensing Neal's upset and stroking the back of his hand with his thumb. “Maybe a Good Samaritan?”
“Sure,” Neal said, suddenly exhausted. “Maybe. OK.” Probably it was the blows he’d taken to the head, and he was confused.
Probably.
5.
“Neal,” Peter began in his Slightly Disapproving Voice. “What have you done?”
“I got the van detailed. It really needed it - look how much better the paint looks!”
“You know, Bureau Fleet Services are supposed to work on the vehicles - you could get into a lot of trouble.”
Neal waved a hand dismissively. “I paid for it with my own money, and I supervised everything from the inside out. The floor’s so clean, you could eat off it!”
“Oh yeah?”
“Or… do other things,” Neal said in a low voice and Peter gave him that private smile - the one that crinkled up his eyes and made them twinkle - before squeezing his arm and heading for the parking garage’s elevator.
Neal watched him go with a smile and then climbed into the van alone. He slid into the driver’s seat and brushed away an invisible mote of dust on the dash, his hand running along it fondly. “Only the best treatment for my girl,” he murmured as the seat warmer gently enveloped him with a low-grade, comforting heat. “Only next time I’m alone with Peter, try not to be as much of a cockblock, OK?”
The engine roared to life and Neal clucked his tongue. “Come on, I promise I’ll get you those new rims I showed you.” The engine soon settled into something resembling a contented purr as Neal reclined in the driver’s seat and rested a foot on the dash.
----
Thank you for your time.
Author’s Note: I do not know if the Guggenheim has a basement. Or if Heifetz ever recorded Prokofiev’s Piano Concerto No. 1.