WC Fic: Stay Young, Go Dancing
Title: Stay Young, Go Dancing
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Peter, Neal, June; Neal/Peter pre-pre-slash
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: Fluffy, fluffy fluff, la la
Word Count: ~900
Summary: What’s Neal do for two hours every Tuesday and Thursday night? Peter aims to find out.
A/N: I was inspired by hearing the song of the same name by Death Cab for Cutie this morning. This is set sometime in the middle of S1.
----
Peter wasn’t sure who brought it to his attention - Jones or Lauren - but the fact that Caffrey’s tracker showed him spending two hours in the exact same location every Tuesday and Thursday evenings when they weren't on a case was concerning at the least, alarming at the most. He didn’t want to think of the kind of trouble the young man could be getting up to, and he knew the leash the Bureau had Neal on was too short, dammit. Two hours?! These thoughts and more made Peter worried enough to investigate.
He arrived about ten minutes ahead of when Neal’s pattern told him the conman would show, and found the site to be that of a rather large community center about three blocks from Neal’s home. A glance at the calendar for the day listed, among other things, a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous as well as Narcotics Anonymous, a tai-chi class, a childbirthing class, a quilting circle, and something that was just listed as, “Madam J.” Dismissing the childbirth and quilting meetings out of hand - he had once caught Neal sending a shirt to the tailor to sew a button back on - he frowned worriedly at the thought of Neal having to deal with an addiction.
He was standing there, dithering about the possibilities when he spotted Neal entering the building. Panicking, Peter stepped into an empty and darkened room as the young man passed him without noticing him, and would have left, honestly, except… curiosity and cats had no bearing on what was going on here, but he had to know.
Emerging from his hiding place - more like a convenient space to wait, yes? - he literally tiptoed after Neal, following him down a long series of corridors. Neal moved with unhurried grace, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and Peter tried to keep ample distance between them so he wouldn’t be noticed.
Neal stopped outside a door at the back of the building and entered without pausing. Peter hung back and observed some of the people that also entered; they were of all ages, many of them light and apparently carefree in mood, laughing and chatting with each other. Peter didn’t think they bore the look of folks on their way to addiction counseling, so he allowed himself a sigh of relief. When it seemed like no one else was entering - and glancing at his watch, he saw the time was 8:03 pm - he took a chance and approached the door to the room.
The door had a window cut-out in it, inside of which was set the kind of mesh-reinforced glass he remembered from classroom doors when he was a kid. A placard set to the right of it said, “8:00: Madam J. Do not enter if you are late!” He heard a woman’s voice within, rich and ringing, though he couldn’t make out her words.
He crept closer, peeping in through the window. The people he’d seen enter earlier were in evenly-spaced pairs around the room. One of the room’s walls was entirely covered with mirrors. A dance class! And the instructor was… June.
Peter gasped a little in surprise to see Neal’s elegant landlady dressed in a leotard, tights and a loose, flowing blouse over that, her calves and ankles covered by legwarmers. She was lecturing the class on things Peter didn’t catch, her tone imperious but not unkind, and they watched her, rapt and attentive. At length, she strode to the front of the room and made a gesture to someone behind her - Peter’s view was obscured by the door - and the room was filled with music. She held a hand out, beckoning someone over, and that someone - was Neal.
Peter kind of lost his ability to breathe for a second, as he watched Neal smilingly take June’s hand and spin her in place deftly before taking her into his arms in what must have been some sort of starting position. When he did, the smile left his face, and his eyes fixed on June’s in a way Peter could only call “smoldering.” Then they began.
Peter thought it was a tango - he was pretty sure of it given the type of music that was playing. Plus, he’d seen enough of them on that dancing show with semi-famous people that El was so fond of.
Wasn’t there supposed to be a rose in someone’s mouth? Or was that just on cartoons? The way Neal was moving June around, the thought of a rose in the mix was kind of impractical anyway.
Neal was dancing.
And he was really good at it.
And Peter refused to notice the lines of his back as it arched, or the way his shirt clung to him, or the way his shoulders flexed, or the way his buttocks tightened as he brought his feet together. And he should go now, having determined that the time Neal spent here was not something to be suspicious of. And he should allow Neal is privacy.
And he should go.
Soon.
----
Thank you for your time.
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Peter, Neal, June; Neal/Peter pre-pre-slash
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: Fluffy, fluffy fluff, la la
Word Count: ~900
Summary: What’s Neal do for two hours every Tuesday and Thursday night? Peter aims to find out.
A/N: I was inspired by hearing the song of the same name by Death Cab for Cutie this morning. This is set sometime in the middle of S1.
----
Peter wasn’t sure who brought it to his attention - Jones or Lauren - but the fact that Caffrey’s tracker showed him spending two hours in the exact same location every Tuesday and Thursday evenings when they weren't on a case was concerning at the least, alarming at the most. He didn’t want to think of the kind of trouble the young man could be getting up to, and he knew the leash the Bureau had Neal on was too short, dammit. Two hours?! These thoughts and more made Peter worried enough to investigate.
He arrived about ten minutes ahead of when Neal’s pattern told him the conman would show, and found the site to be that of a rather large community center about three blocks from Neal’s home. A glance at the calendar for the day listed, among other things, a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous as well as Narcotics Anonymous, a tai-chi class, a childbirthing class, a quilting circle, and something that was just listed as, “Madam J.” Dismissing the childbirth and quilting meetings out of hand - he had once caught Neal sending a shirt to the tailor to sew a button back on - he frowned worriedly at the thought of Neal having to deal with an addiction.
He was standing there, dithering about the possibilities when he spotted Neal entering the building. Panicking, Peter stepped into an empty and darkened room as the young man passed him without noticing him, and would have left, honestly, except… curiosity and cats had no bearing on what was going on here, but he had to know.
Emerging from his hiding place - more like a convenient space to wait, yes? - he literally tiptoed after Neal, following him down a long series of corridors. Neal moved with unhurried grace, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and Peter tried to keep ample distance between them so he wouldn’t be noticed.
Neal stopped outside a door at the back of the building and entered without pausing. Peter hung back and observed some of the people that also entered; they were of all ages, many of them light and apparently carefree in mood, laughing and chatting with each other. Peter didn’t think they bore the look of folks on their way to addiction counseling, so he allowed himself a sigh of relief. When it seemed like no one else was entering - and glancing at his watch, he saw the time was 8:03 pm - he took a chance and approached the door to the room.
The door had a window cut-out in it, inside of which was set the kind of mesh-reinforced glass he remembered from classroom doors when he was a kid. A placard set to the right of it said, “8:00: Madam J. Do not enter if you are late!” He heard a woman’s voice within, rich and ringing, though he couldn’t make out her words.
He crept closer, peeping in through the window. The people he’d seen enter earlier were in evenly-spaced pairs around the room. One of the room’s walls was entirely covered with mirrors. A dance class! And the instructor was… June.
Peter gasped a little in surprise to see Neal’s elegant landlady dressed in a leotard, tights and a loose, flowing blouse over that, her calves and ankles covered by legwarmers. She was lecturing the class on things Peter didn’t catch, her tone imperious but not unkind, and they watched her, rapt and attentive. At length, she strode to the front of the room and made a gesture to someone behind her - Peter’s view was obscured by the door - and the room was filled with music. She held a hand out, beckoning someone over, and that someone - was Neal.
Peter kind of lost his ability to breathe for a second, as he watched Neal smilingly take June’s hand and spin her in place deftly before taking her into his arms in what must have been some sort of starting position. When he did, the smile left his face, and his eyes fixed on June’s in a way Peter could only call “smoldering.” Then they began.
Peter thought it was a tango - he was pretty sure of it given the type of music that was playing. Plus, he’d seen enough of them on that dancing show with semi-famous people that El was so fond of.
Wasn’t there supposed to be a rose in someone’s mouth? Or was that just on cartoons? The way Neal was moving June around, the thought of a rose in the mix was kind of impractical anyway.
Neal was dancing.
And he was really good at it.
And Peter refused to notice the lines of his back as it arched, or the way his shirt clung to him, or the way his shoulders flexed, or the way his buttocks tightened as he brought his feet together. And he should go now, having determined that the time Neal spent here was not something to be suspicious of. And he should allow Neal is privacy.
And he should go.
Soon.
----
Thank you for your time.