Fic: The Greatest Gift of All (for polly_aurelia)
Title: The Greatest Gift of All
Author: ♥ peacerabbit ♥
Recipient: polly_aurelia
Rating: PG for light swearing
Genre and/or Pairing: Gen, Peter/Neal friendship. vague mentions of Peter/Elizabeth, and Neal/Kate in the past tense.
Spoilers: Nope.
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 1,432
Prompt: Peter’s socks as seen in 1.06.
Summary: Neal and Peter are up late working on a case when the subject of Peter’s socks once again comes up in conversation.
February 10th, 3:02 am
“Those socks again,” Neal says, looking at Peter’s feet. They’re sitting together on Peter’s (much too small) couch, studying a case file. It’s late - Peter doesn’t know exactly how late, but Elizabeth went to bed hours ago and Satch had followed soon after.
Even Neal, who had been all vibrancy and good humor up until now, seems to suddenly be on the verge of falling asleep like a toy whose batteries have just gone dead. His eyes are half-closed and he’s lying back with his feet on the glass coffee table, having abandoned the report he’d been reading. His shoes are off so Peter doesn’t say anything, but he every so often he eyes the tracking anklet that rests above Neal’s black dress socks. He can’t help it; the tiny light inevitably draws his attention in the dimness. Sometimes, for reasons he still can’t puzzle out, it bothers him to see it fastened there like a collar on a dog. He keeps reminding himself that the anklet is the only thing keeping Neal around.
“Peter,” Neal says, looking at him oddly, and Peter realizes that it’s not the first time Neal has said his name.
He sets the file down and rubs at his face. Jesus Christ, he’s tired as hell if he’s getting that lost in thought. “What?”
“Those socks, where did Elizabeth get them?”
Peter looks down at the various cartoonish dogs stitched onto his light blue socks. “I told you already. They were a gift.”
Neal makes an impatient noise and sits up a little. “Yeah, you did tell me that already. That’s not what I asked.”
“What do you care anyway? They’re socks,” Peter grumbles. He stands up wearily and makes his way to the kitchen, hoping that’ll be the end of it, but to his dismay he hears Neal slowly trailing him. He glances backward to see a pair of bright blue eyes shining with new alertness.
“If they’re just socks then what’s the big deal?”
“There isn’t any!”
“Exactly my point.”
He looks at Neal and sighs in exasperation at the determined expression looking back. They’ve been working on this case for a week and nothing new has turned up. Both of them are exhausted and frustrated, which in Peter’s case means that he wants nothing more than a hot cup of coffee and a good night’s sleep. In Neal’s case it means that he needs to find some way to channel that frustration before he does something reckless and stupid.
Fine, Peter thinks. Fine. Better he interrogates me about my goddamn socks than runs off and gets himself into trouble.
Out loud he says, “Sit down and shut up. I need…uh…” The word is beyond his grasp for some reason. Probably because he’s been awake for over twenty-four hours at this point. “Something…I need something.” He frowns and scratches his neck, staring at his cabinets as though they hold the answer.
“Help! I need somebody…” Neal sings softly under his breath. Peter shoots him a glare before he can get to the next line. Mercifully Neal doesn’t press his luck; he sits down at the table and shuts up.
“Coffee,” Peter mutters, “that’s it.” He grabs his mug from the sink, pours the last bit of coffee left in the pot into it and shuts it in the microwave. When he sits down across from Neal he’s met with a disgusted expression.
“That’s the same stuff from yesterday morning, isn’t it? Why don’t you just make a new pot?”
“I don’t want -” He pauses. No use lying. Neal would see straight through it. “It’s a new coffeemaker. I haven’t had time to figure it out.”
Neal stares at him for a moment, then bursts into laughter. Dangerously loud laughter. Without thinking twice Peter reaches across the table and clamps his hand over Neal’s mouth, who immediately stops, surprised.
“Don’t. Wake. My. Wife,” Peter whispers fiercely.
Neal’s eyes dance with amusement. He nods with a muffled, “Mmhm,” and Peter cautiously withdraws his hand. The microwave dings and he retrieves his coffee, ignoring Neal’s silently shaking shoulders and sinking back down into his chair with a heavy sigh.
“Okay,” Neal says with a deep breath, having regained his composure. “So are you going to tell me about the Sock Saga?”
Peter grits his teeth. Look up the definition of persistence in a dictionary and Neal’s picture would be there grinning, no doubt. “It’s not a sock saga, all right? It’s nothing. Just a silly little gift Elle bought me one Valentine’s Day a few years ago. We had just gotten Satch and we were both kind of dog crazy at the time, hence…” Peter waved a hand toward in his feet.
“Dog socks.”
“Dog socks. I don’t know and I don’t care where she got them, and I don’t see why you would.” He sighs heavily. “I mean, come on. Don’t tell me Kate never got you something like that.”
Neal’s forehead creases at Kate’s name and for a moment Peter is afraid he’s said something insensitive and stupid in his exhaustion. He sees the light of humor dim in Neal’s eyes and at once wishes he could take back that last sentence. But Neal speaks before he can think to offer up any sort of apology.
“Kate isn’t - wasn’t - into that sort of stuff.” There is the slightest bit of vulnerability in his voice, during that split second when he switches present to past tense. It’s a brittleness so subtle that Peter isn’t sure he heard it at all.
“Kate likes the classics,” Peter and Neal say in unison, Peter in a tired sigh, Neal in a different sort of sigh altogether. It’s almost funny, but Peter has desire to laugh. Not when Neal is staring into space with that expression.
It’s strange, Peter thinks, how mental and physical fatigue tend to make old wounds raw again. He sips his lukewarm coffee and shifts in his seat, feeling as though he’s trespassed somehow. Neal looks ridiculously tired - hell, tired doesn’t begin to cover it - but more than that, he looks beaten.
Suddenly Peter has a flashback of Neal on the floor, clutching an empty bottle and staring listlessly at the wall as though he can’t begin to comprehend hope, let alone feel it. The remembered image makes Peter swallow hard and set his mug back down.
“Let’s get back to the case,” he says. Neal nods and wanders back to the couch to retrieve the file.
February 15th, 12:37 pm
Neal strolls into Peter’s office and pauses mid-stride at the expression on Peter’s face. He looks uncharacteristically pleased, like he’s trying to hold back laughter. Well. That can’t be good.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Neal asks warily.
“Like what?” Peter smiles, eyebrows raised, but he doesn’t give Neal a chance to answer. “Oh! Almost forgot! Elle wanted me to give this to you.” He retrieves a small box from his desk, neatly wrapped in bright pink paper with a big white bow tied around it. “Little Valentine’s Day gift.”
Neal blinks. “Valentine’s Day?” He clears his throat and gives Peter his Are-You-Sure-You’re-Really-An-FBI-Agent look. “Uh, Peter…Elizabeth knows we’re just friends, right?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Peter replies with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Elle gets all her friends Valentine’s gifts. Nothing big, but you know her. She gets carried away with the holiday stuff.”
“Well, tell her thank you,” Neal says, picking the box up and carefully unfolding the wrapping. He glances suspiciously at the smile tugging at the corners of Peter’s mouth, a little worried about what he might find within. But as he lifts the box’s lid, a huge grin spreads over his face.
“Dog socks?” He looks at Peter in a mixture of amusement and incredulity.
Peter returns the grin. “Dog socks. I told her you kept bugging me about them. She figured you should get your own pair.”
Neal holds them up, admiring their beauty. “Tell her this is the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”
“You can tell her yourself - I think it’s time for a lunch break,” Peter announces, standing and grabbing his coat. He’d just finished the last of the paperwork on that stupid case. It’s definitely time for a celebration of some sort, even if that celebration is just enjoying one of his wife’s meals.
Neal, still grinning, slips the folded socks into his pocket and walks out of the room with a new buoyancy in his step.
“Dog socks,” Peter sighs, shaking his head as he follows. “The greatest gift of all.”
If you read this, please leave a review for the author.
Author: ♥ peacerabbit ♥
Recipient: polly_aurelia
Rating: PG for light swearing
Genre and/or Pairing: Gen, Peter/Neal friendship. vague mentions of Peter/Elizabeth, and Neal/Kate in the past tense.
Spoilers: Nope.
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 1,432
Prompt: Peter’s socks as seen in 1.06.
Summary: Neal and Peter are up late working on a case when the subject of Peter’s socks once again comes up in conversation.
February 10th, 3:02 am
“Those socks again,” Neal says, looking at Peter’s feet. They’re sitting together on Peter’s (much too small) couch, studying a case file. It’s late - Peter doesn’t know exactly how late, but Elizabeth went to bed hours ago and Satch had followed soon after.
Even Neal, who had been all vibrancy and good humor up until now, seems to suddenly be on the verge of falling asleep like a toy whose batteries have just gone dead. His eyes are half-closed and he’s lying back with his feet on the glass coffee table, having abandoned the report he’d been reading. His shoes are off so Peter doesn’t say anything, but he every so often he eyes the tracking anklet that rests above Neal’s black dress socks. He can’t help it; the tiny light inevitably draws his attention in the dimness. Sometimes, for reasons he still can’t puzzle out, it bothers him to see it fastened there like a collar on a dog. He keeps reminding himself that the anklet is the only thing keeping Neal around.
“Peter,” Neal says, looking at him oddly, and Peter realizes that it’s not the first time Neal has said his name.
He sets the file down and rubs at his face. Jesus Christ, he’s tired as hell if he’s getting that lost in thought. “What?”
“Those socks, where did Elizabeth get them?”
Peter looks down at the various cartoonish dogs stitched onto his light blue socks. “I told you already. They were a gift.”
Neal makes an impatient noise and sits up a little. “Yeah, you did tell me that already. That’s not what I asked.”
“What do you care anyway? They’re socks,” Peter grumbles. He stands up wearily and makes his way to the kitchen, hoping that’ll be the end of it, but to his dismay he hears Neal slowly trailing him. He glances backward to see a pair of bright blue eyes shining with new alertness.
“If they’re just socks then what’s the big deal?”
“There isn’t any!”
“Exactly my point.”
He looks at Neal and sighs in exasperation at the determined expression looking back. They’ve been working on this case for a week and nothing new has turned up. Both of them are exhausted and frustrated, which in Peter’s case means that he wants nothing more than a hot cup of coffee and a good night’s sleep. In Neal’s case it means that he needs to find some way to channel that frustration before he does something reckless and stupid.
Fine, Peter thinks. Fine. Better he interrogates me about my goddamn socks than runs off and gets himself into trouble.
Out loud he says, “Sit down and shut up. I need…uh…” The word is beyond his grasp for some reason. Probably because he’s been awake for over twenty-four hours at this point. “Something…I need something.” He frowns and scratches his neck, staring at his cabinets as though they hold the answer.
“Help! I need somebody…” Neal sings softly under his breath. Peter shoots him a glare before he can get to the next line. Mercifully Neal doesn’t press his luck; he sits down at the table and shuts up.
“Coffee,” Peter mutters, “that’s it.” He grabs his mug from the sink, pours the last bit of coffee left in the pot into it and shuts it in the microwave. When he sits down across from Neal he’s met with a disgusted expression.
“That’s the same stuff from yesterday morning, isn’t it? Why don’t you just make a new pot?”
“I don’t want -” He pauses. No use lying. Neal would see straight through it. “It’s a new coffeemaker. I haven’t had time to figure it out.”
Neal stares at him for a moment, then bursts into laughter. Dangerously loud laughter. Without thinking twice Peter reaches across the table and clamps his hand over Neal’s mouth, who immediately stops, surprised.
“Don’t. Wake. My. Wife,” Peter whispers fiercely.
Neal’s eyes dance with amusement. He nods with a muffled, “Mmhm,” and Peter cautiously withdraws his hand. The microwave dings and he retrieves his coffee, ignoring Neal’s silently shaking shoulders and sinking back down into his chair with a heavy sigh.
“Okay,” Neal says with a deep breath, having regained his composure. “So are you going to tell me about the Sock Saga?”
Peter grits his teeth. Look up the definition of persistence in a dictionary and Neal’s picture would be there grinning, no doubt. “It’s not a sock saga, all right? It’s nothing. Just a silly little gift Elle bought me one Valentine’s Day a few years ago. We had just gotten Satch and we were both kind of dog crazy at the time, hence…” Peter waved a hand toward in his feet.
“Dog socks.”
“Dog socks. I don’t know and I don’t care where she got them, and I don’t see why you would.” He sighs heavily. “I mean, come on. Don’t tell me Kate never got you something like that.”
Neal’s forehead creases at Kate’s name and for a moment Peter is afraid he’s said something insensitive and stupid in his exhaustion. He sees the light of humor dim in Neal’s eyes and at once wishes he could take back that last sentence. But Neal speaks before he can think to offer up any sort of apology.
“Kate isn’t - wasn’t - into that sort of stuff.” There is the slightest bit of vulnerability in his voice, during that split second when he switches present to past tense. It’s a brittleness so subtle that Peter isn’t sure he heard it at all.
“Kate likes the classics,” Peter and Neal say in unison, Peter in a tired sigh, Neal in a different sort of sigh altogether. It’s almost funny, but Peter has desire to laugh. Not when Neal is staring into space with that expression.
It’s strange, Peter thinks, how mental and physical fatigue tend to make old wounds raw again. He sips his lukewarm coffee and shifts in his seat, feeling as though he’s trespassed somehow. Neal looks ridiculously tired - hell, tired doesn’t begin to cover it - but more than that, he looks beaten.
Suddenly Peter has a flashback of Neal on the floor, clutching an empty bottle and staring listlessly at the wall as though he can’t begin to comprehend hope, let alone feel it. The remembered image makes Peter swallow hard and set his mug back down.
“Let’s get back to the case,” he says. Neal nods and wanders back to the couch to retrieve the file.
February 15th, 12:37 pm
Neal strolls into Peter’s office and pauses mid-stride at the expression on Peter’s face. He looks uncharacteristically pleased, like he’s trying to hold back laughter. Well. That can’t be good.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Neal asks warily.
“Like what?” Peter smiles, eyebrows raised, but he doesn’t give Neal a chance to answer. “Oh! Almost forgot! Elle wanted me to give this to you.” He retrieves a small box from his desk, neatly wrapped in bright pink paper with a big white bow tied around it. “Little Valentine’s Day gift.”
Neal blinks. “Valentine’s Day?” He clears his throat and gives Peter his Are-You-Sure-You’re-Really-An-FBI-Agent look. “Uh, Peter…Elizabeth knows we’re just friends, right?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Peter replies with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Elle gets all her friends Valentine’s gifts. Nothing big, but you know her. She gets carried away with the holiday stuff.”
“Well, tell her thank you,” Neal says, picking the box up and carefully unfolding the wrapping. He glances suspiciously at the smile tugging at the corners of Peter’s mouth, a little worried about what he might find within. But as he lifts the box’s lid, a huge grin spreads over his face.
“Dog socks?” He looks at Peter in a mixture of amusement and incredulity.
Peter returns the grin. “Dog socks. I told her you kept bugging me about them. She figured you should get your own pair.”
Neal holds them up, admiring their beauty. “Tell her this is the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”
“You can tell her yourself - I think it’s time for a lunch break,” Peter announces, standing and grabbing his coat. He’d just finished the last of the paperwork on that stupid case. It’s definitely time for a celebration of some sort, even if that celebration is just enjoying one of his wife’s meals.
Neal, still grinning, slips the folded socks into his pocket and walks out of the room with a new buoyancy in his step.
“Dog socks,” Peter sighs, shaking his head as he follows. “The greatest gift of all.”
If you read this, please leave a review for the author.