Ficlet (White Collar/AHS Hotel): Enough
Title: Enough
Author: cookielaura
Fandoms: White Collar/American Horror Story: Hotel crossover
Characters/Pairings: Peter, Donovan, the Countess, implied past Peter/Neal, implied future Peter/Donovan
Wordcount: 591
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Nothing aside from implied possible future doom.
Spoilers: None really. Arguably takes place after White Collar ends, though could also be set after season 3 or in an AU timeline. No spoilers for Hotel.
Summary: Peter gets a surprise.
Notes: Written for nywcgirl's fandom stocking. May be continued if I end up watching beyond the first episode of Hotel (feel free to make suggestions for how you'd like to see it develop!)
Thinking he sees Neal in a crowded place isn’t a new sensation for Peter. He knows - intellectually, logically, beyond all reasonable doubt - that Neal is gone, and isn’t coming back, and yet still, he sees him. He sees him in the tilt of a fedora in a coffee shop line, in the flash of blue eyes as a waiter passes by him in a restaurant, in the well-tailored suit jacket of a man hurrying down the city streets. None of them turn out to be Neal, of course, not once Peter’s pulse slows down and he gets a proper look.
At least, not until that evening at the bar.
He’s waiting for El. She’s got a catering job nearby and he promised he’d meet her afterwards for a quick drink, before heading out on the night’s stake-out. He’d never set foot in a place like this if it wasn't for geographical convenience. The bar is noisy, thumping with some dance track that sets Peter’s nerves on edge, reverberating up through his spine and making him tap his fingers agitatedly against the side of his beer bottle. There’s something else bothering him too, something more than the pounding music and the stifling heat and the smell of too many different colognes merging together with sweat and pheromones. It takes him a while to put his finger on it, to figure out why the hairs on his neck are prickling and his shoulders are tight and tense.
Someone is watching him.
He scans the crowd, well-trained eyes that are used to hunting down suspects and threats. But he doesn’t need to seek the person out: she comes towards him, the people parting before her, the lights of the bar glinting off her platinum blond hair. Her eyes are startling, mesmerizing, even beneath the black veil that covers part of her face, and he wouldn’t have been able to wrest his gaze from her, if it wasn’t for the man at her side, a step behind her.
Peter’s eyes slide away from her stare, drawn to the man in her shadow. The familiar quickening of his pulse begins, the catch in his breath, the tightness in his chest - the regular triptych of anticipation and wild hope that is always followed by disappointment. But this time, when he looks closer, his pulse doesn’t slow. His breath doesn’t return to normal. It’s difficult to see in the dim room, but the glimpses - the jawline, the mouth, the nose - they only confirm what he knows can’t be true. Neal.
The woman slides up in front of him, and puts her hand on his chest, but Peter barely registers her, because the man behind her is now within his grasp, and - he wasn’t wrong. The hair is different, and he’s wearing eyeliner for some reason Peter doesn’t have time to think about, but - he wasn’t wrong.
“Neal?” he says. His voice is rough, desperate. Vaguely he feels the woman step to the side a little, and leave him and the man face to face. “Neal?”
Neal - is it, can it be? - just smiles, as if Peter has said something funny. Then he reaches out, and presses a finger against Peter’s lips, slow and commanding.
It doesn’t smell like Neal, doesn’t feel like Neal, doesn’t taste like Neal - but it sure as hell looks like Neal. And that’s enough. That’s more than enough.
“Neal,” says Peter again, his lips moving against the finger, and this time he doesn’t make it a question.
The man's smile widens. “Sure,” he says.
Author: cookielaura
Fandoms: White Collar/American Horror Story: Hotel crossover
Characters/Pairings: Peter, Donovan, the Countess, implied past Peter/Neal, implied future Peter/Donovan
Wordcount: 591
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Nothing aside from implied possible future doom.
Spoilers: None really. Arguably takes place after White Collar ends, though could also be set after season 3 or in an AU timeline. No spoilers for Hotel.
Summary: Peter gets a surprise.
Notes: Written for nywcgirl's fandom stocking. May be continued if I end up watching beyond the first episode of Hotel (feel free to make suggestions for how you'd like to see it develop!)
Thinking he sees Neal in a crowded place isn’t a new sensation for Peter. He knows - intellectually, logically, beyond all reasonable doubt - that Neal is gone, and isn’t coming back, and yet still, he sees him. He sees him in the tilt of a fedora in a coffee shop line, in the flash of blue eyes as a waiter passes by him in a restaurant, in the well-tailored suit jacket of a man hurrying down the city streets. None of them turn out to be Neal, of course, not once Peter’s pulse slows down and he gets a proper look.
At least, not until that evening at the bar.
He’s waiting for El. She’s got a catering job nearby and he promised he’d meet her afterwards for a quick drink, before heading out on the night’s stake-out. He’d never set foot in a place like this if it wasn't for geographical convenience. The bar is noisy, thumping with some dance track that sets Peter’s nerves on edge, reverberating up through his spine and making him tap his fingers agitatedly against the side of his beer bottle. There’s something else bothering him too, something more than the pounding music and the stifling heat and the smell of too many different colognes merging together with sweat and pheromones. It takes him a while to put his finger on it, to figure out why the hairs on his neck are prickling and his shoulders are tight and tense.
Someone is watching him.
He scans the crowd, well-trained eyes that are used to hunting down suspects and threats. But he doesn’t need to seek the person out: she comes towards him, the people parting before her, the lights of the bar glinting off her platinum blond hair. Her eyes are startling, mesmerizing, even beneath the black veil that covers part of her face, and he wouldn’t have been able to wrest his gaze from her, if it wasn’t for the man at her side, a step behind her.
Peter’s eyes slide away from her stare, drawn to the man in her shadow. The familiar quickening of his pulse begins, the catch in his breath, the tightness in his chest - the regular triptych of anticipation and wild hope that is always followed by disappointment. But this time, when he looks closer, his pulse doesn’t slow. His breath doesn’t return to normal. It’s difficult to see in the dim room, but the glimpses - the jawline, the mouth, the nose - they only confirm what he knows can’t be true. Neal.
The woman slides up in front of him, and puts her hand on his chest, but Peter barely registers her, because the man behind her is now within his grasp, and - he wasn’t wrong. The hair is different, and he’s wearing eyeliner for some reason Peter doesn’t have time to think about, but - he wasn’t wrong.
“Neal?” he says. His voice is rough, desperate. Vaguely he feels the woman step to the side a little, and leave him and the man face to face. “Neal?”
Neal - is it, can it be? - just smiles, as if Peter has said something funny. Then he reaches out, and presses a finger against Peter’s lips, slow and commanding.
It doesn’t smell like Neal, doesn’t feel like Neal, doesn’t taste like Neal - but it sure as hell looks like Neal. And that’s enough. That’s more than enough.
“Neal,” says Peter again, his lips moving against the finger, and this time he doesn’t make it a question.
The man's smile widens. “Sure,” he says.