white collar birthday ficlet for elrhiarhodan!
So, today is a day of multiple birthdays; first out of the gate is my dear friend elrhiarhodan, who is always and forever brightening my life with her kindness, her intelligence, and her brilliant way with words. She has also stuck with me through thick and thin, in and out of various fandoms, because she is THE BEST. So for her birthday I wrote her a White Collar OT3 ficlet, both to honor that which I know she likes best and to draw back to that which brought us together in the first place!
It's...er...fluffy domestic future fic, but, to mix a couple of metaphors here, you can't expect a one trick pony to change its spots, am I right?
In any case: Elr, bb, I hope you like this, and happy, happy, happy birthday. All my love. ♥
Certain Things in the Real World
It's supposed to be Neal's night to cook, which he tries not to feel bad about as he toys with the cell phone in his pocket and considers his options. On the one hand, he doesn't exactly relish the idea of being on the business end of Peter's "You have done wrong" stare--the closet thing he gets to the finger point, these days--but on the other hand, this commission isn't going to paint itself. He sighs, oddly wistful for the days when he could get chased down, shot at and still be out of the office in time for dinner, and makes the call.
"You're flaking," Peter answers, skipping over hello entirely, and seriously, fuck his boyfriend a lot for being a trained investigator. Neal feels bad enough. "Caffrey--"
"Hold on," says Neal, "what's that I hear? Through the open window, like singing bluebirds, what's--why, could it be the sound of my life of crime, luring me back in with its ease? I don't know, Peter, it's hard to hear it over the sound of you guilting me for my legitimate work ethic, maybe you should quiet down."
"Don't try that," Peter says. "Don't think for one second that that's going to get you out of this, El's been cooking, I've been cooking--"
"You've been watching the Giants game and tasting things," Neal says, letting himself laugh. He catches the phone in the crook of his ear and turns to survey the painting again. "And adding Red Hot to whatever El's making doesn't count as cooking, Butch."
"Sorry, Sundance, I think you're mixing us up again," Peter says. "I, having been successfully married for over sixteen years--"
"Rub it in--"
"--know better than to add things to El's cooking. El's cooking is perfect just the way it is. "
"She's right there, isn't she?"
"She wants to talk," Peter says, "but whatever she says, you're still in trouble for flaking, don't think you're getting out of this," and then there's the faint noise of him pulling the phone from his ear. Neal thinks he can hear El whapping Peter with something--his new copy of the New Yorker, probably, but oh well, he can live with creases for a worthy cause--before she comes on the line.
"Bad night?" she says, nothing but sympathy in her voice, and Neal would kiss her for that if he wasn't across town.
"One of these days I'm going to steal something again," Neal says, "just one more thing, and then I'm going to whisk you away from this terrible city and that awful man you married."
"Really bad night, then," El says. "But don't even think about it, Neal, I won't be whisked, even by the likes of you." There's a noise in the background, and she sighs, adds, "Especially by the likes off you," to mollify Peter, and shit, Neal wants to be at his house with his family, not in this cold, austere studio with his goddamn paints.
"Remind me again why I agreed to take a commission from a man who wears Argyle socks with tweed?"
"Because the fact that you're an incurable snob--Satch, off, off--doesn't mean you don't know a good paycheck when you see one," El says. "Also, if you'd passed up an opportunity to work with someone who wanted you to run base from a Rossetti, I would've had to kill you."
"I think he might have some kind of private gallery access, actually," Neal says, brightening. "If he likes the piece I'll see if I can't wrangle us a tour, make it up to you for missing dinner."
"Neal, honey, don't worry about it," El says. "I mean, worry about the gallery access, I want that, but dinner's no big deal. Peter's just in a mood."
"I got that," Neal says, sighing. "Look, I should get back--"
"You and me both," El says. "I might be up when you get in, I've got some stuff still left to do for the Roseman wedding, but I'll leave you the leftovers in the fridge if not, okay?"
"You're a lifesaver," Neal says. "I'll try not to be too late. Love you guys, yeah?"
"Yeah," El says, and he can hear the smile in her voice, knows that Peter's seeing it and fighting back his own grin. "Us too."
Neal smiles despite himself as he hangs up the phone, turns up the music--classical, because it's Tuesday, and he's going to have to stop Mozzie messing with his stereo system one of these days, his patterns are starting to get worryingly predictable--and loses himself to his work. It's three hours later when he surfaces, the painting in a more passable place than it was when he started, and he pulls on his jacket and catches the first cab that passes when he gets outside.
There are days, still, when he holds his breath as he crosses over the line where his tether once ended, but they're few and far between anymore.
El's asleep on the couch when he gets in, something the looks like an equipment inventory peaking out from underneath her head, and the sound of snoring from upstairs makes it clear that Peter's out too. Satchmo wakes up when he shuts the door, though, follows him as he tiptoes into the kitchen and eats a few bites of pot roast before giving in and rousing El. She swats at him but lets him push her towards the stairs, pressing a soft hello against his mouth as she goes, and he finishes his dinner fast, runs Satchmo out one last time, before heading up to bed himself.
"Smell like turpentine," Peter grumbles, even as he shifts to make room for Neal under the covers. "An' you're still in trouble."
"You remember why?" Neal asks, amused. Half awake, Peter snorts, cracks one eye open to glare at him.
"No," he admits, "but it'll come to me, there's always something. Don't be a smartass."
"Yeah, yeah," Neal says. He kisses Peter, just the once, at the edge of his mouth; Peter's arm snakes over his stomach out of habit, rests easy across his stomach, and Neal closes his eyes.
It's...er...fluffy domestic future fic, but, to mix a couple of metaphors here, you can't expect a one trick pony to change its spots, am I right?
In any case: Elr, bb, I hope you like this, and happy, happy, happy birthday. All my love. ♥
Certain Things in the Real World
It's supposed to be Neal's night to cook, which he tries not to feel bad about as he toys with the cell phone in his pocket and considers his options. On the one hand, he doesn't exactly relish the idea of being on the business end of Peter's "You have done wrong" stare--the closet thing he gets to the finger point, these days--but on the other hand, this commission isn't going to paint itself. He sighs, oddly wistful for the days when he could get chased down, shot at and still be out of the office in time for dinner, and makes the call.
"You're flaking," Peter answers, skipping over hello entirely, and seriously, fuck his boyfriend a lot for being a trained investigator. Neal feels bad enough. "Caffrey--"
"Hold on," says Neal, "what's that I hear? Through the open window, like singing bluebirds, what's--why, could it be the sound of my life of crime, luring me back in with its ease? I don't know, Peter, it's hard to hear it over the sound of you guilting me for my legitimate work ethic, maybe you should quiet down."
"Don't try that," Peter says. "Don't think for one second that that's going to get you out of this, El's been cooking, I've been cooking--"
"You've been watching the Giants game and tasting things," Neal says, letting himself laugh. He catches the phone in the crook of his ear and turns to survey the painting again. "And adding Red Hot to whatever El's making doesn't count as cooking, Butch."
"Sorry, Sundance, I think you're mixing us up again," Peter says. "I, having been successfully married for over sixteen years--"
"Rub it in--"
"--know better than to add things to El's cooking. El's cooking is perfect just the way it is. "
"She's right there, isn't she?"
"She wants to talk," Peter says, "but whatever she says, you're still in trouble for flaking, don't think you're getting out of this," and then there's the faint noise of him pulling the phone from his ear. Neal thinks he can hear El whapping Peter with something--his new copy of the New Yorker, probably, but oh well, he can live with creases for a worthy cause--before she comes on the line.
"Bad night?" she says, nothing but sympathy in her voice, and Neal would kiss her for that if he wasn't across town.
"One of these days I'm going to steal something again," Neal says, "just one more thing, and then I'm going to whisk you away from this terrible city and that awful man you married."
"Really bad night, then," El says. "But don't even think about it, Neal, I won't be whisked, even by the likes of you." There's a noise in the background, and she sighs, adds, "Especially by the likes off you," to mollify Peter, and shit, Neal wants to be at his house with his family, not in this cold, austere studio with his goddamn paints.
"Remind me again why I agreed to take a commission from a man who wears Argyle socks with tweed?"
"Because the fact that you're an incurable snob--Satch, off, off--doesn't mean you don't know a good paycheck when you see one," El says. "Also, if you'd passed up an opportunity to work with someone who wanted you to run base from a Rossetti, I would've had to kill you."
"I think he might have some kind of private gallery access, actually," Neal says, brightening. "If he likes the piece I'll see if I can't wrangle us a tour, make it up to you for missing dinner."
"Neal, honey, don't worry about it," El says. "I mean, worry about the gallery access, I want that, but dinner's no big deal. Peter's just in a mood."
"I got that," Neal says, sighing. "Look, I should get back--"
"You and me both," El says. "I might be up when you get in, I've got some stuff still left to do for the Roseman wedding, but I'll leave you the leftovers in the fridge if not, okay?"
"You're a lifesaver," Neal says. "I'll try not to be too late. Love you guys, yeah?"
"Yeah," El says, and he can hear the smile in her voice, knows that Peter's seeing it and fighting back his own grin. "Us too."
Neal smiles despite himself as he hangs up the phone, turns up the music--classical, because it's Tuesday, and he's going to have to stop Mozzie messing with his stereo system one of these days, his patterns are starting to get worryingly predictable--and loses himself to his work. It's three hours later when he surfaces, the painting in a more passable place than it was when he started, and he pulls on his jacket and catches the first cab that passes when he gets outside.
There are days, still, when he holds his breath as he crosses over the line where his tether once ended, but they're few and far between anymore.
El's asleep on the couch when he gets in, something the looks like an equipment inventory peaking out from underneath her head, and the sound of snoring from upstairs makes it clear that Peter's out too. Satchmo wakes up when he shuts the door, though, follows him as he tiptoes into the kitchen and eats a few bites of pot roast before giving in and rousing El. She swats at him but lets him push her towards the stairs, pressing a soft hello against his mouth as she goes, and he finishes his dinner fast, runs Satchmo out one last time, before heading up to bed himself.
"Smell like turpentine," Peter grumbles, even as he shifts to make room for Neal under the covers. "An' you're still in trouble."
"You remember why?" Neal asks, amused. Half awake, Peter snorts, cracks one eye open to glare at him.
"No," he admits, "but it'll come to me, there's always something. Don't be a smartass."
"Yeah, yeah," Neal says. He kisses Peter, just the once, at the edge of his mouth; Peter's arm snakes over his stomach out of habit, rests easy across his stomach, and Neal closes his eyes.