Romeo and Juliet Ain't Got Nothin' on Us
title: Romeo and Juliet Ain't Got Nothin' on Us
wordcount: 1013
fandom: White Collar
rating: PG-13 I s'pose
long-ass explanation/summary: This one I can actually totally blame
gypsy_sunday for. She mentioned Tiffani Thiessen was pregnant (yay!) on her lj, which made me think of Neal and Peter with a BABY, UGH. And then somehow we ended up flailing about some future universe in which they've adopted a kid together and uhhhh, I wrote this over on her journal, hah. So uh I'm reposting it here for the sake of having everything over here, like I generally do.
Here are the things you need to know about this universe to read this, if for some strange reason you'd like to: Elizabeth dies (god writing that out makes me feel HORRIBLEEEE I love you Elizabeth I promise) and there is huge fallout and realistic dealing with the implications and horribleness of that; eventually, Neal and Peter get into a relationship after, and name their eventual adopted daughter after her. Takes place 7 years after the show starts, 6 years after Elizabeth's death, and 2.5 years after they adopt baby Elizabeth (who is now 4). ALSO YOU NEED TO KNOW THAT IT'S SCHMOOPY AND DOMESTIC AND RIDICULOUS even though there is no on-screen child and I'm sorryyy /o\
-
When Peter comes home, Neal's sitting on the kitchen counter in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, fingers curled around a cup of lukewarm coffee.
He hears Peter before he sees him, because he's got his eyes closed. He doesn't open them when the door opens at the front of the house, or when he hears the shuffle of loafers on the hallway rug; instead, he curls his cold toes under his thighs and just listens to the sounds Peter makes. Cataloging: the squeak of his shoes as he comes into the kitchen, the sound of a cupboard opening, the scrape of a spoon against the inside of their coffee tin. The way Peter's breath is rattling out of his mouth like it does when he's tired; the way his steps sound so deliberate, because he's having to think about them.
"You didn't come home on time," he says, finally. He's too tired to make it sound accusatory or falsely cheerful, so it comes out exactly like what it is: an observation. He rolls his shoulders once, feeling the ache of his long day all the way down through muscle to bone, and peels his eyes open.
Peter's leaning against the open fridge door, staring blankly at the contents. He's tossed off his jacket somewhere along the line, so he's just got a wilted white shirt and his suspenders. His hair is mussed, like he's been pulling at it, and Neal can read exhaustion in the dangerously sloping line of his shoulders. Tired doesn't even begin to cover it, he thinks.
"I know," Peter says, then. His voice is a little hoarse. "God, Neal. Five hours in that goddamn car. Five fucking hours. Almost blew my brains out from boredom."
"Don't even joke, not tonight," Neal mutters. He flops his legs off the counter and slides to the floor, steadying himself with a hand. Stupid things are limp as noodles--he wobbles over to Peter, who's still staring at the fridge, transfixed, and leans around his body to close it. Peter starts, blinking up at Neal.
"Close the fucking fridge door till you're ready to decide, how many times do I have to tell you," Neal tells him, and pushes himself firmly into the uneven circle of Peter's arms.
Peter makes some kind of half-apologetic noise, and brings Neal closer like it's automatic. One of his hands rests just above the waist of Neal's sweatpants, and the other creeps over his shoulder, solid and familiar. Neal lets out a breath. Tension he didn't know he had seeps out of his body slowly. He twists up his mouth.
"Next time come back on time, okay," he whispers after a beat into Peter's ear. Digs his chin into Peter's shoulder and keeps his arms braced tight around Peter's ribs, curling his fingers in.
The words hang in the air for a few breaths. They both know it's a promise he can't make, after all--hell, it's a promise Neal can't fucking make. It's just a fact; sometimes one of them just gets drawn into something he can't walk away from, because if he does, it could mean someone's family or life, or a bad guy--a real bad guy, he'd tell Elizabeth, someone who actually hurts people--getting away. It's a fact, that, and there's no changing it, because he and Peter just aren't the kind of guys to sit on the sidelines. There's a price to that, just like there is to everything else.
Most of the time, Neal's fine with that, he really is--he's made some bad choices in his life, but none of these are them. Some nights, though; some nights it drives him fucking crazy. Some nights, all he wants is to listen to Peter read to Elizabeth instead of doing it himself, or wondering if she's going to bed easy from an FBI office forty minutes away. Some nights, that's all he wants.
"I'll try," Peter murmurs back, interrupting Neal's train of thought. He rubs a slow hand over Neal's shoulder, biting back a visible yawn. "I promise I'll try, okay?"
Neal closes his eyes, sighs into Peter's skin. Loves Peter for not trying to lie. "Okay," he says.
Peter kisses his neck once, carefully; Neal tightens his fingers in the back of Peter's shirt and slides his thumbs under Peter's suspenders, because he absolutely never wants to let go again. God, if they could, he thinks, he'd stay here, right in this moment, forever.
"I need fresh caffeine and a shower," Peter mutters, pulling away a little.
Neal laughs at the irony. But "yeah, you do," he agrees, because really--Peter smells like stale coffee and cramped car. "Okay. All right. I'll wait for you."
"Don't have to," Peter says, kissing that place on his neck again, and then a slow sweet trail down his jaw. There's no heat in it--neither of them have the energy--so all that's left in the brush of his mouth is the softness under everything. Neal's heart settles in his chest a little at the sureness of it, and he feels one last piece of tension click out of his spine.
"I'll wait for you," he repeats, leaning back far enough to look Peter in the eye, smooth a hand easily through the mussed parts of Peter's hair. "Just don't keep me waiting too long, okay, Romeo?" he adds, fluttering his eyelashes.
Peter snorts. "Cute."
"The cutest," Neal agrees. "Don't know how you got so lucky, Burke."
"Stop fishing for compliments," Peter chides, but he's smiling, and rubbing his thumb slowly over Neal's shoulder again, with that look in his eyes that Neal loves. "Love you. You know I do."
"Yeah, I know. The feeling is mutual," Neal says, not even trying to keep his smile down. He pushes Peter lightly in the direction of the bathroom. "Go, before you fall asleep standing up."
Peter rolls his eyes, but the curve of smile lingers on his mouth as he shuffles out of the room. "My hero," he calls back, teasingly.
Neal tips his head back and laughs.
wordcount: 1013
fandom: White Collar
rating: PG-13 I s'pose
long-ass explanation/summary: This one I can actually totally blame
gypsy_sunday for. She mentioned Tiffani Thiessen was pregnant (yay!) on her lj, which made me think of Neal and Peter with a BABY, UGH. And then somehow we ended up flailing about some future universe in which they've adopted a kid together and uhhhh, I wrote this over on her journal, hah. So uh I'm reposting it here for the sake of having everything over here, like I generally do.
Here are the things you need to know about this universe to read this, if for some strange reason you'd like to: Elizabeth dies (god writing that out makes me feel HORRIBLEEEE I love you Elizabeth I promise) and there is huge fallout and realistic dealing with the implications and horribleness of that; eventually, Neal and Peter get into a relationship after, and name their eventual adopted daughter after her. Takes place 7 years after the show starts, 6 years after Elizabeth's death, and 2.5 years after they adopt baby Elizabeth (who is now 4). ALSO YOU NEED TO KNOW THAT IT'S SCHMOOPY AND DOMESTIC AND RIDICULOUS even though there is no on-screen child and I'm sorryyy /o\
-
When Peter comes home, Neal's sitting on the kitchen counter in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, fingers curled around a cup of lukewarm coffee.
He hears Peter before he sees him, because he's got his eyes closed. He doesn't open them when the door opens at the front of the house, or when he hears the shuffle of loafers on the hallway rug; instead, he curls his cold toes under his thighs and just listens to the sounds Peter makes. Cataloging: the squeak of his shoes as he comes into the kitchen, the sound of a cupboard opening, the scrape of a spoon against the inside of their coffee tin. The way Peter's breath is rattling out of his mouth like it does when he's tired; the way his steps sound so deliberate, because he's having to think about them.
"You didn't come home on time," he says, finally. He's too tired to make it sound accusatory or falsely cheerful, so it comes out exactly like what it is: an observation. He rolls his shoulders once, feeling the ache of his long day all the way down through muscle to bone, and peels his eyes open.
Peter's leaning against the open fridge door, staring blankly at the contents. He's tossed off his jacket somewhere along the line, so he's just got a wilted white shirt and his suspenders. His hair is mussed, like he's been pulling at it, and Neal can read exhaustion in the dangerously sloping line of his shoulders. Tired doesn't even begin to cover it, he thinks.
"I know," Peter says, then. His voice is a little hoarse. "God, Neal. Five hours in that goddamn car. Five fucking hours. Almost blew my brains out from boredom."
"Don't even joke, not tonight," Neal mutters. He flops his legs off the counter and slides to the floor, steadying himself with a hand. Stupid things are limp as noodles--he wobbles over to Peter, who's still staring at the fridge, transfixed, and leans around his body to close it. Peter starts, blinking up at Neal.
"Close the fucking fridge door till you're ready to decide, how many times do I have to tell you," Neal tells him, and pushes himself firmly into the uneven circle of Peter's arms.
Peter makes some kind of half-apologetic noise, and brings Neal closer like it's automatic. One of his hands rests just above the waist of Neal's sweatpants, and the other creeps over his shoulder, solid and familiar. Neal lets out a breath. Tension he didn't know he had seeps out of his body slowly. He twists up his mouth.
"Next time come back on time, okay," he whispers after a beat into Peter's ear. Digs his chin into Peter's shoulder and keeps his arms braced tight around Peter's ribs, curling his fingers in.
The words hang in the air for a few breaths. They both know it's a promise he can't make, after all--hell, it's a promise Neal can't fucking make. It's just a fact; sometimes one of them just gets drawn into something he can't walk away from, because if he does, it could mean someone's family or life, or a bad guy--a real bad guy, he'd tell Elizabeth, someone who actually hurts people--getting away. It's a fact, that, and there's no changing it, because he and Peter just aren't the kind of guys to sit on the sidelines. There's a price to that, just like there is to everything else.
Most of the time, Neal's fine with that, he really is--he's made some bad choices in his life, but none of these are them. Some nights, though; some nights it drives him fucking crazy. Some nights, all he wants is to listen to Peter read to Elizabeth instead of doing it himself, or wondering if she's going to bed easy from an FBI office forty minutes away. Some nights, that's all he wants.
"I'll try," Peter murmurs back, interrupting Neal's train of thought. He rubs a slow hand over Neal's shoulder, biting back a visible yawn. "I promise I'll try, okay?"
Neal closes his eyes, sighs into Peter's skin. Loves Peter for not trying to lie. "Okay," he says.
Peter kisses his neck once, carefully; Neal tightens his fingers in the back of Peter's shirt and slides his thumbs under Peter's suspenders, because he absolutely never wants to let go again. God, if they could, he thinks, he'd stay here, right in this moment, forever.
"I need fresh caffeine and a shower," Peter mutters, pulling away a little.
Neal laughs at the irony. But "yeah, you do," he agrees, because really--Peter smells like stale coffee and cramped car. "Okay. All right. I'll wait for you."
"Don't have to," Peter says, kissing that place on his neck again, and then a slow sweet trail down his jaw. There's no heat in it--neither of them have the energy--so all that's left in the brush of his mouth is the softness under everything. Neal's heart settles in his chest a little at the sureness of it, and he feels one last piece of tension click out of his spine.
"I'll wait for you," he repeats, leaning back far enough to look Peter in the eye, smooth a hand easily through the mussed parts of Peter's hair. "Just don't keep me waiting too long, okay, Romeo?" he adds, fluttering his eyelashes.
Peter snorts. "Cute."
"The cutest," Neal agrees. "Don't know how you got so lucky, Burke."
"Stop fishing for compliments," Peter chides, but he's smiling, and rubbing his thumb slowly over Neal's shoulder again, with that look in his eyes that Neal loves. "Love you. You know I do."
"Yeah, I know. The feeling is mutual," Neal says, not even trying to keep his smile down. He pushes Peter lightly in the direction of the bathroom. "Go, before you fall asleep standing up."
Peter rolls his eyes, but the curve of smile lingers on his mouth as he shuffles out of the room. "My hero," he calls back, teasingly.
Neal tips his head back and laughs.