White Collar Fanfic: Adventures in Neal-Sitting (4/?)
Title: Adventures in Neal-Sitting
Author:lee_bub_stamper
Rating: PG
Characters: El, Neal, and a little bit of Peter
Summary: "But Elizabeth." It's half a horrified gasp, half a whine, and Elizabeth is amazed to hear it come out of a grown man's mouth. She takes it in stride, though, because if Peter can handle Neal, Elizabeth can handle Neal. Not that it's a competition, it's just truth. Fact. Elizabeth is perfectly capable of doing this, and doing it right.
Author's Note: A story to satisfy a desire I have for Neal and El bonding.
Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |
It all started one week, one day, and ten hours ago when Mozzie rushed into Neal's apartment, quick and small and squirrel-like as he squeaked through the door and abruptly closed it with his back to the wood, practically vibrating with news, eyes huge behind his glasses. He knew someone.
"I know someone," he said, trying to catch his breath.
And Neal sat down, knowing then that the act of sitting was a necessity because Mozzie's eyes were screaming money signs at him. Money signs and trouble.
"His name is Bartimaeus. No last name."
"Bartimaeus?" Neal said, quizzical.
Mozzie sat then, placed his hands genteelly on Neal's dining table, narrowed his eyes and looked off to the side, huffy and affronted. "You heard me."
"Aw, c'mon, Moz. It's a weir- an unusual name."
"It's classic."
"Biblical does not mean classic."
The argument ensued. Anyway, the purpose of this particular anecdote is not Bartimaeus or his biblical name so much as it is the troubling effects this encounter with Mozzie as a whole has on Neal now. For Bartimaeus, like Neal, is also an expert in the art of forgery - a different sort however, for his hands craft jewelry; not paintings, not sculptures.
"A diamond bracelet in the shape of a male lion, mouth open to consume its prey," Mozzie said, seemingly unconscious of how he was raising his hands from the table and splaying his fingers out to mimic claws. "He's created a replica imperceptible from the original using a mix of moissanite and zircon. Once it’s behind its glass case, nobody will be the wiser."
"I expect he has a buyer overseas?"
"In Stockholm. 15.2 million dollars, Neal, of which we'll get a 50 percent cut."
The sound of it set Neal's heart a-thunder. He lost himself in the fantasy of being what he used to be, slithery like a snake, but still handsome, pulling the wool over the eyes of the rich and entitled and unsuspecting. He plotted with Mozzie for three nights before one morning, at work, Peter came out of his office and pointed two portentous fingers at Neal, inciting a low, dooming whistle from Jones.
"What did you do this time, Caffrey?"
"Nothing that I know of," Neal said, but his chest clenched with a scintilla of anxiety because nobody had ever caught him at anything except for Peter. And Peter had caught him twice.
But how would he know?
Simple answer: he didn't.
"I'm being shipped off to D.C. for a week to speak at a Bureau conference, and to help with a case. You'll be staying here."
And that's how it all began. That's what led him to be here on this very early Tuesday morning, trailing Elizabeth through the door of Burke Premiere Events. Monday was a trial. They - Mozzie and Neal - had found out that the object of their heist was to be put up for auction in the week ahead, that it was to be inspected in the coming days and that the switch would have to occur later than originally planned, throwing all the previous aspects of their plot out the window and landing Mozzie, Neal, and yes, Bartimaeus, in a deep pool of uncertainty. And if there was one thing Neal hated, it was treading dark waters full of the unknown.
Speaking of dark waters, Elizabeth is looking at him with apologetic eyes. "I know it's early, Neal, but I have an appointment at nine and the space needs some sprucing up before it's ready for clients."
"It's okay. Do you need me to do anything? I'm handy with a broom. Or I could go out and get some espresso. Did you know Peter likes espresso? That was news to me."
She smiles, and her smile is beautiful, just like she is. Guilt is like a brick wedged diagonally from his throat to the left part of his chest as he looks at her then, but he just smiles back. He never wanted to pull the wool over Elizabeth's eyes. Elizabeth has kind, warm eyes that only want the best for Neal, just like Peter, but he's been doing it since before Peter even left, has been going out on walks with Satchmo with Mozzie only two blocks away, exchanging news of his situation with new ideas of what devices they could use to obtain what they need to retrieve the diamond lion. And yesterday, he didn't lie to her. He was painting. But only after they'd bugged the auction house and gained access to the security cameras and who was this poor fool who was going to buy this perfect imitation of this ugly wrist wear, anyway? And why did they want it, and what was Neal doing stealing the real thing when Elizabeth was at home worrying after him? He'd be embarrassed about the curfew thing, about coming home to this perfect woman who wasn't much older than he was, to scoldings and juvenile if-I-can't-take-my-eyes-off-of-you-for-a-second-well-then disciplinary actions, to authority handed down by Peter to someone who wasn't even in law enforcement, but he's too busy now. Too busy being a criminal, and too busy being ashamed of it.
Because what was he doing. What is he doing.
He doesn't know, but as for Elizabeth, she wants him to do both, and he does. He sweeps the floor with a broom he dances with just for her amusement, puts his hat on the top of the handle and swings as he cleans. She laughs, warns him to be careful when he performs a rather ungainly move and skids on the floor like he's a young Satchmo, not in full control of his puppy limbs and slippery paws, except Neal is not a puppy at all, is, in fact, a fully-grown man who lands on his backside when he doesn't heed her.
"Oww," he says, and peers up at her, wincing adorably, half a pained smile on his face.
It occurs to him then that Mozzie is right, and Peter is right, and almost anyone who's ever had to teach him anything in his adult life has always been right. Neal Caffrey is, indeed, just like a child. Because he wants her to say, "Oh, sweetie," and come to him with arms spread to hug him, put lips to his cheeks and forehead as she helps him up. That's what he wants. What happens is this:
"Oh, Neal," she sighs, her eyes rolling to the ceiling. She does come to him and helps him back to his feet, but the only kiss he gets is from her hand, firmly brushing dust off the back of his suit trousers. She plucks his hat off the broom handle and reaches up, situates it on his head. "Our coffee maker is on the fritz. I'm going to need you to go out and get me multiple cups. We're lucky Victoria is so vocal about her wants, I know exactly what to get her. Here." She stuffs a piece of paper in his hand. "There's a list. Try to be back here in forty-five minutes at the latest okay?"
And off he goes. He ponders briefly checking in with Mozzie, taking a gander at the security tapes, rolling out a few more ideas, but forty-five minutes is about three in the city and there's no time. Besides, he's still not sure why he's doing what he's doing. Or what he's doing. Or who he even is.
Anyway.
Author:lee_bub_stamper
Rating: PG
Characters: El, Neal, and a little bit of Peter
Summary: "But Elizabeth." It's half a horrified gasp, half a whine, and Elizabeth is amazed to hear it come out of a grown man's mouth. She takes it in stride, though, because if Peter can handle Neal, Elizabeth can handle Neal. Not that it's a competition, it's just truth. Fact. Elizabeth is perfectly capable of doing this, and doing it right.
Author's Note: A story to satisfy a desire I have for Neal and El bonding.
Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |
It all started one week, one day, and ten hours ago when Mozzie rushed into Neal's apartment, quick and small and squirrel-like as he squeaked through the door and abruptly closed it with his back to the wood, practically vibrating with news, eyes huge behind his glasses. He knew someone.
"I know someone," he said, trying to catch his breath.
And Neal sat down, knowing then that the act of sitting was a necessity because Mozzie's eyes were screaming money signs at him. Money signs and trouble.
"His name is Bartimaeus. No last name."
"Bartimaeus?" Neal said, quizzical.
Mozzie sat then, placed his hands genteelly on Neal's dining table, narrowed his eyes and looked off to the side, huffy and affronted. "You heard me."
"Aw, c'mon, Moz. It's a weir- an unusual name."
"It's classic."
"Biblical does not mean classic."
The argument ensued. Anyway, the purpose of this particular anecdote is not Bartimaeus or his biblical name so much as it is the troubling effects this encounter with Mozzie as a whole has on Neal now. For Bartimaeus, like Neal, is also an expert in the art of forgery - a different sort however, for his hands craft jewelry; not paintings, not sculptures.
"A diamond bracelet in the shape of a male lion, mouth open to consume its prey," Mozzie said, seemingly unconscious of how he was raising his hands from the table and splaying his fingers out to mimic claws. "He's created a replica imperceptible from the original using a mix of moissanite and zircon. Once it’s behind its glass case, nobody will be the wiser."
"I expect he has a buyer overseas?"
"In Stockholm. 15.2 million dollars, Neal, of which we'll get a 50 percent cut."
The sound of it set Neal's heart a-thunder. He lost himself in the fantasy of being what he used to be, slithery like a snake, but still handsome, pulling the wool over the eyes of the rich and entitled and unsuspecting. He plotted with Mozzie for three nights before one morning, at work, Peter came out of his office and pointed two portentous fingers at Neal, inciting a low, dooming whistle from Jones.
"What did you do this time, Caffrey?"
"Nothing that I know of," Neal said, but his chest clenched with a scintilla of anxiety because nobody had ever caught him at anything except for Peter. And Peter had caught him twice.
But how would he know?
Simple answer: he didn't.
"I'm being shipped off to D.C. for a week to speak at a Bureau conference, and to help with a case. You'll be staying here."
And that's how it all began. That's what led him to be here on this very early Tuesday morning, trailing Elizabeth through the door of Burke Premiere Events. Monday was a trial. They - Mozzie and Neal - had found out that the object of their heist was to be put up for auction in the week ahead, that it was to be inspected in the coming days and that the switch would have to occur later than originally planned, throwing all the previous aspects of their plot out the window and landing Mozzie, Neal, and yes, Bartimaeus, in a deep pool of uncertainty. And if there was one thing Neal hated, it was treading dark waters full of the unknown.
Speaking of dark waters, Elizabeth is looking at him with apologetic eyes. "I know it's early, Neal, but I have an appointment at nine and the space needs some sprucing up before it's ready for clients."
"It's okay. Do you need me to do anything? I'm handy with a broom. Or I could go out and get some espresso. Did you know Peter likes espresso? That was news to me."
She smiles, and her smile is beautiful, just like she is. Guilt is like a brick wedged diagonally from his throat to the left part of his chest as he looks at her then, but he just smiles back. He never wanted to pull the wool over Elizabeth's eyes. Elizabeth has kind, warm eyes that only want the best for Neal, just like Peter, but he's been doing it since before Peter even left, has been going out on walks with Satchmo with Mozzie only two blocks away, exchanging news of his situation with new ideas of what devices they could use to obtain what they need to retrieve the diamond lion. And yesterday, he didn't lie to her. He was painting. But only after they'd bugged the auction house and gained access to the security cameras and who was this poor fool who was going to buy this perfect imitation of this ugly wrist wear, anyway? And why did they want it, and what was Neal doing stealing the real thing when Elizabeth was at home worrying after him? He'd be embarrassed about the curfew thing, about coming home to this perfect woman who wasn't much older than he was, to scoldings and juvenile if-I-can't-take-my-eyes-off-of-you-for-a-second-well-then disciplinary actions, to authority handed down by Peter to someone who wasn't even in law enforcement, but he's too busy now. Too busy being a criminal, and too busy being ashamed of it.
Because what was he doing. What is he doing.
He doesn't know, but as for Elizabeth, she wants him to do both, and he does. He sweeps the floor with a broom he dances with just for her amusement, puts his hat on the top of the handle and swings as he cleans. She laughs, warns him to be careful when he performs a rather ungainly move and skids on the floor like he's a young Satchmo, not in full control of his puppy limbs and slippery paws, except Neal is not a puppy at all, is, in fact, a fully-grown man who lands on his backside when he doesn't heed her.
"Oww," he says, and peers up at her, wincing adorably, half a pained smile on his face.
It occurs to him then that Mozzie is right, and Peter is right, and almost anyone who's ever had to teach him anything in his adult life has always been right. Neal Caffrey is, indeed, just like a child. Because he wants her to say, "Oh, sweetie," and come to him with arms spread to hug him, put lips to his cheeks and forehead as she helps him up. That's what he wants. What happens is this:
"Oh, Neal," she sighs, her eyes rolling to the ceiling. She does come to him and helps him back to his feet, but the only kiss he gets is from her hand, firmly brushing dust off the back of his suit trousers. She plucks his hat off the broom handle and reaches up, situates it on his head. "Our coffee maker is on the fritz. I'm going to need you to go out and get me multiple cups. We're lucky Victoria is so vocal about her wants, I know exactly what to get her. Here." She stuffs a piece of paper in his hand. "There's a list. Try to be back here in forty-five minutes at the latest okay?"
And off he goes. He ponders briefly checking in with Mozzie, taking a gander at the security tapes, rolling out a few more ideas, but forty-five minutes is about three in the city and there's no time. Besides, he's still not sure why he's doing what he's doing. Or what he's doing. Or who he even is.
Anyway.