White Collar fic: Night Watch
Title: Night Watch
Fandom: White Collar
Word Count: 2400
Summary: Diana thought that stakeouts couldn't get any more unpleasant, until Peter went and proved her wrong. All she needs now is for things to go south with Neal's undercover op. For
hc_bingo "food poisoning" square. Gen.
Notes: Nothing graphic in here, but the story does involve food poisoning (among various other plot elements), so weak stomachs beware.
Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/255972
The motel room where they'd set up operations had a good view of the hole-in-the-wall bar across the street, in which Neal would theoretically make contact with their target. Diana and Peter traded off listening to the audio feed and looking out the window.
"You guys, if Jensen doesn't show soon, I may have to actually start drinking these drinks," Neal's voice drifted through the headset. Diana grinned over at Peter, then took a second look.
"Boss?"
She'd thought as the evening wore on that he'd been getting paler, but now he was slumped in his chair, leaning against the wall. A light sweat had broken out on his forehead.
"Boss? You okay?"
"Oh yeah, I'm great," Peter said between his teeth. He reached for his styrofoam coffee cup by habit, then went even paler and set it back down. "Remind me next time not to order from that deli around the corner."
"Ouch." Diana grimaced sympathetically. "Are you going to be okay?"
"Oh, I'm great. Just great." Peter glanced up at her, the boss-and-mentor side of him coming to the fore even though he still looked faintly green. "Are you doing all right?"
Diana checked herself internally for symptoms of anything untoward. She felt normal -- well, maybe a little bit of a sour stomach from too much coffee, but that was nothing unusual on a stakeout. "I'm fine. Of course, I had the turkey and swiss -- usually you can't go wrong with turkey -- oh, sorry," as Peter went white, then flushed, and rose abruptly from his chair. "Yeah, I'll just cover things here, then," she said hastily to his departing back as he headed for the bathroom, and slipped the headphones over both ears. Some things she didn't need to hear.
"I actually think I'd rather be in the van," Neal's voice remarked tinnily through the headset. "Or the motel room, as the case may be. At least that way I don't have to mumble to myself -- well, technically to you two -- when the inevitable boredom sets in. Which would cut down on people giving me funny looks. Speaking of which, there's one guy at the bar who's been watching me a little too closely. I don't think he's one of Jensen's -- no one we've made, anyway -- but I think this might be a good opportunity to take a stroll and walk off some of these drinks I haven't been drinking."
The toilet flushed. Diana glanced up as Peter emerged from the bathroom. He didn't look any better, and he slumped on the edge of the bed, running a hand across his face.
"Boss, you look awful. Go home and let Elizabeth baby you."
Peter rested his head in his hands. His voice was slightly muffled. "I'll be fine. Just give me a few minutes."
"Peter, seriously. Jones'll be here in a couple hours, and it's starting to look like Jensen is a no-show anyway. There's no reason both of us have to be here."
There was a soft knock at the door. Peter's head snapped up and he reached for his shoulder holster. Diana laid her hand on her gun.
"I'm sure you're all reaching for your guns right now, but it's just me," said the voice in her ear.
Diana sighed. "It's Caffrey." She rose and went to let him in, while Peter, who'd turned an interesting new shade of green, reholstered his gun and leaned against the headboard of the bed.
"Neal, what are you doing here?" Diana asked as he slipped past her into the room. "If anyone saw you come in here --"
"They didn't. I was careful. And I wouldn't have to come over here if you guys would give me a two-way radio." He waggled his wrist with the watch, then frowned past her at Peter, who'd closed his eyes and appeared to be fighting another losing battle with nausea. "What's the matter with you?"
"Food poisoning," Diana said.
Neal winced. "Ow."
"I'm fine," Peter said tightly without opening his eyes.
Neal crossed to the bed and looked down at him, brow furrowed and hands tucked into his pockets. "Why aren't you home?"
"Because," Peter said through clenched teeth, "I'm your backup."
Neal looked him over. "I feel very reassured."
Peter opened his eyes a crack, enough to glare at his partner. "Is there some reason you're here?"
"Actually, I came up to float the idea of calling it off for tonight," Neal said. "It's late. Jensen's normally here a lot earlier on nights when he has a deal going down. I don't see any point in sticking around when we're just going to have to do this again tomorrow night. Especially since you look like the living dead."
"We're not calling off a stakeout because you're bored," Peter said, the irritation making him sound a little more like his usual self. "Get back out there in the field. If nothing's happened by --" He paused, grimaced; Neal backed off a few steps in a hurry. "-- by the time the bar closes," he finished doggedly, "then we'll give some thought to packing it in, but not before then."
"Whatever you say, Rambo," Neal murmured and retreated. On his way past Diana, he leaned over and whispered, "Was it the deviled ham?"
Diana nodded, fighting a smile.
"We can only hope it'll turn him off the stuff for good."
This time the smile broke through. "You better get out the door before he hears you."
As soon as the door closed behind Neal, Peter lurched off the bed and vanished into the bathroom again.
Diana put the headphones back on.
It was going to be a long night.
******
After a while Peter seemed to get it out of his system, one way or another, and settled on the bed with the lights off. He looked asleep, but Diana knew him well enough to know that he wasn't.
Peter didn't seem to be bad off enough that she felt the need to worry, but she still remembered the one case of food poisoning she'd had in her teens, and how miserable it had been. Even as a kid she'd never liked having people fuss over her when she was sick -- it was usually one of her parents' aides anyway, and they didn't want to take care of a sick child any more than she wanted them to -- but that time, Charlie had brought her Gatorade and read to her in bed, and it had been nice.
During one of the dead zones when there was nothing to hear through the headphones but the low mutter of the background bar conversation, she rose and went into the bathroom, got a washcloth and soaked it in cold water, then folded it neatly.
When she laid it on his clammy forehead, Peter cracked an eye open and squinted up at her. "You never struck me as the brow-mopping type," he said in a ragged voice.
"I'm not," Diana said. "Luckily, you're not the type to appreciate it. So we can both pretend this never happened."
Peter grinned weakly and closed his eyes.
Diana returned to the headset, where Neal was quietly muttering about pointless stakeouts and people who didn't know when to quit. Then he fell silent for a moment, and murmured, "Showtime, guys."
Diana shot to her feet and looked out the window, cataloging the vehicles at the curb. "Hey, boss. Jensen's here after all."
Peter joined her at the window, picking up the spare headset. Diana looked at him: he was pale and sweaty, and slightly hunched over. "Boss," she said softly. "If this falls apart and something goes down -- are you confident that you can handle it?"
Peter nodded.
"You know I wouldn't ask unless --"
"I know. And you know I wouldn't still be here if I wasn't up to it." Not with Neal's life on the line, hung in the air unspoken.
They both listened in silence to Neal doing what Neal did best: zeroing in on his mark and using a casual pretext -- in this case, ordering the same drink -- to start a conversation.
"You look familiar," Jensen said, and Diana felt Peter go still beside her. "What did you say your name was?"
"Halden," came Neal's smooth reply, and Diana could visualize his toothy smile. "Nick Halden."
"No," Jensen said slowly. "I do know you. You're that snitch the FBI keeps on their leash."
Diana's mouth opened in dismay. Peter sucked in a breath, dropped the headset and had his hand on his gun in the same motion. "Call it in," he snapped, and went for the door.
Over the headset, Neal was saying in his calm, smooth, bullshitting-the-mark voice, "... like that old kids' of Telephone, isn't it? You say one thing, the next person says another -- I'm an information guy, Jensen, I can't help it if ..."
Well, at least they were still talking and no shots had been fired. Yet. Diana sketched the situation to Jones in a few quick words -- "Neal's been made; we need backup" -- and then dashed after her boss, checking her clip by habit as she bounded down the stairs. As she emerged from the motel's side exit door, she glimpsed Peter across the street, pressed up against the wall of the bar. He was doubled over and looked like he was catching his breath, then straightened and looked in her direction. He signed "gun" and then "three" and pointed around back.
Diana darted across the street and along the side of the building. There was a service door in the back; as she started to open it, Diana nearly collided with a short, tattooed woman who was making a very hasty exit. The stranger blanched at the sight of the gun in Diana's hand.
"You the bartender?" Diana guessed.
The woman nodded. "Outa my way, sister; I ain't going back in there. Things just got too hot for me. Once the guns come out, I'm gone." Her eyes went nervously to Diana's Glock.
Diana lifted the badge hanging around her neck and let it dangle from her fingers. "I'm FBI. How do you get into the bar from here? Straight through?"
"Straight through, jog a left at the bathroom," the woman agreed, then slipped around Diana into the night.
Diana stepped into a short service corridor, past a maintenance closet and, as the bartender had said, the bathrooms. She could hear voices: Neal's, low and placating; Jensen's raised in anger.
Then Peter's gruff bark: "FBI! Freeze! Drop your weapons!"
Diana peeked around the corner. As Peter had indicated, there were two guys with Jensen, and Peter stood alone in the doorway, trying to cover all of them with one gun. Both Jensen's men had weapons out and pointed at Peter. Jensen had lifted his hands into the air, one with a Beretta in it, now pointed at the ceiling rather than, presumably, Neal's face.
If there had been anyone else in the bar when things started going south, they were nowhere to be seen now. At least bystanders were one less thing to worry about.
"I said drop 'em." Peter's voice was painfully raw-sounding and he still looked gray, but Diana noticed that his hands on the gun were rock-steady.
One of Jensen's men moved forward -- Peter's attention shifted to him by instinct, and Diana saw Jensen bring his gun down, aiming for Peter, preparing to fire. She started to move, but Neal moved first, catching Jensen's gun hand and slamming it into the bar.
Jensen, slippery as an eel, twisted free and whacked Neal in the forehead with the butt of his gun. As Neal doubled over against the bar, Jensen jammed the muzzle into the soft skin under his chin and pulled him upright by a handful of his shirt.
"Damn it, Neal!" Peter snapped.
"I should've let him shoot you?" Neal retorted, swaying. Diana glimpsed his face in profile, blood running down his cheek.
"I had a plan!" To Peter's credit, his eyes didn't even flicker towards the back of the bar, where he had to know Diana would be by now.
"Getting shot is your plan?"
"I'm the one calling the shots here," Jensen said in a mild tone. "And you're the one who's going to drop it, or I ventilate your snitch here."
Peter didn't move. "Right now we've got you on racketeering and fraud. You want to add murder too? Put it down, Jensen."
Which Diana figured was as good a cue as any. "FBI!" she shouted. "You're surrounded! Snipers have the ones on the end covered, boss, and," she slipped into sight around the partition behind the bar, aiming square at the center of Jensen's skull, "I have Happy Boy here."
The sound of three guns clattering to the floor was a very satisfying one. Neal stumbled away from Jensen and Diana swept in with handcuffs while Peter kept them covered. She cuffed Jensen's guys, one wrist apiece with the center chain looped around a bolted-down bar stool, and Peter underhanded his cuffs to her for Jensen.
"Neal, you good?" Peter asked.
Neal nodded, despite the blood slick and dark on the fingers of the hand pressed against his forehead, and the fact that he was still using the bar for support. "Blood never comes out of a vintage Devore," he complained shakily, and Diana smiled across the room at Peter: if Neal was worried about his suit, he'd be fine. There was nothing behind the bar that looked clean, so she whipped off her silk scarf and handed it to Neal, then patted his shoulder. He nodded his thanks, wadded up the soft fabric and pressed it against his forehead.
Headlights played across the window at the front of the bar: backup, finally. Peter surveyed the room, and Diana could actually see the moment when he let his self-control lapse. His gun hand fell, then the rest of him along with it; he slumped down to the floor with a soft groan. Flopping one arm limply across his knee, he lowered his forehead onto it.
"You okay, boss?" Diana called across the bar.
"Fine," Peter said thickly, his voice muffled by his arm.
"Neal?"
Pressing the rapidly-saturating scarf to his forehead with one hand, Neal gave her a thumbs-up with the other.
"Not sure why I bother asking," Diana muttered, and went to the door to let in the rest of the White Collar division.
~
This entry is also posted at http://friendshipper.dreamwidth.org/377303.html with
comments.
Fandom: White Collar
Word Count: 2400
Summary: Diana thought that stakeouts couldn't get any more unpleasant, until Peter went and proved her wrong. All she needs now is for things to go south with Neal's undercover op. For
hc_bingo "food poisoning" square. Gen.
Notes: Nothing graphic in here, but the story does involve food poisoning (among various other plot elements), so weak stomachs beware.
Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/255972
The motel room where they'd set up operations had a good view of the hole-in-the-wall bar across the street, in which Neal would theoretically make contact with their target. Diana and Peter traded off listening to the audio feed and looking out the window.
"You guys, if Jensen doesn't show soon, I may have to actually start drinking these drinks," Neal's voice drifted through the headset. Diana grinned over at Peter, then took a second look.
"Boss?"
She'd thought as the evening wore on that he'd been getting paler, but now he was slumped in his chair, leaning against the wall. A light sweat had broken out on his forehead.
"Boss? You okay?"
"Oh yeah, I'm great," Peter said between his teeth. He reached for his styrofoam coffee cup by habit, then went even paler and set it back down. "Remind me next time not to order from that deli around the corner."
"Ouch." Diana grimaced sympathetically. "Are you going to be okay?"
"Oh, I'm great. Just great." Peter glanced up at her, the boss-and-mentor side of him coming to the fore even though he still looked faintly green. "Are you doing all right?"
Diana checked herself internally for symptoms of anything untoward. She felt normal -- well, maybe a little bit of a sour stomach from too much coffee, but that was nothing unusual on a stakeout. "I'm fine. Of course, I had the turkey and swiss -- usually you can't go wrong with turkey -- oh, sorry," as Peter went white, then flushed, and rose abruptly from his chair. "Yeah, I'll just cover things here, then," she said hastily to his departing back as he headed for the bathroom, and slipped the headphones over both ears. Some things she didn't need to hear.
"I actually think I'd rather be in the van," Neal's voice remarked tinnily through the headset. "Or the motel room, as the case may be. At least that way I don't have to mumble to myself -- well, technically to you two -- when the inevitable boredom sets in. Which would cut down on people giving me funny looks. Speaking of which, there's one guy at the bar who's been watching me a little too closely. I don't think he's one of Jensen's -- no one we've made, anyway -- but I think this might be a good opportunity to take a stroll and walk off some of these drinks I haven't been drinking."
The toilet flushed. Diana glanced up as Peter emerged from the bathroom. He didn't look any better, and he slumped on the edge of the bed, running a hand across his face.
"Boss, you look awful. Go home and let Elizabeth baby you."
Peter rested his head in his hands. His voice was slightly muffled. "I'll be fine. Just give me a few minutes."
"Peter, seriously. Jones'll be here in a couple hours, and it's starting to look like Jensen is a no-show anyway. There's no reason both of us have to be here."
There was a soft knock at the door. Peter's head snapped up and he reached for his shoulder holster. Diana laid her hand on her gun.
"I'm sure you're all reaching for your guns right now, but it's just me," said the voice in her ear.
Diana sighed. "It's Caffrey." She rose and went to let him in, while Peter, who'd turned an interesting new shade of green, reholstered his gun and leaned against the headboard of the bed.
"Neal, what are you doing here?" Diana asked as he slipped past her into the room. "If anyone saw you come in here --"
"They didn't. I was careful. And I wouldn't have to come over here if you guys would give me a two-way radio." He waggled his wrist with the watch, then frowned past her at Peter, who'd closed his eyes and appeared to be fighting another losing battle with nausea. "What's the matter with you?"
"Food poisoning," Diana said.
Neal winced. "Ow."
"I'm fine," Peter said tightly without opening his eyes.
Neal crossed to the bed and looked down at him, brow furrowed and hands tucked into his pockets. "Why aren't you home?"
"Because," Peter said through clenched teeth, "I'm your backup."
Neal looked him over. "I feel very reassured."
Peter opened his eyes a crack, enough to glare at his partner. "Is there some reason you're here?"
"Actually, I came up to float the idea of calling it off for tonight," Neal said. "It's late. Jensen's normally here a lot earlier on nights when he has a deal going down. I don't see any point in sticking around when we're just going to have to do this again tomorrow night. Especially since you look like the living dead."
"We're not calling off a stakeout because you're bored," Peter said, the irritation making him sound a little more like his usual self. "Get back out there in the field. If nothing's happened by --" He paused, grimaced; Neal backed off a few steps in a hurry. "-- by the time the bar closes," he finished doggedly, "then we'll give some thought to packing it in, but not before then."
"Whatever you say, Rambo," Neal murmured and retreated. On his way past Diana, he leaned over and whispered, "Was it the deviled ham?"
Diana nodded, fighting a smile.
"We can only hope it'll turn him off the stuff for good."
This time the smile broke through. "You better get out the door before he hears you."
As soon as the door closed behind Neal, Peter lurched off the bed and vanished into the bathroom again.
Diana put the headphones back on.
It was going to be a long night.
******
After a while Peter seemed to get it out of his system, one way or another, and settled on the bed with the lights off. He looked asleep, but Diana knew him well enough to know that he wasn't.
Peter didn't seem to be bad off enough that she felt the need to worry, but she still remembered the one case of food poisoning she'd had in her teens, and how miserable it had been. Even as a kid she'd never liked having people fuss over her when she was sick -- it was usually one of her parents' aides anyway, and they didn't want to take care of a sick child any more than she wanted them to -- but that time, Charlie had brought her Gatorade and read to her in bed, and it had been nice.
During one of the dead zones when there was nothing to hear through the headphones but the low mutter of the background bar conversation, she rose and went into the bathroom, got a washcloth and soaked it in cold water, then folded it neatly.
When she laid it on his clammy forehead, Peter cracked an eye open and squinted up at her. "You never struck me as the brow-mopping type," he said in a ragged voice.
"I'm not," Diana said. "Luckily, you're not the type to appreciate it. So we can both pretend this never happened."
Peter grinned weakly and closed his eyes.
Diana returned to the headset, where Neal was quietly muttering about pointless stakeouts and people who didn't know when to quit. Then he fell silent for a moment, and murmured, "Showtime, guys."
Diana shot to her feet and looked out the window, cataloging the vehicles at the curb. "Hey, boss. Jensen's here after all."
Peter joined her at the window, picking up the spare headset. Diana looked at him: he was pale and sweaty, and slightly hunched over. "Boss," she said softly. "If this falls apart and something goes down -- are you confident that you can handle it?"
Peter nodded.
"You know I wouldn't ask unless --"
"I know. And you know I wouldn't still be here if I wasn't up to it." Not with Neal's life on the line, hung in the air unspoken.
They both listened in silence to Neal doing what Neal did best: zeroing in on his mark and using a casual pretext -- in this case, ordering the same drink -- to start a conversation.
"You look familiar," Jensen said, and Diana felt Peter go still beside her. "What did you say your name was?"
"Halden," came Neal's smooth reply, and Diana could visualize his toothy smile. "Nick Halden."
"No," Jensen said slowly. "I do know you. You're that snitch the FBI keeps on their leash."
Diana's mouth opened in dismay. Peter sucked in a breath, dropped the headset and had his hand on his gun in the same motion. "Call it in," he snapped, and went for the door.
Over the headset, Neal was saying in his calm, smooth, bullshitting-the-mark voice, "... like that old kids' of Telephone, isn't it? You say one thing, the next person says another -- I'm an information guy, Jensen, I can't help it if ..."
Well, at least they were still talking and no shots had been fired. Yet. Diana sketched the situation to Jones in a few quick words -- "Neal's been made; we need backup" -- and then dashed after her boss, checking her clip by habit as she bounded down the stairs. As she emerged from the motel's side exit door, she glimpsed Peter across the street, pressed up against the wall of the bar. He was doubled over and looked like he was catching his breath, then straightened and looked in her direction. He signed "gun" and then "three" and pointed around back.
Diana darted across the street and along the side of the building. There was a service door in the back; as she started to open it, Diana nearly collided with a short, tattooed woman who was making a very hasty exit. The stranger blanched at the sight of the gun in Diana's hand.
"You the bartender?" Diana guessed.
The woman nodded. "Outa my way, sister; I ain't going back in there. Things just got too hot for me. Once the guns come out, I'm gone." Her eyes went nervously to Diana's Glock.
Diana lifted the badge hanging around her neck and let it dangle from her fingers. "I'm FBI. How do you get into the bar from here? Straight through?"
"Straight through, jog a left at the bathroom," the woman agreed, then slipped around Diana into the night.
Diana stepped into a short service corridor, past a maintenance closet and, as the bartender had said, the bathrooms. She could hear voices: Neal's, low and placating; Jensen's raised in anger.
Then Peter's gruff bark: "FBI! Freeze! Drop your weapons!"
Diana peeked around the corner. As Peter had indicated, there were two guys with Jensen, and Peter stood alone in the doorway, trying to cover all of them with one gun. Both Jensen's men had weapons out and pointed at Peter. Jensen had lifted his hands into the air, one with a Beretta in it, now pointed at the ceiling rather than, presumably, Neal's face.
If there had been anyone else in the bar when things started going south, they were nowhere to be seen now. At least bystanders were one less thing to worry about.
"I said drop 'em." Peter's voice was painfully raw-sounding and he still looked gray, but Diana noticed that his hands on the gun were rock-steady.
One of Jensen's men moved forward -- Peter's attention shifted to him by instinct, and Diana saw Jensen bring his gun down, aiming for Peter, preparing to fire. She started to move, but Neal moved first, catching Jensen's gun hand and slamming it into the bar.
Jensen, slippery as an eel, twisted free and whacked Neal in the forehead with the butt of his gun. As Neal doubled over against the bar, Jensen jammed the muzzle into the soft skin under his chin and pulled him upright by a handful of his shirt.
"Damn it, Neal!" Peter snapped.
"I should've let him shoot you?" Neal retorted, swaying. Diana glimpsed his face in profile, blood running down his cheek.
"I had a plan!" To Peter's credit, his eyes didn't even flicker towards the back of the bar, where he had to know Diana would be by now.
"Getting shot is your plan?"
"I'm the one calling the shots here," Jensen said in a mild tone. "And you're the one who's going to drop it, or I ventilate your snitch here."
Peter didn't move. "Right now we've got you on racketeering and fraud. You want to add murder too? Put it down, Jensen."
Which Diana figured was as good a cue as any. "FBI!" she shouted. "You're surrounded! Snipers have the ones on the end covered, boss, and," she slipped into sight around the partition behind the bar, aiming square at the center of Jensen's skull, "I have Happy Boy here."
The sound of three guns clattering to the floor was a very satisfying one. Neal stumbled away from Jensen and Diana swept in with handcuffs while Peter kept them covered. She cuffed Jensen's guys, one wrist apiece with the center chain looped around a bolted-down bar stool, and Peter underhanded his cuffs to her for Jensen.
"Neal, you good?" Peter asked.
Neal nodded, despite the blood slick and dark on the fingers of the hand pressed against his forehead, and the fact that he was still using the bar for support. "Blood never comes out of a vintage Devore," he complained shakily, and Diana smiled across the room at Peter: if Neal was worried about his suit, he'd be fine. There was nothing behind the bar that looked clean, so she whipped off her silk scarf and handed it to Neal, then patted his shoulder. He nodded his thanks, wadded up the soft fabric and pressed it against his forehead.
Headlights played across the window at the front of the bar: backup, finally. Peter surveyed the room, and Diana could actually see the moment when he let his self-control lapse. His gun hand fell, then the rest of him along with it; he slumped down to the floor with a soft groan. Flopping one arm limply across his knee, he lowered his forehead onto it.
"You okay, boss?" Diana called across the bar.
"Fine," Peter said thickly, his voice muffled by his arm.
"Neal?"
Pressing the rapidly-saturating scarf to his forehead with one hand, Neal gave her a thumbs-up with the other.
"Not sure why I bother asking," Diana muttered, and went to the door to let in the rest of the White Collar division.
~
This entry is also posted at http://friendshipper.dreamwidth.org/377303.html with
comments.