Fic: Here Again
Nov. 30th, 2012 09:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cookiegirlTitle: Here Again
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cookielaura
Wordcount: 1000
Characters: Peter, Neal
Rating: G
Warnings: Nothing that isn’t in the summary, really. Non-graphic discussion of death, I suppose?
Disclaimer: White Collar isn't mine.
Notes and Summary: Written for the Five Acts Meme forsinfulslasher who wanted ‘Scolding: Make the scolder be stern and disappointed, make the scoldee end up feeling crushed for having disappointed the scolder and promising to behave better in future’. This is probably set late season 1 and vaguely inspired by Neal chasing after the armed bank robbers in 2x01 – I doubt that was the first time.
Neal was used to this part of the proceedings. It was becoming a regular occurrence after he’d done something brave, heroic or helpful, something that Peter happened to have interpreted as being reckless and counterproductive. Today it had been attempting to take down an armed suspect, whilst Neal was decidedly unarmed. Peter was less than impressed, and Neal had found himself – yet again – waiting on the Burkes’ couch whilst Peter got a drink and calmed down in the kitchen.
He wasn’t fond of the waiting part, but he knew better than to complain. He’d tried hustling Peter along last time, saying he was tired of it, but Peter had drily informed him that he could stand in the corner to wait if he wanted a change of scenery, and Neal had sat down again and shut up. Peter hadn’t been serious of course – he was almost completely sure of that – but still.
Eventually Peter returned to the living room and leaned heavily against the bookshelf, arms folded. He fixed Neal with the look, the one that said I can’t believe we’re here again and what the hell did you think you were doing and a hundred other reprimands that Neal didn’t want to see. Neal had never been the type of person to cower in the presence of authority, but there was something about that look that always had him shifting uncomfortably, feeling small and guilty, even when he didn’t think he was in the wrong.
‘Explain,’ Peter said abruptly.
Neal had his defense planned out. ‘It was an acceptable risk, Peter. You were only a minute away and I knew I could restrain him until you got there, and if he’d gotten away we might never have found the painting. And you know how valuable it is.’
‘More valuable than your life?’ Peter asked tersely.
‘Probably, unless you’d be willing to pay five million dollars for me,’ Neal said, pasting on one of his more dazzling smiles. It withered away under Peter’s stare. He came to the strange, sudden knowledge that Peter really would pay five million dollars for him, and he squirmed awkwardly.
‘How many times have I told you not to go after armed suspects?’ Peter demanded. ‘Or not to go jumping off ledges, or breaking into dangerous places, or finding other ways to risk your life? How many times?’ His hands had shifted to his hips and he was looking increasingly threatening, his jaw set tight and his eyes hard. Neal swallowed.
‘Enough,’ he said.
‘Obviously not,’ Peter retorted. ‘I am sick of going through this with you. If I hadn’t gotten there when I did today who knows what would have happened.’
‘He wouldn’t have shot me,’ Neal defended quietly, looking down and deliberately not thinking about the cold steel he’d felt jab into his ribs less than a second before Peter took the suspect down. He wouldn’t have shot him.
He heard Peter exhale heavily and he felt his stomach turn at the weariness and disappointment in that sigh. He really wished Peter would stick with the anger; he could deal with that better than disappointment. Then he heard Peter move, and suddenly the older man was sitting on the coffee table in front of him, leaning forward into his space and fixing him with that look again, which was even more effective up close. Neal shifted back into the couch, trying to put a few more inches between him and the look.
‘You can’t keep being this careless, Neal. One of these days it’s going to catch up with you. What do you think would happen if you died on the job? What do you think El and I would do?’
Neal sighed. ‘Okay, I get it Peter –’
‘No. I want an answer. What would we do?’
Neal eyed the exit, feeling unpleasantly pinned down by this line of questioning, but Peter’s knees were touching his and there was no way Neal was going anywhere. ‘You’d have a lot of paperwork?’ he tried.
Peter didn’t smile. If anything, the glare increased. ‘Try again.’
Obviously he wasn’t getting out of this. ‘Fine… You’d probably have to sort out the funeral arrangements,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘Elizabeth…would cry. You’d miss me at work – your clearance rate would drop dramatically –’ he grinned but stopped swiftly when Peter remained unamused – ‘and you’d be…sad. For a while. And then you and Elizabeth would go on with your lives.’
There was silence for a moment as the words hung unconvincingly in the air. Neal couldn’t ignore the fact that they were obviously lacking the ring of truth.
‘Try again,’ Peter repeated tightly.
Neal was starting to truly hate this conversation.
‘What else do you want me to say?’ he snapped smartly, turning his head aside. ‘That you’d mourn me forever and it would hang like a dark cloud over the rest of your life?’
He’d intended it to be sarcastic, but once it was out, it became something else entirely. He felt Peter’s steady, knowing gaze on him and he was startled to find that this answer actually did have a ring of truth to it. He was horrified, and – touched. It was humbling.
Neal forced himself to look up and meet Peter’s eyes. The frustration in them had faded at Neal’s obvious realisation, and now they were just sad and drained. Neal hated that it was his fault, hated that he was causing Peter to become such an expert at that particular expression.
He floundered for something new and eloquent to say, for words that he hadn’t said twenty times before, and failed.
‘I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful. You won’t have to worry about me in future.’
Peter snorted quietly in vaguely amused disbelief. ‘Right.’
‘I swear, Peter. I’ll do better. I will,’ Neal promised, feeling a little ill at Peter's doubtful response. And then, attempting a smile, he said as lightly as he could: ‘Don’t give up on me yet?’
Peter’s face softened and his hand was on Neal's upper arm instantly, squeezing it tightly. ‘Never.’
Author:
cookielauraWordcount: 1000
Characters: Peter, Neal
Rating: G
Warnings: Nothing that isn’t in the summary, really. Non-graphic discussion of death, I suppose?
Disclaimer: White Collar isn't mine.
Notes and Summary: Written for the Five Acts Meme for
sinfulslasher who wanted ‘Scolding: Make the scolder be stern and disappointed, make the scoldee end up feeling crushed for having disappointed the scolder and promising to behave better in future’. This is probably set late season 1 and vaguely inspired by Neal chasing after the armed bank robbers in 2x01 – I doubt that was the first time.Neal was used to this part of the proceedings. It was becoming a regular occurrence after he’d done something brave, heroic or helpful, something that Peter happened to have interpreted as being reckless and counterproductive. Today it had been attempting to take down an armed suspect, whilst Neal was decidedly unarmed. Peter was less than impressed, and Neal had found himself – yet again – waiting on the Burkes’ couch whilst Peter got a drink and calmed down in the kitchen.
He wasn’t fond of the waiting part, but he knew better than to complain. He’d tried hustling Peter along last time, saying he was tired of it, but Peter had drily informed him that he could stand in the corner to wait if he wanted a change of scenery, and Neal had sat down again and shut up. Peter hadn’t been serious of course – he was almost completely sure of that – but still.
Eventually Peter returned to the living room and leaned heavily against the bookshelf, arms folded. He fixed Neal with the look, the one that said I can’t believe we’re here again and what the hell did you think you were doing and a hundred other reprimands that Neal didn’t want to see. Neal had never been the type of person to cower in the presence of authority, but there was something about that look that always had him shifting uncomfortably, feeling small and guilty, even when he didn’t think he was in the wrong.
‘Explain,’ Peter said abruptly.
Neal had his defense planned out. ‘It was an acceptable risk, Peter. You were only a minute away and I knew I could restrain him until you got there, and if he’d gotten away we might never have found the painting. And you know how valuable it is.’
‘More valuable than your life?’ Peter asked tersely.
‘Probably, unless you’d be willing to pay five million dollars for me,’ Neal said, pasting on one of his more dazzling smiles. It withered away under Peter’s stare. He came to the strange, sudden knowledge that Peter really would pay five million dollars for him, and he squirmed awkwardly.
‘How many times have I told you not to go after armed suspects?’ Peter demanded. ‘Or not to go jumping off ledges, or breaking into dangerous places, or finding other ways to risk your life? How many times?’ His hands had shifted to his hips and he was looking increasingly threatening, his jaw set tight and his eyes hard. Neal swallowed.
‘Enough,’ he said.
‘Obviously not,’ Peter retorted. ‘I am sick of going through this with you. If I hadn’t gotten there when I did today who knows what would have happened.’
‘He wouldn’t have shot me,’ Neal defended quietly, looking down and deliberately not thinking about the cold steel he’d felt jab into his ribs less than a second before Peter took the suspect down. He wouldn’t have shot him.
He heard Peter exhale heavily and he felt his stomach turn at the weariness and disappointment in that sigh. He really wished Peter would stick with the anger; he could deal with that better than disappointment. Then he heard Peter move, and suddenly the older man was sitting on the coffee table in front of him, leaning forward into his space and fixing him with that look again, which was even more effective up close. Neal shifted back into the couch, trying to put a few more inches between him and the look.
‘You can’t keep being this careless, Neal. One of these days it’s going to catch up with you. What do you think would happen if you died on the job? What do you think El and I would do?’
Neal sighed. ‘Okay, I get it Peter –’
‘No. I want an answer. What would we do?’
Neal eyed the exit, feeling unpleasantly pinned down by this line of questioning, but Peter’s knees were touching his and there was no way Neal was going anywhere. ‘You’d have a lot of paperwork?’ he tried.
Peter didn’t smile. If anything, the glare increased. ‘Try again.’
Obviously he wasn’t getting out of this. ‘Fine… You’d probably have to sort out the funeral arrangements,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘Elizabeth…would cry. You’d miss me at work – your clearance rate would drop dramatically –’ he grinned but stopped swiftly when Peter remained unamused – ‘and you’d be…sad. For a while. And then you and Elizabeth would go on with your lives.’
There was silence for a moment as the words hung unconvincingly in the air. Neal couldn’t ignore the fact that they were obviously lacking the ring of truth.
‘Try again,’ Peter repeated tightly.
Neal was starting to truly hate this conversation.
‘What else do you want me to say?’ he snapped smartly, turning his head aside. ‘That you’d mourn me forever and it would hang like a dark cloud over the rest of your life?’
He’d intended it to be sarcastic, but once it was out, it became something else entirely. He felt Peter’s steady, knowing gaze on him and he was startled to find that this answer actually did have a ring of truth to it. He was horrified, and – touched. It was humbling.
Neal forced himself to look up and meet Peter’s eyes. The frustration in them had faded at Neal’s obvious realisation, and now they were just sad and drained. Neal hated that it was his fault, hated that he was causing Peter to become such an expert at that particular expression.
He floundered for something new and eloquent to say, for words that he hadn’t said twenty times before, and failed.
‘I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful. You won’t have to worry about me in future.’
Peter snorted quietly in vaguely amused disbelief. ‘Right.’
‘I swear, Peter. I’ll do better. I will,’ Neal promised, feeling a little ill at Peter's doubtful response. And then, attempting a smile, he said as lightly as he could: ‘Don’t give up on me yet?’
Peter’s face softened and his hand was on Neal's upper arm instantly, squeezing it tightly. ‘Never.’
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Date: 2015-06-26 04:29 pm (UTC)