cookiegirl | Ficlet (White Collar): This Is The Dream

Title: This Is The Dream
Author:

cookielaura
Characters: Mozzie
Rating: G
Wordcount: 546
Spoilers: Set around 4x03-4x04
Summary: His new home in Cape Verde is exactly how Mozzie dreamt it would be
Notes: Written for

runthecon, for the prompt "when life gives you lemons..." from

sandy79, thanks for the tag! And thanks to

leesa_perrie for the artwork!

Every day here is perfect.

He wakes every morning to birdsong, to the steady rhythm of the ocean’s waves rolling in to shore, to the gentle rustle of the ferns as the warm breeze wafts through the gardens of his villa. The muslin drapes at the floor-length windows seem to glow in the sunlight, and the marble floors of his bedroom sparkle.

This is the dream. When he was a kid, hustling on the streets, with second-hand glasses and third-hand clothes and dust in his hair and sweat trickling down his spine, this was what he dreamt of. The ending of the movie, where the thieves have outsmarted the cops and are lounging on a sun bed in some foreign land, drinking from glasses with coloured paper umbrellas in them and smiling white, self-satisfied smiles. That was the dream then, and as he grew, the dream grew too – to include the specifics: the infinity pool, the fruit trees in the grounds, the marble floors. And, later, a friend – Neal.

Neal is gone now, back to New York, back to the anklet and Peter and whatever version of Stockholm Syndrome Neal has convinced himself he doesn’t have. But the pool and the marble floors were in the dream before Neal, and they endure afterwards. Mozzie has everything here that he’s worked for, everything that life has finally seen fit to give him.

And every day here is perfect.

Today is Friday – he thinks, anyway. Yes, Friday. The days are running together.

He rises from bed, pads outside barefoot and lets the warm, cloudless morning embrace him. The air is clean and carries the sharp tang of the skin of the oranges, the limes and the lemons growing in his small orchard. He could pick some oranges to squeeze for his morning juice; later, he might take a lemon to slice for his lunchtime gin and tonic. Everything is within reach here.

The orchard backs onto the villa next door – empty for the last two weeks since Neal left, but soon to be filled with someone else who’s running from something, no doubt.

Mozzie steps back inside, turns on the television, watches as the weather report fills the screen. Sunshine all day. Highs of 89 degrees. The same as yesterday. Perfect. He can read the paper on the sun lounger, then take a trip to the market, duck into a café to take advantage of the shade at noon. Swim in the afternoon. The same as yesterday.

Mozzie realizes that his hand is clenched around the television remote. And his teeth are grinding, just a little. And underneath his feet, the marble floors are less of a cool relief from the heat and more of an unforgiving cold.

He flicks the television off. The decision has been made without him really having considered it, and though it's a surprise, it's right. Retirement might be exactly what he'd hoped for, but it's not what he needs.

He’ll keep the villa – he doesn’t need the money from selling it, and it could come in useful in the future. And if it doesn’t – well, then it’ll be here in thirty years for him to return to. When it’s time.

It’s not time yet, and he has a plane to catch.