![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: For the Defense
Rating: PG for some violence and language
Characters: Neal, Peter
Warnings: Spoilers for Burke's Seven
Summary: “So,” Neal rasped. “About that combat training...” written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
swanpride for round two of ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
collarcorner. Click here for prompt. Not beta'd but edited profusely.
For the Defense
It went to hell in a hand basket with an anonymous call that gave Peter and his team exactly what they wanted, just not in the way they wanted it. They heard the timid chirp of a phone over the comm, the suspect's impatient reply, followed by silence.
“You back stabbing little son of a bitch!” shattered that silence like a grenade through glass. There was a scuffle, grunting, shouts of pain and other sounds lost to Peter when he ripped off the headset and shouted, “Move, move, move!”
Neal's cover had been blown.
Peter led the charge through the high rise to the pent house suite at the top. Within the stream of take-down procedures running through Peter's brain was a neutral whisper – you knew this might happen. He knew the suspect had a temper, knew the suspect jumped to conclusions first and asked questions later, and knew the suspect liked to box on the weekends and never lost a match. But Peter had shoved that knowledge aside, hiding it behind his complete faith in Neal's silver tongue.
A tip-off had never crossed his mind.
The team burst into the penthouse like an explosion of bodies, guns and yelling. The chaos brought the target's fist up short, seconds away from caving Neal's nose in. Jones and another agent grabbed the target, hauling him away while cuffing his hands behind his back. Peter and Diana pulled Caffrey to the other side of the room as far from the bastard who had just tried to kill him as possible. They eased him onto the edge of a white marble fireplace, keeping a hand on his shoulder in case he might collapse.
Neal was the most disheveled Peter had ever seen him – shirt untucked, the top four buttons popped clean off exposing his clammy chest, and drops of blood staining both material and skin. His right eye was already swelling shut, his bleeding lip and nose the source of all the bleeding. The bruises were going to impressive, and not just the ones on Neal's face. As Neal cradled his head in his right hand, he cradled his side in his left.
And he was shaking: adrenaline, fear, and relief congealed into a tremor that vibrated his body, making his breaths unsteady and loud.
But he smiled, and rolled his good eye up to look at Peter.
“So,” Neal rasped. “About that combat training...”
------------------------
“My money's on the wife,” Neal said. “She wasn't looking too happy at dinner when her dear husband started talking about closing the deal, and she was nothing but negative about it before hand. I'll wager you your next paycheck that she didn't even know I was a plant. She didn't want the deal to happen, knew how hot-headed her husband could be and made the call. Now he's behind bars – an unforeseen consequence... or not – and she's free to manage things her own way. Makes sense, don't you think?”
Neal smiled, quite the feat with a stitched lip and bruised cheek. This was normally the part where Neal, basking in the glow of his own triumph because of course he was right, would cross his ankle over his knee and get twice as comfortable in the chair. His bruised ribs and back wouldn't let him.
Peter chuffed. “A sucker bet. You've got a point. And you've got your own damn money to wager. Leave mine out of it.”
“Yours is more substantial,” Neal said, trying to make his smile twice as big and guileless, but he winced and gave up, letting his face relax into something less smug and more tiredly casual. “And I know when not to be overconfident.”
Peter snorted and shook his head. “I'll have the 'dear husband-liberated' missus brought in for another round of twenty questions.” Even though it didn't matter, not in the long run and not unless the wife had known Neal was a Fed (not that she would ever admit to it if she did). But this wasn't about making an arrest. This was about closure. Peter wanted to know who had made that call and put Neal in danger.
The attack hadn't resulted in broken bones, thank goodness, but it had left Neal in a state of pain that meds could only simmer down to a state of discomfort. Peter knew; it was written in the shadows under Neal's eyes. Heavy-duty pain meds might knock a person out but that didn't mean the person was sleeping well. According to Neal, him plus medication plus sleep did not happy bedfellows make.
“Great,” Neal said, going for round two with the biggest smile he could manage... and failing. “So, Peter, given any more thought to those combat lessons--”
“Nope,” Peter cut in, finding his interest in the rather dull report he'd been filling out before Neal had entered suddenly renewed. He picked up his pen and resumed filling.
“Oh, come on,” Neal said, an octave too close to a whine. “You'd think after this I could at least have a taste of the basics. I'm not asking for elite training – I'm not looking to be the next Rambo, here. Just something I can use. You know, for those days that I can't run.”
Maybe it had been intended as a low blow or maybe not, but it sure as hell felt like a low blow. Peter switched writing for tapping his pen rapidly against the paper.
There hadn't been time to process his cover being blown when Neal was being tossed like an old sock across the room – Neal's words, more or less. There'd been cussing, Neal was grabbed and what followed happened too fast for him to find a way to take so much as a step toward the door. And the suspect, for all his boxing prowess, fought dirty when pissed. There were four scratch marks on Neal's chest, on his collarbone and twice that much on his shoulders.
“Oh, I don't know,” Peter said, tossing the pen to the side and leaning back in his chair. “I would say you did a pretty decent job of holding your own.” And he meant it. The scrapes on Neal's knuckles proved it, as did the fact that Neal was still alive. The man had been twice Neal's weight. Toss in the boxing thing and rumors that the suspect was good at breaking necks, and Neal was beyond lucky he was still breathing.
Which did nothing to support Peter's case. The case being that no way was the FBI going to fund equipping a criminal consultant with the ability to kick ass on the FBI's level. It was ridiculous. It was overkill...
And Neal wasn't violent, and like hell Peter was allowing him the means to be violent. Because when Peter thought about it, his mind went straight to that museum, to Neal with a gun in his hand, and Peter with his gun on Neal.
Neal, who hated guns, hated violence. Neal, driven to do both by circumstances beyond even his smooth control. It still made Peter's stomach knot even now.
“Just enough to defend myself,” Neal said. “That's all. Like... like... that thing you and Diana do when you knock a gun out of someone's hand. That kind of thing.”
Peter pictured Neal in combat training. It was kind of funny. Neal Caffrey, wiry con artist who scowled if he so much as got a crease in his shirt, kicking ass and taking names with ninja style finesse, flipping guys taller and heavier than him over his shoulder (although taller, heavier guys flipping him felt a little more accurate), then smoothing out his sweat-stained T-shirt afterwards.
Peter's brain took a U-turn right back to the museum.
It was possible that Peter was being selfish. He liked that Neal was nonviolent, and liked even more than Neal went out of his way to accomplish a goal without anyone getting hurt. It was what Peter admired most about Neal, the kind of admiration he could easily admit to and did, because people like Neal were a dime a dozen in the wide world of crime. Most did what it took to get what they wanted, not hurting others be damned. Neal did what it took to ensure everyone got out unscathed.
Combat training wouldn't necessarily change that.
The Larsen's of the world could.
But there were bruises on Neal's face. More on his body. It must have been close to medication time, because he was sitting stiffly, his hand pressed almost innocuously to his side. Smiling blatantly hurt no matter how much Neal tried to pretend it didn't.
Neal could have been killed, and it wouldn't have been the first time.
Peter sighed. “How about a compromise? Self-defense courses.”
“The one where you learn to use a whistle, mace or your knee as a lethal weapon against male groins?” Neal dead-panned.
“Don't let Diana here you say that. She volunteers to teach those classes twice a month, and she has a gun.”
Neal grimaced.
“And more the latter. You're right, a little self-defense training would do us all some good – we wouldn't have to rush in as fast to save your ass. Combat training, on the other hand, is overkill. You don't need it.”
It was a testament to Neal and his non-aggressive ways that he dipped his head in agreement. “I can live with that. Well, barring that first part. I like you rushing in to save my ass. Ass saving is a good thing.”
Something in Peter unwound, releasing him from the tension he hadn't realized was knotting up his body. He smiled. “Good.” And closed the mind-numbingly dull file. “Let's go to lunch.” They both got up, Neal gingerly, and headed for the door.
“You know, I could just take some karate classes--” Neal began.
“They're outside your radius.”
“They are not.”
“Willing to wager your paycheck on it?”
Neal rolled his eyes.
Peter smirked, “Thought so,” and made sure to clap Neal's arm where it wouldn't hurt.
The End
Rating: PG for some violence and language
Characters: Neal, Peter
Warnings: Spoilers for Burke's Seven
Summary: “So,” Neal rasped. “About that combat training...” written for
swanpride for round two of collarcorner. Click here for prompt. Not beta'd but edited profusely. It went to hell in a hand basket with an anonymous call that gave Peter and his team exactly what they wanted, just not in the way they wanted it. They heard the timid chirp of a phone over the comm, the suspect's impatient reply, followed by silence.
“You back stabbing little son of a bitch!” shattered that silence like a grenade through glass. There was a scuffle, grunting, shouts of pain and other sounds lost to Peter when he ripped off the headset and shouted, “Move, move, move!”
Neal's cover had been blown.
Peter led the charge through the high rise to the pent house suite at the top. Within the stream of take-down procedures running through Peter's brain was a neutral whisper – you knew this might happen. He knew the suspect had a temper, knew the suspect jumped to conclusions first and asked questions later, and knew the suspect liked to box on the weekends and never lost a match. But Peter had shoved that knowledge aside, hiding it behind his complete faith in Neal's silver tongue.
A tip-off had never crossed his mind.
The team burst into the penthouse like an explosion of bodies, guns and yelling. The chaos brought the target's fist up short, seconds away from caving Neal's nose in. Jones and another agent grabbed the target, hauling him away while cuffing his hands behind his back. Peter and Diana pulled Caffrey to the other side of the room as far from the bastard who had just tried to kill him as possible. They eased him onto the edge of a white marble fireplace, keeping a hand on his shoulder in case he might collapse.
Neal was the most disheveled Peter had ever seen him – shirt untucked, the top four buttons popped clean off exposing his clammy chest, and drops of blood staining both material and skin. His right eye was already swelling shut, his bleeding lip and nose the source of all the bleeding. The bruises were going to impressive, and not just the ones on Neal's face. As Neal cradled his head in his right hand, he cradled his side in his left.
And he was shaking: adrenaline, fear, and relief congealed into a tremor that vibrated his body, making his breaths unsteady and loud.
But he smiled, and rolled his good eye up to look at Peter.
“So,” Neal rasped. “About that combat training...”
------------------------
“My money's on the wife,” Neal said. “She wasn't looking too happy at dinner when her dear husband started talking about closing the deal, and she was nothing but negative about it before hand. I'll wager you your next paycheck that she didn't even know I was a plant. She didn't want the deal to happen, knew how hot-headed her husband could be and made the call. Now he's behind bars – an unforeseen consequence... or not – and she's free to manage things her own way. Makes sense, don't you think?”
Neal smiled, quite the feat with a stitched lip and bruised cheek. This was normally the part where Neal, basking in the glow of his own triumph because of course he was right, would cross his ankle over his knee and get twice as comfortable in the chair. His bruised ribs and back wouldn't let him.
Peter chuffed. “A sucker bet. You've got a point. And you've got your own damn money to wager. Leave mine out of it.”
“Yours is more substantial,” Neal said, trying to make his smile twice as big and guileless, but he winced and gave up, letting his face relax into something less smug and more tiredly casual. “And I know when not to be overconfident.”
Peter snorted and shook his head. “I'll have the 'dear husband-liberated' missus brought in for another round of twenty questions.” Even though it didn't matter, not in the long run and not unless the wife had known Neal was a Fed (not that she would ever admit to it if she did). But this wasn't about making an arrest. This was about closure. Peter wanted to know who had made that call and put Neal in danger.
The attack hadn't resulted in broken bones, thank goodness, but it had left Neal in a state of pain that meds could only simmer down to a state of discomfort. Peter knew; it was written in the shadows under Neal's eyes. Heavy-duty pain meds might knock a person out but that didn't mean the person was sleeping well. According to Neal, him plus medication plus sleep did not happy bedfellows make.
“Great,” Neal said, going for round two with the biggest smile he could manage... and failing. “So, Peter, given any more thought to those combat lessons--”
“Nope,” Peter cut in, finding his interest in the rather dull report he'd been filling out before Neal had entered suddenly renewed. He picked up his pen and resumed filling.
“Oh, come on,” Neal said, an octave too close to a whine. “You'd think after this I could at least have a taste of the basics. I'm not asking for elite training – I'm not looking to be the next Rambo, here. Just something I can use. You know, for those days that I can't run.”
Maybe it had been intended as a low blow or maybe not, but it sure as hell felt like a low blow. Peter switched writing for tapping his pen rapidly against the paper.
There hadn't been time to process his cover being blown when Neal was being tossed like an old sock across the room – Neal's words, more or less. There'd been cussing, Neal was grabbed and what followed happened too fast for him to find a way to take so much as a step toward the door. And the suspect, for all his boxing prowess, fought dirty when pissed. There were four scratch marks on Neal's chest, on his collarbone and twice that much on his shoulders.
“Oh, I don't know,” Peter said, tossing the pen to the side and leaning back in his chair. “I would say you did a pretty decent job of holding your own.” And he meant it. The scrapes on Neal's knuckles proved it, as did the fact that Neal was still alive. The man had been twice Neal's weight. Toss in the boxing thing and rumors that the suspect was good at breaking necks, and Neal was beyond lucky he was still breathing.
Which did nothing to support Peter's case. The case being that no way was the FBI going to fund equipping a criminal consultant with the ability to kick ass on the FBI's level. It was ridiculous. It was overkill...
And Neal wasn't violent, and like hell Peter was allowing him the means to be violent. Because when Peter thought about it, his mind went straight to that museum, to Neal with a gun in his hand, and Peter with his gun on Neal.
Neal, who hated guns, hated violence. Neal, driven to do both by circumstances beyond even his smooth control. It still made Peter's stomach knot even now.
“Just enough to defend myself,” Neal said. “That's all. Like... like... that thing you and Diana do when you knock a gun out of someone's hand. That kind of thing.”
Peter pictured Neal in combat training. It was kind of funny. Neal Caffrey, wiry con artist who scowled if he so much as got a crease in his shirt, kicking ass and taking names with ninja style finesse, flipping guys taller and heavier than him over his shoulder (although taller, heavier guys flipping him felt a little more accurate), then smoothing out his sweat-stained T-shirt afterwards.
Peter's brain took a U-turn right back to the museum.
It was possible that Peter was being selfish. He liked that Neal was nonviolent, and liked even more than Neal went out of his way to accomplish a goal without anyone getting hurt. It was what Peter admired most about Neal, the kind of admiration he could easily admit to and did, because people like Neal were a dime a dozen in the wide world of crime. Most did what it took to get what they wanted, not hurting others be damned. Neal did what it took to ensure everyone got out unscathed.
Combat training wouldn't necessarily change that.
The Larsen's of the world could.
But there were bruises on Neal's face. More on his body. It must have been close to medication time, because he was sitting stiffly, his hand pressed almost innocuously to his side. Smiling blatantly hurt no matter how much Neal tried to pretend it didn't.
Neal could have been killed, and it wouldn't have been the first time.
Peter sighed. “How about a compromise? Self-defense courses.”
“The one where you learn to use a whistle, mace or your knee as a lethal weapon against male groins?” Neal dead-panned.
“Don't let Diana here you say that. She volunteers to teach those classes twice a month, and she has a gun.”
Neal grimaced.
“And more the latter. You're right, a little self-defense training would do us all some good – we wouldn't have to rush in as fast to save your ass. Combat training, on the other hand, is overkill. You don't need it.”
It was a testament to Neal and his non-aggressive ways that he dipped his head in agreement. “I can live with that. Well, barring that first part. I like you rushing in to save my ass. Ass saving is a good thing.”
Something in Peter unwound, releasing him from the tension he hadn't realized was knotting up his body. He smiled. “Good.” And closed the mind-numbingly dull file. “Let's go to lunch.” They both got up, Neal gingerly, and headed for the door.
“You know, I could just take some karate classes--” Neal began.
“They're outside your radius.”
“They are not.”
“Willing to wager your paycheck on it?”
Neal rolled his eyes.
Peter smirked, “Thought so,” and made sure to clap Neal's arm where it wouldn't hurt.
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Date: 2011-01-25 09:43 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-01-26 06:01 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-01-27 02:25 pm (UTC)From:no subject
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Date: 2011-01-25 10:45 pm (UTC)From:no subject
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Date: 2011-01-26 12:50 am (UTC)From:But Diana's self-defense classes would be serious!
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Date: 2011-01-26 06:03 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-01-26 08:31 pm (UTC)From:Thanks for this ficlet - thanks to you, I've been on a total White Collar fic binge lately. *lol*
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Date: 2011-01-26 07:56 am (UTC)From:As much as I would have liked to see Neal get down and dirty with combat fighting, it most certainly isn't who he is. I love how you've continued Neal's wheedling for combat classes and expanded it just as I was wishing for more from the episode.
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