kriadydragon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kriadydragon) wrote2012-01-28 01:27 pm
kriadydragon) wrote2012-01-28 01:27 pm
Entry tags:
White Collar - Stop me if you Heard This One
Title: Stop me if you Heard This One
Rating: PG for language
Characters: Neal, Peter, Mozzie
Warnings: None
Summary: Neal tries very, very hard not to get drunk - or drugged, or both - for good reason. Not beta'd but edited.
A/N: This is one of those poor stories that have been sitting on my harddrive forever. I thought it was high time to post.
Stop me if you Heard This One
Neal woke to a dry sour mouth, equally dry stinging eyes, the mother of all headaches and wondered how the hell that was possible. Because he didn't get hangovers, because he tried very, very hard not to get drunk. He liked his alcohol for the flavor and the bite, not for the logic-numbing inebriation that followed excess. A little buzz now and then he'd easily indulge but complete and utter drunk was dangerous. It left you vulnerable and stupid, clumsy and open, and Neal avoided it like Mozzie avoided hospitals.
Being drunk and hung over, however, was an mosquito annoyance compared to the complete whale-sized blank he was drawing on how he'd gotten drunk in the first place. Neal rolled over onto his back with a groan, shifted himself upright onto his elbows with another groan, and looked around. He was home, in his bed – good. He was alone in his bed, no stranger passed out next to him – also good. His pants were still on, and his undershirt, but his shoes and socks had been removed, his dress shirt and jacket draped over the couch. That meant he had been somewhere else, someone had brought him home, undressed him within considerate reason (Neal would have hung the jacket up at least. But, then, seeing as how he rarely got crap-faced wasted, he couldn't say for sure), and left him to sleep it off – even better.
It still wasn't enough to make him feel any less freaked about remembering nothing. Less panicked, maybe, but still anxious.
Neal forced his aching body out of bed against the protests of his exploding skull. Coffee first, get clear minded as possible, then assess. But Coffee liked to take its sweet time percolating and Neal wasn't feeling particularly patient. While the pot filled, Neal grabbed his jacket and rummaged through the pockets for his cell.
Which he then spotted sitting on the table as though waiting for him. Neal picked it up, dialed Peter, and resumed his pocket searching as the phone rang. The jacket was one of Byron's more “interesting” jackets, the one will all the hidden compartments, the one Neal only wore for “interesting” occasions.
The phone clicked, answered.
“Burke.”
“Hey, Peter, it's Neal.”
“Ah, the Prodigal Son awakes.”
“Please tell me you're mixing your metaphors because you're also hung over.” Neal's fingers collided with something cold and hard within one of the hidden inner pockets. He pulled the something out. His eyes bulged. “And why I have what looks like a seventeenth century gold pendant with a sapphire heart.”
“Wait, what? You have it?”
“I have something.” Neal's heart skipped a beat. What he couldn't decide was whether it was from trepidation or the usual giddy euphoria of holding something shiny and pricey in his hands. Then his heart skipped another beat, this one the fault of a very vicious realization.
“Wait, did I just confess to something I wasn't supposed to talk about?” Definitely not-happy heart-skips, then. This is why he never, ever, ever did drunk. Ever.
“No, I... that's... It's what we were looking for but Moto didn't have it... Neal, what do you remember?”
“Nothing!” He set the pendant on the table with the snap reaction of dropping something that burned. He returned to his rummaging. “Peter, what happened last night?” He pulled out a tile, but not for Dominoes. “Did I play Mahjongg?”
“You did go undercover at a Mahjongg tournament, yes. Kicked ass too according to the feed.”
“And I'm guessing there was alcohol? Saki, Vodka, strong stuff?”
“There was... something. Apparently Moto likes to make his tournaments somewhat... unique.”
Neal's shoulders dropped. He tossed the tile next to the pendant irritably. “Was I drugged again?”
“No! No, no... Well, yes, sort of.”
“I was sort of drugged? How is anyone 'sort of' drugged?”
“Neal, calm down...”
“Kind of hard too when you find out you were drugged, Peter.”
“You weren't drugged. At least you weren't drugged against your will. It was all part of the competition. Round four, I think. Moto wanted to heat things up so had a little something slipped into everyone's drink – with their permission. Sorry, Neal, but I heard your consent.”
Neal massaged the aching spot between his aching eyes. “I must've assumed the drug or whatever it was wasn't that bad.”
“I don't think it was. I think it just got everyone drunk faster. Don't worry, Jones was there as your body guard.”
“Good,” Neal said. He moved to the now ready coffee pot and poured some into a mug.
“Yeah, you should read his report. Did you know you're a hugger when drunk?”
Coffee slopped over the edge when Neal lifted it to his lips. He barely managed not to get any on his hand.
“All friendly and platonic, Jone's swears,” Peter went on. “He was more interested in the way you kept winning even when smashed. In fact he also swears you play even better when smashed.”
“I'll keep that in mind for the next Majhongg tournament.” Neal sipped his coffee, moved back to the table and switched the coffee for the jacket, searching it's remaining pockets. He found a pamphlet scheduling the tournament. Apparently last night had been the entry exam; the competition was week long. “Which looks like is tomorrow night.”
“Nope, we're done.”
Neal frowned. “We are?”
“The whole tournament's done.”
“So you took them down?”
“They took themselves down when you uncovered one of them cheating.”
Neal blinked. “Really?”
“You hugged Moto and discovered he had a pocket full of rigged tiles – which you still need explain, by the way. Jones isn't an expert so he was kind of sketchy on that part.”
Neal pulled out a wallet – Moto's wallet, his initials stamped in gold on the front.
“But you found the tiles, people got pissed and things got violent,” Peter continued.
“A shoot out?” Neal asked nervously.
“No, thank goodness. Weapons had to be checked at the door. But you'd be surprise how creative people can get when they're looking to inflict bodily harm. And Moto had that private collection of antique weapons. Jones says your bad ass with a sword.”
“A sword?”
“Yep. Fenced you and him right out of that place.”
That explained the rather impressive tear in the poor jacket's back.
“So we escaped.”
Peter snorted. “Barely. Moto was so pissed he sent his boys after you. It sounds like it was right out of a movie, let me tell you; ducking through alleys, jumping to rooftops, nearly getting shot by the owner of a laundry mat you took a short cut through – that kind of thing. The car chase was a little more impressive.”
“Car chase?”
“Yeah, you drove.”
“What!”
“I'm kidding. Jones drove. But you did give Jone's some rather impressive suggestions on how to lose your tails. Car's barely full of holes.”
Neal dropped his suddenly numb body into the chair. “How did we lose them?”
“A bus plowed into one car and blocked the rest. There were no passengers and the driver wasn't going that fast so he's fine. The guys in the car were dazed, made arresting them easy.”
“Oh.”
“Neal? You okay?”
Neal took a long pull of his coffee, then said, “I'm fine.”
“Good. We figured you'd probably feel like crap so the day's yours. Sleep it off. I'll send Diana to pick up the pendant.”
“Okay.”
“Rest up, Neal, you did good.”
“I will.”
Peter hung up. Neal sat there, jacket in his lap, items from the pockets laid out like museum pieces, and his head cradled in his hand as he nursed his coffee and forced his slushy brain the process everything Peter had just told him. Rhythmic knocking announced Mozzie's arrival two minutes later.
“You look terrible,” Mozzie said, pouring himself a cup.
“I'm aware.”
“Rough night?”
“Something like that.” Neal told him all about it.
“Wow,” Mozzie said, wide-eyed.
“I know, right? But you know what the worst part is?”
“What?”
“Best time of my life and I don't remember a damn thing.”
the End
Rating: PG for language
Characters: Neal, Peter, Mozzie
Warnings: None
Summary: Neal tries very, very hard not to get drunk - or drugged, or both - for good reason. Not beta'd but edited.
A/N: This is one of those poor stories that have been sitting on my harddrive forever. I thought it was high time to post.
Neal woke to a dry sour mouth, equally dry stinging eyes, the mother of all headaches and wondered how the hell that was possible. Because he didn't get hangovers, because he tried very, very hard not to get drunk. He liked his alcohol for the flavor and the bite, not for the logic-numbing inebriation that followed excess. A little buzz now and then he'd easily indulge but complete and utter drunk was dangerous. It left you vulnerable and stupid, clumsy and open, and Neal avoided it like Mozzie avoided hospitals.
Being drunk and hung over, however, was an mosquito annoyance compared to the complete whale-sized blank he was drawing on how he'd gotten drunk in the first place. Neal rolled over onto his back with a groan, shifted himself upright onto his elbows with another groan, and looked around. He was home, in his bed – good. He was alone in his bed, no stranger passed out next to him – also good. His pants were still on, and his undershirt, but his shoes and socks had been removed, his dress shirt and jacket draped over the couch. That meant he had been somewhere else, someone had brought him home, undressed him within considerate reason (Neal would have hung the jacket up at least. But, then, seeing as how he rarely got crap-faced wasted, he couldn't say for sure), and left him to sleep it off – even better.
It still wasn't enough to make him feel any less freaked about remembering nothing. Less panicked, maybe, but still anxious.
Neal forced his aching body out of bed against the protests of his exploding skull. Coffee first, get clear minded as possible, then assess. But Coffee liked to take its sweet time percolating and Neal wasn't feeling particularly patient. While the pot filled, Neal grabbed his jacket and rummaged through the pockets for his cell.
Which he then spotted sitting on the table as though waiting for him. Neal picked it up, dialed Peter, and resumed his pocket searching as the phone rang. The jacket was one of Byron's more “interesting” jackets, the one will all the hidden compartments, the one Neal only wore for “interesting” occasions.
The phone clicked, answered.
“Burke.”
“Hey, Peter, it's Neal.”
“Ah, the Prodigal Son awakes.”
“Please tell me you're mixing your metaphors because you're also hung over.” Neal's fingers collided with something cold and hard within one of the hidden inner pockets. He pulled the something out. His eyes bulged. “And why I have what looks like a seventeenth century gold pendant with a sapphire heart.”
“Wait, what? You have it?”
“I have something.” Neal's heart skipped a beat. What he couldn't decide was whether it was from trepidation or the usual giddy euphoria of holding something shiny and pricey in his hands. Then his heart skipped another beat, this one the fault of a very vicious realization.
“Wait, did I just confess to something I wasn't supposed to talk about?” Definitely not-happy heart-skips, then. This is why he never, ever, ever did drunk. Ever.
“No, I... that's... It's what we were looking for but Moto didn't have it... Neal, what do you remember?”
“Nothing!” He set the pendant on the table with the snap reaction of dropping something that burned. He returned to his rummaging. “Peter, what happened last night?” He pulled out a tile, but not for Dominoes. “Did I play Mahjongg?”
“You did go undercover at a Mahjongg tournament, yes. Kicked ass too according to the feed.”
“And I'm guessing there was alcohol? Saki, Vodka, strong stuff?”
“There was... something. Apparently Moto likes to make his tournaments somewhat... unique.”
Neal's shoulders dropped. He tossed the tile next to the pendant irritably. “Was I drugged again?”
“No! No, no... Well, yes, sort of.”
“I was sort of drugged? How is anyone 'sort of' drugged?”
“Neal, calm down...”
“Kind of hard too when you find out you were drugged, Peter.”
“You weren't drugged. At least you weren't drugged against your will. It was all part of the competition. Round four, I think. Moto wanted to heat things up so had a little something slipped into everyone's drink – with their permission. Sorry, Neal, but I heard your consent.”
Neal massaged the aching spot between his aching eyes. “I must've assumed the drug or whatever it was wasn't that bad.”
“I don't think it was. I think it just got everyone drunk faster. Don't worry, Jones was there as your body guard.”
“Good,” Neal said. He moved to the now ready coffee pot and poured some into a mug.
“Yeah, you should read his report. Did you know you're a hugger when drunk?”
Coffee slopped over the edge when Neal lifted it to his lips. He barely managed not to get any on his hand.
“All friendly and platonic, Jone's swears,” Peter went on. “He was more interested in the way you kept winning even when smashed. In fact he also swears you play even better when smashed.”
“I'll keep that in mind for the next Majhongg tournament.” Neal sipped his coffee, moved back to the table and switched the coffee for the jacket, searching it's remaining pockets. He found a pamphlet scheduling the tournament. Apparently last night had been the entry exam; the competition was week long. “Which looks like is tomorrow night.”
“Nope, we're done.”
Neal frowned. “We are?”
“The whole tournament's done.”
“So you took them down?”
“They took themselves down when you uncovered one of them cheating.”
Neal blinked. “Really?”
“You hugged Moto and discovered he had a pocket full of rigged tiles – which you still need explain, by the way. Jones isn't an expert so he was kind of sketchy on that part.”
Neal pulled out a wallet – Moto's wallet, his initials stamped in gold on the front.
“But you found the tiles, people got pissed and things got violent,” Peter continued.
“A shoot out?” Neal asked nervously.
“No, thank goodness. Weapons had to be checked at the door. But you'd be surprise how creative people can get when they're looking to inflict bodily harm. And Moto had that private collection of antique weapons. Jones says your bad ass with a sword.”
“A sword?”
“Yep. Fenced you and him right out of that place.”
That explained the rather impressive tear in the poor jacket's back.
“So we escaped.”
Peter snorted. “Barely. Moto was so pissed he sent his boys after you. It sounds like it was right out of a movie, let me tell you; ducking through alleys, jumping to rooftops, nearly getting shot by the owner of a laundry mat you took a short cut through – that kind of thing. The car chase was a little more impressive.”
“Car chase?”
“Yeah, you drove.”
“What!”
“I'm kidding. Jones drove. But you did give Jone's some rather impressive suggestions on how to lose your tails. Car's barely full of holes.”
Neal dropped his suddenly numb body into the chair. “How did we lose them?”
“A bus plowed into one car and blocked the rest. There were no passengers and the driver wasn't going that fast so he's fine. The guys in the car were dazed, made arresting them easy.”
“Oh.”
“Neal? You okay?”
Neal took a long pull of his coffee, then said, “I'm fine.”
“Good. We figured you'd probably feel like crap so the day's yours. Sleep it off. I'll send Diana to pick up the pendant.”
“Okay.”
“Rest up, Neal, you did good.”
“I will.”
Peter hung up. Neal sat there, jacket in his lap, items from the pockets laid out like museum pieces, and his head cradled in his hand as he nursed his coffee and forced his slushy brain the process everything Peter had just told him. Rhythmic knocking announced Mozzie's arrival two minutes later.
“You look terrible,” Mozzie said, pouring himself a cup.
“I'm aware.”
“Rough night?”
“Something like that.” Neal told him all about it.
“Wow,” Mozzie said, wide-eyed.
“I know, right? But you know what the worst part is?”
“What?”
“Best time of my life and I don't remember a damn thing.”