kriadydragon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kriadydragon) wrote2012-03-22 07:57 pm
kriadydragon) wrote2012-03-22 07:57 pm
Entry tags:
White Collar - Coming Home
Title: Coming Home
Rating: PG
Characters: Peter, Neal, El, Hughes, June, Diana, Jones
Warnings: Spoilers for Judgment Day
Summary: Peter has someone important he needs to pick up. Written for this Prompt at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
collarcorner. Big thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aelfgyfu_mead for giving me the much needed inspiration to make this story possible.
Coming Home
A month after Neal cut his anklet and ran, Peter got the first postcard. The return address, he knew, was either a fake or no longer occupied, but the sender was Alistair Holden, Jr and only raised red flags for Peter. But Neal's case wasn't his except when the Harvard schmuck they got on Neal's tail needed advice, and Peter saw no reason to submit the card as evidence. It wasn't like it would have prints – Neal would be too careful for that, and Mozzie would remind him to be careful when he wasn't – and the picture was of a litter of Labrador puppies, not mountains or a beach with words proclaiming boldly to come visit scenic what-ever-country-Neal-happened-to-be-in.
Four months and four postcards later, then it was a package – an antique stain-glass bowl for El, gourmet dog biscuits for Satchmo, and a nice silk tie for Peter. It was a source of quiet amusement and wistful remembering between Peter and El, and of relief knowing that Neal and Mozzie were still out there and doing fine.
A month later and there was nothing. Not even the month after that, or the month after that. Peter tried not to think too much about it, consoling himself with the possibility of the Harvard schmuck having found something that had sent Neal to ground. Of Neal traveling too much, partying too much, to remember to send things as silly as postcards and packages. Or maybe he was doing something illegal, and it was a sad realization that Peter preferred the thought of Neal breaking into a museum over Neal lying face-down in a ditch.
But then another grueling month of positive what-ifs barely smothering the negative what-ifs, of dreams of Neal dying in a hospital or Neal dead in an alley, and Hughes called Peter into his office.
“We need you to pick someone up,” Hughes said.
Peter frowned, wondering what he'd done wrong to demote him to Federal errand boy. “Oh... kay? An important someone or are we short on probies to use for taxi service?”
“Not that kind of pick up,” Hughes said, and handed Peter a manila envelope. Inside were various documents as well as plane tickets. For three heartbeats, Peter was speechless.
“Wow. Okay. Um... why me?”
“It's all there in the papers but I'll give you the gist, anyway,” Hughes said. “We've had an informant come forward with information on a guy violent crimes has been after for years. Would have caught the bastard, too, if he hadn't high-tailed it to Europe. We get nothing on this guy - nothing - for three years and suddenly our office is getting weekly envelopes with pictures, passwords and bank account numbers all adding up to a practical damn map of when and where we can get this guy. Well, we caught him, all right, but there's still the pain in the ass matter of putting him away for good. Problem is, he has good lawyers. Our informant knew this and he's willing to come in with sensitive information that he promises will put our boy away for good, but in exchange for immunity. He sent us a taste of what he has. It's pretty damn sound, Peter.”
Peter's head bobbed in all the right places even as his mind stumbled over the only conundrum that had yet to be explained.
“All right. Good for violent crimes. But, again, why me? I'm not violent crimes.”
Hughes stared at Peter, his face as blank as the sheets of paper waiting in the printer but his eyes searching, considering and, after a moment, narrowing.
“He asked for you.”
“Oh,” Peter said, frown deeper, mind three times as befuddled. And then...
And then...
“Oh. Oh.”
But it couldn't be. No way. Neal was gone, Scott free, thousands of miles away basking under a tropical sun on some tropical beach part of some hidden tropical island. It couldn't be him, it just...
“No. It's not... no way...” Peter said, shaking his head even as his lips curled, smiling at what had to be the dumbest, most ridiculous conclusion in the world. But Hughes only raised his eyebrows in a silent you tell me.
And then Peter was on a plane, from one moment to the next, like blinking his eyes in the office then opening them in first class with two escorting agents seated behind him. But it hadn't happened that fast because he distinctly remembered talking with El last night, hashing out his disbelief in the hopes of finding some common ground for his doubts, only to lose even more ground.
“No way it's him,” he had said over a meal of roast beef and mashed potatoes. He'd done less eating and more poking, much to El's concern.
“Why not?” El said, simple and sweet in her challenge.
“If it was a matter of... of... I don't know, my department chasing down a guy who stole a lot of paintings then maybe. This was violent crime's case. A case Ruiz was helping with, and Neal isn't exactly Ruiz's biggest fan.”
But El shrugged like it was a trifle fact. “Maybe something about this guy pinged Neal's alarms. Or maybe Neal likes taking down bad guys.” She smiled brightly at Peter. “Maybe you were that much of an influence on him.”
Which was exactly what they – Peter in particular – didn't need; a vigilante former art thief risking his neck catching criminals. At least stealing stuff usually involved laying low and acting under the cover of darkness. The kind of information Neal - that is, this informant - had gathered was the kind you didn't get by putting a couple of shots of vodka into a crony. You got it by going in deep, so deep it meant a chance of never coming back out again.
It meant going undercover, and conning your ass off.
Which, okay, yes, was right up Neal's alley but, still... way too dangerous, and foolish, and reckless and...
And just like Neal, damn it.
“I'm not jumping to conclusions, El,” Peter had said. “And I highly advise that you don't either, just in case.”
El had raised both hands in surrender. Unfortunately, it wasn't the “You're right and I'm wrong and I concede to your way of thinking” surrender. It was, Peter knew with a sinking feeling, the “I concede the argument because it isn't getting us anywhere and I want to eat but I'm probably going to buy a cake and plan a big surprise party, anyway,” surrender. Because El did not surrender easily. She surrendered sneakily.
She knew Peter, knew when to be the voice of reason against Peter's stubborn resolve to stick to his guns, and knew how to keep him honest with himself without him ever realizing it. He would not jump to conclusions, his mind said. You already have, the rest of him said. Add up the facts, said the rest of him, because when he did, there was logic to it, sound reason, the only explanation that made any sense, because there was only one person who happened to be in Europe that would ask for Peter by name. Two if you counted Mozzie, except that where Feds were concerned, even Peter, Mozzie didn't count.
So he shouldn't have been surprised when he stepped off the Plane in an airport somewhere in Sweden, stood waiting in the terminal as instructed by the informant, and saw a man walking toward him with the right shape and build and hair color to be Neal. He shouldn't have felt the tightness in his chest he hadn't realized was there ease like a vice being released when the person came closer - removing their sun glasses and plastering a big smile on their face - and Peter knew without a doubt it was Neal. He should have walked up to Neal, stern and unbending, throwing out a few mock-stern quips for Neal to throw back at him just like old times, like Neal had never really left and everything was back to normal.
He shouldn't have met Neal half way, and do what he had only ever done with close family – gather Neal into an embrace, with several manly slaps on Neal's back and Neal returning the favor. He shouldn't have been smiling, even chuckling a little, and feeling a happiness that was relief and joy and contentment rolled into one.
When they pulled back, Neal was still smiling, but with a bemused look on his face. “Wow, I wasn't expecting that.”
“What were you expecting? Handcuffs?”
“Or an anklet. I do think I like this much better though.” His features softened. “Hey Peter.”
Peter took a moment, little more than two seconds, to take Neal in at a glance. He was a little thinner, a lot tired, maybe tan once but it was starting to fade. But his smile, even through the weariness, was big and guileless and nothing but happy.
“Hey Neal.”
They stood there, staring at each other, still more taking in to do until Peter realized the time and that there was another flight to catch in an hour. “So... what possessed you to become the white collar version of Batman?”
“More like the white collar version of James Bond, if you don't mind. He dresses better. No capes. Is it okay if we wait until we're home for me to talk? I don't think I have it in me to tell it twice.”
Peter chuffed. “Yeah, that's fine.”
They had enough time to grab something to eat at a little Swedish cafe within the airport with decent food and better coffee, passing the hour with small talk; Neal asking about June and El, Jones and Diana and Peter wondering where the little guy was. Around, Neal said, watching out for any potential snipers pointing their concealed weapons their way, despite the fact that it was no longer an issue, those snipers in question laying low now that their boss was in custody.
The moment they were on the plane, and the moment the plane was in the air, Neal was fighting sleep. His head bobbed, bounced, falling back one moment, tilting forward the next, sometimes falling onto Peter's shoulder until his body's needs finally won and his head had finally found a comfortable position against the seat.
Peter, immersed in one of the western books El had got him for the flight, was pulled out of it by a sudden weight on his shoulder. He turned his head, getting a nose full of Neal's hair. Neal's newest sleeping position didn't look like it should be comfortable, but if Peter didn't know any better he could have sworn Neal was twice as asleep as he had been with his head tilted back. Peter asked the stewardess for a pillow and he tucked it between his shoulder and Neal. Completely for Peter's own comfort, of course, if anyone had asked.
The flight home was longer, stopping at Madrid so they could switch planes. When they arrived home, it was just as the sun was setting over Manhattan, the towers blazing orange and gold in the waning light. Peter watched Neal watch the city, his smile back but gentle and wistful; the tired happiness that only came after a journey that you thought would never end finally coming to a close, and knowing that the warmth of home was just around the corner.
Which, to be technical, it wasn't. There was time enough to go to the office, much to Peter's reluctance but Neal's insistence and his need to get this over with. But though it was violent crime's case, Peter was allowed to sit in and listen to Neal's statement as it was being recorded. It would be typed up later, with Neal's identity hidden behind “anonymous informant.” He wouldn't have to testify, the information he had gathered by schmoozing his way into some dangerous inner circles was enough of a trail to follow to a sound conviction. The process only took an hour, but an hour too many for a jet-lagged and exhausted Neal.
And an exhausted Neal was an honest and open Neal.
“What possessed you to infiltrate these people in the first place?” Hughes asked like an exasperated parent.
Neal, looking a little out of it, shrugged. “Moz-- I mean, a friend of mind who has this... mild paranoid streak I guess you could call it--”
Peter snorted.
“Heard about this bounty going out for the deaths of Federal agents stationed in New York. Didn't say who the target was. The guy just wanted Feds getting killed left at right. Feds in New York.”
Oh.
Oh.
Neal lifted one shoulder, a half-hearted shrug of a man spent in both body and mind. “Guess no one had a chance to volunteer. Word would have traveled fast if any federal agents had been killed.”
That was all the statement they needed.
Peter drove Neal to his house, Neal still free as the wind, safe in the immunity paid for by hard-earned information on a dangerous man. There was so much Peter wanted to ask, to say – what the hell had Neal been thinking? How long had he been undercover. Maybe how he pulled it off but, then again, this was Neal so that was probably a moot point. To demand that Neal never do something like that again, as if Neal would actually listen.
And thank you.
But Neal had fallen asleep again.
There was no Neal-style monster of a shindig when they got home. But there was El and June – smothering Neal with hugs and kisses to his cheeks – and Diana and Jones – a little more reserved with welcome home, back slaps and where's the little guy, an excited Satchmo about to upend himself with his own madly wagging tail. And cake.
“I knew you boys would be jet lagged so I decided to keep it simple,” El said. “But there will be something better later on, you can count on it,” she added when Neal tried to protest that she hadn't needed to throw anything together. But Neal's eyes were bright, and for a moment he was no longer so tired. There was cake, conversation and wine, Diana warning Neal to never run off like that again even as she was smiling, June promising Neal that his loft was waiting for him, and Jones lamenting the dull cases and complete lack of undercover parties with models and expensive food. The party didn't so much end as wind down as, one by one, their little group headed home for the night until it was Peter, Neal and El.
Mostly Peter and Neal, with El finishing the last leg of the clean-up, which consisted mainly of wiping down the counters.
“I cannot believe you actually went undercover, on your own,” Peter said, shaking his head, though he was facing the TV, with Neal on his other side. He chuckled. “Yeah, now who's a bad influence on who--” A familiar weight settled onto his shoulder. He turned his head, his nose suffering another attack of Neal's hair.
Neal was out like a light, his face relaxed, his breathing soft, his body settled with no intentions of going anywhere for as long as possible. Awkward as hell as it was, there was also something right about it, like a puzzle that had been missing a piece, and that piece finally slotted back into place, completing the picture.
Peter reached up and ruffled Neal's hair.
“Welcome home, kid.”
The End
A/N: Not the fanciest or most exciting reunion, I know. This was purely a labor of happy-inducing fluff and an excuse to bring back the cake ;)
Rating: PG
Characters: Peter, Neal, El, Hughes, June, Diana, Jones
Warnings: Spoilers for Judgment Day
Summary: Peter has someone important he needs to pick up. Written for this Prompt at
collarcorner. Big thanks to aelfgyfu_mead for giving me the much needed inspiration to make this story possible. A month after Neal cut his anklet and ran, Peter got the first postcard. The return address, he knew, was either a fake or no longer occupied, but the sender was Alistair Holden, Jr and only raised red flags for Peter. But Neal's case wasn't his except when the Harvard schmuck they got on Neal's tail needed advice, and Peter saw no reason to submit the card as evidence. It wasn't like it would have prints – Neal would be too careful for that, and Mozzie would remind him to be careful when he wasn't – and the picture was of a litter of Labrador puppies, not mountains or a beach with words proclaiming boldly to come visit scenic what-ever-country-Neal-happened-to-be-in.
Four months and four postcards later, then it was a package – an antique stain-glass bowl for El, gourmet dog biscuits for Satchmo, and a nice silk tie for Peter. It was a source of quiet amusement and wistful remembering between Peter and El, and of relief knowing that Neal and Mozzie were still out there and doing fine.
A month later and there was nothing. Not even the month after that, or the month after that. Peter tried not to think too much about it, consoling himself with the possibility of the Harvard schmuck having found something that had sent Neal to ground. Of Neal traveling too much, partying too much, to remember to send things as silly as postcards and packages. Or maybe he was doing something illegal, and it was a sad realization that Peter preferred the thought of Neal breaking into a museum over Neal lying face-down in a ditch.
But then another grueling month of positive what-ifs barely smothering the negative what-ifs, of dreams of Neal dying in a hospital or Neal dead in an alley, and Hughes called Peter into his office.
“We need you to pick someone up,” Hughes said.
Peter frowned, wondering what he'd done wrong to demote him to Federal errand boy. “Oh... kay? An important someone or are we short on probies to use for taxi service?”
“Not that kind of pick up,” Hughes said, and handed Peter a manila envelope. Inside were various documents as well as plane tickets. For three heartbeats, Peter was speechless.
“Wow. Okay. Um... why me?”
“It's all there in the papers but I'll give you the gist, anyway,” Hughes said. “We've had an informant come forward with information on a guy violent crimes has been after for years. Would have caught the bastard, too, if he hadn't high-tailed it to Europe. We get nothing on this guy - nothing - for three years and suddenly our office is getting weekly envelopes with pictures, passwords and bank account numbers all adding up to a practical damn map of when and where we can get this guy. Well, we caught him, all right, but there's still the pain in the ass matter of putting him away for good. Problem is, he has good lawyers. Our informant knew this and he's willing to come in with sensitive information that he promises will put our boy away for good, but in exchange for immunity. He sent us a taste of what he has. It's pretty damn sound, Peter.”
Peter's head bobbed in all the right places even as his mind stumbled over the only conundrum that had yet to be explained.
“All right. Good for violent crimes. But, again, why me? I'm not violent crimes.”
Hughes stared at Peter, his face as blank as the sheets of paper waiting in the printer but his eyes searching, considering and, after a moment, narrowing.
“He asked for you.”
“Oh,” Peter said, frown deeper, mind three times as befuddled. And then...
And then...
“Oh. Oh.”
But it couldn't be. No way. Neal was gone, Scott free, thousands of miles away basking under a tropical sun on some tropical beach part of some hidden tropical island. It couldn't be him, it just...
“No. It's not... no way...” Peter said, shaking his head even as his lips curled, smiling at what had to be the dumbest, most ridiculous conclusion in the world. But Hughes only raised his eyebrows in a silent you tell me.
And then Peter was on a plane, from one moment to the next, like blinking his eyes in the office then opening them in first class with two escorting agents seated behind him. But it hadn't happened that fast because he distinctly remembered talking with El last night, hashing out his disbelief in the hopes of finding some common ground for his doubts, only to lose even more ground.
“No way it's him,” he had said over a meal of roast beef and mashed potatoes. He'd done less eating and more poking, much to El's concern.
“Why not?” El said, simple and sweet in her challenge.
“If it was a matter of... of... I don't know, my department chasing down a guy who stole a lot of paintings then maybe. This was violent crime's case. A case Ruiz was helping with, and Neal isn't exactly Ruiz's biggest fan.”
But El shrugged like it was a trifle fact. “Maybe something about this guy pinged Neal's alarms. Or maybe Neal likes taking down bad guys.” She smiled brightly at Peter. “Maybe you were that much of an influence on him.”
Which was exactly what they – Peter in particular – didn't need; a vigilante former art thief risking his neck catching criminals. At least stealing stuff usually involved laying low and acting under the cover of darkness. The kind of information Neal - that is, this informant - had gathered was the kind you didn't get by putting a couple of shots of vodka into a crony. You got it by going in deep, so deep it meant a chance of never coming back out again.
It meant going undercover, and conning your ass off.
Which, okay, yes, was right up Neal's alley but, still... way too dangerous, and foolish, and reckless and...
And just like Neal, damn it.
“I'm not jumping to conclusions, El,” Peter had said. “And I highly advise that you don't either, just in case.”
El had raised both hands in surrender. Unfortunately, it wasn't the “You're right and I'm wrong and I concede to your way of thinking” surrender. It was, Peter knew with a sinking feeling, the “I concede the argument because it isn't getting us anywhere and I want to eat but I'm probably going to buy a cake and plan a big surprise party, anyway,” surrender. Because El did not surrender easily. She surrendered sneakily.
She knew Peter, knew when to be the voice of reason against Peter's stubborn resolve to stick to his guns, and knew how to keep him honest with himself without him ever realizing it. He would not jump to conclusions, his mind said. You already have, the rest of him said. Add up the facts, said the rest of him, because when he did, there was logic to it, sound reason, the only explanation that made any sense, because there was only one person who happened to be in Europe that would ask for Peter by name. Two if you counted Mozzie, except that where Feds were concerned, even Peter, Mozzie didn't count.
So he shouldn't have been surprised when he stepped off the Plane in an airport somewhere in Sweden, stood waiting in the terminal as instructed by the informant, and saw a man walking toward him with the right shape and build and hair color to be Neal. He shouldn't have felt the tightness in his chest he hadn't realized was there ease like a vice being released when the person came closer - removing their sun glasses and plastering a big smile on their face - and Peter knew without a doubt it was Neal. He should have walked up to Neal, stern and unbending, throwing out a few mock-stern quips for Neal to throw back at him just like old times, like Neal had never really left and everything was back to normal.
He shouldn't have met Neal half way, and do what he had only ever done with close family – gather Neal into an embrace, with several manly slaps on Neal's back and Neal returning the favor. He shouldn't have been smiling, even chuckling a little, and feeling a happiness that was relief and joy and contentment rolled into one.
When they pulled back, Neal was still smiling, but with a bemused look on his face. “Wow, I wasn't expecting that.”
“What were you expecting? Handcuffs?”
“Or an anklet. I do think I like this much better though.” His features softened. “Hey Peter.”
Peter took a moment, little more than two seconds, to take Neal in at a glance. He was a little thinner, a lot tired, maybe tan once but it was starting to fade. But his smile, even through the weariness, was big and guileless and nothing but happy.
“Hey Neal.”
They stood there, staring at each other, still more taking in to do until Peter realized the time and that there was another flight to catch in an hour. “So... what possessed you to become the white collar version of Batman?”
“More like the white collar version of James Bond, if you don't mind. He dresses better. No capes. Is it okay if we wait until we're home for me to talk? I don't think I have it in me to tell it twice.”
Peter chuffed. “Yeah, that's fine.”
They had enough time to grab something to eat at a little Swedish cafe within the airport with decent food and better coffee, passing the hour with small talk; Neal asking about June and El, Jones and Diana and Peter wondering where the little guy was. Around, Neal said, watching out for any potential snipers pointing their concealed weapons their way, despite the fact that it was no longer an issue, those snipers in question laying low now that their boss was in custody.
The moment they were on the plane, and the moment the plane was in the air, Neal was fighting sleep. His head bobbed, bounced, falling back one moment, tilting forward the next, sometimes falling onto Peter's shoulder until his body's needs finally won and his head had finally found a comfortable position against the seat.
Peter, immersed in one of the western books El had got him for the flight, was pulled out of it by a sudden weight on his shoulder. He turned his head, getting a nose full of Neal's hair. Neal's newest sleeping position didn't look like it should be comfortable, but if Peter didn't know any better he could have sworn Neal was twice as asleep as he had been with his head tilted back. Peter asked the stewardess for a pillow and he tucked it between his shoulder and Neal. Completely for Peter's own comfort, of course, if anyone had asked.
The flight home was longer, stopping at Madrid so they could switch planes. When they arrived home, it was just as the sun was setting over Manhattan, the towers blazing orange and gold in the waning light. Peter watched Neal watch the city, his smile back but gentle and wistful; the tired happiness that only came after a journey that you thought would never end finally coming to a close, and knowing that the warmth of home was just around the corner.
Which, to be technical, it wasn't. There was time enough to go to the office, much to Peter's reluctance but Neal's insistence and his need to get this over with. But though it was violent crime's case, Peter was allowed to sit in and listen to Neal's statement as it was being recorded. It would be typed up later, with Neal's identity hidden behind “anonymous informant.” He wouldn't have to testify, the information he had gathered by schmoozing his way into some dangerous inner circles was enough of a trail to follow to a sound conviction. The process only took an hour, but an hour too many for a jet-lagged and exhausted Neal.
And an exhausted Neal was an honest and open Neal.
“What possessed you to infiltrate these people in the first place?” Hughes asked like an exasperated parent.
Neal, looking a little out of it, shrugged. “Moz-- I mean, a friend of mind who has this... mild paranoid streak I guess you could call it--”
Peter snorted.
“Heard about this bounty going out for the deaths of Federal agents stationed in New York. Didn't say who the target was. The guy just wanted Feds getting killed left at right. Feds in New York.”
Oh.
Oh.
Neal lifted one shoulder, a half-hearted shrug of a man spent in both body and mind. “Guess no one had a chance to volunteer. Word would have traveled fast if any federal agents had been killed.”
That was all the statement they needed.
Peter drove Neal to his house, Neal still free as the wind, safe in the immunity paid for by hard-earned information on a dangerous man. There was so much Peter wanted to ask, to say – what the hell had Neal been thinking? How long had he been undercover. Maybe how he pulled it off but, then again, this was Neal so that was probably a moot point. To demand that Neal never do something like that again, as if Neal would actually listen.
And thank you.
But Neal had fallen asleep again.
There was no Neal-style monster of a shindig when they got home. But there was El and June – smothering Neal with hugs and kisses to his cheeks – and Diana and Jones – a little more reserved with welcome home, back slaps and where's the little guy, an excited Satchmo about to upend himself with his own madly wagging tail. And cake.
“I knew you boys would be jet lagged so I decided to keep it simple,” El said. “But there will be something better later on, you can count on it,” she added when Neal tried to protest that she hadn't needed to throw anything together. But Neal's eyes were bright, and for a moment he was no longer so tired. There was cake, conversation and wine, Diana warning Neal to never run off like that again even as she was smiling, June promising Neal that his loft was waiting for him, and Jones lamenting the dull cases and complete lack of undercover parties with models and expensive food. The party didn't so much end as wind down as, one by one, their little group headed home for the night until it was Peter, Neal and El.
Mostly Peter and Neal, with El finishing the last leg of the clean-up, which consisted mainly of wiping down the counters.
“I cannot believe you actually went undercover, on your own,” Peter said, shaking his head, though he was facing the TV, with Neal on his other side. He chuckled. “Yeah, now who's a bad influence on who--” A familiar weight settled onto his shoulder. He turned his head, his nose suffering another attack of Neal's hair.
Neal was out like a light, his face relaxed, his breathing soft, his body settled with no intentions of going anywhere for as long as possible. Awkward as hell as it was, there was also something right about it, like a puzzle that had been missing a piece, and that piece finally slotted back into place, completing the picture.
Peter reached up and ruffled Neal's hair.
“Welcome home, kid.”
A/N: Not the fanciest or most exciting reunion, I know. This was purely a labor of happy-inducing fluff and an excuse to bring back the cake ;)
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