![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: Gratitude
Rating: PG
Characters: Mozzie, Neal, Peter
Summary: Mozzie loves being justified in sticking it to The Man. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
florastuart for this prompt at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
collarcorner.
A/N: Takes place sometime in the earlier seasons, I'm thinking around end of season one, start of season two or so.
Gratitude
Mozzie normally liked it when he had every reason to be mad at The Man. To be able to point fingers at them, state the obvious of everything being their fault and lord over the justification of it. There was no greater pleasure than telling the man behind the badge that he had only himself to blame because he worked for a government hell bent on suppressing the masses.
But it was difficult to bask in the joy of being utterly right when The Man's fault was the reason a friend was in rather uncomfortable straits.
Injury was part and parcel to... well, to life, but in the not-so-legal world that both Mozzie and Neal frequented there was a certain amount of increase when it came to bodily harm. And because going to hospitals was right out unless those uncomfortable straits were, in fact, dire, being part of that world also came with a certain amount of useful (if unpleasant) medical knowledge.
As well as a certain amount of habit.
Neal had been to see a doctor. Mozzie could see that much the moment Neal walked through the door of the loft. There were butterfly bandages holding together a cut on his forehead, a bandage around his left hand, a cut lip and the shadow of what was soon to be an impressive bruise on his cheekbone. But the evidence did nothing to sway instinct.
Mozzie set down his current glass of red, his mind already cataloging what first aid supplies he would need, and his mouth saying ahead of his brain, “What did The Suit have you do now?” in a sighing “knew this was going to happen” kind of way.
Neal, attempting a disarming smile that collapsed into a wince, replied with mild but good-natured exasperation, “Nothing I couldn't handle. I'm fine, trust me.”
Which had Mozzie, half way rising, sitting back down with great reluctance. The evidence had finally sunk in. Neal had already received medical attention sparing Mozzie from the dirty work of disinfecting germ-ridden cuts. It did nothing to assuage his increase of ire toward the Feds and that ankle leash they kept Neal hooked to. There was more to Neal's bodily woes than what was visible. He was hunched, his gait close to shuffling, his shirt untucked and his clothes rumpled. And when Neal was rumpled, you knew things were a lot worse than he was letting on, with the right amount of pain to coax Neal out of looking nothing but impeccable, even with bandages.
It took a lot to make Neal not try for impeccable.
As if to drive home this fact, Neal said rather sheepishly. “But... I may need some help.” Which also told Mozzie everything he needed to know about Neal's condition.
So did everything else that followed. Neal, exhausted and aching, needed help getting out of his jacket and shirt. Mozzie did most of the work and Neal still grunted, groaned and flinched sucking air between his teeth.
“You know,” Mozzie said, grimacing at a rather long, blood-spotted piece of gauze covering the upper part of Neal's back on the right side, as well as the pepper of smaller cuts keeping it company. “At least when you got hurt breaking and entering it paid off.”
“This does pay off,” Neal grunted as he tried with much effort to hardly move at all. There weren't just cuts and whatever blood-crusted mess the gauze was hiding, there were also more bruises blossoming, grotesque colors spreading on Neal's stomach, ribs and back. “Think of it as currency paying for a perpetual stay-out-of-jail card.”
“Sorry. Smacks too much of The-Man-using-you-for-a-higher-closure-rate card.”
“This isn't Peter's fault,” Neal said tiredly. “In fact I'd probably be dead if he hadn't been there.”
“This probably wouldn't have happened at all if he hadn't made you do... whatever this was.”
“He gave me the option of going in or sitting this one out. I opted for going in.”
“Oh. Well, then, let me rephrase – this wouldn't have happened if he wasn't such a bad influence on you.”
But Neal, as he often did when Mozzie was in a blame-game sort of mood, shook his head while smiling even as he shuffled his painful, tired way to the bathroom. Neal's shower was short, and on exiting dressed in only pajama pants, Mozzie could have sworn he looked in even worse pain.
“Please tell me the quack the Suit sent you to knew to give you the good medication.”
“Jacket pocket,” Neal grunted. “Bring it, I'm going to need your help again.”
While Mozzie extricated the small white bag of medical goodies from Neal's wrinkled jacket, Neal eased himself with more grunting onto the couch.
Having injuries treated was just as habitual as treating them. Neal had made sure to angle himself enough to give Mozzie full access to his back. And with it came an unobstructed view of what had been under that bandage: a gash of epic proportions, extending from shoulder blade to mid back and slanting a little too close for comfort toward the spine. It was an angry-looking wound, red and black with irritation and stitches, and agonizing just to look at.
The “quack” that had seen to Neal's injuries had provided an antibiotic ointment along with two bottles of pills: one for pain, one to prevent infection. Neal took the pain pill first, but was insistent that Mozzie get started on applying that ointment before the second pill was consumed.
“Both of them together are going to knock me out,” Neal said. “I want to be in bed before that happens.”
Mozzie sighed but spared Neal anymore negative diatribe concerning the Suit. Habitual or not, caring for injuries, even ones already – mostly – cared for, was Mozzie's least favorite activity just under being interrogated. But he also knew how little a hurt, tired, achy Neal could tolerate, even when Neal was putting on another of his amicable fronts. One time, Neal had been in so much pain from taking a nasty spill down a rocky hill covered in bramble that he had begged Mozzie to shut up - in a cracked voice, as though Mozzie had been pressing on his injuries just to torture him.
As Mozzie applied the ointment using a Q-tip, Neal told him everything that happened, from an undercover assignment gone wrong to Neal having to run for his life. And, yep, he'd taken another nasty spill down some cracked concrete, the gash from a piece of rebar. Neal had to get a Tetanus shot for it. The bruises, some of them, were from one of the goons catching up to Neal. But it had been a brief pummeling when Peter and the gang had shown up, having given chase as soon as the bad guys decided to chase Neal.
“They sent you in without back up?” was all Mozzie could say, because it was all he could focus on. Yes, okay, so with most of their heists going in alone was sometimes the best, even only, means to a positive end-game. But this was different. These were Feds sending in a unarmed non-Fed to do their dirty work. This wasn't right.
“I told you, Mozzie, it was my choice. And it was worth it – these guys were using kids as mules to smuggle stolen antiquities. Poor kids didn't even know what they were doing, they were just trying to earn some extra money for their families. Besides, I wasn't alone. Peter was listening and was keeping track of me. If he hadn't gotten to me when he did, I wouldn't be here, believe me.”
“Uh-huh. So where is said knight in three-piece-suit now? Because it looks to me like he patched you up just to dump you off here to continue doing his suitly duties.”
Because life loved irony, and the universe did have a sense of humor, there was a knock at the door, but it wasn't June that walked in.
“Got that Thai food from that place you keep raving about. Why do you always have to pick the expensive joints?” Peter said, setting bags of wonderfully aromatic food on the table. He didn't look up, pulling out cartons of food, when he said, “Mozzie.”
“Suit,” Mozzie said flatly. Neal elbowed him, mostly missing.
“Hope you like Thai. I'm not going anywhere else.”
“He does like Thai,” Neal said. “And when you get chased down by antique smugglers then you can pick the restaurant and I'll pay.”
Peter pointed a stern finger at him. “I will hold you to that.”
Because El was out of town, Peter joined them for dinner. Neal took the second pill only after he had eaten what he could, and the first pill was starting to kick in. Mozzie prepared himself to set his carton of rice down in order to stand and help Neal to the bed, but the suit beat him to it.
During the transition from table to bed, Peter hounded Neal with reminders to keep taking those pills, to call if he thought anything might be wrong, and that Neal was more than welcome to stay at the Burke's if he wanted. Neal reminded him right back that El was away and that staying put would be better. There was June, and Mozzie, so he wouldn't be alone, but Peter left the offer on the table, anyway.
Neal was mostly fine getting into bed on his own but Peter hovered close by all the same. Jealousy pricked at Mozzie. Dragging a drugged Neal to the comfort of bed was supposed to be his job. He was the one who should be hovering, making sure Neal was comfortable and asleep, not the Fed who'd put him in a position to get hurt in the first place.
Mozzie was more than ready to say all this out loud and then some when Peter returned to the table, his words winning the race to be spoken first.
“Man, today was close.”
“Obviously,” Mozzie said darkly.
Peter, catching on, raised both hands. “Yes, I know what happened to him shouldn't have happened. And it wouldn't have but they had one of the kids there. I guess the kid screwed up and they were going kill him for it right on the spot and Neal,” Peter shrugged. “He wasn't going to let that happen. So he blew his cover, distracted them from the kid and made a run for it.”
Mozzie raised both eyebrows. After a moments hesitation, he said, “That is something Neal would do.” Because it was, and wouldn't be the first time Neal had done it.
Peter chuffed. “Yeah. Timed it beautifully, too. We got everything we needed on these guys. I just wish...” he shook his head. “I wasn't there. So I'm not sure if Neal chose the moment he did to fess up because it was convenient or he had no other choice. I just wish there had been a better way. It was too close.”
Sometimes, some jobs were too close, something Mozzie couldn't argue against no matter how much he wanted to. Not with the Suit right here, right now, in front of what remained of the food he'd brought Neal after ensuring Neal got medical attention. Mozzie was sure he had every right to crow about Fed incompetence, to drill into the Suit the dangers he was putting Neal in. But the mood to drill had dissipated, leaving in its wake what Mozzie was quite certain was gratitude that at least someone had been there when things had gone south. Because between being able to stick it to the man or that someone had his friend's back when Mozzie couldn't, of course knowing someone had Neal's back won hands down.
“Just... be more careful with him,” Mozzie said sternly. “He said it was his choice to go in...”
Peter shook his head. “He's part of my team. Bad things happen to my team over my dead body.” And of course the Fed had to say it in a way that made it a difficult statement to refute.
Mozzie still wasn't happy about what Neal had to go through. But...
The Suit was here, now. And he'd brought food.
Mozzie supposed he could cut The Suit a little slack.
The End
Rating: PG
Characters: Mozzie, Neal, Peter
Summary: Mozzie loves being justified in sticking it to The Man. Written for
florastuart for this prompt at collarcorner.A/N: Takes place sometime in the earlier seasons, I'm thinking around end of season one, start of season two or so.
Mozzie normally liked it when he had every reason to be mad at The Man. To be able to point fingers at them, state the obvious of everything being their fault and lord over the justification of it. There was no greater pleasure than telling the man behind the badge that he had only himself to blame because he worked for a government hell bent on suppressing the masses.
But it was difficult to bask in the joy of being utterly right when The Man's fault was the reason a friend was in rather uncomfortable straits.
Injury was part and parcel to... well, to life, but in the not-so-legal world that both Mozzie and Neal frequented there was a certain amount of increase when it came to bodily harm. And because going to hospitals was right out unless those uncomfortable straits were, in fact, dire, being part of that world also came with a certain amount of useful (if unpleasant) medical knowledge.
As well as a certain amount of habit.
Neal had been to see a doctor. Mozzie could see that much the moment Neal walked through the door of the loft. There were butterfly bandages holding together a cut on his forehead, a bandage around his left hand, a cut lip and the shadow of what was soon to be an impressive bruise on his cheekbone. But the evidence did nothing to sway instinct.
Mozzie set down his current glass of red, his mind already cataloging what first aid supplies he would need, and his mouth saying ahead of his brain, “What did The Suit have you do now?” in a sighing “knew this was going to happen” kind of way.
Neal, attempting a disarming smile that collapsed into a wince, replied with mild but good-natured exasperation, “Nothing I couldn't handle. I'm fine, trust me.”
Which had Mozzie, half way rising, sitting back down with great reluctance. The evidence had finally sunk in. Neal had already received medical attention sparing Mozzie from the dirty work of disinfecting germ-ridden cuts. It did nothing to assuage his increase of ire toward the Feds and that ankle leash they kept Neal hooked to. There was more to Neal's bodily woes than what was visible. He was hunched, his gait close to shuffling, his shirt untucked and his clothes rumpled. And when Neal was rumpled, you knew things were a lot worse than he was letting on, with the right amount of pain to coax Neal out of looking nothing but impeccable, even with bandages.
It took a lot to make Neal not try for impeccable.
As if to drive home this fact, Neal said rather sheepishly. “But... I may need some help.” Which also told Mozzie everything he needed to know about Neal's condition.
So did everything else that followed. Neal, exhausted and aching, needed help getting out of his jacket and shirt. Mozzie did most of the work and Neal still grunted, groaned and flinched sucking air between his teeth.
“You know,” Mozzie said, grimacing at a rather long, blood-spotted piece of gauze covering the upper part of Neal's back on the right side, as well as the pepper of smaller cuts keeping it company. “At least when you got hurt breaking and entering it paid off.”
“This does pay off,” Neal grunted as he tried with much effort to hardly move at all. There weren't just cuts and whatever blood-crusted mess the gauze was hiding, there were also more bruises blossoming, grotesque colors spreading on Neal's stomach, ribs and back. “Think of it as currency paying for a perpetual stay-out-of-jail card.”
“Sorry. Smacks too much of The-Man-using-you-for-a-higher-closure-rate card.”
“This isn't Peter's fault,” Neal said tiredly. “In fact I'd probably be dead if he hadn't been there.”
“This probably wouldn't have happened at all if he hadn't made you do... whatever this was.”
“He gave me the option of going in or sitting this one out. I opted for going in.”
“Oh. Well, then, let me rephrase – this wouldn't have happened if he wasn't such a bad influence on you.”
But Neal, as he often did when Mozzie was in a blame-game sort of mood, shook his head while smiling even as he shuffled his painful, tired way to the bathroom. Neal's shower was short, and on exiting dressed in only pajama pants, Mozzie could have sworn he looked in even worse pain.
“Please tell me the quack the Suit sent you to knew to give you the good medication.”
“Jacket pocket,” Neal grunted. “Bring it, I'm going to need your help again.”
While Mozzie extricated the small white bag of medical goodies from Neal's wrinkled jacket, Neal eased himself with more grunting onto the couch.
Having injuries treated was just as habitual as treating them. Neal had made sure to angle himself enough to give Mozzie full access to his back. And with it came an unobstructed view of what had been under that bandage: a gash of epic proportions, extending from shoulder blade to mid back and slanting a little too close for comfort toward the spine. It was an angry-looking wound, red and black with irritation and stitches, and agonizing just to look at.
The “quack” that had seen to Neal's injuries had provided an antibiotic ointment along with two bottles of pills: one for pain, one to prevent infection. Neal took the pain pill first, but was insistent that Mozzie get started on applying that ointment before the second pill was consumed.
“Both of them together are going to knock me out,” Neal said. “I want to be in bed before that happens.”
Mozzie sighed but spared Neal anymore negative diatribe concerning the Suit. Habitual or not, caring for injuries, even ones already – mostly – cared for, was Mozzie's least favorite activity just under being interrogated. But he also knew how little a hurt, tired, achy Neal could tolerate, even when Neal was putting on another of his amicable fronts. One time, Neal had been in so much pain from taking a nasty spill down a rocky hill covered in bramble that he had begged Mozzie to shut up - in a cracked voice, as though Mozzie had been pressing on his injuries just to torture him.
As Mozzie applied the ointment using a Q-tip, Neal told him everything that happened, from an undercover assignment gone wrong to Neal having to run for his life. And, yep, he'd taken another nasty spill down some cracked concrete, the gash from a piece of rebar. Neal had to get a Tetanus shot for it. The bruises, some of them, were from one of the goons catching up to Neal. But it had been a brief pummeling when Peter and the gang had shown up, having given chase as soon as the bad guys decided to chase Neal.
“They sent you in without back up?” was all Mozzie could say, because it was all he could focus on. Yes, okay, so with most of their heists going in alone was sometimes the best, even only, means to a positive end-game. But this was different. These were Feds sending in a unarmed non-Fed to do their dirty work. This wasn't right.
“I told you, Mozzie, it was my choice. And it was worth it – these guys were using kids as mules to smuggle stolen antiquities. Poor kids didn't even know what they were doing, they were just trying to earn some extra money for their families. Besides, I wasn't alone. Peter was listening and was keeping track of me. If he hadn't gotten to me when he did, I wouldn't be here, believe me.”
“Uh-huh. So where is said knight in three-piece-suit now? Because it looks to me like he patched you up just to dump you off here to continue doing his suitly duties.”
Because life loved irony, and the universe did have a sense of humor, there was a knock at the door, but it wasn't June that walked in.
“Got that Thai food from that place you keep raving about. Why do you always have to pick the expensive joints?” Peter said, setting bags of wonderfully aromatic food on the table. He didn't look up, pulling out cartons of food, when he said, “Mozzie.”
“Suit,” Mozzie said flatly. Neal elbowed him, mostly missing.
“Hope you like Thai. I'm not going anywhere else.”
“He does like Thai,” Neal said. “And when you get chased down by antique smugglers then you can pick the restaurant and I'll pay.”
Peter pointed a stern finger at him. “I will hold you to that.”
Because El was out of town, Peter joined them for dinner. Neal took the second pill only after he had eaten what he could, and the first pill was starting to kick in. Mozzie prepared himself to set his carton of rice down in order to stand and help Neal to the bed, but the suit beat him to it.
During the transition from table to bed, Peter hounded Neal with reminders to keep taking those pills, to call if he thought anything might be wrong, and that Neal was more than welcome to stay at the Burke's if he wanted. Neal reminded him right back that El was away and that staying put would be better. There was June, and Mozzie, so he wouldn't be alone, but Peter left the offer on the table, anyway.
Neal was mostly fine getting into bed on his own but Peter hovered close by all the same. Jealousy pricked at Mozzie. Dragging a drugged Neal to the comfort of bed was supposed to be his job. He was the one who should be hovering, making sure Neal was comfortable and asleep, not the Fed who'd put him in a position to get hurt in the first place.
Mozzie was more than ready to say all this out loud and then some when Peter returned to the table, his words winning the race to be spoken first.
“Man, today was close.”
“Obviously,” Mozzie said darkly.
Peter, catching on, raised both hands. “Yes, I know what happened to him shouldn't have happened. And it wouldn't have but they had one of the kids there. I guess the kid screwed up and they were going kill him for it right on the spot and Neal,” Peter shrugged. “He wasn't going to let that happen. So he blew his cover, distracted them from the kid and made a run for it.”
Mozzie raised both eyebrows. After a moments hesitation, he said, “That is something Neal would do.” Because it was, and wouldn't be the first time Neal had done it.
Peter chuffed. “Yeah. Timed it beautifully, too. We got everything we needed on these guys. I just wish...” he shook his head. “I wasn't there. So I'm not sure if Neal chose the moment he did to fess up because it was convenient or he had no other choice. I just wish there had been a better way. It was too close.”
Sometimes, some jobs were too close, something Mozzie couldn't argue against no matter how much he wanted to. Not with the Suit right here, right now, in front of what remained of the food he'd brought Neal after ensuring Neal got medical attention. Mozzie was sure he had every right to crow about Fed incompetence, to drill into the Suit the dangers he was putting Neal in. But the mood to drill had dissipated, leaving in its wake what Mozzie was quite certain was gratitude that at least someone had been there when things had gone south. Because between being able to stick it to the man or that someone had his friend's back when Mozzie couldn't, of course knowing someone had Neal's back won hands down.
“Just... be more careful with him,” Mozzie said sternly. “He said it was his choice to go in...”
Peter shook his head. “He's part of my team. Bad things happen to my team over my dead body.” And of course the Fed had to say it in a way that made it a difficult statement to refute.
Mozzie still wasn't happy about what Neal had to go through. But...
The Suit was here, now. And he'd brought food.
Mozzie supposed he could cut The Suit a little slack.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-05-07 08:16 pm (UTC)From: