![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: A Prince Among Paupers
Rating: G
Characters: Neal, Peter, Elizabeth, couch
Summary: Neal isn't feeling too hot. The couch beckons. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
azertynin for this prompt at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
collarcorner. Takes place in the second half of season three but no spoilers.
A Prince Among Paupers
Neal felt bad. Really bad. Literally and figuratively, physically and metaphorically, because El was in the kitchen tackling the preparations for lunch with the zeal of an obsessed artist, and Neal was about as enthusiastic about eating as he was about the prospect of ever going back to jail.
Neal had thought he was only tired. Run down, exhausted, feeling a little head-achy and nothing a nap and a good meal wouldn't cure kind of tired He and Peter had just wrapped up what felt like an endless string of difficult cases that had, in fact, ended up being connected. There had been under cover work, too many near-discoveries, too many-near misses, and a massive helping of stress even Neal's stress-conditioned body hadn't been happy about. Of course he would feel like crap.
But it had escalated during the drive to the Burke home, and as much as he wanted to blame his mild queasiness on car sickness (because, yes, Peter's driving was that bad), it usually went away after a few minutes.
As though to spite him, Neal's queasiness was growing. He sat there at the table, doing what he did best and putting on a healthy front, chatting and bickering amiably with Peter. And there, sitting tauntingly within his peripheral, the Burke couch. It wasn't the best couch in the world – only just long enough for his length, the material rough and covered with dog hair – but right now it looked good enough. It wasn't just the queasiness bothering Neal. There was the headache, dull at first but now like a pick splitting his skull. His joints hurt, his back ached, his skin prickled with a chill that didn't exist, and acting like he was feeling nothing but sunshine and roses was taking more than he had the energy to give.
Neal had to keep reminding himself why he was pretending to be healthy when he oh so very much wasn't - because El had invited him, wanting to spend a warm, spring day with family and friends. Because she was excited about this new recipe. Because she was happy. Because Peter was happy and reveling in a job well done. Because Peter wanted Neal to be reveling, too. Because Peter was proud of him. Because days like these were meant to be savored, every detail absorbed and stored with perfect clarity in the memory, because you never knew what tomorrow might bring. Because Neal wanted to be happy, too.
But what his heart wanted his body denied, and the couch beckoned until it was the only tangible object in Neal's currently miserable world.
“Neal, are you listening?”
Neal startled ever-so-slightly, blinked, and plastered on a smile when his world re-expanded. “What? Yes. Of course.”
Peter narrowed his eyes. “No, you weren't. And don't try to argue it, I know when you're not paying attention and you were not paying attention.”
“I'm sorry, Peter, but I can only fake fascination in tax law and deduction fraud for so long.”
“It helped win us the case, what's not to love?” Peter said with an exasperated toss of his hands.
“Everything,” Neal said.
Peter shook his head. “Phillistine.” He took a moment to study Neal and frowned. “Hey, you okay?”
“I've been better,” Neal answered honestly. He had to, he was rubbing at his forehead and slumping with an arm on the table. He never slumped, and Peter knew he never slumped. More than that, Neal had just run out of the last dregs of energy needed to keep pushing his upbeat and chipper facade.
“You didn't have to come,” Peter said.
Neal shrugged. “I was feeling fine at the time I was invited. It's no big deal. I'm probably just hungry.” Which he was, but the queasiness was kind of smothering it with numerous pillows it at the moment. It had been Neal's experience that queasiness was sometimes the body's way of issuing a protest for not having been fed properly in too long.
But, most of the time, it was the body's way of saying “I worked too hard so I hate you and will make you suffer.”
Peter opened his mouth, about to say more when El called him cheerily into the kitchen to help her out. Whatever the lunch plans, it was going to be elaborate. It smelled elaborate – dinner-elaborate complete with dessert. The kind of elaborate that promised left overs for actual dinner, and would be the visual representation of El's high spirits.
And Neal was going to ruin it if he didn't get this damn queasiness under control.
Now that the coast was clear (not that it needed to be clear, but old habits and all), Neal made straight for the couch. He removed his suit jacket, not wanting it to get wrinkled, kicked off his shoes, stretched out on his back and tucked a pillow behind his aching head.
Neal had lost count of the number of couches he had slept on in his lifetime – from ratty patchworks in warehouses to love seats fit for royalty (because they'd belonged to royalty). But the Burke's couch, even in all its Ikea-flavored simplicity, was by far the couch he had the easiest time falling asleep on. Not nap, not doze, but the deep, near-dreamless unconsciousness of the truly tired. Neal didn't know why. All he did know was that when he slept on this couch, he woke up feeling more refreshed even than when he slept in his own bed.
Neal closed his eyes with every intent to doze, not sleep. But life laughed at the plans of mortal men, and when he opened his eyes it was to the daylight having shifted shades to something more related to late afternoon, a blanket over his body and the TV a low hum of gentle noise in the background. There was also something cool and moist on his forehead. But none of the above was what woke him. Something was pressing itself into his ear, but before he had a chance to swat it away, it beeped, then vanished.
“One hundred and one. Well, it's not rising at least. Oh, sorry, sweety, did I wake you?”
Neal turned his pounding head and squinted. “Hey,” he said.
El smiled. “Hey. I'd asked if you were feeling any better but...” she held up the electric thermometer and waggled it. “You'll say you're fine and this will beg to differ.”
She had him there. Neal smiled. “I feel like roadkill.”
“Figured as much,” El patted him on the shoulder, then turned a glare in the direction of the easy chair.
Peter, currently occupying the chair, rolled his eyes. “El, for the last time, I did not run him into the ground. It was voluntary, it's always voluntary. Okay, maybe not always, but it was Neal's idea to go undercover and more than once. I refuse to be blamed for this.”
“But apparently you weren't aware that he was sick,” El said sweetly – too sweetly. It was scary when she was being too sweet.
Peter tossed up his hands. “I thought he was exhausted! Same thing.”
“Actually,” Neal said, taking pity on Peter and coming to his rescue. “Even I didn't know I was sick until... what time is it? Anyway, I didn't know until we got here.” Neal gnawed the inside of his cheek and looked away. “I'm sorry. I know you were working hard on lunch. I was looking forward to it, I swear. It smelled wonderful--”
El, smiling kindly, adjusted the blanket higher up his shoulders. “Oh, Neal, honey, it's okay. Don't worry about it. Number one, Peter ate enough for two so it's not like it went to waste. And number two, I think some things are a little more important than not being able to enjoy lunch.”
“Especially if enjoying lunch meant it's reappearance five minutes later,” Peter added.
El grabbed one of the throw pillows not under Neal's head and threw it at her husband. Peter caught it and tucked it behind his own head. “Hey, it's true and you know it.”
“Compassion, honey. You're the reason he's sick, remember?”
Peter gaped. “Wha--? I am not!”
El turned away, pretending to fuss over Neal as she tried with many amusing expressions not to laugh.
Once she had wrangled in her mirth, she said to Neal, “Now that you're awake you can take some medicine. I also have some broth warming, so we'll see how that and some crackers go down. But, just in case...” She lifted a metal bowl and tapped it with her knuckle. “I've come prepared.”
Neal chuckled, then groaned when his head throbbed.
El went to go fetch the soup. Peter channel-surfed, his posture lazy and relaxed and not going anywhere. Neal let his body sink into the warmth and softness of the Burke couch. It wasn't the greatest couch in the world...
Who was Neal kidding. It was the greatest couch in the universe.
The End
Rating: G
Characters: Neal, Peter, Elizabeth, couch
Summary: Neal isn't feeling too hot. The couch beckons. Written for
azertynin for this prompt at collarcorner. Takes place in the second half of season three but no spoilers. Neal felt bad. Really bad. Literally and figuratively, physically and metaphorically, because El was in the kitchen tackling the preparations for lunch with the zeal of an obsessed artist, and Neal was about as enthusiastic about eating as he was about the prospect of ever going back to jail.
Neal had thought he was only tired. Run down, exhausted, feeling a little head-achy and nothing a nap and a good meal wouldn't cure kind of tired He and Peter had just wrapped up what felt like an endless string of difficult cases that had, in fact, ended up being connected. There had been under cover work, too many near-discoveries, too many-near misses, and a massive helping of stress even Neal's stress-conditioned body hadn't been happy about. Of course he would feel like crap.
But it had escalated during the drive to the Burke home, and as much as he wanted to blame his mild queasiness on car sickness (because, yes, Peter's driving was that bad), it usually went away after a few minutes.
As though to spite him, Neal's queasiness was growing. He sat there at the table, doing what he did best and putting on a healthy front, chatting and bickering amiably with Peter. And there, sitting tauntingly within his peripheral, the Burke couch. It wasn't the best couch in the world – only just long enough for his length, the material rough and covered with dog hair – but right now it looked good enough. It wasn't just the queasiness bothering Neal. There was the headache, dull at first but now like a pick splitting his skull. His joints hurt, his back ached, his skin prickled with a chill that didn't exist, and acting like he was feeling nothing but sunshine and roses was taking more than he had the energy to give.
Neal had to keep reminding himself why he was pretending to be healthy when he oh so very much wasn't - because El had invited him, wanting to spend a warm, spring day with family and friends. Because she was excited about this new recipe. Because she was happy. Because Peter was happy and reveling in a job well done. Because Peter wanted Neal to be reveling, too. Because Peter was proud of him. Because days like these were meant to be savored, every detail absorbed and stored with perfect clarity in the memory, because you never knew what tomorrow might bring. Because Neal wanted to be happy, too.
But what his heart wanted his body denied, and the couch beckoned until it was the only tangible object in Neal's currently miserable world.
“Neal, are you listening?”
Neal startled ever-so-slightly, blinked, and plastered on a smile when his world re-expanded. “What? Yes. Of course.”
Peter narrowed his eyes. “No, you weren't. And don't try to argue it, I know when you're not paying attention and you were not paying attention.”
“I'm sorry, Peter, but I can only fake fascination in tax law and deduction fraud for so long.”
“It helped win us the case, what's not to love?” Peter said with an exasperated toss of his hands.
“Everything,” Neal said.
Peter shook his head. “Phillistine.” He took a moment to study Neal and frowned. “Hey, you okay?”
“I've been better,” Neal answered honestly. He had to, he was rubbing at his forehead and slumping with an arm on the table. He never slumped, and Peter knew he never slumped. More than that, Neal had just run out of the last dregs of energy needed to keep pushing his upbeat and chipper facade.
“You didn't have to come,” Peter said.
Neal shrugged. “I was feeling fine at the time I was invited. It's no big deal. I'm probably just hungry.” Which he was, but the queasiness was kind of smothering it with numerous pillows it at the moment. It had been Neal's experience that queasiness was sometimes the body's way of issuing a protest for not having been fed properly in too long.
But, most of the time, it was the body's way of saying “I worked too hard so I hate you and will make you suffer.”
Peter opened his mouth, about to say more when El called him cheerily into the kitchen to help her out. Whatever the lunch plans, it was going to be elaborate. It smelled elaborate – dinner-elaborate complete with dessert. The kind of elaborate that promised left overs for actual dinner, and would be the visual representation of El's high spirits.
And Neal was going to ruin it if he didn't get this damn queasiness under control.
Now that the coast was clear (not that it needed to be clear, but old habits and all), Neal made straight for the couch. He removed his suit jacket, not wanting it to get wrinkled, kicked off his shoes, stretched out on his back and tucked a pillow behind his aching head.
Neal had lost count of the number of couches he had slept on in his lifetime – from ratty patchworks in warehouses to love seats fit for royalty (because they'd belonged to royalty). But the Burke's couch, even in all its Ikea-flavored simplicity, was by far the couch he had the easiest time falling asleep on. Not nap, not doze, but the deep, near-dreamless unconsciousness of the truly tired. Neal didn't know why. All he did know was that when he slept on this couch, he woke up feeling more refreshed even than when he slept in his own bed.
Neal closed his eyes with every intent to doze, not sleep. But life laughed at the plans of mortal men, and when he opened his eyes it was to the daylight having shifted shades to something more related to late afternoon, a blanket over his body and the TV a low hum of gentle noise in the background. There was also something cool and moist on his forehead. But none of the above was what woke him. Something was pressing itself into his ear, but before he had a chance to swat it away, it beeped, then vanished.
“One hundred and one. Well, it's not rising at least. Oh, sorry, sweety, did I wake you?”
Neal turned his pounding head and squinted. “Hey,” he said.
El smiled. “Hey. I'd asked if you were feeling any better but...” she held up the electric thermometer and waggled it. “You'll say you're fine and this will beg to differ.”
She had him there. Neal smiled. “I feel like roadkill.”
“Figured as much,” El patted him on the shoulder, then turned a glare in the direction of the easy chair.
Peter, currently occupying the chair, rolled his eyes. “El, for the last time, I did not run him into the ground. It was voluntary, it's always voluntary. Okay, maybe not always, but it was Neal's idea to go undercover and more than once. I refuse to be blamed for this.”
“But apparently you weren't aware that he was sick,” El said sweetly – too sweetly. It was scary when she was being too sweet.
Peter tossed up his hands. “I thought he was exhausted! Same thing.”
“Actually,” Neal said, taking pity on Peter and coming to his rescue. “Even I didn't know I was sick until... what time is it? Anyway, I didn't know until we got here.” Neal gnawed the inside of his cheek and looked away. “I'm sorry. I know you were working hard on lunch. I was looking forward to it, I swear. It smelled wonderful--”
El, smiling kindly, adjusted the blanket higher up his shoulders. “Oh, Neal, honey, it's okay. Don't worry about it. Number one, Peter ate enough for two so it's not like it went to waste. And number two, I think some things are a little more important than not being able to enjoy lunch.”
“Especially if enjoying lunch meant it's reappearance five minutes later,” Peter added.
El grabbed one of the throw pillows not under Neal's head and threw it at her husband. Peter caught it and tucked it behind his own head. “Hey, it's true and you know it.”
“Compassion, honey. You're the reason he's sick, remember?”
Peter gaped. “Wha--? I am not!”
El turned away, pretending to fuss over Neal as she tried with many amusing expressions not to laugh.
Once she had wrangled in her mirth, she said to Neal, “Now that you're awake you can take some medicine. I also have some broth warming, so we'll see how that and some crackers go down. But, just in case...” She lifted a metal bowl and tapped it with her knuckle. “I've come prepared.”
Neal chuckled, then groaned when his head throbbed.
El went to go fetch the soup. Peter channel-surfed, his posture lazy and relaxed and not going anywhere. Neal let his body sink into the warmth and softness of the Burke couch. It wasn't the greatest couch in the world...
Who was Neal kidding. It was the greatest couch in the universe.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 01:42 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 04:38 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 02:20 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 04:39 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 02:23 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 04:39 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 02:30 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 04:39 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 02:32 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 06:21 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 02:56 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 06:21 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 03:08 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 06:22 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 03:09 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 06:22 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 03:12 am (UTC)From:"Neal had to keep reminding himself why he was pretending to be healthy when he oh so very much wasn't - because ... Neal wanted to be happy, too."
This paragraph made my day. Thank you!
Most fic authors merely state something along the lines of "...Neal put his CONmask on..." and that's it. No reasonable explanation. As though it were just inherent in every Con-artist to do so.
But i love your paragraph soooo much more. Again, Thank YOU!!!
no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 06:24 am (UTC)From:Most fic authors merely state something along the lines of "...Neal put his CONmask on..." and that's it. No reasonable explanation. As though it were just inherent in every Con-artist to do so.
Yeah. I'm the kind of person that when it comes to what I read and write, I need an explanation. Don't tell me they're hiding their injuries just because. Give us a reason!
no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 03:28 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 06:24 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 03:38 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 06:24 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 04:06 am (UTC)From:This paragraph was the best:
"Neal had lost count of the number of couches he had slept on in his lifetime – from ratty patchworks in warehouses to love seats fit for royalty (because they'd belonged to royalty). But the Burke's couch, even in all its Ikea-flavored simplicity, was by far the couch he had the easiest time falling asleep on. Not nap, not doze, but the deep, near-dreamless unconsciousness of the truly tired. Neal didn't know why. All he did know was that when he slept on this couch, he woke up feeling more refreshed even than when he slept in his own bed."
Most excellent.
no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 06:25 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 04:28 am (UTC)From:I loved the setup, the glimpse at Neal's reasoning why he felt he needed to keep pushing, pushing, pushing - you've nailed one reason so very clearly on the head, I do believe. Wanting those he cares about to be happy - truly wanting it - and inadvertently realizing he wanted to be happy, too. GAH. Gets you right there.
Loved the 'C'! You did not disappoint with the comfort portion (OMG, thank God, it's raining here finally...sorry...ooh, plot bunnies!) (<-- Sorry)
Anyway, the comfort is very important to me, too and this tapped into that need beautifully.
Beautiful dynamic with this gen piece; I do so love gen Peter/Neal/El. Make it an H/C? I'm in heaven.
no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 06:26 am (UTC)From:Comfort is my happy place, and WC brings out my fluffy comfort need like wow.
no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 04:47 am (UTC)From:After an evening of fruitless searches for new stories of my particular brand of Avengers fic, this was just what I needed. =D
It's totally the surroundings of a couch that make it great, not the couch itself. Awesome job! I'm so looking forward to the new season. =)
no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 06:29 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 07:03 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-22 03:26 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 07:34 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-22 03:27 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 09:03 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-22 03:28 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 09:06 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-22 03:29 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 11:12 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-22 03:30 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 04:53 pm (UTC)From:Aw. What a lovely bit of warm fuzziness. So sweet and so them.
no subject
Date: 2012-06-22 03:31 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 08:25 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-22 03:31 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 11:36 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-22 03:31 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-22 01:20 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-22 03:31 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-22 12:59 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-23 05:50 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-06-22 02:21 pm (UTC)From: (Anonymous)no subject
Date: 2012-06-23 05:51 am (UTC)From: