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Crack? Check.
... hee. ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
xparrot suggested this cheerful, cracky OT3 follow-up/alternate ending to my mega-depressing post-Countdown story. Who am I to resist? xparrot, this one is for you, because someone has to be blamed.
~Peter/Elizabeth/Neal, 900 wds, rated G, crack, domestic fluff, rampant abuse of the fourth wall
Neal woke with a jolt, flailed an arm and accidentally whacked Elizabeth in the ear. El made a startled, strangled noise, and Peter fell out of bed.
"Neal," he said from the floor. Somehow he could embed a whole world of meanings into that one word. Coming from Peter, Neal's name was practically a language all its own.
"I didn't do it," Neal said, by reflex more than anything else, then noticed El rubbing her ear, and reality caught up with him. "Oh. Hell. I'm sorry." He rolled over, contrite, and spooned up to her. "Are you okay? Both of you?"
"I'm fine now." El sleepily kissed the top of his head.
Peter sat on the edge of the bed and yawned. " 's matter? Nightmare again?"
Neal nodded, and unstuck himself from El enough to sit up. He was still a little unsettled, the sharp emotional edges of the dream blending slowly into the reality of a lazy Saturday morning in bed.
"Same one?" El asked from somewhere in the pile of bedcovers. "The one where Peter is a -- um, an unkind person, and doesn't feed you, and shuns you for months ..."
"I'm sitting right here," Peter said.
"That one, yes." Neal waggled his foot against the sheets, just to make sure the anklet was well and truly gone. When he woke from dreams of his years on the anklet, he could always still feel it for a little while. "This was worse than most."
"I've had them too," El said. "Did he turn the whole office against you in this one? And send you out in the field without proper backup, so that you almost died?"
"All of the above," Neal said. "And then you left him. And so did I."
"Oh," El said, sounding sad. "Mine don't usually end that way."
"Guys!" Peter protested. "Do we need to talk about something? I mean, I know I forgot your birthday this year, Neal -- okay, both your birthdays, but I'm not good at birthdays, never have been, and I really was planning to figure out the reminder app on my phone ..."
El snaked a hand out of the bedcover pile, found him by feel and patted him on the hip. "You haven't done anything wrong, sweetie."
Peter still drooped. Neal crawled over El so that he could lean against Peter and rest his head against Peter's shoulder. "It's not you. You're not responsible for our dreams."
"Well, obviously you both subconsciously see me as some kind of overbearing monster." Peter raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Is this about the time last week when I wouldn't let either of you get the check? I'd just been paid, it seemed like the thing to do ..."
Neal looked helplessly at the pile of blankets. "El, help. Tell Peter I don't hate him."
El's tousled head popped out of the blankets. "Go make breakfast. I'll deal with this."
Neal stroked a hand down Peter's shoulder, then grabbed a robe and wandered downstairs.
He'd set the table and was flipping omelets when Peter moseyed into the kitchen. Neal took one look at him and winced at Peter's ancient, ratty gray bathrobe. "Didn't we throw that thing out? Or burn it?"
"I like this bathrobe. It's comfy." Peter hesitated, pausing warily in the act of pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Wait, is this about the bathrobe?"
"Is what about the bathrobe?"
"Your dreams. Are you dreaming I hate you because I won't throw away the bathrobe? Because, really, Neal, that's petty, but if it's really that important to you ..."
"It is not," Neal said with great patience, "about the bathrobe. Or anything else. I thought El was straightening you out. Er, metaphorically, I mean."
"She says it's not a subconscious symptom of resentment. I think there's always a reason. It's just a matter of figuring out what."
"The entire world is not a case, Peter. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar." Neal scooped the omelet onto a plate, studied it critically and then added an artfully placed sprig of parsley. "And for the record, while that bathrobe is a crime against humanity --" He turned around, placed the plate in Peter's hands, and kissed the corner of Peter's downcast mouth "-- you make it look good. Muffin?"
"Muffin? Seriously? I thought we agreed, pet names are --"
"Do you. Want. A muffin."
"Oh. Yes."
"Bran?"
"Bran is good." Peter accepted the muffin and turned towards the dining room, then turned back, looking worried. "Is this about pet names? Because if you really want to --"
"It's not about pet names. It's not about anything, Peter."
"Last Christmas! I knew you were holding a grudge about that. Look, I'm not good at gifts, either, just ask Elizabeth --"
"And you accuse me of being the high-maintenance one," Neal said, and grinned at him. "Eat your omelet, muffin."
~
xparrot suggested this cheerful, cracky OT3 follow-up/alternate ending to my mega-depressing post-Countdown story. Who am I to resist? xparrot, this one is for you, ~Peter/Elizabeth/Neal, 900 wds, rated G, crack, domestic fluff, rampant abuse of the fourth wall
Neal woke with a jolt, flailed an arm and accidentally whacked Elizabeth in the ear. El made a startled, strangled noise, and Peter fell out of bed.
"Neal," he said from the floor. Somehow he could embed a whole world of meanings into that one word. Coming from Peter, Neal's name was practically a language all its own.
"I didn't do it," Neal said, by reflex more than anything else, then noticed El rubbing her ear, and reality caught up with him. "Oh. Hell. I'm sorry." He rolled over, contrite, and spooned up to her. "Are you okay? Both of you?"
"I'm fine now." El sleepily kissed the top of his head.
Peter sat on the edge of the bed and yawned. " 's matter? Nightmare again?"
Neal nodded, and unstuck himself from El enough to sit up. He was still a little unsettled, the sharp emotional edges of the dream blending slowly into the reality of a lazy Saturday morning in bed.
"Same one?" El asked from somewhere in the pile of bedcovers. "The one where Peter is a -- um, an unkind person, and doesn't feed you, and shuns you for months ..."
"I'm sitting right here," Peter said.
"That one, yes." Neal waggled his foot against the sheets, just to make sure the anklet was well and truly gone. When he woke from dreams of his years on the anklet, he could always still feel it for a little while. "This was worse than most."
"I've had them too," El said. "Did he turn the whole office against you in this one? And send you out in the field without proper backup, so that you almost died?"
"All of the above," Neal said. "And then you left him. And so did I."
"Oh," El said, sounding sad. "Mine don't usually end that way."
"Guys!" Peter protested. "Do we need to talk about something? I mean, I know I forgot your birthday this year, Neal -- okay, both your birthdays, but I'm not good at birthdays, never have been, and I really was planning to figure out the reminder app on my phone ..."
El snaked a hand out of the bedcover pile, found him by feel and patted him on the hip. "You haven't done anything wrong, sweetie."
Peter still drooped. Neal crawled over El so that he could lean against Peter and rest his head against Peter's shoulder. "It's not you. You're not responsible for our dreams."
"Well, obviously you both subconsciously see me as some kind of overbearing monster." Peter raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Is this about the time last week when I wouldn't let either of you get the check? I'd just been paid, it seemed like the thing to do ..."
Neal looked helplessly at the pile of blankets. "El, help. Tell Peter I don't hate him."
El's tousled head popped out of the blankets. "Go make breakfast. I'll deal with this."
Neal stroked a hand down Peter's shoulder, then grabbed a robe and wandered downstairs.
He'd set the table and was flipping omelets when Peter moseyed into the kitchen. Neal took one look at him and winced at Peter's ancient, ratty gray bathrobe. "Didn't we throw that thing out? Or burn it?"
"I like this bathrobe. It's comfy." Peter hesitated, pausing warily in the act of pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Wait, is this about the bathrobe?"
"Is what about the bathrobe?"
"Your dreams. Are you dreaming I hate you because I won't throw away the bathrobe? Because, really, Neal, that's petty, but if it's really that important to you ..."
"It is not," Neal said with great patience, "about the bathrobe. Or anything else. I thought El was straightening you out. Er, metaphorically, I mean."
"She says it's not a subconscious symptom of resentment. I think there's always a reason. It's just a matter of figuring out what."
"The entire world is not a case, Peter. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar." Neal scooped the omelet onto a plate, studied it critically and then added an artfully placed sprig of parsley. "And for the record, while that bathrobe is a crime against humanity --" He turned around, placed the plate in Peter's hands, and kissed the corner of Peter's downcast mouth "-- you make it look good. Muffin?"
"Muffin? Seriously? I thought we agreed, pet names are --"
"Do you. Want. A muffin."
"Oh. Yes."
"Bran?"
"Bran is good." Peter accepted the muffin and turned towards the dining room, then turned back, looking worried. "Is this about pet names? Because if you really want to --"
"It's not about pet names. It's not about anything, Peter."
"Last Christmas! I knew you were holding a grudge about that. Look, I'm not good at gifts, either, just ask Elizabeth --"
"And you accuse me of being the high-maintenance one," Neal said, and grinned at him. "Eat your omelet, muffin."
~
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*dies* I can totally hear him saying that.
This made me laugh and laugh. Awesome! *smooooshes them*
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