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White Collar fic: Green Thumb
Title: Green Thumb
Fandom: White Collar
Rating/pairing: gen, PG
Word Count: 2800
Summary: From a prompt by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kriadydragon at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
collarcorner: something Neal isn't good at. This was just supposed to be a teeny ficlet and it ... grew. (Which is slightly ironic given the subject matter.)
Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/234097
On Neal's first Christmas at June's place, Elizabeth and Peter arrived on the doorstep around noon. Elizabeth was carrying a very bristly plant. Peter had a fixed grin that clearly said he'd been dragged against his will and thought the whole thing was a bad idea.
"Wow," Neal said, "uh, hi, guys." He'd actually been looking forward to a quiet day of hanging around the place and enjoying the parts of the house that he normally avoided to respect June's privacy -- she was spending the holidays with her kids, and while Neal was not one to exactly pry, he had to admit to a certain curiosity about June's many beautiful art objects ... anyway, the point being, he'd had plans for spelunking in June's mansion, and was not expecting to find the Burkes on the doorstep.
"Merry Christmas, Neal," El said, pressing the plant into his hands.
"Thanks," Neal said automatically, because good manners never went to waste, and also, he couldn't remember the last time anyone had given him a present. He'd only been out of prison (more or less) for a month. He figured he should probably know what kind of plant it was -- he'd seen them in malls, knew they had something to do with Christmas, but he'd never been either a plant person or a Christmas person. "Uh, this is, it's very --"
"It's a poinsettia," El said.
"Yes, of course."
There was an awkward silence.
"Merry Christmas, Neal," El said, smiling.
"Yeah, Merry Christmas," Peter said, and his smile was genuine, if a bit embarrassed.
The Burkes did that silent-communication thing that they sometimes did. Neal realized that probably if he really wanted them around -- which he kind of didn't, not the least reason being that he had the picture of Kate lying on the table upstairs -- he should have invited them in. But El, perhaps picking up on his reluctance, was already initiating a discreet withdrawal. "Peter's off work for the next two days, and that means you are too, Neal, so you're welcome to come over to our place later," she said. "We're supposed to get some snow. We can watch It's a Wonderful Life and you can roll snowballs in the backyard."
Peter gave Neal a little shrug over El's head. Neal tried to return it without being noticed.
"Thanks, guys," he said, and was surprised as he closed the door to find that he actually did mean it. Not that he planned to come over and intrude on their Christmas -- he guessed that Elizabeth was just being polite -- but it was an oddly nice feeling to be invited.
Bugsy trotted up to Neal's feet, his toenails clicking on the floor. Neal looked down at the dog.
"I probably should've said Merry Christmas, right?"
Bugsy looked up at him with dark, liquid eyes.
"Or maybe invited them to stay." But he wasn't terribly regretful. It was nice of them to come over -- actually, it warmed him in a way that he couldn't quite explain -- but it would have been nicer of them to call first, so that he could have told them that the thought was appreciated, but he had plans already, thanks, and Merry Christmas. Over the phone, he was sure that he could have thought of a dozen things to say, but it was difficult to be at the top of his game with a federal agent's wife thrusting a plant into his hands.
He took the poinsettia back to his apartment. It was a pretty plant, with bright-colored red and green leaves. Neal set it on the counter and then, if he was to be perfectly honest, completely forgot about it until about a month later when he noticed all the red and green leaves were now limp and brown.
Right. Houseplants. Gotta water them. Note to self.
******
On Neal's second Christmas at June's place, June took her whole family skiing in the French Alps. "I would be happy to extend an invitation to you as well," she said, kissing him on the cheek after he helped her carry her bags to the door. "But I think you'll have to accept a rain check instead." She was discreet enough that she didn't even glance down at the anklet.
Yeah. Skiing in France was probably not a valid exception to the terms of his parole. Neal shrugged; if he pretended hard enough that it didn't bother him, it almost seemed like the truth. "No worries. I can walk the dog, water the plants ..."
"The maid will take care of the plants," June said smoothly. "There's something for you on the sitting-room table, by the way. Enjoy yourself while I'm gone, and --" She winked at him. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"I don't think I'd do half the things you would do," Neal said, grinning. He leaned out the door to wave as the taxi pulled away, then tried to restrain himself from going immediately to see what she'd left him. He managed to contain himself for a whole fifteen minutes.
It was a gold envelope with tickets to an off-Broadway show -- just inside his radius, he noticed -- with a gorgeous Christmas card of cut paper folded around it.
The thought only then occurred to him that he hadn't given her anything. He and Mozzie never exchanged Christmas gifts, or acknowledged the holiday in any way -- it just wasn't them -- and he was pretty sure that Kate was the last person he'd given a gift to, for any occasion. Well, except the birthday cards he'd sent Peter from prison. But that was more of a joke than anything else.
He wondered if he ought to try to figure out something to give the Burkes, because given Peter's history of invading his privacy at the least opportune moments, he had a deep suspicion that they were going to turn up on his doorstep on Christmas again. He hadn't managed to think of anything by the time that Christmas rolled around and, sure enough, here they were.
"Merry Christmas, guys," Neal said, meeting them at the door.
Once again, El was bearing a plant in a festive red pot, which she handed to him. The new plant was, if possible, even pointier than the last one.
"It's a Christmas cactus," El said. "They've very hard to kill."
He'd never mentioned to El the fate of her gift poinsettia, but it was obvious that she had figured it out somehow. Maybe if someone gave you a houseplant, you were supposed to deliver regular reports on its progress? Like doing one of those "sponsor a child in an underdeveloped country" sorts of things?
By now he'd managed to internalize gift-receiving etiquette, so he smiled in what he hoped was a genuine sort of way (although from Peter's eyeroll, either his genuine smile wasn't very convincing or Peter knew him way too well). "Thank you," he said. "This is exactly what I need. Thanks."
Peter rolled his eyes so hard that Neal halfway expected them to fall out of his head. Then he held up a paper bag with the top rolled down and bottles of both beer and wine peeking out. "Liquid refreshments," he explained.
Elizabeth stuck out her own hand, and she was holding a DVD. "We always watch It's a Wonderful Life on Christmas. It's sort of a Burke tradition. We thought you might want to?"
Which was how Neal found himself on one end of June's nice leather couch, with the Burkes on the other end, using June's TV to watch a sappy movie that he hadn't seen since he was eight years old. In addition to the alcohol, the Burkes had three covered trays of hors d'oeuvres in their car -- the caterer at a Christmas party she'd organized had misunderstood her order, El explained, so she'd ended up with a lot of extras and had taken some home. They all nibbled expensive canapes and drank cheap beer (in Peter's case) or some of June's better wine (in Neal and El's) and mocked Jimmy Stewart.
It was quite possibly the best Christmas ever.
Afterwards, Neal put the Christmas cactus up on top of the refrigerator, and took El at her word that it was hard to kill.
She was sort of right. It took four months this time.
******
On Neal's third Christmas at June's place, he was convalescing after being shot. Needless to say, Christmas cheer of any sort was out of the question.
"I hate leaving you alone," June said when Neal shuffled to the door of the loft to see her off on another round-the-world holiday excursion with her kids and grandkids. This time they were headed to Beijing, "because I've never been to Beijing, and I'm not getting any younger."
"I'm not at death's door," Neal said. Not that he felt great -- his arm ached like hell despite the painkillers -- but it was amazing how much it did perk up your whole outlook to be acutely aware that you weren't dead. "Besides, I have a feeling that Peter and Elizabeth will be in and out while you're gone."
She kissed his cheek, made him promise to call her in a couple of days to check in, and was out the door and long gone before he realized that once again, damn it, he'd entirely forgotten to get her anything. Again. Well, he'd had other things on his mind, and he'd just have to make up for it next year.
It was strange, thinking in terms of "next year". Cautiously he poked at the feeling. It wasn't a bad feeling, exactly. Just different.
He'd just gotten settled back down, painfully and slowly, with a cup of coffee -- no wine allowed, and for once he was willing to go along with it, because see above re: not dead -- and a book, when someone knocked on the door. Neal let his head flop back; it had taken several trips to achieve this, since he only had one functional arm at the moment, and he was not getting up again. Besides, it had to be one of two people. He took a stab in the dark. "Come in, Moz."
"Are you expecting him?" Peter asked, cracking the door open. "Planning something, perhaps?"
"Do holidays always make you this paranoid?" Neal glanced at the calendar, just to make sure he hadn't slipped a day or two. "It's Christmas Eve; don't you have things to do with Elizabeth? Or last-minute things to buy for Elizabeth," he hazarded a guess, since the entire office knew by now that Peter was notoriously absent-minded about that sort of thing.
"Yup, I'm picking up something for her right now," Peter said. "Specifically, you. C'mon, let's go. El's downstairs."
Neal made an effort to wrap his mind around this. Maybe the painkillers were messing with his head more than he'd thought. "Go where?"
"Home. El wants you to spend Christmas at our place this year."
Neal stared at him. No part of that sentence made sense, so he fell back on contemplating the hazards of moving versus the comforts of not moving. "Is that going to involve getting out of this chair?"
"Probably, yes."
"Then I'm staying here." At Peter's somewhat exasperated look, Neal said, "Listen, Peter, I appreciate the invitation, really, but I have everything I need right here at June's. Also, I'm supposed to watch her dog while she's gone."
"Bring him," Peter said.
Neal eyed him sideways. "Have you seen June's dog? Satchmo will eat him."
"El will tell him not to," Peter said. "Come on."
When Neal still hesitated, Peter said, "Look, it's up to you. You could stay here, all alone, again, forced to restrict yourself to food that doesn't require both hands to prepare, or come over to our place where El will fuss over you and bring you things. She's been simmering her famous cures-anything chicken tamale soup all morning."
"Well, since you put it that way ..."
The door of the loft pushed farther open and what appeared to be a mobile mass of greenery and flowers nudged its way into the room. It turned out to be a large potted plant held in Elizabeth's arms. Peter spun around and held the door for her.
"I can take that --"
"I've got it. All is well." Elizabeth wrinkled her nose at him around the bush, which appeared to be some kind of rosebush. "Thanks for the help, by the way."
"I didn't know you were bringing it up here."
"Of course I was; there wouldn't be room for Neal and this in the backseat. It's a tea rose," she explained to Neal. "Merry Christmas."
It was a very pretty plant, its yellow blossoms edged with dark pink. Neal figured its life expectancy could probably be measured in weeks. "It's beautiful," he said brightly. Maybe June would take care of it for him if he asked nicely.
Elizabeth smiled and started hunting around in the kitchen for a place to put it.
Peter held out a hand and Neal, with a sigh, let himself be helped to his feet. He swayed a little as the headrush hit him, and Peter caught him gently by the elbow of his good arm.
Neal didn't remember being shot all that clearly. What he did remember was Peter's white, stricken face, with a spray of blood across his cheek that Neal had, belatedly, realized was his own. In the intervening week, as much as Peter tried to pretend things were normal, he'd never quite lost that look; it hovered behind his eyes and tightened the fine lines around his mouth, giving him a lost, weary sort of expression. And he'd been handling Neal like he was made of glass, which was actually even more disconcerting than being shot in the first place.
Maybe giving him something to do would help get that look off his face. "If I'm spending the night at your place, I'm going to need some things." Neal jerked his chin at the bandaged arm strapped to his chest, "One hand, remember?"
Neal sat on the edge of the bed and directed Peter through the process of collecting various items -- painkillers, change of underwear, small toiletries ("Hair gel, Neal, really?") -- into an overnight bag. El, after giving Neal a gentle one-sided hug, had gone back to fussing over the tea rose, watering it and pinching off any blossom that showed so much as a hint of brown.
"Is there some specific reason why she keeps giving me plants?" Neal murmured.
"Are you seriously telling me that the brilliant Neal Caffrey hasn't figured it out by now?" When Neal just gave him a baffled one-shoulder shrug, Peter glanced kitchenwards, and then leaned a little closer. "Neal. You can't stuff a houseplant in a suitcase."
Oh, he thought, and then, Oh. Maybe he didn't give El enough credit for deviousness. Where the FBI used locks and bars and a GPS tracking anklet, Elizabeth had flowers and kindness and chicken tamale soup. It was hardly fair.
As he looked thoughtfully in her direction, Elizabeth swept her prunings into the trash, and then came and joined Neal on the edge of the bed. She squeezed his uninjured arm. "I think it looks nice there," she said, nodding to the rose plant.
"You do realize you may as well push it off the balcony, El," Peter said, zipping up the bag. "It'd be a quicker, kinder death."
That was more like it -- a Peter who was being quietly, carefully solicitous of him just wasn't Peter. Neal mock-scowled at him. "Have some faith in me."
"I do," Peter said, more earnestly than Neal was expecting.
While he was still off balance from that, El kissed him on the forehead. "Neal, I firmly believe that you can learn to do anything you put your mind to. Even keep a houseplant from dropping dead." She stood and held out a hand. "Let's go home. Do you have everything you need?"
"We're going across town, not to another state." Peter hefted the overnight bag. "Though you'd never know it."
Yeah, the kid gloves were definitely coming off. Neal tried to keep his smile on the inside, though it kept breaking through, and let El give him a hand off the bed. She kept her hand on his good arm, guiding him carefully towards the stairs.
Before Peter closed the door behind them, Neal glanced over his shoulder at the tea rose, its blossoms lending a touch of summertime and homeyness to the room.
This one, he thought, might have a shot at surviving.
~
Fandom: White Collar
Rating/pairing: gen, PG
Word Count: 2800
Summary: From a prompt by
kriadydragon at collarcorner: something Neal isn't good at. This was just supposed to be a teeny ficlet and it ... grew. (Which is slightly ironic given the subject matter.)Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/234097
On Neal's first Christmas at June's place, Elizabeth and Peter arrived on the doorstep around noon. Elizabeth was carrying a very bristly plant. Peter had a fixed grin that clearly said he'd been dragged against his will and thought the whole thing was a bad idea.
"Wow," Neal said, "uh, hi, guys." He'd actually been looking forward to a quiet day of hanging around the place and enjoying the parts of the house that he normally avoided to respect June's privacy -- she was spending the holidays with her kids, and while Neal was not one to exactly pry, he had to admit to a certain curiosity about June's many beautiful art objects ... anyway, the point being, he'd had plans for spelunking in June's mansion, and was not expecting to find the Burkes on the doorstep.
"Merry Christmas, Neal," El said, pressing the plant into his hands.
"Thanks," Neal said automatically, because good manners never went to waste, and also, he couldn't remember the last time anyone had given him a present. He'd only been out of prison (more or less) for a month. He figured he should probably know what kind of plant it was -- he'd seen them in malls, knew they had something to do with Christmas, but he'd never been either a plant person or a Christmas person. "Uh, this is, it's very --"
"It's a poinsettia," El said.
"Yes, of course."
There was an awkward silence.
"Merry Christmas, Neal," El said, smiling.
"Yeah, Merry Christmas," Peter said, and his smile was genuine, if a bit embarrassed.
The Burkes did that silent-communication thing that they sometimes did. Neal realized that probably if he really wanted them around -- which he kind of didn't, not the least reason being that he had the picture of Kate lying on the table upstairs -- he should have invited them in. But El, perhaps picking up on his reluctance, was already initiating a discreet withdrawal. "Peter's off work for the next two days, and that means you are too, Neal, so you're welcome to come over to our place later," she said. "We're supposed to get some snow. We can watch It's a Wonderful Life and you can roll snowballs in the backyard."
Peter gave Neal a little shrug over El's head. Neal tried to return it without being noticed.
"Thanks, guys," he said, and was surprised as he closed the door to find that he actually did mean it. Not that he planned to come over and intrude on their Christmas -- he guessed that Elizabeth was just being polite -- but it was an oddly nice feeling to be invited.
Bugsy trotted up to Neal's feet, his toenails clicking on the floor. Neal looked down at the dog.
"I probably should've said Merry Christmas, right?"
Bugsy looked up at him with dark, liquid eyes.
"Or maybe invited them to stay." But he wasn't terribly regretful. It was nice of them to come over -- actually, it warmed him in a way that he couldn't quite explain -- but it would have been nicer of them to call first, so that he could have told them that the thought was appreciated, but he had plans already, thanks, and Merry Christmas. Over the phone, he was sure that he could have thought of a dozen things to say, but it was difficult to be at the top of his game with a federal agent's wife thrusting a plant into his hands.
He took the poinsettia back to his apartment. It was a pretty plant, with bright-colored red and green leaves. Neal set it on the counter and then, if he was to be perfectly honest, completely forgot about it until about a month later when he noticed all the red and green leaves were now limp and brown.
Right. Houseplants. Gotta water them. Note to self.
On Neal's second Christmas at June's place, June took her whole family skiing in the French Alps. "I would be happy to extend an invitation to you as well," she said, kissing him on the cheek after he helped her carry her bags to the door. "But I think you'll have to accept a rain check instead." She was discreet enough that she didn't even glance down at the anklet.
Yeah. Skiing in France was probably not a valid exception to the terms of his parole. Neal shrugged; if he pretended hard enough that it didn't bother him, it almost seemed like the truth. "No worries. I can walk the dog, water the plants ..."
"The maid will take care of the plants," June said smoothly. "There's something for you on the sitting-room table, by the way. Enjoy yourself while I'm gone, and --" She winked at him. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"I don't think I'd do half the things you would do," Neal said, grinning. He leaned out the door to wave as the taxi pulled away, then tried to restrain himself from going immediately to see what she'd left him. He managed to contain himself for a whole fifteen minutes.
It was a gold envelope with tickets to an off-Broadway show -- just inside his radius, he noticed -- with a gorgeous Christmas card of cut paper folded around it.
The thought only then occurred to him that he hadn't given her anything. He and Mozzie never exchanged Christmas gifts, or acknowledged the holiday in any way -- it just wasn't them -- and he was pretty sure that Kate was the last person he'd given a gift to, for any occasion. Well, except the birthday cards he'd sent Peter from prison. But that was more of a joke than anything else.
He wondered if he ought to try to figure out something to give the Burkes, because given Peter's history of invading his privacy at the least opportune moments, he had a deep suspicion that they were going to turn up on his doorstep on Christmas again. He hadn't managed to think of anything by the time that Christmas rolled around and, sure enough, here they were.
"Merry Christmas, guys," Neal said, meeting them at the door.
Once again, El was bearing a plant in a festive red pot, which she handed to him. The new plant was, if possible, even pointier than the last one.
"It's a Christmas cactus," El said. "They've very hard to kill."
He'd never mentioned to El the fate of her gift poinsettia, but it was obvious that she had figured it out somehow. Maybe if someone gave you a houseplant, you were supposed to deliver regular reports on its progress? Like doing one of those "sponsor a child in an underdeveloped country" sorts of things?
By now he'd managed to internalize gift-receiving etiquette, so he smiled in what he hoped was a genuine sort of way (although from Peter's eyeroll, either his genuine smile wasn't very convincing or Peter knew him way too well). "Thank you," he said. "This is exactly what I need. Thanks."
Peter rolled his eyes so hard that Neal halfway expected them to fall out of his head. Then he held up a paper bag with the top rolled down and bottles of both beer and wine peeking out. "Liquid refreshments," he explained.
Elizabeth stuck out her own hand, and she was holding a DVD. "We always watch It's a Wonderful Life on Christmas. It's sort of a Burke tradition. We thought you might want to?"
Which was how Neal found himself on one end of June's nice leather couch, with the Burkes on the other end, using June's TV to watch a sappy movie that he hadn't seen since he was eight years old. In addition to the alcohol, the Burkes had three covered trays of hors d'oeuvres in their car -- the caterer at a Christmas party she'd organized had misunderstood her order, El explained, so she'd ended up with a lot of extras and had taken some home. They all nibbled expensive canapes and drank cheap beer (in Peter's case) or some of June's better wine (in Neal and El's) and mocked Jimmy Stewart.
It was quite possibly the best Christmas ever.
Afterwards, Neal put the Christmas cactus up on top of the refrigerator, and took El at her word that it was hard to kill.
She was sort of right. It took four months this time.
On Neal's third Christmas at June's place, he was convalescing after being shot. Needless to say, Christmas cheer of any sort was out of the question.
"I hate leaving you alone," June said when Neal shuffled to the door of the loft to see her off on another round-the-world holiday excursion with her kids and grandkids. This time they were headed to Beijing, "because I've never been to Beijing, and I'm not getting any younger."
"I'm not at death's door," Neal said. Not that he felt great -- his arm ached like hell despite the painkillers -- but it was amazing how much it did perk up your whole outlook to be acutely aware that you weren't dead. "Besides, I have a feeling that Peter and Elizabeth will be in and out while you're gone."
She kissed his cheek, made him promise to call her in a couple of days to check in, and was out the door and long gone before he realized that once again, damn it, he'd entirely forgotten to get her anything. Again. Well, he'd had other things on his mind, and he'd just have to make up for it next year.
It was strange, thinking in terms of "next year". Cautiously he poked at the feeling. It wasn't a bad feeling, exactly. Just different.
He'd just gotten settled back down, painfully and slowly, with a cup of coffee -- no wine allowed, and for once he was willing to go along with it, because see above re: not dead -- and a book, when someone knocked on the door. Neal let his head flop back; it had taken several trips to achieve this, since he only had one functional arm at the moment, and he was not getting up again. Besides, it had to be one of two people. He took a stab in the dark. "Come in, Moz."
"Are you expecting him?" Peter asked, cracking the door open. "Planning something, perhaps?"
"Do holidays always make you this paranoid?" Neal glanced at the calendar, just to make sure he hadn't slipped a day or two. "It's Christmas Eve; don't you have things to do with Elizabeth? Or last-minute things to buy for Elizabeth," he hazarded a guess, since the entire office knew by now that Peter was notoriously absent-minded about that sort of thing.
"Yup, I'm picking up something for her right now," Peter said. "Specifically, you. C'mon, let's go. El's downstairs."
Neal made an effort to wrap his mind around this. Maybe the painkillers were messing with his head more than he'd thought. "Go where?"
"Home. El wants you to spend Christmas at our place this year."
Neal stared at him. No part of that sentence made sense, so he fell back on contemplating the hazards of moving versus the comforts of not moving. "Is that going to involve getting out of this chair?"
"Probably, yes."
"Then I'm staying here." At Peter's somewhat exasperated look, Neal said, "Listen, Peter, I appreciate the invitation, really, but I have everything I need right here at June's. Also, I'm supposed to watch her dog while she's gone."
"Bring him," Peter said.
Neal eyed him sideways. "Have you seen June's dog? Satchmo will eat him."
"El will tell him not to," Peter said. "Come on."
When Neal still hesitated, Peter said, "Look, it's up to you. You could stay here, all alone, again, forced to restrict yourself to food that doesn't require both hands to prepare, or come over to our place where El will fuss over you and bring you things. She's been simmering her famous cures-anything chicken tamale soup all morning."
"Well, since you put it that way ..."
The door of the loft pushed farther open and what appeared to be a mobile mass of greenery and flowers nudged its way into the room. It turned out to be a large potted plant held in Elizabeth's arms. Peter spun around and held the door for her.
"I can take that --"
"I've got it. All is well." Elizabeth wrinkled her nose at him around the bush, which appeared to be some kind of rosebush. "Thanks for the help, by the way."
"I didn't know you were bringing it up here."
"Of course I was; there wouldn't be room for Neal and this in the backseat. It's a tea rose," she explained to Neal. "Merry Christmas."
It was a very pretty plant, its yellow blossoms edged with dark pink. Neal figured its life expectancy could probably be measured in weeks. "It's beautiful," he said brightly. Maybe June would take care of it for him if he asked nicely.
Elizabeth smiled and started hunting around in the kitchen for a place to put it.
Peter held out a hand and Neal, with a sigh, let himself be helped to his feet. He swayed a little as the headrush hit him, and Peter caught him gently by the elbow of his good arm.
Neal didn't remember being shot all that clearly. What he did remember was Peter's white, stricken face, with a spray of blood across his cheek that Neal had, belatedly, realized was his own. In the intervening week, as much as Peter tried to pretend things were normal, he'd never quite lost that look; it hovered behind his eyes and tightened the fine lines around his mouth, giving him a lost, weary sort of expression. And he'd been handling Neal like he was made of glass, which was actually even more disconcerting than being shot in the first place.
Maybe giving him something to do would help get that look off his face. "If I'm spending the night at your place, I'm going to need some things." Neal jerked his chin at the bandaged arm strapped to his chest, "One hand, remember?"
Neal sat on the edge of the bed and directed Peter through the process of collecting various items -- painkillers, change of underwear, small toiletries ("Hair gel, Neal, really?") -- into an overnight bag. El, after giving Neal a gentle one-sided hug, had gone back to fussing over the tea rose, watering it and pinching off any blossom that showed so much as a hint of brown.
"Is there some specific reason why she keeps giving me plants?" Neal murmured.
"Are you seriously telling me that the brilliant Neal Caffrey hasn't figured it out by now?" When Neal just gave him a baffled one-shoulder shrug, Peter glanced kitchenwards, and then leaned a little closer. "Neal. You can't stuff a houseplant in a suitcase."
Oh, he thought, and then, Oh. Maybe he didn't give El enough credit for deviousness. Where the FBI used locks and bars and a GPS tracking anklet, Elizabeth had flowers and kindness and chicken tamale soup. It was hardly fair.
As he looked thoughtfully in her direction, Elizabeth swept her prunings into the trash, and then came and joined Neal on the edge of the bed. She squeezed his uninjured arm. "I think it looks nice there," she said, nodding to the rose plant.
"You do realize you may as well push it off the balcony, El," Peter said, zipping up the bag. "It'd be a quicker, kinder death."
That was more like it -- a Peter who was being quietly, carefully solicitous of him just wasn't Peter. Neal mock-scowled at him. "Have some faith in me."
"I do," Peter said, more earnestly than Neal was expecting.
While he was still off balance from that, El kissed him on the forehead. "Neal, I firmly believe that you can learn to do anything you put your mind to. Even keep a houseplant from dropping dead." She stood and held out a hand. "Let's go home. Do you have everything you need?"
"We're going across town, not to another state." Peter hefted the overnight bag. "Though you'd never know it."
Yeah, the kid gloves were definitely coming off. Neal tried to keep his smile on the inside, though it kept breaking through, and let El give him a hand off the bed. She kept her hand on his good arm, guiding him carefully towards the stairs.
Before Peter closed the door behind them, Neal glanced over his shoulder at the tea rose, its blossoms lending a touch of summertime and homeyness to the room.
This one, he thought, might have a shot at surviving.
~