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White Collar fic: Temporary Immunity (+ link to commentfic)
Er, rather belatedly cross-posting this from AO3.
Recently I wrote The Smart Ones, a little missing scene for 2x11 which probably isn't long enough to re-post on its own (originally posted as a commentfic here). And there is also this:
Title: Temporary Immunity
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing: Gen
Word Count: 1400
Rating: PG
Summary: Episode tag for 2x11, after the sun rises. Written as a little Peter & Neal friendship stocking stuffer for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
collarcorner gift exchange.
Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/292231
Cover by Leesa Perrie
The sky had gone pink, then pale blue when Neal wasn't looking, and now the sun had begun to strike molten gold highlights off the tops of the buildings.
Peter smothered a yawn, and reached for his badge on the edge of the table. "One night of immunity," he said, and flipped it closed.
"And a lot of beer." Neal glanced at the bottles lined up on the table. For his own part, he wasn't really feeling the wine; he'd been drinking it very slowly, in the interests of not ruining his palate entirely, and hadn't even made it through half the bottle. "You're gonna be feeling that. You're not twenty-two anymore, you know."
"I'm already feeling it." Peter yawned again, and looked at his watch. He groaned and rubbed his eyes. "Work starts in a couple of hours. This day is going to be fun."
It had been interesting, Neal thought, seeing Peter unwind. It wasn't like they'd never had drinks together, but he hadn't seen Peter anywhere near drunk before. And Peter certainly wasn't really drunk -- at least, he was still capable of switching into targeted-FBI-agent mode just as thoroughly as ever, like a switch being flipped, as he'd done when the conversation turned to the fractal antenna.
But still -- Neal had seen Peter under a lot of different conditions over the year and a half that they'd worked together, but almost never like this: tired and halfway to being drunk, slumped and relaxed in his chair.
"Who says we have to go to work?" Neal said suddenly. "Call in and take a day off. Or a half-day, since you're you," he conceded. "Sleep it off here, then head home, catch a shower, maybe go in for the afternoon."
"Neal," Peter started to protest, and then interrupted himself with a jaw-cracking yawn.
"Come on, Peter -- do you really think either one of us would be any use without some sleep?" Actually, he felt fairly alert, himself. He was used to all-nighters. But -- well, he hadn't been kidding that Peter wasn't twenty-two anymore. Or thirty-two for that matter. "Besides, you and I both know you aren't safe to drive, and --" he raised his wineglass and took an ironic swig of the dregs "-- are you planning to commit a crime, Peter?"
Peter's halfhearted glare was one part genuine annoyance to two parts fondness. "All right. Your couch it is. But don't let me sleep all day. Wake me up in a few hours."
Thus tacitly conceding that Neal was in better shape than he was, and more likely to be awake before noon. "Scout's honor," Neal said.
"You were never a Boy Scout."
Neal glanced at the pocket where Peter had tucked the badge. "What are my chances of getting an extension on that immunity offer?"
Peter snorted. "Slim to none."
"Yeah, that's what I thought. And so, the interrogation will have to wait until the next time you grant me immunity."
"What makes you think there'll be a next time?"
Neal grinned. "Because you're curious."
Peter rolled his eyes, but an answering grin twitched at the corner of his mouth.
Neal liked him like this -- sleepy and drunk and not really guarded at all. He wondered if it was possible to take advantage of Peter's relaxed state to interrogate him right back. The problem was that Peter didn't really keep secrets about himself. All Neal had to do was to ask if he wanted to know something about Peter's past ... or present ... or his personal life with El ... If anything, Peter shared too much.
Except when he didn't. And that was what made it so startling when Peter did turn out to be capable of not only keeping secrets, but a surprising amount of duplicity.
But that was part of what made life with Peter interesting.
Neal rose from the table. "I'll get some sheets."
Peter waved a hand. "Don't bother. I'll just kick off my shoes and crash on your couch. Don't plan to be here that long."
"No, forget the couch. Use the bed. I don't think I'm ready to sleep quite yet." Neal's mind was still cranking along at full speed. He could feel the buzzing edge of energy that had always kept him and Mozzie coasting along when they stayed up all night planning a heist. This was a little different -- back-engineering a heist in reverse -- but he didn't want to let go of the feeling quite yet.
Peter gave him a look that plainly indicated he expected some kind of trap.
"I'm serious," Neal said. "Just sack out on top of the covers. I can take the couch when I'm ready."
He headed off any further argument by getting up and vanishing into the bathroom. When he came out, running wet fingers through his hair to smooth it down, Peter was already curled on the bed, his back to the sun peeking over June's railing.
"You want a glass of water or something? You really are going to be feeling this later."
Peter grunted something unintelligible. Neal left a large glass of water and a bottle of aspirin on the coffee table.
"Elizabeth isn't expecting you home, is she?"
Peter cracked an eye open. "What are you, my mother?"
Neal raised his hands. "Hey, I'd rather not be responsible for ruining your marriage."
Peter shut his eyes again. "She knows I'm running down leads with you. If she gets curious, she can call. And I also left a message for Hughes. So yes, we are legally and morally playing hooky, and now I am going to sleep. Have fun with your fractal antenna."
"Oh, always," Neal said.
He snagged an afghan folded across one of the chairs -- June's house was full of that sort of thing -- and dropped it on the bed next to Peter, who'd either fallen asleep or was doing a good job of faking it. Then he returned to the main room of the loft, collected the beer bottles and placed them on the countertop for recycling later. He reached for the coffee, then changed his mind and poured a little more wine instead.
He probed himself cautiously as he did so. He'd just spent the entire night talking about Kate, including some of the more painful and embarrassing parts of the relationship. Rather than dredging up fresh pain, though, it had been more like opening up and cleaning a very old wound. He was wrung out and a little raw, but he hadn't felt this ... good, this whole, since Kate's death.
Kate and Adler were the past. The future was the future, whatever it held. He looked down at the fractal on the hospital tray, and then looked up, across the room, at Peter, who'd shifted in his sleep to cocoon himself in the afghan.
The idea of temporary immunity had never occurred to Neal. And even if he had thought of it, he'd never have guessed that Peter would go for it -- or, the thought crossed his mind, that he himself would trust Peter enough to agree to it. The arrangement was, after all, entirely down to Peter's discretion; Neal had just confessed dozens of crimes to a federal agent, and yet, he realized that he was perfectly confident that they wouldn't be used against him.
And it had been, well, fun -- not having to guard himself and dissemble, not always running the calculation in his head: what was safe to say, what seemingly innocent slip of the tongue would take him into dangerous waters. He still hadn't told Peter everything; there were things he'd left out, parts of the story he'd merged into other parts to make the whole thing flow better, more than one point where he'd switched facts around to insulate himself from the worst consequences if Peter ever did decide to look into the incidents.
I can't even give an honest accounting of my own history.
And yet. The basic facts were all there, more or less in the right order. And more importantly, the emotional truth was there, and that was something he hadn't shared with anyone in its entirety, not even Mozzie.
Temporary immunity. What a simple, brilliant solution for a very complex problem.
I think we'll have to do this again sometime.
~
Recently I wrote The Smart Ones, a little missing scene for 2x11 which probably isn't long enough to re-post on its own (originally posted as a commentfic here). And there is also this:
Title: Temporary Immunity
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing: Gen
Word Count: 1400
Rating: PG
Summary: Episode tag for 2x11, after the sun rises. Written as a little Peter & Neal friendship stocking stuffer for the
collarcorner gift exchange. Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/292231
Cover by Leesa Perrie
The sky had gone pink, then pale blue when Neal wasn't looking, and now the sun had begun to strike molten gold highlights off the tops of the buildings.
Peter smothered a yawn, and reached for his badge on the edge of the table. "One night of immunity," he said, and flipped it closed.
"And a lot of beer." Neal glanced at the bottles lined up on the table. For his own part, he wasn't really feeling the wine; he'd been drinking it very slowly, in the interests of not ruining his palate entirely, and hadn't even made it through half the bottle. "You're gonna be feeling that. You're not twenty-two anymore, you know."
"I'm already feeling it." Peter yawned again, and looked at his watch. He groaned and rubbed his eyes. "Work starts in a couple of hours. This day is going to be fun."
It had been interesting, Neal thought, seeing Peter unwind. It wasn't like they'd never had drinks together, but he hadn't seen Peter anywhere near drunk before. And Peter certainly wasn't really drunk -- at least, he was still capable of switching into targeted-FBI-agent mode just as thoroughly as ever, like a switch being flipped, as he'd done when the conversation turned to the fractal antenna.
But still -- Neal had seen Peter under a lot of different conditions over the year and a half that they'd worked together, but almost never like this: tired and halfway to being drunk, slumped and relaxed in his chair.
"Who says we have to go to work?" Neal said suddenly. "Call in and take a day off. Or a half-day, since you're you," he conceded. "Sleep it off here, then head home, catch a shower, maybe go in for the afternoon."
"Neal," Peter started to protest, and then interrupted himself with a jaw-cracking yawn.
"Come on, Peter -- do you really think either one of us would be any use without some sleep?" Actually, he felt fairly alert, himself. He was used to all-nighters. But -- well, he hadn't been kidding that Peter wasn't twenty-two anymore. Or thirty-two for that matter. "Besides, you and I both know you aren't safe to drive, and --" he raised his wineglass and took an ironic swig of the dregs "-- are you planning to commit a crime, Peter?"
Peter's halfhearted glare was one part genuine annoyance to two parts fondness. "All right. Your couch it is. But don't let me sleep all day. Wake me up in a few hours."
Thus tacitly conceding that Neal was in better shape than he was, and more likely to be awake before noon. "Scout's honor," Neal said.
"You were never a Boy Scout."
Neal glanced at the pocket where Peter had tucked the badge. "What are my chances of getting an extension on that immunity offer?"
Peter snorted. "Slim to none."
"Yeah, that's what I thought. And so, the interrogation will have to wait until the next time you grant me immunity."
"What makes you think there'll be a next time?"
Neal grinned. "Because you're curious."
Peter rolled his eyes, but an answering grin twitched at the corner of his mouth.
Neal liked him like this -- sleepy and drunk and not really guarded at all. He wondered if it was possible to take advantage of Peter's relaxed state to interrogate him right back. The problem was that Peter didn't really keep secrets about himself. All Neal had to do was to ask if he wanted to know something about Peter's past ... or present ... or his personal life with El ... If anything, Peter shared too much.
Except when he didn't. And that was what made it so startling when Peter did turn out to be capable of not only keeping secrets, but a surprising amount of duplicity.
But that was part of what made life with Peter interesting.
Neal rose from the table. "I'll get some sheets."
Peter waved a hand. "Don't bother. I'll just kick off my shoes and crash on your couch. Don't plan to be here that long."
"No, forget the couch. Use the bed. I don't think I'm ready to sleep quite yet." Neal's mind was still cranking along at full speed. He could feel the buzzing edge of energy that had always kept him and Mozzie coasting along when they stayed up all night planning a heist. This was a little different -- back-engineering a heist in reverse -- but he didn't want to let go of the feeling quite yet.
Peter gave him a look that plainly indicated he expected some kind of trap.
"I'm serious," Neal said. "Just sack out on top of the covers. I can take the couch when I'm ready."
He headed off any further argument by getting up and vanishing into the bathroom. When he came out, running wet fingers through his hair to smooth it down, Peter was already curled on the bed, his back to the sun peeking over June's railing.
"You want a glass of water or something? You really are going to be feeling this later."
Peter grunted something unintelligible. Neal left a large glass of water and a bottle of aspirin on the coffee table.
"Elizabeth isn't expecting you home, is she?"
Peter cracked an eye open. "What are you, my mother?"
Neal raised his hands. "Hey, I'd rather not be responsible for ruining your marriage."
Peter shut his eyes again. "She knows I'm running down leads with you. If she gets curious, she can call. And I also left a message for Hughes. So yes, we are legally and morally playing hooky, and now I am going to sleep. Have fun with your fractal antenna."
"Oh, always," Neal said.
He snagged an afghan folded across one of the chairs -- June's house was full of that sort of thing -- and dropped it on the bed next to Peter, who'd either fallen asleep or was doing a good job of faking it. Then he returned to the main room of the loft, collected the beer bottles and placed them on the countertop for recycling later. He reached for the coffee, then changed his mind and poured a little more wine instead.
He probed himself cautiously as he did so. He'd just spent the entire night talking about Kate, including some of the more painful and embarrassing parts of the relationship. Rather than dredging up fresh pain, though, it had been more like opening up and cleaning a very old wound. He was wrung out and a little raw, but he hadn't felt this ... good, this whole, since Kate's death.
Kate and Adler were the past. The future was the future, whatever it held. He looked down at the fractal on the hospital tray, and then looked up, across the room, at Peter, who'd shifted in his sleep to cocoon himself in the afghan.
The idea of temporary immunity had never occurred to Neal. And even if he had thought of it, he'd never have guessed that Peter would go for it -- or, the thought crossed his mind, that he himself would trust Peter enough to agree to it. The arrangement was, after all, entirely down to Peter's discretion; Neal had just confessed dozens of crimes to a federal agent, and yet, he realized that he was perfectly confident that they wouldn't be used against him.
And it had been, well, fun -- not having to guard himself and dissemble, not always running the calculation in his head: what was safe to say, what seemingly innocent slip of the tongue would take him into dangerous waters. He still hadn't told Peter everything; there were things he'd left out, parts of the story he'd merged into other parts to make the whole thing flow better, more than one point where he'd switched facts around to insulate himself from the worst consequences if Peter ever did decide to look into the incidents.
I can't even give an honest accounting of my own history.
And yet. The basic facts were all there, more or less in the right order. And more importantly, the emotional truth was there, and that was something he hadn't shared with anyone in its entirety, not even Mozzie.
Temporary immunity. What a simple, brilliant solution for a very complex problem.
I think we'll have to do this again sometime.
~