Entry tags:
untitled White Collar snuggle!fic
... so the following bit of, er, whatever this is happened because ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
madripoor_rose was doing that trope meme that's going around, and I asked for White Collar, "forced to share a bed". The scenario/minific that madripoor_rose came up with was so unbearably adorable that I had to get permission to write it. (Plot? Who needs that?)
Fandom: White Collar
Word Count: ~1000
Pairing: gen
Summary: Neal had never wanted to find out that Peter was a sleep snuggler.
Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/519009
Back when Peter was chasing him, Neal had come to know a number of maybe-irrelevant, maybe-useful details about his tormentor -- everything from Peter's favorite flavor of cookie (chocolate chip) to his anniversary date.
Since he'd started working with Peter, he had learned a number of other things about him: not the sort of things that one learned in order to combat an enemy, but the things you got to know about a friend. That Peter's dedication to justice was more than just lip service to a platonic ideal, for example. That he got shy around kids, and had convinced himself that Satchmo was really Elizabeth's dog while quietly doting on the animal himself, and always brought something for Neal that wasn't deviled ham when he expected to do a stakeout together.
What Neal hadn't known (or wanted to know) was that Peter was a sleep snuggler.
Yet here he was, at three in the morning, in a motel in a tiny town somewhere near the Pennsylvania state line, tangled in the octopus-like clutches of Peter Burke.
They'd crashed around midnight, both of them too exhausted to even care about the one-bed problem. And from there, in Neal's opinion, it had been nothing but a nonstop barrage of persecution. Just when he'd be luxuriously drifting off to sleep, it was all, "Neal, stop kicking me," or "Neal, that's my arm, not your personal pillow" or rather memorably, "Neal, you're about to fall out of bed."
"This is unbelievable," Peter had said sleepily, leaning over the edge of the bed to offer Neal a hand up (which Neal ignored; he was totally blaming Peter for the bruises on his shins where he'd rolled into the chair by the bed). "It's like sleeping with a five-year-old. You kick, you roll over constantly, you mumble in your sleep -- I don't know why Sara didn't strangle you."
"Remember me telling you how Sara complained about bruises from my anklet?" Neal grumbled as he clambered back into bed. "I bet you owe someone a personal apology phone call, don't you?"
Peter's response was to pick up Neal's pillow and plant it on top of his head. "Go. To. Sleep."
"I'm trying," Neal grumbled, muffled, "except someone keeps waking me up."
And then he'd managed to drift off, and ... now he was wide awake again, because he couldn't breathe with Peter clamped onto him like a particularly annoying species of barnacle.
"Peter," he tried quietly. Peter made a snuffling sound and clamped on tighter. "Peter! I'm not Elizabeth, you know."
He tried pushing Peter away, but he'd forgotten how strong Peter was. When it came right down to it, he didn't have a snowball's chance of winning a wrestling competition with Peter, especially when he was trying not to wake him up because it would really be too embarrassing to explain. All that he accomplished with his surreptitious struggling, however, was to get himself lodged even more tightly against Peter's chest, with half of Peter's body weight on top of him.
"You asked me why Sara didn't strangle me?" Neal mumbled into Peter's armpit. "How on earth do you keep Elizabeth from strangling you?"
Peter rolled until even more of his body weight was on top of Neal, now squishing the breath out of Neal's lungs. As he struggled to pry Peter off him, light slowly dawned. Peter probably didn't do this to Elizabeth. Even in his sleep, he was chasing Neal. Or maybe just trying to physically stop him from going anywhere, albeit unconsciously.
He was like a human version of the tracking anklet.
"Wow," Neal said, to Peter's unconscious form. "I can't figure out if I'm touched or annoyed. Perhaps both. All right, more annoyed, really." Because not only could he not sleep, but he seriously couldn't breathe.
He finally woke up Peter by tickling his ear. "Air," Neal said, when Peter flinched and opened his eyes. "It's a good thing. For life."
"Huh?" Peter mumbled, then his eyes opened wider and he rolled back to his own side of the bed. "Neal, knock it off. There's room for both of us in here."
"What -- me?"
"You're the one with personal space issues," Peter mumbled, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face in his arm.
"You're the one who's reenacting The Fugitive in our sleep."
"Huh?"
"Nothing," Neal muttered, rolling over. "Just ... stay on your side of the bed."
It felt like only a few minutes later (but according to the bedside clock was 3:45) when he woke once again to a distinct sense of warmth, heaviness and pressure -- and the smell of Peter's cheap cologne in his face.
"Oh, honestly," Neal groaned. Once again, Peter's arms and, rather disconcertingly, his legs were wrapped around Neal, forming a human cage wearing a T-shirt and boxers. And there was a lot of Peter for caging purposes.
Now that he'd figured out why Peter was doing it, Neal found that it made him feel a weird blend of smothered and safe -- in short, a microcosm of his relationship with Peter in general. Unfortunately, "smothered" was winning at the moment, especially since he couldn't seem to stay asleep with Peter hanging off him, remora-like.
But Neal was a con artist, and figuring out people was what he did for a living. In this case, he had an idea that he thought might work.
"Peter," he said, and shook him until Peter snorted, grunted, and detached himself. "You're doing it again."
"What?"
"Look, just -- I want to trade sides."
"Huh?"
"Oh for crying out loud," Neal muttered, and started climbing over Peter, which resulted in sleepy, mumbled protests and attempts to fend him off. Eventually he managed to end up on the wall side of the bed. "Good night," he said, and rolled over with his back to Peter. He was still aware of Peter's presence, but not in a bad way -- more like Peter was a wall between him and anything that might come into their room in the night. And also, incidentally, a human buttress to keep him from falling out of bed.
There was one more minor limpet incident in the night, but all he had to do was push Peter firmly back to his own side of the bed. "I'm not going anywhere," he said, and while Peter didn't appear to wake up enough to hear him, he did roll over and go back to sleep without making another attempt at the sleepwalking equivalent of fugitive apprehension.
And they were both still there in the morning.
~
madripoor_rose was doing that trope meme that's going around, and I asked for White Collar, "forced to share a bed". The scenario/minific that madripoor_rose came up with was so unbearably adorable that I had to get permission to write it. (Plot? Who needs that?)Fandom: White Collar
Word Count: ~1000
Pairing: gen
Summary: Neal had never wanted to find out that Peter was a sleep snuggler.
Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/519009
Back when Peter was chasing him, Neal had come to know a number of maybe-irrelevant, maybe-useful details about his tormentor -- everything from Peter's favorite flavor of cookie (chocolate chip) to his anniversary date.
Since he'd started working with Peter, he had learned a number of other things about him: not the sort of things that one learned in order to combat an enemy, but the things you got to know about a friend. That Peter's dedication to justice was more than just lip service to a platonic ideal, for example. That he got shy around kids, and had convinced himself that Satchmo was really Elizabeth's dog while quietly doting on the animal himself, and always brought something for Neal that wasn't deviled ham when he expected to do a stakeout together.
What Neal hadn't known (or wanted to know) was that Peter was a sleep snuggler.
Yet here he was, at three in the morning, in a motel in a tiny town somewhere near the Pennsylvania state line, tangled in the octopus-like clutches of Peter Burke.
They'd crashed around midnight, both of them too exhausted to even care about the one-bed problem. And from there, in Neal's opinion, it had been nothing but a nonstop barrage of persecution. Just when he'd be luxuriously drifting off to sleep, it was all, "Neal, stop kicking me," or "Neal, that's my arm, not your personal pillow" or rather memorably, "Neal, you're about to fall out of bed."
"This is unbelievable," Peter had said sleepily, leaning over the edge of the bed to offer Neal a hand up (which Neal ignored; he was totally blaming Peter for the bruises on his shins where he'd rolled into the chair by the bed). "It's like sleeping with a five-year-old. You kick, you roll over constantly, you mumble in your sleep -- I don't know why Sara didn't strangle you."
"Remember me telling you how Sara complained about bruises from my anklet?" Neal grumbled as he clambered back into bed. "I bet you owe someone a personal apology phone call, don't you?"
Peter's response was to pick up Neal's pillow and plant it on top of his head. "Go. To. Sleep."
"I'm trying," Neal grumbled, muffled, "except someone keeps waking me up."
And then he'd managed to drift off, and ... now he was wide awake again, because he couldn't breathe with Peter clamped onto him like a particularly annoying species of barnacle.
"Peter," he tried quietly. Peter made a snuffling sound and clamped on tighter. "Peter! I'm not Elizabeth, you know."
He tried pushing Peter away, but he'd forgotten how strong Peter was. When it came right down to it, he didn't have a snowball's chance of winning a wrestling competition with Peter, especially when he was trying not to wake him up because it would really be too embarrassing to explain. All that he accomplished with his surreptitious struggling, however, was to get himself lodged even more tightly against Peter's chest, with half of Peter's body weight on top of him.
"You asked me why Sara didn't strangle me?" Neal mumbled into Peter's armpit. "How on earth do you keep Elizabeth from strangling you?"
Peter rolled until even more of his body weight was on top of Neal, now squishing the breath out of Neal's lungs. As he struggled to pry Peter off him, light slowly dawned. Peter probably didn't do this to Elizabeth. Even in his sleep, he was chasing Neal. Or maybe just trying to physically stop him from going anywhere, albeit unconsciously.
He was like a human version of the tracking anklet.
"Wow," Neal said, to Peter's unconscious form. "I can't figure out if I'm touched or annoyed. Perhaps both. All right, more annoyed, really." Because not only could he not sleep, but he seriously couldn't breathe.
He finally woke up Peter by tickling his ear. "Air," Neal said, when Peter flinched and opened his eyes. "It's a good thing. For life."
"Huh?" Peter mumbled, then his eyes opened wider and he rolled back to his own side of the bed. "Neal, knock it off. There's room for both of us in here."
"What -- me?"
"You're the one with personal space issues," Peter mumbled, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face in his arm.
"You're the one who's reenacting The Fugitive in our sleep."
"Huh?"
"Nothing," Neal muttered, rolling over. "Just ... stay on your side of the bed."
It felt like only a few minutes later (but according to the bedside clock was 3:45) when he woke once again to a distinct sense of warmth, heaviness and pressure -- and the smell of Peter's cheap cologne in his face.
"Oh, honestly," Neal groaned. Once again, Peter's arms and, rather disconcertingly, his legs were wrapped around Neal, forming a human cage wearing a T-shirt and boxers. And there was a lot of Peter for caging purposes.
Now that he'd figured out why Peter was doing it, Neal found that it made him feel a weird blend of smothered and safe -- in short, a microcosm of his relationship with Peter in general. Unfortunately, "smothered" was winning at the moment, especially since he couldn't seem to stay asleep with Peter hanging off him, remora-like.
But Neal was a con artist, and figuring out people was what he did for a living. In this case, he had an idea that he thought might work.
"Peter," he said, and shook him until Peter snorted, grunted, and detached himself. "You're doing it again."
"What?"
"Look, just -- I want to trade sides."
"Huh?"
"Oh for crying out loud," Neal muttered, and started climbing over Peter, which resulted in sleepy, mumbled protests and attempts to fend him off. Eventually he managed to end up on the wall side of the bed. "Good night," he said, and rolled over with his back to Peter. He was still aware of Peter's presence, but not in a bad way -- more like Peter was a wall between him and anything that might come into their room in the night. And also, incidentally, a human buttress to keep him from falling out of bed.
There was one more minor limpet incident in the night, but all he had to do was push Peter firmly back to his own side of the bed. "I'm not going anywhere," he said, and while Peter didn't appear to wake up enough to hear him, he did roll over and go back to sleep without making another attempt at the sleepwalking equivalent of fugitive apprehension.
And they were both still there in the morning.
~
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(I needed this.)
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The whole idea works so well for the time of them. Neal the restless sleeper and Peter and human tracking anklet.
Neal's solution and the ending that followed made me all warm and fuzzy inside.
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I love that they have such a comfort level with each other on the show that I actually can imagine them sharing a bed and not being too bothered by it.
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Non-awkward platonic bed sharing is actually one of my favorite things. (Yeah, it's kind of a specific button.) I keep hoping to write Diana and Neal sharing a bed. (You know, more than they already have.)