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Entry tags:
White Collar fic: Candy Apples
Title: Candy Apples
Fandom: White Collar
Word Count: 1400
Rating/Pairing: PG, gen
Summary: Just a bit of cheerful, seasonal fluff, for my![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
cottoncandy_bingo prompt "Food".
Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/551126
"Ooooh," Neal said, and Peter, without even looking at him, said, "No."
They were in Central Park, searching for a forger who supposedly spent his afternoons feeding pigeons from a park bench. Peter was starting to think the whole thing was a wild goose chase (or possibly a wild pigeon chase); they had walked all over half the damn park and had seen no one who matched the description of their suspect. Peter was tired, footsore and grouchy.
"You don't even know what you're saying no to," Neal protested.
"I don't have to." But he found himself looking anyway. Not that he saw anything likely to have drawn Neal's attention. Nothing glittery, nothing illicit. No three-card monte games, no fence hastily rolling up a tablecloth covered with diamond jewelry. Just trees luxurious in their fall foliage, and an equally colorful crowd of all ages, from teenagers on roller skates to old men sipping coffee -- all of them enjoying one of the last warm, sunny days before another damp and gray New York winter. There was a vendor selling hot dogs and another offering kids a chance to dip their own candy apples.
Neal drifted closer to the candy apple vendor, though Peter wasn't sure why, which made him instantly curious -- and suspicious. The guy clearly wasn't their suspect. It had to be someone Neal knew from his past. Peter eyeballed both of them to make sure there were no secret messages being passed back and forth; he also had to take a quick look around to make sure Mozzie wasn't in the vicinity.
"Peter, you have your suspicious face on," Neal said, sounding entertained.
"I don't have a suspicious face."
"I'm well acquainted with your suspicious face, and that is totally it."
"So sue me," Peter said, and stepping a bit closer so that he could lower his voice, "I'm just curious how you know that guy, that's all."
Neal looked taken aback. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just being thorough."
"Thorough," Peter said.
"Examining all angles. We're here to look around, right?"
The only "angle" that Peter could see was a group of happy kids making candy apples. It was a pretty basic, old-timey setup, that Peter remembered from fairs and carnivals in his youth: a bin of tart green apples with sticks shoved into them, tubs of hot caramel and red candy for dipping, and a bunch of trays of toppings for the kids to roll the apples in -- everything from coconut to candy corn.
Then the penny dropped, when Peter got a good look at Neal's wistful expression. "You want a candy apple."
Neal's eyes darted away quickly, his caught-in-a-scam look, before he put on a glossy smile. "Candy-apple-dipping isn't exactly a good combination with a genuine Devore suit, Peter."
"Uh-huh," Peter said, but he didn't miss how Neal's eyes slid back to the apple vendor.
Peter's general impression was that Neal's childhood had been a childhood of microwave pizzas and hamburgers rather than French cuisine, Sears sweaters rather than bespoke suits. Neal had very consciously remade himself into a different person, putting each glossy piece into place until the gloss had become reality. And Peter had sometimes wondered how you did that, how you grew up in a world where meatloaf and Kraft Mac'n'Cheese were comfort foods and learned to develop a taste for fine wines and foie gras instead. Peter knew that he himself couldn't have done it. He knew how to add on (he'd learned math and accounting, learned how to spot a Prada bag knockoff and bullshit his way through a wine tasting) but he didn't know how to take away. How did you learn to hold back the surge of memories that came rushing back with childhood smells and tastes? What made a person turn their back on their past so completely that they reinvented everything about themselves, right down to a taste for fine Belgian chocolate rather than Snickers bars?
And there were times when he couldn't help wondering how much of Danny Brooks still lurked beneath the highly polished surface of Neal Caffrey. He sometimes caught himself looking for those cracks, those hypothetical weaknesses in Neal's armor where that long-ago child showed through.
Today, he thought he might have gotten a glimpse of that kid, not that Neal would ever admit it.
"When I was a kid," Peter said, aware that he was opening himself up for a whole world of teasing, "every fall, we used to go to the Apple Festival over in Johnson Mills -- that was a little town about fifteen miles from the town where we lived. I used to live for the candy apples at the Johnson Mills Apple Festival. The candy apples in the grocery store just weren't the same." He caught Neal's eye, and smiled. "It's been ages since I've had a good candy apple."
"Well," Neal said, "if you really want to ..."
Peter plunked the cash down on the apple table, and the vendor, to his credit, didn't blink an eye at a couple of grown men in suits, just let them pick out their apples. Neal agonized over the decision before choosing one that looked (to Peter) just the same as all the others, which he then proceeded to dip in everything.
"Do you want some apple with that candy, Neal?" Peter asked, rolling his own in a nice minimal dusting of chocolate sprinkles and nuts.
"I like to get my money's worth," Neal murmured, carefully arranging candy corn into a band around the top of the apple, like an Easter egg decoration.
"You mean my money's worth," Peter corrected him.
But the first crispy bite was heaven, and brought back a rush of childhood memories: the smell of autumn leaves and apples, the feel of his dad's big hand around his small one. Opening his eyes, still on an upswell of nostalgia and warmth, Peter got a look at Neal and struggled valiantly not to laugh.
"What?" Neal asked suspiciously.
"There's chocolate on your nose."
Neal grinned. "You should see yourself. You're not exactly Mr. Clean at the moment."
Peter grabbed a handful of napkins and shepherded them both out of the way of the kids, off to a shady spot under a tree where they could attempt to eat their apples without making complete messes of themselves.
... Failure.
Still, Peter decided to take satisfaction from the sight of fastidious Neal Caffrey with a swathe of half-melted chocolate across his nose, trying to get his windblown hair unstuck from the sticky caramel on his jaw. Peter wondered how many people had ever had the chance to see Neal like this: basically the exact opposite of slick con-artist Neal. Closer, maybe, to the person he used to be.
Also, Peter couldn't help noticing that his own apple was getting less heavenly with every sugar-laden bite.
"You know," Neal remarked, studying his half-eaten apple, "the first bite was really good, but ..."
"Yeah, I was thinking the same thing."
They tossed the half-eaten apples in the trash and cleaned up with damp napkins at a drinking fountain. Peter thought that Neal seemed a lot more ... something. More relaxed, maybe. There was something sunny and light in him that hadn't been there before.
It had definitely been worth a few bucks and a little mess.
"So I think we can agree this is going to be one of those things that doesn't get back to Elizabeth," Peter said.
Neal smirked. "I wish I'd taken a picture of you, but my hands were too sticky to use my cell."
"I happen to know that you still have that picture of me with the mustache in your desk drawer," Peter said, and Neal looked shifty. "I'd say blackmail material is well in hand at this point."
"It's no good for blackmail if everyone's already seen it."
"I'd like to remind you that I wasn't the only one looking like a survivor of an explosion at a Hershey's factory."
Neal wet his fingertip in the drinking fountain and used it to rub at a sticky spot on his cheek. "I don't remember these being quite so, um, messy."
"I don't think we used to care." Peter squared his shoulders and tried to put his I am a serious FBI agent face back on. "And now, I think we have a forger to find."
Neal heaved a sigh.
"Don't even start. You just had a break."
There was a grin peeking through Neal's faux annoyance, and he nudged Peter with his shoulder. "Hey, Peter?"
"Hmm?"
"Thanks."
~
Fandom: White Collar
Word Count: 1400
Rating/Pairing: PG, gen
Summary: Just a bit of cheerful, seasonal fluff, for my
cottoncandy_bingo prompt "Food".Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/551126
"Ooooh," Neal said, and Peter, without even looking at him, said, "No."
They were in Central Park, searching for a forger who supposedly spent his afternoons feeding pigeons from a park bench. Peter was starting to think the whole thing was a wild goose chase (or possibly a wild pigeon chase); they had walked all over half the damn park and had seen no one who matched the description of their suspect. Peter was tired, footsore and grouchy.
"You don't even know what you're saying no to," Neal protested.
"I don't have to." But he found himself looking anyway. Not that he saw anything likely to have drawn Neal's attention. Nothing glittery, nothing illicit. No three-card monte games, no fence hastily rolling up a tablecloth covered with diamond jewelry. Just trees luxurious in their fall foliage, and an equally colorful crowd of all ages, from teenagers on roller skates to old men sipping coffee -- all of them enjoying one of the last warm, sunny days before another damp and gray New York winter. There was a vendor selling hot dogs and another offering kids a chance to dip their own candy apples.
Neal drifted closer to the candy apple vendor, though Peter wasn't sure why, which made him instantly curious -- and suspicious. The guy clearly wasn't their suspect. It had to be someone Neal knew from his past. Peter eyeballed both of them to make sure there were no secret messages being passed back and forth; he also had to take a quick look around to make sure Mozzie wasn't in the vicinity.
"Peter, you have your suspicious face on," Neal said, sounding entertained.
"I don't have a suspicious face."
"I'm well acquainted with your suspicious face, and that is totally it."
"So sue me," Peter said, and stepping a bit closer so that he could lower his voice, "I'm just curious how you know that guy, that's all."
Neal looked taken aback. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just being thorough."
"Thorough," Peter said.
"Examining all angles. We're here to look around, right?"
The only "angle" that Peter could see was a group of happy kids making candy apples. It was a pretty basic, old-timey setup, that Peter remembered from fairs and carnivals in his youth: a bin of tart green apples with sticks shoved into them, tubs of hot caramel and red candy for dipping, and a bunch of trays of toppings for the kids to roll the apples in -- everything from coconut to candy corn.
Then the penny dropped, when Peter got a good look at Neal's wistful expression. "You want a candy apple."
Neal's eyes darted away quickly, his caught-in-a-scam look, before he put on a glossy smile. "Candy-apple-dipping isn't exactly a good combination with a genuine Devore suit, Peter."
"Uh-huh," Peter said, but he didn't miss how Neal's eyes slid back to the apple vendor.
Peter's general impression was that Neal's childhood had been a childhood of microwave pizzas and hamburgers rather than French cuisine, Sears sweaters rather than bespoke suits. Neal had very consciously remade himself into a different person, putting each glossy piece into place until the gloss had become reality. And Peter had sometimes wondered how you did that, how you grew up in a world where meatloaf and Kraft Mac'n'Cheese were comfort foods and learned to develop a taste for fine wines and foie gras instead. Peter knew that he himself couldn't have done it. He knew how to add on (he'd learned math and accounting, learned how to spot a Prada bag knockoff and bullshit his way through a wine tasting) but he didn't know how to take away. How did you learn to hold back the surge of memories that came rushing back with childhood smells and tastes? What made a person turn their back on their past so completely that they reinvented everything about themselves, right down to a taste for fine Belgian chocolate rather than Snickers bars?
And there were times when he couldn't help wondering how much of Danny Brooks still lurked beneath the highly polished surface of Neal Caffrey. He sometimes caught himself looking for those cracks, those hypothetical weaknesses in Neal's armor where that long-ago child showed through.
Today, he thought he might have gotten a glimpse of that kid, not that Neal would ever admit it.
"When I was a kid," Peter said, aware that he was opening himself up for a whole world of teasing, "every fall, we used to go to the Apple Festival over in Johnson Mills -- that was a little town about fifteen miles from the town where we lived. I used to live for the candy apples at the Johnson Mills Apple Festival. The candy apples in the grocery store just weren't the same." He caught Neal's eye, and smiled. "It's been ages since I've had a good candy apple."
"Well," Neal said, "if you really want to ..."
Peter plunked the cash down on the apple table, and the vendor, to his credit, didn't blink an eye at a couple of grown men in suits, just let them pick out their apples. Neal agonized over the decision before choosing one that looked (to Peter) just the same as all the others, which he then proceeded to dip in everything.
"Do you want some apple with that candy, Neal?" Peter asked, rolling his own in a nice minimal dusting of chocolate sprinkles and nuts.
"I like to get my money's worth," Neal murmured, carefully arranging candy corn into a band around the top of the apple, like an Easter egg decoration.
"You mean my money's worth," Peter corrected him.
But the first crispy bite was heaven, and brought back a rush of childhood memories: the smell of autumn leaves and apples, the feel of his dad's big hand around his small one. Opening his eyes, still on an upswell of nostalgia and warmth, Peter got a look at Neal and struggled valiantly not to laugh.
"What?" Neal asked suspiciously.
"There's chocolate on your nose."
Neal grinned. "You should see yourself. You're not exactly Mr. Clean at the moment."
Peter grabbed a handful of napkins and shepherded them both out of the way of the kids, off to a shady spot under a tree where they could attempt to eat their apples without making complete messes of themselves.
... Failure.
Still, Peter decided to take satisfaction from the sight of fastidious Neal Caffrey with a swathe of half-melted chocolate across his nose, trying to get his windblown hair unstuck from the sticky caramel on his jaw. Peter wondered how many people had ever had the chance to see Neal like this: basically the exact opposite of slick con-artist Neal. Closer, maybe, to the person he used to be.
Also, Peter couldn't help noticing that his own apple was getting less heavenly with every sugar-laden bite.
"You know," Neal remarked, studying his half-eaten apple, "the first bite was really good, but ..."
"Yeah, I was thinking the same thing."
They tossed the half-eaten apples in the trash and cleaned up with damp napkins at a drinking fountain. Peter thought that Neal seemed a lot more ... something. More relaxed, maybe. There was something sunny and light in him that hadn't been there before.
It had definitely been worth a few bucks and a little mess.
"So I think we can agree this is going to be one of those things that doesn't get back to Elizabeth," Peter said.
Neal smirked. "I wish I'd taken a picture of you, but my hands were too sticky to use my cell."
"I happen to know that you still have that picture of me with the mustache in your desk drawer," Peter said, and Neal looked shifty. "I'd say blackmail material is well in hand at this point."
"It's no good for blackmail if everyone's already seen it."
"I'd like to remind you that I wasn't the only one looking like a survivor of an explosion at a Hershey's factory."
Neal wet his fingertip in the drinking fountain and used it to rub at a sticky spot on his cheek. "I don't remember these being quite so, um, messy."
"I don't think we used to care." Peter squared his shoulders and tried to put his I am a serious FBI agent face back on. "And now, I think we have a forger to find."
Neal heaved a sigh.
"Don't even start. You just had a break."
There was a grin peeking through Neal's faux annoyance, and he nudged Peter with his shoulder. "Hey, Peter?"
"Hmm?"
"Thanks."
~