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White Collar fic: Snow Day
It's snowing here, which makes this an excellent opportunity to repost another of my ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fandom_stocking fics. :D
Title: Snow Day
Fandom: White Collar
Word Count: 2700
Pairing: gen
Summary: It's snowing too hard for Peter to go home to Brooklyn, so Neal takes him home to June's instead.
Crossposted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/635040
The snow started in early afternoon, and by quitting time it had been coming down in fat, wet flakes for hours. When Peter and Neal stepped out of the conference room, where they'd had their heads together over the files for the MorrisTech embezzlement case, several of the White Collar employees were clustered around the police scanner on Jones's desk.
"Sounds like the roads have officially hit the National Weather Service's 'abandon hope all ye who enter' designation," Jones said. "Paraphrasing slightly. They're recommending that people avoid driving if they can, though apparently the subway's a mess too."
"Wonderful," Peter sighed. "Well, it'll give us a chance to go over the accounts for a few more of MorrisTech's employees while things clear up a bit."
Things did not clear up; things, in fact, got worse. People trickled out of the White Collar office throughout the early evening, risking the roads or braving the subways. Eventually Neal got Peter's attention by the simple expedient of throwing a balled-up napkin at this head. "Are we going to stay here all night ... starving ... or go home?"
"You can go home," Peter said wearily. "Traffic's backed up for miles on all the bridges." There was a little bing! and Peter glanced down at the alert on his phone, Neal peeking over his shoulder. "Great. Now the Brooklyn Bridge is closed to Brooklyn-bound traffic. Three-car pileup. Manhattan Bridge is already closed for the same reason."
"Abandon hope, all ye?" Neal asked, quirking a smile. Jones wasn't around to appreciate it; he and Diana had been among the early wave of homebound hopefuls.
"Pretty much," Peter sighed. "Look, you don't have to stick around. I'm not sure how late I'll be. I can always crash in my office if I have to."
A warm bath and a glass of wine at June's sounded vastly preferable to squinting at account books, but something didn't feel quite right about running off, abandoning Peter to bad coffee and case files. "You could probably get uptown, right? Why don't you drive me home, and spend the night at June's? I don't think she'd mind. Save me cab fare and a walk in the snow."
Peter looked like he was trying to muster objections, then gave Neal a lopsided, tired smile. "I'll call El and let her know."
The drive was even more of a nightmare than normal Manhattan driving. Peter kept a white-knuckled grip on the wheel as he slithered through soupy wet snow with taxicabs and buses narrowly missing them. For all Neal's snarky commentary on Peter's driving (usually, in Neal's opinion, quite well-deserved) Peter was actually damned good at navigating Manhattan traffic, and clearly needed all of his reflexes and attention to keep them from inglorious frozen death.
After parking the Taurus at long last behind June's Jaguar, Peter slowly peeled his fingers off the steering wheel, and then rested his head in his hands.
"You okay?" Neal asked, releasing his own deathgrip on the door.
"Just tired." Peter dragged his fingers through his hair. He looked crumpled and a bit gray. "It's been a long day."
They dripped into June's foyer, shedding clumps of wet snow from sodden overcoats and shoes. The maid was nowhere in sight, but June was reading in the living room, with Bugsy on her lap. It was always a luck-of-the-draw sort of thing if Neal saw her in the course of the day or not. Sometimes a week would go by in which they never exchanged a word; and sometimes he spent every evening for a week eating dinner with her and playing poker -- occasionally even winning -- by the light of a stained-glass lamp.
"I'm glad you got in all right; I was beginning to worry," she said to Neal, and her smile extended to encompass Peter. If having an unexpected houseguest dripping on her carpet bothered her, she showed no sign.
"June," Peter said, dipping his head in something that was almost a bow. "Sorry to drop in on you like this."
Her smile widened a notch. "There are extenuating circumstances. And the two of you do look a bit the worse for wear. I'm afraid I gave Peggy the evening off, due to the weather, so I can't offer you much in the way of hospitality."
"I don't mind cooking," Neal said, shaking the snow off his hat, and gave her a winning smile, trying to suppress his chattering teeth.
"Well, use the good kitchen, then. No sense doing it in that tiny kitchen upstairs when there's no one else using the one down here."
"You can have the first shower, Neal," Peter offered.
"Oh, heavens," June said. "One of you can use the master bathroom. No need to take turns. I doubt Byron's things will fit you, Peter; he was a slight man. But I'll look around and see what I can turn up. Maybe some of his looser loungewear ..."
Peter and Neal traded a look, slightly panicked in Peter's case. "I'll take the downstairs bathroom," Neal said quickly -- not without a twinge at the idea of being in June's private space, but it was better than having Peter in June's private space, probably poking through drawers. He escaped to fetch a change of clothes from the apartment before Peter could say anything.
He'd never been inside June's bathroom before. It was as huge and luxurious as he'd expected, with a sunken marble tub that would give some swimming pools size envy, and a fragrance of strawberries in the air. Neal resisted the urge to lounge in the tub, instead warming up with a shower before changing into dry clothes.
He came out to find Peter in the living room, on the phone to Elizabeth. Peter was wearing a sweater that was a little too small for him, and silk pajama bottoms that ended above his ankles. Covering the receiver, Peter said, "El says hi."
"Hi, Elizabeth," Neal called, adding a little wave for good measure, and went in search of June. He found her in the kitchen, hunting through the restaurant-sized refrigerator.
"We haven't very many fresh ingredients on hand, I'm afraid. Peggy left me a single-serving meal to heat up when I was ready, but I didn't expect to feed more than one person tonight. She usually shops for each day's staples when they're needed. And ..." June smiled and shrugged. "I'm a terrible cook. I know it was a vital young lady's skill when I was a young lady, but I was too busy hanging out at the pool hall, looking at the young men."
Neal laughed. "I'm sure there's something. Let me see -- eggs, spinach, Gruyère -- how does a quiche sound?"
"It sounds absolutely perfect. And one thing I do know how to make is the best Irish coffee you'll ever taste." She patted him on the arm. "Tell you what, you get started on dinner, and I'll make us drinks as soon as I go fetch our wandering Fed before he trips and falls down a hidden passageway."
Neal tried unsuccessfully to stifle his grin. "That's probably a good idea."
She was back shortly with Peter in tow. "Still snowing?" Neal asked.
"It's coming down gangbusters, as my aunt Judy would say." Peter, somewhat hesitantly, parked himself at the small table. Although June took most of her meals in the dining room or breakfast nook, the kitchen was also set up for casual dining for a few people.
"How's El?"
"Watching it snow." Peter smiled wistfully. "We were expecting the storm, but not so early. This evening's plan was to order pizza and watch movies while the snow fell outside."
A sharp, unexpected twinge went through Neal. Sometimes life without Kate was like walking on a perfectly even sidewalk, and then every so often stepping into an unexpected hole. This was one of those holes -- not because he and Kate had done that sort of thing, but because they hadn't. That was a fantasy for later, like their plans about kids and a nice little house to retire to, when they'd both had their fill of money and late nights dancing and life on the edge of a tightrope. They had loved their life, but they'd made plans for another life later.
A life that had never happened. And now that it was too late, Neal wished they'd made time for that other life first. He treasured the memories of the things he'd done with her -- that time they drank 200-year-old wine on top of the Eiffel Tower, and that night in the Caribbean, diving off a cruise ship, hand in hand, while the moon made a path to infinity on the dark water ...
And yet he also wished that he had more memories of doing things like snuggling in front of the window, watching the snow fall.
He just wished that he had more memories, period.
He suspected that too much of what he was thinking was showing on his face. June looked wistful, too, as she prepared mixed coffee drinks on the immaculate marble countertop -- clearly thinking about Byron. And Peter was sunk pensively into a state of Elizabeth-less gloom. This party is just getting started, and it's already under a wet blanket, Neal thought, and he made a sweeping gesture with the spatula, getting their attention.
"I'm not snuggling in front of the fireplace with you, Peter, but we have quiche."
Peter snorted.
"And coffee with lots of whiskey," June put in, joining in the spirit. She set a small glass mug in front of Neal and then Peter, with a generous dollop of cream on top of each.
Peter nodded his thanks, and smiled slightly. "Looking on the bright side," he said, "if the neighbor kid comes around looking to shovel the walk before I get home, this'll save me some work. Don't tell El I said that; she thinks it's good for me."
June laughed. "I always used to insist on Byron shoveling the walk himself. He'd point out, each time, that we could easily hire someone to do it. And I'd say that's true, but a little bit of work is good for the soul."
If that wasn't the sort of comment that Peter expected from a con artist, he had the grace not to let it show. Instead, he gave her a wry grin over his coffee. "Have you been comparing notes with Elizabeth? Also, this is really good."
"It's Byron's special recipe. The secret is good quality coffee, unsweetened cream, and just a dash of cinnamon ..."
Neal chopped spinach and listened to them chat, relaxing slowly into the warm burn of the whiskey in the coffee. He wondered what Moz was doing tonight. Holed up somewhere warm and dry, no doubt, with a glass of wine and a book. Mozzie was nothing if not resourceful.
As if conjured by his thoughts, Neal's phone rang. It wasn't Moz, though; it was Elizabeth.
"You know, I was going to ask Peter to invite you home in this terrible weather, and now it's gone the other way around," Elizabeth said. She sounded cheerful rather than bereft, and possibly a little tipsy.
"We're taking good care of him," Neal said, tucking the phone into the crook of his shoulder so that he could carry on with his cooking. "Keeping him warm and dry just for you. June is currently plying him with whiskey-laced coffee."
"Is that Elizabeth?" Peter asked.
"Peter says hi," Neal translated.
Elizabeth laughed. "Well, keep yourself warm and dry, too. I made cookies, you know. You're more than welcome to come over when the roads are open again and get a few."
"We're having quiche," Neal said. "Spinach and Gruyère."
"I'm sure it's excellent. Eat a piece for me."
"You'll be here in spirit," Neal promised.
While the quiche baked, June brought down a small stack of board games and they played Scrabble at the kitchen table. (Neal had seen her eyeing the deck of cards, but apparently she wasn't feeling like a game of Fleece the Fed at the moment.) When Neal took out the quiche, golden-brown and fragrant, June smiled and said, "I think we should eat where we can see the snow fall, don't you?"
The breakfast nook looking over the front garden turned out to be the perfect place. The snow was still falling, and the street was unusually quiet, the traffic nearly absent. Snow lay heavily on the garden and the ornamental shrubbery and the wall along the front walk.
They made small talk, and ate, and finally June pushed her plate back. "That was excellent, Neal. If you're ever in the market for a career change, I think you might have a bright future as a chef."
"Well, I do own a bakery," Neal said modestly. "Did," he corrected himself, at Peter's bright-eyed, attentive look. "Once. Not for very long. The Greatest Cake is under new management now."
"Yes, I believe the new owner goes by B. Crocker," Peter said. "Which I can't help considering somewhat unlikely."
"Checking up on my former bakery? Peter, I'm flattered."
"As long as you pay taxes on it."
Neal made a cross-my-heart gesture. "The Greatest Cake, not that it's my problem anymore, is entirely on the up-and-up."
Bugsy interrupted the conversation by standing up with his paws on his mistress's leg. "Bugsy needs his evening walk," June said. "I didn't take him earlier; I was hoping the snow would stop." She smiled ruefully. "The weather appears to have other ideas."
"We can take him," Peter said. "It's the least I can do in exchange for your hospitality."
"I'm not going to turn down an offer like that. Just a minute, let me get his coat."
The coat was bright blue and made him look like a small animate pillow. "This dog is no Satchmo," Peter remarked after the second time that Bugsy vanished completely into a drift and had to be rescued and set back on his short, bowed legs. "Can you believe how quiet it is out here?"
They both stood still for a moment. Somewhere, distantly, a siren wailed; somewhere else a snowplow rumbled on its rounds, and a cab passed, throwing up a wave of dirty snow onto the sidewalk. Still, Peter had a point -- Neal couldn't remember when he'd last seen the city like this, hushed under a blanket of snow. It was hard to believe they were surrounded by eight million people. There was a fairy-tale effect to the snow falling around them.
"Takes me back to my childhood," Peter said, absently rescuing Bugsy from another snowdrift. "I grew up near Syracuse, and the winters were colder then than they are now. Lots of snow." He gave Neal a curious look. "St. Louis, right? Snowy winters there, too."
"We did get snow," Neal allowed. "City snow, though. Not really wallow-and-build-snowmen kind of snow."
"You're a city kid through and through."
"Like you hadn't figured that part out already."
Peter scooped up a handful of snow and began to pack a snowball. There was a mischievous light in his eye. "So you've never had a good, proper snowball fight."
"Peter. You wouldn't. I'm unarmed."
The sly twinkle morphed into a friendly grin, and Peter let the half-formed snowball fall to the ground, returning his attention to the dog. "Nah, I'm just --" and that was as far as he got before a loosely packed wad of wet snow hit him in the neck.
"We did have recess, Peter, even in St. Louis," Neal pointed out, reaching for another handful of snow as Peter scrambled for his own.
Bugsy sat in the snow and watched the two humans engage in a flurry of hurtled snowballs, shouts, and breathlessly laughing threats.
June appeared in the doorway, bundled in a coat, and whistled to the dog as she leaned against the doorframe. Bugsy trotted over to her; she unclipped his leash and sent him with a pat into the living room, while she watched the fun, and snapped a picture with her phone to send to Elizabeth later.
"I believe another change of clothing is in order," she remarked when they came dripping into the foyer.
"I believe bed is in order," Peter said, shaking off his wet coat. "Sadly, crime doesn't take snow days."
"Peter is a bad influence on me," Neal told June, wringing out his hair, which earned a half-amused, half-annoyed look from Peter.
"I know," June said, and added, with a wicked sparkle in her eye, "It's what I like most about him."
~
fandom_stocking fics. :DTitle: Snow Day
Fandom: White Collar
Word Count: 2700
Pairing: gen
Summary: It's snowing too hard for Peter to go home to Brooklyn, so Neal takes him home to June's instead.
Crossposted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/635040
The snow started in early afternoon, and by quitting time it had been coming down in fat, wet flakes for hours. When Peter and Neal stepped out of the conference room, where they'd had their heads together over the files for the MorrisTech embezzlement case, several of the White Collar employees were clustered around the police scanner on Jones's desk.
"Sounds like the roads have officially hit the National Weather Service's 'abandon hope all ye who enter' designation," Jones said. "Paraphrasing slightly. They're recommending that people avoid driving if they can, though apparently the subway's a mess too."
"Wonderful," Peter sighed. "Well, it'll give us a chance to go over the accounts for a few more of MorrisTech's employees while things clear up a bit."
Things did not clear up; things, in fact, got worse. People trickled out of the White Collar office throughout the early evening, risking the roads or braving the subways. Eventually Neal got Peter's attention by the simple expedient of throwing a balled-up napkin at this head. "Are we going to stay here all night ... starving ... or go home?"
"You can go home," Peter said wearily. "Traffic's backed up for miles on all the bridges." There was a little bing! and Peter glanced down at the alert on his phone, Neal peeking over his shoulder. "Great. Now the Brooklyn Bridge is closed to Brooklyn-bound traffic. Three-car pileup. Manhattan Bridge is already closed for the same reason."
"Abandon hope, all ye?" Neal asked, quirking a smile. Jones wasn't around to appreciate it; he and Diana had been among the early wave of homebound hopefuls.
"Pretty much," Peter sighed. "Look, you don't have to stick around. I'm not sure how late I'll be. I can always crash in my office if I have to."
A warm bath and a glass of wine at June's sounded vastly preferable to squinting at account books, but something didn't feel quite right about running off, abandoning Peter to bad coffee and case files. "You could probably get uptown, right? Why don't you drive me home, and spend the night at June's? I don't think she'd mind. Save me cab fare and a walk in the snow."
Peter looked like he was trying to muster objections, then gave Neal a lopsided, tired smile. "I'll call El and let her know."
The drive was even more of a nightmare than normal Manhattan driving. Peter kept a white-knuckled grip on the wheel as he slithered through soupy wet snow with taxicabs and buses narrowly missing them. For all Neal's snarky commentary on Peter's driving (usually, in Neal's opinion, quite well-deserved) Peter was actually damned good at navigating Manhattan traffic, and clearly needed all of his reflexes and attention to keep them from inglorious frozen death.
After parking the Taurus at long last behind June's Jaguar, Peter slowly peeled his fingers off the steering wheel, and then rested his head in his hands.
"You okay?" Neal asked, releasing his own deathgrip on the door.
"Just tired." Peter dragged his fingers through his hair. He looked crumpled and a bit gray. "It's been a long day."
They dripped into June's foyer, shedding clumps of wet snow from sodden overcoats and shoes. The maid was nowhere in sight, but June was reading in the living room, with Bugsy on her lap. It was always a luck-of-the-draw sort of thing if Neal saw her in the course of the day or not. Sometimes a week would go by in which they never exchanged a word; and sometimes he spent every evening for a week eating dinner with her and playing poker -- occasionally even winning -- by the light of a stained-glass lamp.
"I'm glad you got in all right; I was beginning to worry," she said to Neal, and her smile extended to encompass Peter. If having an unexpected houseguest dripping on her carpet bothered her, she showed no sign.
"June," Peter said, dipping his head in something that was almost a bow. "Sorry to drop in on you like this."
Her smile widened a notch. "There are extenuating circumstances. And the two of you do look a bit the worse for wear. I'm afraid I gave Peggy the evening off, due to the weather, so I can't offer you much in the way of hospitality."
"I don't mind cooking," Neal said, shaking the snow off his hat, and gave her a winning smile, trying to suppress his chattering teeth.
"Well, use the good kitchen, then. No sense doing it in that tiny kitchen upstairs when there's no one else using the one down here."
"You can have the first shower, Neal," Peter offered.
"Oh, heavens," June said. "One of you can use the master bathroom. No need to take turns. I doubt Byron's things will fit you, Peter; he was a slight man. But I'll look around and see what I can turn up. Maybe some of his looser loungewear ..."
Peter and Neal traded a look, slightly panicked in Peter's case. "I'll take the downstairs bathroom," Neal said quickly -- not without a twinge at the idea of being in June's private space, but it was better than having Peter in June's private space, probably poking through drawers. He escaped to fetch a change of clothes from the apartment before Peter could say anything.
He'd never been inside June's bathroom before. It was as huge and luxurious as he'd expected, with a sunken marble tub that would give some swimming pools size envy, and a fragrance of strawberries in the air. Neal resisted the urge to lounge in the tub, instead warming up with a shower before changing into dry clothes.
He came out to find Peter in the living room, on the phone to Elizabeth. Peter was wearing a sweater that was a little too small for him, and silk pajama bottoms that ended above his ankles. Covering the receiver, Peter said, "El says hi."
"Hi, Elizabeth," Neal called, adding a little wave for good measure, and went in search of June. He found her in the kitchen, hunting through the restaurant-sized refrigerator.
"We haven't very many fresh ingredients on hand, I'm afraid. Peggy left me a single-serving meal to heat up when I was ready, but I didn't expect to feed more than one person tonight. She usually shops for each day's staples when they're needed. And ..." June smiled and shrugged. "I'm a terrible cook. I know it was a vital young lady's skill when I was a young lady, but I was too busy hanging out at the pool hall, looking at the young men."
Neal laughed. "I'm sure there's something. Let me see -- eggs, spinach, Gruyère -- how does a quiche sound?"
"It sounds absolutely perfect. And one thing I do know how to make is the best Irish coffee you'll ever taste." She patted him on the arm. "Tell you what, you get started on dinner, and I'll make us drinks as soon as I go fetch our wandering Fed before he trips and falls down a hidden passageway."
Neal tried unsuccessfully to stifle his grin. "That's probably a good idea."
She was back shortly with Peter in tow. "Still snowing?" Neal asked.
"It's coming down gangbusters, as my aunt Judy would say." Peter, somewhat hesitantly, parked himself at the small table. Although June took most of her meals in the dining room or breakfast nook, the kitchen was also set up for casual dining for a few people.
"How's El?"
"Watching it snow." Peter smiled wistfully. "We were expecting the storm, but not so early. This evening's plan was to order pizza and watch movies while the snow fell outside."
A sharp, unexpected twinge went through Neal. Sometimes life without Kate was like walking on a perfectly even sidewalk, and then every so often stepping into an unexpected hole. This was one of those holes -- not because he and Kate had done that sort of thing, but because they hadn't. That was a fantasy for later, like their plans about kids and a nice little house to retire to, when they'd both had their fill of money and late nights dancing and life on the edge of a tightrope. They had loved their life, but they'd made plans for another life later.
A life that had never happened. And now that it was too late, Neal wished they'd made time for that other life first. He treasured the memories of the things he'd done with her -- that time they drank 200-year-old wine on top of the Eiffel Tower, and that night in the Caribbean, diving off a cruise ship, hand in hand, while the moon made a path to infinity on the dark water ...
And yet he also wished that he had more memories of doing things like snuggling in front of the window, watching the snow fall.
He just wished that he had more memories, period.
He suspected that too much of what he was thinking was showing on his face. June looked wistful, too, as she prepared mixed coffee drinks on the immaculate marble countertop -- clearly thinking about Byron. And Peter was sunk pensively into a state of Elizabeth-less gloom. This party is just getting started, and it's already under a wet blanket, Neal thought, and he made a sweeping gesture with the spatula, getting their attention.
"I'm not snuggling in front of the fireplace with you, Peter, but we have quiche."
Peter snorted.
"And coffee with lots of whiskey," June put in, joining in the spirit. She set a small glass mug in front of Neal and then Peter, with a generous dollop of cream on top of each.
Peter nodded his thanks, and smiled slightly. "Looking on the bright side," he said, "if the neighbor kid comes around looking to shovel the walk before I get home, this'll save me some work. Don't tell El I said that; she thinks it's good for me."
June laughed. "I always used to insist on Byron shoveling the walk himself. He'd point out, each time, that we could easily hire someone to do it. And I'd say that's true, but a little bit of work is good for the soul."
If that wasn't the sort of comment that Peter expected from a con artist, he had the grace not to let it show. Instead, he gave her a wry grin over his coffee. "Have you been comparing notes with Elizabeth? Also, this is really good."
"It's Byron's special recipe. The secret is good quality coffee, unsweetened cream, and just a dash of cinnamon ..."
Neal chopped spinach and listened to them chat, relaxing slowly into the warm burn of the whiskey in the coffee. He wondered what Moz was doing tonight. Holed up somewhere warm and dry, no doubt, with a glass of wine and a book. Mozzie was nothing if not resourceful.
As if conjured by his thoughts, Neal's phone rang. It wasn't Moz, though; it was Elizabeth.
"You know, I was going to ask Peter to invite you home in this terrible weather, and now it's gone the other way around," Elizabeth said. She sounded cheerful rather than bereft, and possibly a little tipsy.
"We're taking good care of him," Neal said, tucking the phone into the crook of his shoulder so that he could carry on with his cooking. "Keeping him warm and dry just for you. June is currently plying him with whiskey-laced coffee."
"Is that Elizabeth?" Peter asked.
"Peter says hi," Neal translated.
Elizabeth laughed. "Well, keep yourself warm and dry, too. I made cookies, you know. You're more than welcome to come over when the roads are open again and get a few."
"We're having quiche," Neal said. "Spinach and Gruyère."
"I'm sure it's excellent. Eat a piece for me."
"You'll be here in spirit," Neal promised.
While the quiche baked, June brought down a small stack of board games and they played Scrabble at the kitchen table. (Neal had seen her eyeing the deck of cards, but apparently she wasn't feeling like a game of Fleece the Fed at the moment.) When Neal took out the quiche, golden-brown and fragrant, June smiled and said, "I think we should eat where we can see the snow fall, don't you?"
The breakfast nook looking over the front garden turned out to be the perfect place. The snow was still falling, and the street was unusually quiet, the traffic nearly absent. Snow lay heavily on the garden and the ornamental shrubbery and the wall along the front walk.
They made small talk, and ate, and finally June pushed her plate back. "That was excellent, Neal. If you're ever in the market for a career change, I think you might have a bright future as a chef."
"Well, I do own a bakery," Neal said modestly. "Did," he corrected himself, at Peter's bright-eyed, attentive look. "Once. Not for very long. The Greatest Cake is under new management now."
"Yes, I believe the new owner goes by B. Crocker," Peter said. "Which I can't help considering somewhat unlikely."
"Checking up on my former bakery? Peter, I'm flattered."
"As long as you pay taxes on it."
Neal made a cross-my-heart gesture. "The Greatest Cake, not that it's my problem anymore, is entirely on the up-and-up."
Bugsy interrupted the conversation by standing up with his paws on his mistress's leg. "Bugsy needs his evening walk," June said. "I didn't take him earlier; I was hoping the snow would stop." She smiled ruefully. "The weather appears to have other ideas."
"We can take him," Peter said. "It's the least I can do in exchange for your hospitality."
"I'm not going to turn down an offer like that. Just a minute, let me get his coat."
The coat was bright blue and made him look like a small animate pillow. "This dog is no Satchmo," Peter remarked after the second time that Bugsy vanished completely into a drift and had to be rescued and set back on his short, bowed legs. "Can you believe how quiet it is out here?"
They both stood still for a moment. Somewhere, distantly, a siren wailed; somewhere else a snowplow rumbled on its rounds, and a cab passed, throwing up a wave of dirty snow onto the sidewalk. Still, Peter had a point -- Neal couldn't remember when he'd last seen the city like this, hushed under a blanket of snow. It was hard to believe they were surrounded by eight million people. There was a fairy-tale effect to the snow falling around them.
"Takes me back to my childhood," Peter said, absently rescuing Bugsy from another snowdrift. "I grew up near Syracuse, and the winters were colder then than they are now. Lots of snow." He gave Neal a curious look. "St. Louis, right? Snowy winters there, too."
"We did get snow," Neal allowed. "City snow, though. Not really wallow-and-build-snowmen kind of snow."
"You're a city kid through and through."
"Like you hadn't figured that part out already."
Peter scooped up a handful of snow and began to pack a snowball. There was a mischievous light in his eye. "So you've never had a good, proper snowball fight."
"Peter. You wouldn't. I'm unarmed."
The sly twinkle morphed into a friendly grin, and Peter let the half-formed snowball fall to the ground, returning his attention to the dog. "Nah, I'm just --" and that was as far as he got before a loosely packed wad of wet snow hit him in the neck.
"We did have recess, Peter, even in St. Louis," Neal pointed out, reaching for another handful of snow as Peter scrambled for his own.
Bugsy sat in the snow and watched the two humans engage in a flurry of hurtled snowballs, shouts, and breathlessly laughing threats.
June appeared in the doorway, bundled in a coat, and whistled to the dog as she leaned against the doorframe. Bugsy trotted over to her; she unclipped his leash and sent him with a pat into the living room, while she watched the fun, and snapped a picture with her phone to send to Elizabeth later.
"I believe another change of clothing is in order," she remarked when they came dripping into the foyer.
"I believe bed is in order," Peter said, shaking off his wet coat. "Sadly, crime doesn't take snow days."
"Peter is a bad influence on me," Neal told June, wringing out his hair, which earned a half-amused, half-annoyed look from Peter.
"I know," June said, and added, with a wicked sparkle in her eye, "It's what I like most about him."
~
no subject
I love Neal's interlude thinking about Kate. Not surprisingly, I have a real fondness for acknowledgement of Kate in fic beyond just the immediate aftereffect of her death. Neal's thoughts on what he had and what he missed feel perfect. And you tie it back to June's grief nice and subtly.
Such a sweet piece to read.
no subject
I think it's easy to forget, in fic, the little touches that tie the characters together with their pasts, perhaps because the show often lets them move on too easily. Kate was such a huge part of Neal's life that the reverberations of her death will be part of his life for as long as he lives, I think.