![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Time stamp Halloween treats
I've noticed a lot of people doing fic timestamps lately! And this seems like a fun way to entertain myself this evening while I hang around eating Halloween candy and waiting for iTunes to put up the new White Collar episode. (Oh, sure, I could do homework, but how much fun is that?)
So let's do fic treats. :) In a comment, give me the name of one of my fics and let me know what you want ("a missing scene from El's point of view", "what happened right after the explosion", "ten years later in this universe", "AU in which Peter got shot instead of Neal", etc) and I'll write a commentfic of at least a hundred words for you!
Or, if there's something specific you want that isn't a timestamp, you can ask for that instead.
Any fandom I've written in is fine. Though I'll tell you right up front that it's very likely I won't write all of them (I've basically been a failboat at answering comments lately), and I'm probably more likely to write the WC ones because that's where my brain is right now.
I'm putting this up kind of early (still on campus & about to go to class, won't be home for a couple hours yet) so there will be some prompts waiting for me when I get back tonight!
So let's do fic treats. :) In a comment, give me the name of one of my fics and let me know what you want ("a missing scene from El's point of view", "what happened right after the explosion", "ten years later in this universe", "AU in which Peter got shot instead of Neal", etc) and I'll write a commentfic of at least a hundred words for you!
Or, if there's something specific you want that isn't a timestamp, you can ask for that instead.
Any fandom I've written in is fine. Though I'll tell you right up front that it's very likely I won't write all of them (I've basically been a failboat at answering comments lately), and I'm probably more likely to write the WC ones because that's where my brain is right now.
I'm putting this up kind of early (still on campus & about to go to class, won't be home for a couple hours yet) so there will be some prompts waiting for me when I get back tonight!
no subject
Ghost Stories in the Van: Next Halloween
Edit: Oh, I thought of putting up a similar post on my journal, but doubt my ability to follow through. But I could handle one request, so if you want to make one, feel free!
no subject
---
Neal was late.
This wasn't completely unheard-of. Usually it meant he was up to something. If it hadn't been for his light glowing steady and green at June's, Peter would have gotten concerned sooner than he did.
Because today was November 1, which meant yesterday had been Halloween, and Neal ...
Peter had invited him over for dinner the night before. "C'mon over to our place. You can laugh at our costumes and help us hand out candy to the neighborhood urchins." If he could get Neal to come, he had every intention of plying him with wine and encouraging him to stay the night as well.
Neal had looked pleased and genuinely regretful when he smiled and said he had other plans. "But thank you," he'd said, and hesitated in the doorway of Peter's office. "For everything."
I should have pushed harder.
But Neal's light had stayed steady all night -- Peter woke up restlessly throughout the night, checked the signal every time, and found it right where it should be. It still was. There hadn't even been a slight deviation.
And now Neal's phone was going to voice mail.
When Neal was an hour late, Peter decided to run over to June's.
He was being foolish, he told himself. Neal had been up late and lost track of time. Neal was having breakfast with June. Neal was helping Mozzie forge something and taking a calculated risk ...
He took the stairs to Neal's apartment two at a time.
When he opened the door, a draft of ice-cold air hit him. The place was freezing.
Peter stepped inside and saw why: the doors to the terrace stood open. All the lights were off, and although daylight flooded the room, there was something empty about it.
"Neal?" Peter called. He closed the doors after taking a look out onto the terrace, but it was empty. The early November weather was too chilly for taking breakfast outside.
"Neal?"
He had to take out his phone and check Neal's tracking data again. Neal was supposed to be right here, in the apartment, in bed. Peter put away the phone and -- loathe to invade Neal's privacy, but deeply worried now -- approached the bed. The corner was in shadow.
"Neal, it's time for work."
He turned on a lamp, illuminating the corner. The silk sheets were rumpled, but clearly empty of occupants. The only thing marring their ivory perfection was a single dark object sitting in the middle of the bed.
It was Neal's tracking anklet, the light still glowing a reassuring green.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
--------
It seemed like some sort of cruel cosmic joke to Sara, that she would move halfway around the world just as her friends' lives fell apart. No better than the thought of Peter in prison was the thought of what sort of dangerous stunts Neal would pull to get him out.
And then Peter was released, and Neal came through it in one piece at least, so Sara thought the worst was over. But then Neal started calling less, and when they did talk he sounded like he was thousands of miles away figuratively as well as literally.
So, Sara felt a a mix of relief and apprehension when she saw Neal's name on her phone. "Hey there."
"Hi, Sara."
There was something off about his voice. "Are you all right?"
"Me? I'm fine." Now something sounded really wrong.
Sara's gut clenched. "Is Peter all right?"
Neal gave a shaky, humorless laugh. "Peter's fine. It's Seigel."
It took a moment for Sara to connect the name to a person. "Your new handler? What happened to him?
"He's dead."
"Oh, god, Neal. I'm so sorry. What happened?"
"They said it was a mugging gone wrong."
Sara had spent enough time with Neal to know that he wouldn't lie when the exact truth would serve just as well. And something just wasn't right with his voice. "They said? Neal, what happened?" she asked as gently as she could.
Neal was silent for a long moment. "It's my fault," he finally said.
Of course it's not. The comforting words immediately leapt to Sara's lips, but she stopped herself. There was a certainty in Neal's tone. And besides, an overabundance of guilt had never been Neal's problem. Still, Sara knew that Neal would have never intentionally let someone get hurt like that. This had to be a terrible, tragic mistake. "Have you talked to Peter?"
"I can't."
"Neal, whatever it is, Peter will help you."
"I can't, Sara. Peter can't find out about this."
God, what had Neal gotten mixed up in? "Do you need me to fly out?"
"No!" Neal said with an intensity that surprised Sara. "No, you should stay right where you are, far away."
Sara could have taken it as rejection, but she knew it wasn't that. Neal didn't sound nervous or worried, he was afraid. When had she ever seen Neal Caffrey afraid? "Neal," she told him softy, "you can always talk to me." She swallowed. "The first time we tried this, I ran from you, and I don't regret it. Then you ran from everybody, and I understand why. But I'm not running from you anymore. So, whatever it is, you can tell me."
Neal was quite a long time before he said, "I can't yet. Maybe not ever. But I won't forget that you offered."
"Neal, please take care of yourself." It wasn't until she had said it that Sara remembered that it was exactly what she had said when she left him the first time.
"You know me."
"Yes, that's why I said it."
He managed a little laugh at that. "I'll call you later, Repo."
"You'd better."
After Neal hung up, Sara set the phone aside with a sigh. She was tempted to damn the consequences and fly to New York anyway, but she didn't want to be one more thing for Neal to worry about. She was stuck waiting, which had never been her strong suit. Waiting and hoping that they'd all come out of this all right, just like they had before.
She made a mental note to pick up another postcard to send. They were such tiny, insignificant things, but part of her hoped that they might mean something, a tangible reminder that she was part of his life, and she had no intention of leaving. A reminder, however small, that he was loved.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
---
One of the first things Neal did when he came to stay (semi) permanently in Apple Corners was start his first cache.
Since then he'd built up caches in most of the places he had access to. He was very circumspect about it and very careful. In the city it would have been easier, even if he'd had his movements restricted by a tracking anklet, because he could have purchased almost anything without people remembering him. In a place this close-knit, with so few people, he couldn't even step out the door without someone saying hi to him, which was a problem if he wanted to, say, buy a few hundred dollars' worth of survival equipment.
So he was very careful and circumspect, and built up his caches one item at a time. The big issue was that he knew if Peter caught him, especially if he was caught in the act of obtaining some of the more questionable items (a tent, say; survival rations; envelopes filled with twenty-dollar bills) Peter would think he was going to run. And Neal wasn't sure what he could say to convince him otherwise. He didn't know how to explain that he wasn't planning to run, at least not at the moment, but if he had to pick up and leave at a moment's notice, he had no intention of being caught empty-handed.
The to-go bag he kept at Mrs. Ellison's boarding house was the most important and also, quite likely, the most incriminating, since it contained (among other things) several passports, IDs, and credit cards in names not his own. He spent one rainy Saturday, too wet to go out to the farm, very carefully constructing a hiding place behind the bathroom cabinet. He had a close call on that one; Peter's distinctive sharp knock came just as he finished. Neal was covered in sawdust and glue, with construction items all over the bathroom. He was pretty sure he set a world speed record for yanking off his clothes, turning on the shower, and jumping under the ice-cold water just long enough to get his hair wet; then he sogged his way over to the bathroom door and cracked it just enough to peek out. Peter -- who, in his role as Neal's parole officer, seemed to believe closed doors didn't apply to him -- had already come in and was looking around. Seeing Neal's wet head peeking around the door, he looked abashed.
"Peter," Neal said.
"Uh, hi. El had to stop into the bakery for a little while and I figured I'd drop by and see if you wanted to join us for dinner."
"Sounds great, but I kinda just jumped in the shower," Neal said. Which had the benefit of being completely, technically true. "How about I come by the bakery in half an hour?"
"Sounds great," Peter said, and left, or at least pretended to leave. Neal locked the bathroom door to be on the safe side and left the shower running while he cleaned up the mess.
But in general, it went smoothly. He had a cache in the loft of the Burkes' barn -- all the way in the back, under a loose board where it looked like no one had been in years. He had one in the vacant lot behind the Walmart and one behind a loose wall panel in the bakery and one near a particular telephone pole outside town.
He'd carefully made sure that most of them could not be traced to him. The only exceptions were the two most important ones -- the bag in his bathroom, and the one in the Burkes' loft, which also had a spare ID -- which were not only the ones he was most likely to use, but the ones that were undeniably going to be attributed to him if they were found. The rest he kept completely generic. They contained basic going-on-the-run supplies, a slightly different mix in each case depending on what he'd been able to drop off there: warm jackets, a change of clothes, first-aid supplies, food, water, cash.
Peter would think he was preparing to run. Elizabeth and her family would probably think he was being completely paranoid. But none of them had ever been stranded miles from home, cut off from all their usual supply channels.
It wasn't paranoia. It was just good survival sense.
After he'd been in Apple Corners for a year or two, as he did his regular rounds of the caches and swapped out expired items for new ones, he started adding a few extra items. A bigger jacket or two that Peter could probably wear. Some extra items of clothing and toiletries for women and kids. He'd already started doing it before he consciously realized what he was doing, and when he did, he had to laugh at himself. It was the first time he acknowledged, if only in a small way, that if he had to run again he might not be doing it alone.
Neal supposed this was his own way of settling in.
no subject
no subject
Thank you so much :D
no subject
...I'm going to ask for a followup on Daddy was a Rolling Stone for how Calloway left the White Collar department.
no subject
----
It takes her a week to turn in the paperwork. But in the end it's the easiest decision she's ever made.
And it has nothing to do with the looks she gets after Burke goes to prison. The people here ... they blame her. It's a hard pill to swallow, but she understands the psychology behind it, at least. Burke, for right or wrong, was and is well-liked. So is Hughes. And they're a tight-knit bunch, the White Collar team. She not only put cuffs on their beloved boss, but she walked into their comfortably disorderly world and started trying to impose a top-down order on it, and they are never going to forgive her. They might have accepted that kind of authority coming from someone like Hughes: an old man with the weight of years of tradition behind him. But not from her.
That's a small thing, though, in the long run. That's not what matters. Lots of people are going to say things like Just didn't have the balls for the job, I guess. She knows it, and for the first time in her life, she doesn't care.
She lays her paperwork on her boss's desk and speaks the words aloud, to make them real. "I quit."
***
She hasn't told her mother yet. Hasn't told her sisters. All Amanda ever wanted to do was be a cop. She still doesn't know how she's going to tell them that she isn't anymore, and she can't begin to imagine how to explain why.
Instead, she flies to Chicago to see an old friend.
***
"You wanna talk about it?"
It's a Chicago kind of day out, sitting on the lakefront and eating hot dogs bought from a sidewalk vendor in a Cubs cap. The wide concrete bike path and jogging trail goes right to the lake, so you can sit and dangle your feet and feed the ducks. It's David's weekend and Amanda is wearing jeans for the first time since she was a teenager. Her open-toed sandals swing above the lake's rolling waves. It's odd, she thinks: a lake with waves like an ocean.
"I had to walk away," she says, feeling it out, worrying at the problem like a sore tooth, "because all I ever was, they wanted me to be. And I was good at it" -- so good at it she's fucking sick about it -- "but in the end, I couldn't be that anymore."
"I get that," he says after a moment.
She knew he would. David was her probie when he first got out of Quantico. He didn't want the rank and file guys to know about his privileged past and the reasons why he walked away from it, but he talked about it with her. She still remembers those long stakeout nights, those days poring over files as she taught him about casework and he told her about a world of high-flying crooks in expensive suits.
They both walked away because they found themselves embedded in a rotten system. The irony is that David ran to the very thing she's now running from.
She wants to keep talking, to tell him about some of the things she knows and can't prove. But she can't rip his illusions away. David is the kind of agent that the corruption-riddled FBI sorely needs. He's not like her father, not like Burke -- David is a good agent and a good person, devoted to real justice, not a cowboy bastardization of it. He arrested his own half-brother and his wife's father. David wouldn't make the compromises she's made.
The FBI system needs him, and he needs it. She's not going to take that away from him.
"I heard about Stephanie," she says, gently steering the subject elsewhere. "I'm sorry."
"Endings and beginnings," he says with a rueful twist of his mouth.
***
A month later, she's living with her sister and waiting to hear back from the pre-med program at Stanford when she gets an email from David. Hey, guess where I'm headed? Your old stomping ground: New York White Collar.
God damn, she thinks. It all comes full circle, doesn't it.
Good luck, she sends back. You'll be good for the place. They're lucky to have you.
no subject
no subject
no subject
I love your Callaway so much, and I love her perspective on events.
I also love how you connect her to Seigel. It makes total sense to me. Of course, it makes me feel even sorrier for her. What isn't this woman going to lose to New York White Collar? When all she wanted to do was the right thing. (But isn't what this show is all about? People just trying to do the right thing, and all the different ways they go about it.)
no subject