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elrhiarhodanTitle: In the Stillness of Remembering
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Mozzie, mention of Kate Moreau
Spoilers: S4.01 - Wanted
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~1000
Beta Credit:coffeethyme4me
Summary: Mozzie’s dreams have a way of intruding on Neal’s reality.
A/N: Written forflorastuart for Day Five of Fic-Can-Ukah, for the prompt Nearing Midnight, Neal, Mozzie. Title from Fleetwood Mac’s classic, Dreams
__________________
“The clock’s ticking.”
At Mozzie’s idle comment, Neal looked up from the painting he’s working on. It was one of his favorites, the water lilies at Giverny, a piece he’d done quite a few times under various circumstances.
“It’s almost time to go.”
“Moz?”
But his friend didn’t answer and Neal went back to work. When he painted, he was able to forget all he had left behind. He found solace in the easy brush strokes, the intense color, the blurred definition. Replicating Haystacks would be less challenging, but he loved the flowers, the water. It was the cool greens and blues, and besides, the colors will go better with the villa’s décor than the reds and golds of Haystacks.
“We’re going to be too late, Neal.” Moz noted, but there’s no urgency in his voice.
“Too late for what?” Neal asked, idly.
Like many conversations he’d had with Mozzie over the years, it could be nonsensical up to a point. Neal was patient enough to follow along with Mozzie’s byzantine train of thought until it actually did make sense. He cleaned his brush and stepped back to admire the progress. He was pleased, even though the size of the painting was all wrong – at least for this particular version of Water Lilies. The original was three feet by a little more than three feet, but Neal’s copy was half again as big. He told himself that he had just the right space for a five by five canvas on the bedroom wall, but in truth, he knew that he longer had the heart for larceny like he used to.
His Water Lilies couldn’t be passed off as an original, nor could the outsized Mona Lisa executed on stretched canvas instead of poplar board. All of the other reproductions he’d worked on over the past six weeks had similar issues – the wrong size, the wrong materials. The execution may have flawlessly copied the original artist, but no one with any knowledge of art would accept these as authentic.
“It’s almost midnight, we’ve got to get out of here.”
Neal dropped the brush he’d been holding onto the tray and went over to his friend. There was a glass of something in his hand: silver rum, judging from the bottle on the table. Moz was watching the ocean, the midday sun making it shimmer. His eyes were unfocused though, his mouth slack. Neal eased the glass out of Mozzie’s hand; despite the open eyes, his friend was asleep.
It wasn’t difficult to figure out what Moz was dreaming about. There was a gig they ran, back in the early days after Adler made fools of them all. It was a three-man job – Kate was downstairs, around the back, waiting in a “borrowed” limousine – and they were attempting to liberate an authentic and complete First Folio from a private library. Hale, apparently, had a connection with a Shakespeare-mad Russian oil tycoon who’d pay a cool million for this book. At least that’s what Hale told them. The gentleman fence was probably getting closer to five for it.
They had to be in by 11:47 and out before midnight, and everything would have gone to shit except that Neal had spotted a second set of tripwires and needed another five minutes to clear them. Mozzie stood by, helpless to do anything but urge Neal to work faster. In the end, they ran out of time and had to leave the book behind. There was no second chance for it.
Not one of their best moments. Kate had been pissed, mostly because of the risks they took than their failure to secure the goods. Moz buried himself in one of his Moz-holes for a few weeks. Hale, though, he’d taken it in stride. “No hard feelings, it was a longshot anyway.”
That was a lifetime ago, his dreams were so different back then.
Neal sat at looked at Moz, sound asleep and eyes wide open. His friend’s dreams hadn’t changed – landing the white whale, retiring to a tropical island, living a life of perfect ease. Neal had thought, once upon a time, that he shared that dream, but he never really did. Even as far back as Adler and his first long con with Mozzie, it hadn’t taken much to distract him from that goal. A pair of enormous blue eyes, a sympathetic interest in art, and more importantly, a loving heart, was enough to make him want a different sort of happily ever after.
He sighed – that wasn’t going to happen now. Even if he succeeded in wooing the pretty café owner, she wasn’t going to be his forever. James Maine was as temporary as Nick Halden, George Devore or Steve Tabernacle. He missed New York, he missed being Neal Caffrey, he missed that life, the work, his friends. This island paradise felt like nothing more than an exceedingly luxurious stopover. He was never going to be able to go home, but he wasn’t going to spend his life here in lotus eater land, either.
Moz grunted, muttered something about needing to fashion a grappling hook out of lollipop sticks. He blinked, smacked his lips twice and woke up, looking around like he was completely disoriented. “Wha?”
“You shouldn’t nap during the day, Moz. You know how it affects your equilibrium.”
Moz blinked some more and figured out this particular reality. He grimaced. “Yeah – but I’m a gentleman of leisure now, no need to do anything else.” He scrubbed at his face. “Feels like half the beach took up residence in my mouth.” He heaved himself out of his chair. “I’m going to head back to my place. Meet you at the café in a few hours?”
“Sounds good – I could use a swim.” He had a hat to pick up, and some flirtation to conduct with Maya. He also promised to teach Hector the finer points in pickpocketing. Not a bad way to spend some of the endless amount of time he had. Tomorrow, he’d finish the Water Lilies and start on another project. Maybe a sculpture this time.
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Mozzie, mention of Kate Moreau
Spoilers: S4.01 - Wanted
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~1000
Beta Credit:
coffeethyme4me Summary: Mozzie’s dreams have a way of intruding on Neal’s reality.
A/N: Written for
florastuart for Day Five of Fic-Can-Ukah, for the prompt Nearing Midnight, Neal, Mozzie. Title from Fleetwood Mac’s classic, Dreams“The clock’s ticking.”
At Mozzie’s idle comment, Neal looked up from the painting he’s working on. It was one of his favorites, the water lilies at Giverny, a piece he’d done quite a few times under various circumstances.
“It’s almost time to go.”
“Moz?”
But his friend didn’t answer and Neal went back to work. When he painted, he was able to forget all he had left behind. He found solace in the easy brush strokes, the intense color, the blurred definition. Replicating Haystacks would be less challenging, but he loved the flowers, the water. It was the cool greens and blues, and besides, the colors will go better with the villa’s décor than the reds and golds of Haystacks.
“We’re going to be too late, Neal.” Moz noted, but there’s no urgency in his voice.
“Too late for what?” Neal asked, idly.
Like many conversations he’d had with Mozzie over the years, it could be nonsensical up to a point. Neal was patient enough to follow along with Mozzie’s byzantine train of thought until it actually did make sense. He cleaned his brush and stepped back to admire the progress. He was pleased, even though the size of the painting was all wrong – at least for this particular version of Water Lilies. The original was three feet by a little more than three feet, but Neal’s copy was half again as big. He told himself that he had just the right space for a five by five canvas on the bedroom wall, but in truth, he knew that he longer had the heart for larceny like he used to.
His Water Lilies couldn’t be passed off as an original, nor could the outsized Mona Lisa executed on stretched canvas instead of poplar board. All of the other reproductions he’d worked on over the past six weeks had similar issues – the wrong size, the wrong materials. The execution may have flawlessly copied the original artist, but no one with any knowledge of art would accept these as authentic.
“It’s almost midnight, we’ve got to get out of here.”
Neal dropped the brush he’d been holding onto the tray and went over to his friend. There was a glass of something in his hand: silver rum, judging from the bottle on the table. Moz was watching the ocean, the midday sun making it shimmer. His eyes were unfocused though, his mouth slack. Neal eased the glass out of Mozzie’s hand; despite the open eyes, his friend was asleep.
It wasn’t difficult to figure out what Moz was dreaming about. There was a gig they ran, back in the early days after Adler made fools of them all. It was a three-man job – Kate was downstairs, around the back, waiting in a “borrowed” limousine – and they were attempting to liberate an authentic and complete First Folio from a private library. Hale, apparently, had a connection with a Shakespeare-mad Russian oil tycoon who’d pay a cool million for this book. At least that’s what Hale told them. The gentleman fence was probably getting closer to five for it.
They had to be in by 11:47 and out before midnight, and everything would have gone to shit except that Neal had spotted a second set of tripwires and needed another five minutes to clear them. Mozzie stood by, helpless to do anything but urge Neal to work faster. In the end, they ran out of time and had to leave the book behind. There was no second chance for it.
Not one of their best moments. Kate had been pissed, mostly because of the risks they took than their failure to secure the goods. Moz buried himself in one of his Moz-holes for a few weeks. Hale, though, he’d taken it in stride. “No hard feelings, it was a longshot anyway.”
That was a lifetime ago, his dreams were so different back then.
Neal sat at looked at Moz, sound asleep and eyes wide open. His friend’s dreams hadn’t changed – landing the white whale, retiring to a tropical island, living a life of perfect ease. Neal had thought, once upon a time, that he shared that dream, but he never really did. Even as far back as Adler and his first long con with Mozzie, it hadn’t taken much to distract him from that goal. A pair of enormous blue eyes, a sympathetic interest in art, and more importantly, a loving heart, was enough to make him want a different sort of happily ever after.
He sighed – that wasn’t going to happen now. Even if he succeeded in wooing the pretty café owner, she wasn’t going to be his forever. James Maine was as temporary as Nick Halden, George Devore or Steve Tabernacle. He missed New York, he missed being Neal Caffrey, he missed that life, the work, his friends. This island paradise felt like nothing more than an exceedingly luxurious stopover. He was never going to be able to go home, but he wasn’t going to spend his life here in lotus eater land, either.
Moz grunted, muttered something about needing to fashion a grappling hook out of lollipop sticks. He blinked, smacked his lips twice and woke up, looking around like he was completely disoriented. “Wha?”
“You shouldn’t nap during the day, Moz. You know how it affects your equilibrium.”
Moz blinked some more and figured out this particular reality. He grimaced. “Yeah – but I’m a gentleman of leisure now, no need to do anything else.” He scrubbed at his face. “Feels like half the beach took up residence in my mouth.” He heaved himself out of his chair. “I’m going to head back to my place. Meet you at the café in a few hours?”
“Sounds good – I could use a swim.” He had a hat to pick up, and some flirtation to conduct with Maya. He also promised to teach Hector the finer points in pickpocketing. Not a bad way to spend some of the endless amount of time he had. Tomorrow, he’d finish the Water Lilies and start on another project. Maybe a sculpture this time.
