![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: Fortune Presents Gifts (not according to the book)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Rating: PG
Fandom: White Collar
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Peter/Elizabeth/Neal (OT3 implied)
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers:None
Word Count: ~1200
Summary: At last, a gift from Neal that Peter is willing to accept.
Originally written forthefannishwaldo’s Story Tree, polished and expanded for republication on my journal.
________________
“Happy birthday, Peter.” Neal’s greeting is quiet as he leans on the glass door frame, half committed to the entry. A brown bag is at his feet. It’s the end of the work day.
Despite a heavy case load, the entire staff had gathered at midday in the conference room with cake, candles and coffee (courtesy of Elizabeth) to celebrate the Big 5-0, much to Peter’s delight and embarrassment. Diana contributed a funny party hat and when all the candles were lit, Hughes threatened to get the fire extinguisher – cracking a joke about fifty candles burning down the office.
Neal joins in the fun, his lovely tenor adding a sweetly harmonic note to the otherwise indifferent chorus of well-wishing singers. But he doesn’t press forward or take the lead in the merriment. It isn’t the time. In any event, Neal wants to give Peter his gift in private, or at least in as private a setting as this glass fishbowl of an office could provide.
He stands there as Peter looks up; his bifocals are perched on the end of his nose. Neal takes a deep, steadying breath at the sight. For three years, Peter’s presbyopia has had the power to tie him in knots. More precisely, the cure for the problem can cause severely painful and almost instantaneous arousal. Neal is able to control his reactions most of the time, especially at the office, but when he unexpectedly encounters the glasses – particularly when the glasses are on the end of Peter’s nose, all the blood in his brain seems to migrate to his dick.
Today, Peter takes pity on him this time and momentarily doffs the lenses.
Neal comes in, closes the door behind him and puts the bag on the small worktable. “How does it feel to be fifty?”
If Peter notices his odd nervousness, he doesn’t say anything. “It feels the same as being forty-nine, and I suspect the same as being fifty-one. It’s just a date.” He shrugs but doesn’t take his eyes off Neal.
“I got you something. A birthday present.” Neal is diffident, he feels unsure of both himself and his gift.
“Neal…you don’t have to give me presents.” This is a conversation they have had a number of times.
Since they became something more than husband, wife and friend, Neal has tried to shower Peter and Elizabeth with gifts – small, highly valuable tokens of his love and adoration. And every time he does so, Peter gently hands them back. No matter how many times Neal protests that this bibelot or that objet is obtained legally, Peter insists that neither he nor Elizabeth can accept it.
So Neal simply stops giving them things. It hurts - rejection always does, but in a way, it helps him too. Neal is beginning to finally believe that Peter and Elizabeth love him for himself, and not what he can give them.
Which is why he is giving Peter his birthday gift now, here in the office. If he is going to object, going to reject, doing here, in a semi-public space would somehow make it just a little less personal, a little less painful, in Neal’s mind.
He hands Peter the bag, a small smile pasted on his lips.
“For you.”
Peter sighs and opens his mouth to say something, but Neal cuts him off.
“Don’t say anything yet, Peter. Just open it.”
Peter reaches into the bag and extracts a flat, weighty box. There isn’t a whole lot of festive wrapping – just a sadly squashed red bow disguising the piece of tape holding the flaps closed.
Neal holds his breath as Peter removes the bow and peels back the tape. The flaps pop opened and Peter pulls out a well-worn leather bound sketch book.
Peter looked up, a slightly stricken expression on his face. “Neal, what have you done?”
“I finished it – I want you to have it.”
For the past two years, Neal has been sketching Peter – secretly and not so secretly. Peter’s tried to look in the book many times - to see what Neal’s doing (he feels he is entitled to, as he’s the subject of the work), but Neal’s kept it away from his friend’s, his lover’s prying eyes. It once caused a rather heated argument until Elizabeth finally put her foot down and told Peter that even Neal is entitled to a little privacy.
Neal feels the start of a flop sweat building along his spine. He hates his own artwork – it always seems derivative, mediocre and lacking imagination. But the sketches in this book – even to his critical eye, seemed extraordinary. Maybe it is the subject matter – or maybe it’s just his inflated sense of pride.
Peter finally opens the cover and reads the inscription. “To Peter Burke, a confident man, and a subject that can’t be stolen, faked or forged.”
He flips to a page near the beginning of the book - a sketch of him working late at the office, drawn from a distant perspective and Neal immediately remembers the night he drew it. They had just come back from hearing the verdict in the Edward Walker case - Peter had testified, Neal hadn’t, and Peter needed to finish a report before heading out with the team to celebrate. Most of the office was already at the bar, but Neal wanted to wait for Peter. So he had used the time to do a study captioned, “An FBI Agent at Work.” It might have been an art school exercise in shadow and suggestion, except for the exquisite detail Neal applies to Peter’s face and hands - the furrowed brow, the rough fingernails and the oddly truncated middle finger on his right hand.
Peter smiles at the picture - and the next one, which features a comically guilty looking Satchmo, the remains of El’s meatloaf and Peter standing over him, smiling and shaking a finger. The caption, “Bad Dog?” is extremely appropriate.
Peter closes the book and runs a hand across the smooth leather cover, apparently savoring the texture. He smiles at Neal, that particularly sweet curve of lips that tells him he is special, he is loved. Neal rarely sees it in the office, and he treasures it more than gold.
And Peter’s next words are like diamonds. “Neal, thank you. This is a gift I can accept.”
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanRating: PG
Fandom: White Collar
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Peter/Elizabeth/Neal (OT3 implied)
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers:None
Word Count: ~1200
Summary: At last, a gift from Neal that Peter is willing to accept.
Originally written for
thefannishwaldo’s Story Tree, polished and expanded for republication on my journal.
“Happy birthday, Peter.” Neal’s greeting is quiet as he leans on the glass door frame, half committed to the entry. A brown bag is at his feet. It’s the end of the work day.
Despite a heavy case load, the entire staff had gathered at midday in the conference room with cake, candles and coffee (courtesy of Elizabeth) to celebrate the Big 5-0, much to Peter’s delight and embarrassment. Diana contributed a funny party hat and when all the candles were lit, Hughes threatened to get the fire extinguisher – cracking a joke about fifty candles burning down the office.
Neal joins in the fun, his lovely tenor adding a sweetly harmonic note to the otherwise indifferent chorus of well-wishing singers. But he doesn’t press forward or take the lead in the merriment. It isn’t the time. In any event, Neal wants to give Peter his gift in private, or at least in as private a setting as this glass fishbowl of an office could provide.
He stands there as Peter looks up; his bifocals are perched on the end of his nose. Neal takes a deep, steadying breath at the sight. For three years, Peter’s presbyopia has had the power to tie him in knots. More precisely, the cure for the problem can cause severely painful and almost instantaneous arousal. Neal is able to control his reactions most of the time, especially at the office, but when he unexpectedly encounters the glasses – particularly when the glasses are on the end of Peter’s nose, all the blood in his brain seems to migrate to his dick.
Today, Peter takes pity on him this time and momentarily doffs the lenses.
Neal comes in, closes the door behind him and puts the bag on the small worktable. “How does it feel to be fifty?”
If Peter notices his odd nervousness, he doesn’t say anything. “It feels the same as being forty-nine, and I suspect the same as being fifty-one. It’s just a date.” He shrugs but doesn’t take his eyes off Neal.
“I got you something. A birthday present.” Neal is diffident, he feels unsure of both himself and his gift.
“Neal…you don’t have to give me presents.” This is a conversation they have had a number of times.
Since they became something more than husband, wife and friend, Neal has tried to shower Peter and Elizabeth with gifts – small, highly valuable tokens of his love and adoration. And every time he does so, Peter gently hands them back. No matter how many times Neal protests that this bibelot or that objet is obtained legally, Peter insists that neither he nor Elizabeth can accept it.
So Neal simply stops giving them things. It hurts - rejection always does, but in a way, it helps him too. Neal is beginning to finally believe that Peter and Elizabeth love him for himself, and not what he can give them.
Which is why he is giving Peter his birthday gift now, here in the office. If he is going to object, going to reject, doing here, in a semi-public space would somehow make it just a little less personal, a little less painful, in Neal’s mind.
He hands Peter the bag, a small smile pasted on his lips.
“For you.”
Peter sighs and opens his mouth to say something, but Neal cuts him off.
“Don’t say anything yet, Peter. Just open it.”
Peter reaches into the bag and extracts a flat, weighty box. There isn’t a whole lot of festive wrapping – just a sadly squashed red bow disguising the piece of tape holding the flaps closed.
Neal holds his breath as Peter removes the bow and peels back the tape. The flaps pop opened and Peter pulls out a well-worn leather bound sketch book.
Peter looked up, a slightly stricken expression on his face. “Neal, what have you done?”
“I finished it – I want you to have it.”
For the past two years, Neal has been sketching Peter – secretly and not so secretly. Peter’s tried to look in the book many times - to see what Neal’s doing (he feels he is entitled to, as he’s the subject of the work), but Neal’s kept it away from his friend’s, his lover’s prying eyes. It once caused a rather heated argument until Elizabeth finally put her foot down and told Peter that even Neal is entitled to a little privacy.
Neal feels the start of a flop sweat building along his spine. He hates his own artwork – it always seems derivative, mediocre and lacking imagination. But the sketches in this book – even to his critical eye, seemed extraordinary. Maybe it is the subject matter – or maybe it’s just his inflated sense of pride.
Peter finally opens the cover and reads the inscription. “To Peter Burke, a confident man, and a subject that can’t be stolen, faked or forged.”
He flips to a page near the beginning of the book - a sketch of him working late at the office, drawn from a distant perspective and Neal immediately remembers the night he drew it. They had just come back from hearing the verdict in the Edward Walker case - Peter had testified, Neal hadn’t, and Peter needed to finish a report before heading out with the team to celebrate. Most of the office was already at the bar, but Neal wanted to wait for Peter. So he had used the time to do a study captioned, “An FBI Agent at Work.” It might have been an art school exercise in shadow and suggestion, except for the exquisite detail Neal applies to Peter’s face and hands - the furrowed brow, the rough fingernails and the oddly truncated middle finger on his right hand.
Peter smiles at the picture - and the next one, which features a comically guilty looking Satchmo, the remains of El’s meatloaf and Peter standing over him, smiling and shaking a finger. The caption, “Bad Dog?” is extremely appropriate.
Peter closes the book and runs a hand across the smooth leather cover, apparently savoring the texture. He smiles at Neal, that particularly sweet curve of lips that tells him he is special, he is loved. Neal rarely sees it in the office, and he treasures it more than gold.
And Peter’s next words are like diamonds. “Neal, thank you. This is a gift I can accept.”
