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elrhiarhodanTitle: Let’s Play Among the Stars
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Clinton Jones, Neal/Clinton
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~2100
Summary: It’s Christmas, 2014 and Clinton Jones is tired of seeing Neal long for something he’ll never have.
A/N: Beta’d by my ever-wonderful friends,jrosemary and rabidchild67. All mistakes are mine and mine alone. Written for tj_teejay’s White Collar Advent Calendar, Day 18. Title is inspired by the classic song, “Fly Me To The Moon” by Bert Howard and made famous by Old Blue Eyes himself.
__________________
Technically, the U.S. Government doesn’t pay for staff holiday parties. They especially don’t pay for booze at staff holiday parties, but somehow, every year, departments in the FBI field office find a little extra cash in their budgets and ways to celebrate, even in a city as expensive as New York.
For the White Collar division, it doesn’t hurt that the senior case agent’s wife is one of the city’s premier event planners and has connections right and left (and sideways too, but no one really mentions those). And so, as the year 2014 comes to a close, many of the staff and agents are in a pleasantly buzzed state after a delicious dinner at the very trendy Bowery Hotel.
Not only is the food good and the booze top shelf, the dance floor is crowded, too. They have a DJ – a smart one who refuses to spin such office party staples as the Electric Slide and the Macarena, but he does accept a twenty from Reese Hughes to play Time Warp, perhaps because of his uncanny likeness (sans hump) to Riff-Raff.
But despite the occasional descent into holiday silliness, the party is an elegant affair, tuxedoes on the men, gowns for the ladies (and Diana still manages to get her thigh holster on under the flame-red Vera Wang).
Everyone is happy, everyone is having a good time.
---
“You don’t look so happy, Neal” Clinton says as he drops into the seat next to him.
He shrugs. “I’m okay.” He is, really – this state of affairs is nothing new.
“Bad time of year for you?”
Neal wonders if he is referring to Kate’s death. It hurt, still – after so long. “It’s okay.” But it’s not Kate. He just never thought that on the downward slide to forty, he would still be alone. “They make such a lovely couple.” Neal tilts his glass in the direction of the dance floor.
“Yes, they certainly do.”
Peter and Elizabeth are spinning across the floor, performing a waltz that leaves no doubt that they are as complete a couple as ever existed.
“Are you still hoping?” Clinton’s tone is neutral, almost disinterested.
“Hoping for what?” Neal pastes a tight little smile on his lips.
“That they’ll actually see you.”
He looks at his friend; those deep, dark eyes were filled with something too close to pity and a rush of self awareness crawls across his skin. “They see me well enough.”
Clinton sips his beer, his eyes never leaving Neal’s face. “Then you just enjoy being on the outside?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Neal is ready to leave. This isn’t fun anymore. He puts his glass on the table and stands.
“Wait – wait. I’m sorry.” Clinton’s hand is on his wrist. “I’ll go.”
Neal shook his head and made a production of checking his cellphone. “It’s time I got going – I’ve got plans after this.”
“Ah, the great Neal Caffrey – legendary party animal. Hope your hot date is going to keep you in your radius.”
Clinton’s tone is bitter now, and Neal can’t understand why. “What’s your problem? Did I dance with your date one too many times?”
“I didn’t bring a date – you know that. Besides, you didn’t dance with anyone but Diana and Elizabeth. You never dance with anyone else.”
“Then why are you angry with me?” Neal doesn’t like the way this feels. When Peter gets angry with him, he usually understands why, it’s usually his fuck-up. But Clinton is perhaps the steadiest friend he has at the Bureau; someone he can count on, no matter what. “So, what did I do to you?”
“Nothing, you did absolutely nothing.” Clinton drops the bottle on the table and gets up. He takes a few steps and turns back to him. “You’re wasting your heart on the impossible, you know.”
Neal knows just what Clinton is talking about. His impossible dream still spins across the dance floor, perfectly in time with each other and always just out of his reach. Like dancers on a music box.
“What do you want from me?” He asks, but he really doesn’t want to hear Clinton’s answer, which is probably going to be a warning on how not to fuck everything up.
Clinton doesn’t surprise him. “I want you to realize that there’s more out there. That you don’t have to waste your life longing for what you’ll never have. That there are other people who can give you what you need.”
He has had enough of this. Enough of Clinton’s anger and his pity and his moralizing. “If I want to waste my life, what is it to you?” He stalks past the other man, skirting the dance floor and leaves.
Neal needs fresh air. He retrieves his coat from the check room and heads out.
---
It’s starting to snow - maybe a brisk walk home will clear his head, give him the strength to put his heart away for the balance of the year. It will all be over, come October.
But Neal stands just under the hotel’s awning, watching the snow fall. It melts as soon as it hits the pavement, but the big wet flakes create a white, lacy crust on the decorative evergreens along the sidewalk. His breath streams out in thin, white puffs; the temperature is dropping and the snow will probably start sticking on the streets and sidewalks soon. It will be a rare white Christmas.
The door opens and Clinton is there, staring at him, but Neal doesn’t move. He just continues to watch the snow fall and the cars go by.
The door behind them opens again. A group of inebriated hotel guests pour out and head downtown. It’s time for him to leave. Time for him to go home, back to a life populated by unobtainable dreams. He starts walking north and figures he’d take the subway from Penn Station if the weather gets too bad.
Neal doesn’t even get to the corner when Clinton calls after him. “Nice, Caffrey, really nice, to leave the holiday party without saying good night.” Neal ignores him. The people inside have own their families, their own partners. They won’t miss him.
“I suppose when that thing comes off next fall, you’ll leave without a word then, too.”
Neal stops. He stalks back to Clinton, who was just a few paces behind, and grabs him by the lapels. “I’m not your punching bag - not tonight, not any night.” He pulls the larger man, who is probably shocked from being manhandled, around the corner. “I don’t take this from anyone.”
“No, Neal, you’re wrong. You seem to take it from Peter all the time.”
He steps back, shock now warring with anger. “Peter doesn’t – how dare you even suggest that!”
“He may not hurt you deliberately – but you’ve tried to give him your heart for years. When will you see that he doesn’t even know you’re offering it?” All of the anger is gone from Clinton. Even his posture is one of defeat. “I don’t know why I even try.” He walks away from Neal, skidding a bit on the now slippery pavement
“Why do you care?” Neal calls after him.
“I care because you’re my friend.” He turns back to Neal. “I’ve been watching you get hurt over and over again for the last four years. I think, for a smart man – one who sees everyone so clearly – you’re pretty damn blind when it comes to yourself.”
Neal blinks. The snowflakes are getting in his eyes. Or maybe it’s the tears. “If I give up that dream, I have nothing left.”
“It’s easier to long for the impossible than risk everything for possible, right?”
He gives Clinton a half-smile. “Succinctly put, Agent Jones. I never realized you were quite that wise.”
“Call it the wisdom of experience.”
Neal starts walking back to the hotel. He should at least wish everyone a Merry Christmas or something before heading out. “I didn’t think Isabelle hurt you that much.”
“I wasn’t talking about her. I was the one who broke it off, remember?”
“Ah – so there is another woman in your mysterious past.” Neal tries to make light of this new information.
“I didn’t say it was a woman. And I didn’t say it was in my past”
Neal stops. He feels like he is on the verge of solving some ancient puzzle. “Then who? Who would you have risked everything for?”
Clinton steps close, his bigger body sheltering Neal from the falling snow. “You. If I thought I had the least chance, if I thought that there was one small possibility that you’d look at anyone but Peter, I’d have wooed you with everything I had to give.” He touches Neal’s face, long, slim fingers tracing a line from the corner of his eye to his jaw.
Neal’s world shifts and cracks open. “No. Don’t do this to yourself.”
“Why not – why can’t I reach for the brass ring? Why can’t I have a little happiness too?”
“Because I’ll only end up disappointing you. You deserve better.”
“You are such a puzzle.” There’s a lot of affection in that simple statement.
“What do you mean?”
“For someone who has an endless fascination with all things valuable, you have no idea just how valuable you – Neal Caffrey – are.” Clinton’s voice is low, deep and warm enough to melt the snow collecting on his shoulders. His hand doesn’t leave Neal’s face, cupping his cheek.
“Everyone I care for – I hurt. I don’t think I could bear to lose your friendship. I don’t think I could bear it if you ended up hating me, or worse.” The words tumble out of his mouth, he’s horrified at what he’s revealing.
More people pour from the hotel, laughing with wonder at the whitening cityscape. Neal lets Clinton pull him back inside, into one of the dark corners of the lobby.
He reaches up and touches that dear face, his own fingers tracing the path of the newly regrown goatee, the border of smooth flesh and surprisingly soft hair. “You deserve so much more than this – more than someone who has worn out their heart on the impossible.”
“Maybe, but I’m betting that your heart isn’t as worn out as you think.”
“What do you want?” He wonders what he is going to regret more: asking that question or hearing the answer.
“Right now, all I want to do is go back into that ballroom and slow dance with you.” There is no smile on his lips, but Clinton’s eyes are shining.
“You know what that’s going to do – everyone’s going to start talking. About us.”
“Maybe – and maybe not. And maybe I just don’t care. Do you?”
This is a moment – singular and significant. “Okay.” He knows his posture is challenging, almost defiant.
“Come on –” Clinton takes his hand and pulls him back into the ballroom. Quite ironically, or maybe quite perfectly, the DJ has just put on the old Sinatra classic, “Fly Me To The Moon” as they walk onto the dance floor.
Fly me to the moon
Let me play among the stars
Clinton holds out his arms and Neal gives him a little smile. “What makes you think I’m letting you lead?”
“So I’ll follow, if you let me.”
Neal opens his arms and his stomach flutters with butterflies. It’s an old feeling – the excitement at the start of something new. Clinton takes his hand and they move to the easy swinging beat of the music.
“Of course, our first dance would have to be Sinatra.”
“Is this going to this our song?” Neal looks up at Clinton’s face and thinks he’ll never be able to hear these lyrics again without thinking of this moment.
“Yeah, this will be our song.”
He wonders at the sudden happiness, it’s been a stranger for a long time. But he won’t question it, not now, not here. He leans into Clinton – neither of them are leading. They really aren’t dancing as much as shifting across the floor in a mutually needed embrace. They pass friends and colleagues and Neal doesn’t look at any of them.
The music fades out and Clinton pulls him into a dark corner.
“I want to kiss you. May I?”
Neal swallows, his mouth dry. “Please. Yes, please.” He hopes he doesn’t sound desperate, like he’s begging. He needs this more than he needs to breathe.
Clinton leans in and Neal, in a rush of desire and need, captures his head between his hands and holds him close. Their lips meet, parted. Clinton tastes like beer and chocolate and full of wonder. He tastes strong and real and like everything Neal had been longing for, but couldn’t seem to find.
And Clinton kisses him back, mouth moving on his, hands in his hair, hot and so gentle and just … perfect.
They come up for air, Neal rests his forehead against Clinton’s, they are so close their eyelashes tangle. He can’t think of anything to say. Words will take them out of this moment, so he doesn’t move, surprisingly content to stay in this man’s arms forever.
Fly me to the moon
Let me play among the stars
Let me see what spring is like
On Jupiter and Mars
In other words, hold my hand
In other words, baby, kiss me
Fill my heart with song
And let me sing for ever more
You are all I long for
All I worship and adore
In other words, please be true
In other words, I love you
Fin
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Clinton Jones, Neal/Clinton
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~2100
Summary: It’s Christmas, 2014 and Clinton Jones is tired of seeing Neal long for something he’ll never have.
A/N: Beta’d by my ever-wonderful friends,
jrosemary and rabidchild67. All mistakes are mine and mine alone. Written for tj_teejay’s White Collar Advent Calendar, Day 18. Title is inspired by the classic song, “Fly Me To The Moon” by Bert Howard and made famous by Old Blue Eyes himself.Technically, the U.S. Government doesn’t pay for staff holiday parties. They especially don’t pay for booze at staff holiday parties, but somehow, every year, departments in the FBI field office find a little extra cash in their budgets and ways to celebrate, even in a city as expensive as New York.
For the White Collar division, it doesn’t hurt that the senior case agent’s wife is one of the city’s premier event planners and has connections right and left (and sideways too, but no one really mentions those). And so, as the year 2014 comes to a close, many of the staff and agents are in a pleasantly buzzed state after a delicious dinner at the very trendy Bowery Hotel.
Not only is the food good and the booze top shelf, the dance floor is crowded, too. They have a DJ – a smart one who refuses to spin such office party staples as the Electric Slide and the Macarena, but he does accept a twenty from Reese Hughes to play Time Warp, perhaps because of his uncanny likeness (sans hump) to Riff-Raff.
But despite the occasional descent into holiday silliness, the party is an elegant affair, tuxedoes on the men, gowns for the ladies (and Diana still manages to get her thigh holster on under the flame-red Vera Wang).
Everyone is happy, everyone is having a good time.
---
“You don’t look so happy, Neal” Clinton says as he drops into the seat next to him.
He shrugs. “I’m okay.” He is, really – this state of affairs is nothing new.
“Bad time of year for you?”
Neal wonders if he is referring to Kate’s death. It hurt, still – after so long. “It’s okay.” But it’s not Kate. He just never thought that on the downward slide to forty, he would still be alone. “They make such a lovely couple.” Neal tilts his glass in the direction of the dance floor.
“Yes, they certainly do.”
Peter and Elizabeth are spinning across the floor, performing a waltz that leaves no doubt that they are as complete a couple as ever existed.
“Are you still hoping?” Clinton’s tone is neutral, almost disinterested.
“Hoping for what?” Neal pastes a tight little smile on his lips.
“That they’ll actually see you.”
He looks at his friend; those deep, dark eyes were filled with something too close to pity and a rush of self awareness crawls across his skin. “They see me well enough.”
Clinton sips his beer, his eyes never leaving Neal’s face. “Then you just enjoy being on the outside?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Neal is ready to leave. This isn’t fun anymore. He puts his glass on the table and stands.
“Wait – wait. I’m sorry.” Clinton’s hand is on his wrist. “I’ll go.”
Neal shook his head and made a production of checking his cellphone. “It’s time I got going – I’ve got plans after this.”
“Ah, the great Neal Caffrey – legendary party animal. Hope your hot date is going to keep you in your radius.”
Clinton’s tone is bitter now, and Neal can’t understand why. “What’s your problem? Did I dance with your date one too many times?”
“I didn’t bring a date – you know that. Besides, you didn’t dance with anyone but Diana and Elizabeth. You never dance with anyone else.”
“Then why are you angry with me?” Neal doesn’t like the way this feels. When Peter gets angry with him, he usually understands why, it’s usually his fuck-up. But Clinton is perhaps the steadiest friend he has at the Bureau; someone he can count on, no matter what. “So, what did I do to you?”
“Nothing, you did absolutely nothing.” Clinton drops the bottle on the table and gets up. He takes a few steps and turns back to him. “You’re wasting your heart on the impossible, you know.”
Neal knows just what Clinton is talking about. His impossible dream still spins across the dance floor, perfectly in time with each other and always just out of his reach. Like dancers on a music box.
“What do you want from me?” He asks, but he really doesn’t want to hear Clinton’s answer, which is probably going to be a warning on how not to fuck everything up.
Clinton doesn’t surprise him. “I want you to realize that there’s more out there. That you don’t have to waste your life longing for what you’ll never have. That there are other people who can give you what you need.”
He has had enough of this. Enough of Clinton’s anger and his pity and his moralizing. “If I want to waste my life, what is it to you?” He stalks past the other man, skirting the dance floor and leaves.
Neal needs fresh air. He retrieves his coat from the check room and heads out.
---
It’s starting to snow - maybe a brisk walk home will clear his head, give him the strength to put his heart away for the balance of the year. It will all be over, come October.
But Neal stands just under the hotel’s awning, watching the snow fall. It melts as soon as it hits the pavement, but the big wet flakes create a white, lacy crust on the decorative evergreens along the sidewalk. His breath streams out in thin, white puffs; the temperature is dropping and the snow will probably start sticking on the streets and sidewalks soon. It will be a rare white Christmas.
The door opens and Clinton is there, staring at him, but Neal doesn’t move. He just continues to watch the snow fall and the cars go by.
The door behind them opens again. A group of inebriated hotel guests pour out and head downtown. It’s time for him to leave. Time for him to go home, back to a life populated by unobtainable dreams. He starts walking north and figures he’d take the subway from Penn Station if the weather gets too bad.
Neal doesn’t even get to the corner when Clinton calls after him. “Nice, Caffrey, really nice, to leave the holiday party without saying good night.” Neal ignores him. The people inside have own their families, their own partners. They won’t miss him.
“I suppose when that thing comes off next fall, you’ll leave without a word then, too.”
Neal stops. He stalks back to Clinton, who was just a few paces behind, and grabs him by the lapels. “I’m not your punching bag - not tonight, not any night.” He pulls the larger man, who is probably shocked from being manhandled, around the corner. “I don’t take this from anyone.”
“No, Neal, you’re wrong. You seem to take it from Peter all the time.”
He steps back, shock now warring with anger. “Peter doesn’t – how dare you even suggest that!”
“He may not hurt you deliberately – but you’ve tried to give him your heart for years. When will you see that he doesn’t even know you’re offering it?” All of the anger is gone from Clinton. Even his posture is one of defeat. “I don’t know why I even try.” He walks away from Neal, skidding a bit on the now slippery pavement
“Why do you care?” Neal calls after him.
“I care because you’re my friend.” He turns back to Neal. “I’ve been watching you get hurt over and over again for the last four years. I think, for a smart man – one who sees everyone so clearly – you’re pretty damn blind when it comes to yourself.”
Neal blinks. The snowflakes are getting in his eyes. Or maybe it’s the tears. “If I give up that dream, I have nothing left.”
“It’s easier to long for the impossible than risk everything for possible, right?”
He gives Clinton a half-smile. “Succinctly put, Agent Jones. I never realized you were quite that wise.”
“Call it the wisdom of experience.”
Neal starts walking back to the hotel. He should at least wish everyone a Merry Christmas or something before heading out. “I didn’t think Isabelle hurt you that much.”
“I wasn’t talking about her. I was the one who broke it off, remember?”
“Ah – so there is another woman in your mysterious past.” Neal tries to make light of this new information.
“I didn’t say it was a woman. And I didn’t say it was in my past”
Neal stops. He feels like he is on the verge of solving some ancient puzzle. “Then who? Who would you have risked everything for?”
Clinton steps close, his bigger body sheltering Neal from the falling snow. “You. If I thought I had the least chance, if I thought that there was one small possibility that you’d look at anyone but Peter, I’d have wooed you with everything I had to give.” He touches Neal’s face, long, slim fingers tracing a line from the corner of his eye to his jaw.
Neal’s world shifts and cracks open. “No. Don’t do this to yourself.”
“Why not – why can’t I reach for the brass ring? Why can’t I have a little happiness too?”
“Because I’ll only end up disappointing you. You deserve better.”
“You are such a puzzle.” There’s a lot of affection in that simple statement.
“What do you mean?”
“For someone who has an endless fascination with all things valuable, you have no idea just how valuable you – Neal Caffrey – are.” Clinton’s voice is low, deep and warm enough to melt the snow collecting on his shoulders. His hand doesn’t leave Neal’s face, cupping his cheek.
“Everyone I care for – I hurt. I don’t think I could bear to lose your friendship. I don’t think I could bear it if you ended up hating me, or worse.” The words tumble out of his mouth, he’s horrified at what he’s revealing.
More people pour from the hotel, laughing with wonder at the whitening cityscape. Neal lets Clinton pull him back inside, into one of the dark corners of the lobby.
He reaches up and touches that dear face, his own fingers tracing the path of the newly regrown goatee, the border of smooth flesh and surprisingly soft hair. “You deserve so much more than this – more than someone who has worn out their heart on the impossible.”
“Maybe, but I’m betting that your heart isn’t as worn out as you think.”
“What do you want?” He wonders what he is going to regret more: asking that question or hearing the answer.
“Right now, all I want to do is go back into that ballroom and slow dance with you.” There is no smile on his lips, but Clinton’s eyes are shining.
“You know what that’s going to do – everyone’s going to start talking. About us.”
“Maybe – and maybe not. And maybe I just don’t care. Do you?”
This is a moment – singular and significant. “Okay.” He knows his posture is challenging, almost defiant.
“Come on –” Clinton takes his hand and pulls him back into the ballroom. Quite ironically, or maybe quite perfectly, the DJ has just put on the old Sinatra classic, “Fly Me To The Moon” as they walk onto the dance floor.
Fly me to the moon
Let me play among the stars
Clinton holds out his arms and Neal gives him a little smile. “What makes you think I’m letting you lead?”
“So I’ll follow, if you let me.”
Neal opens his arms and his stomach flutters with butterflies. It’s an old feeling – the excitement at the start of something new. Clinton takes his hand and they move to the easy swinging beat of the music.
“Of course, our first dance would have to be Sinatra.”
“Is this going to this our song?” Neal looks up at Clinton’s face and thinks he’ll never be able to hear these lyrics again without thinking of this moment.
“Yeah, this will be our song.”
He wonders at the sudden happiness, it’s been a stranger for a long time. But he won’t question it, not now, not here. He leans into Clinton – neither of them are leading. They really aren’t dancing as much as shifting across the floor in a mutually needed embrace. They pass friends and colleagues and Neal doesn’t look at any of them.
The music fades out and Clinton pulls him into a dark corner.
“I want to kiss you. May I?”
Neal swallows, his mouth dry. “Please. Yes, please.” He hopes he doesn’t sound desperate, like he’s begging. He needs this more than he needs to breathe.
Clinton leans in and Neal, in a rush of desire and need, captures his head between his hands and holds him close. Their lips meet, parted. Clinton tastes like beer and chocolate and full of wonder. He tastes strong and real and like everything Neal had been longing for, but couldn’t seem to find.
And Clinton kisses him back, mouth moving on his, hands in his hair, hot and so gentle and just … perfect.
They come up for air, Neal rests his forehead against Clinton’s, they are so close their eyelashes tangle. He can’t think of anything to say. Words will take them out of this moment, so he doesn’t move, surprisingly content to stay in this man’s arms forever.
Fly me to the moon
Let me play among the stars
Let me see what spring is like
On Jupiter and Mars
In other words, hold my hand
In other words, baby, kiss me
Fill my heart with song
And let me sing for ever more
You are all I long for
All I worship and adore
In other words, please be true
In other words, I love you
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2016-01-15 10:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-01-15 01:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-03-27 12:49 am (UTC)The longing and smutness oh boy!
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Date: 2017-03-27 02:32 pm (UTC)