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plotdeviced2016-02-21 11:30 pm
darjeeling) wrote in plotdeviced2016-02-21 11:30 pm
Entry tags:
[white collar] ★ Sulfites
Theme Prompt: Domestic Bliss
Title: Sulfites
Fandom: White Collar
Rating/Warnings: PG
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 739
Summary: A normal morning at the Burke house, except for one thing. Written for Challenge 003 atfandomweekly
There's a cotton taste in the back of his mouth, his right cheek feels sore, and there's something warm and wet on his hand that's trailing off the edge of the bed. Neal Caffrey cracks one bleary eye open and starts mentally listing the multitude of things wrong with this picture.
For starters, he's not even in a bed, certainly not his given the lack of expensive satin sheets, but the tweed-like weave of couch material certainly explains why his cheek feels like it's been caressed by a patch of sandpaper for the last eight hours. There's a tickle of blue fringe near his mouth, and he recognizes the material as that of the throw which usually graces the back of the couch, the one Elizabeth likes to use when she's reading a book.
It's been draped over him. He's been asleep on the Burke's couch-- why?
Neal remembered being invited over for dinner, that part was clear enough. Their fiftieth case, closed and signed off, ready to go to court, another one on the books. Peter had clapped him on the shoulder as they were heading to the elevator, although . "Come over for dinner tonight," he'd said. "El told me last night that she was making that thing, with the lamb and the mint. You know, to celebrate."
Neal rolled the brim of his hat along the curve of his hand, before the elevator dinged and he stepped inside. "We hadn't solved the case yesterday," he replied.
"That's El for you," Peter answered, and Neal had never heard Peter talk about anything with quite the same tone as he reserved for his wife. "Bring a fancy Chardonnay or something. Seven-thirty sharp, don't be late."
"You drink red with lamb," Neal called as the doors closed.
His fingers flexed, as Satchmo licked them again. That explained the wetness on his hand, though it was quickly followed by a cold nose pressing against his palm. Neal groaned and managed to raise his head a few inches off the cushion.
Peter was sitting at the dining room table in jeans and a grey t-shirt, the Saturday sports section opened in front of him, though he bent the newspaper over to give Elizabeth a kiss as she set a cup of coffee down next to him. "Thanks hon," he said, before she came over to the living room.
Seeing Neal's eyes open, Elizabeth came over to sit on the edge of the couch. "Morning, sleepyhead," she smiled. "You want coffee?"
"Hmnrmph," he replied.
"Dark roast it is," she said, patting him on the shoulder and standing back up. "Breakfast should be ready soon."
There was still something missing. He'd only brought one bottle of wine, certainly not enough to get him to this state. Except...
Peter anticipated the question as Neal sat up, trying to smooth his rumpled shirt and wondering where his suit jacket had gone. "Good morning. So it turns out," he said, sounding equal parts chagrined and amused, "that there's some sort of interaction with sulfites in the wine and that microbrew we had. At least that's what Mozzie said, when El texted him to ask."
That was the piece he was missing, Neal grimaced. Peter had produced a few bottles of microbrew he'd gotten from a friend once the wine bottle was empty, and to Neal's surprise he'd actually quite enjoyed it, as far as beer went. It had been a good night, laughing and teasing, making bets on future cases that hadn't even come across their desk yet. Somewhere after the third bottle out on the back patio, everything went old film grain in his memory.
Leveraging himself upright, Neal made his way over to the table, and El set the coffee down in front of him. It had been a long time since Neal Caffrey had felt this disheveled (that didn't involve a good deal less clothing, at least) but neither of the Burke's treated it like anything strange. There were eggs and bacon (turkey bacon, El informed them primly, when Peter looked at her in mock-betrayal), croissants that came from a bag, coffee that didn't come from a press, and it was the most relaxed -- the most at home -- Neal had felt in a long time.
"Thanks," he said, as Peter folded the newspaper and put it on the empty chair to begin eating. "And good morning."
Title: Sulfites
Fandom: White Collar
Rating/Warnings: PG
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 739
Summary: A normal morning at the Burke house, except for one thing. Written for Challenge 003 at
fandomweeklyThere's a cotton taste in the back of his mouth, his right cheek feels sore, and there's something warm and wet on his hand that's trailing off the edge of the bed. Neal Caffrey cracks one bleary eye open and starts mentally listing the multitude of things wrong with this picture.
For starters, he's not even in a bed, certainly not his given the lack of expensive satin sheets, but the tweed-like weave of couch material certainly explains why his cheek feels like it's been caressed by a patch of sandpaper for the last eight hours. There's a tickle of blue fringe near his mouth, and he recognizes the material as that of the throw which usually graces the back of the couch, the one Elizabeth likes to use when she's reading a book.
It's been draped over him. He's been asleep on the Burke's couch-- why?
Neal remembered being invited over for dinner, that part was clear enough. Their fiftieth case, closed and signed off, ready to go to court, another one on the books. Peter had clapped him on the shoulder as they were heading to the elevator, although . "Come over for dinner tonight," he'd said. "El told me last night that she was making that thing, with the lamb and the mint. You know, to celebrate."
Neal rolled the brim of his hat along the curve of his hand, before the elevator dinged and he stepped inside. "We hadn't solved the case yesterday," he replied.
"That's El for you," Peter answered, and Neal had never heard Peter talk about anything with quite the same tone as he reserved for his wife. "Bring a fancy Chardonnay or something. Seven-thirty sharp, don't be late."
"You drink red with lamb," Neal called as the doors closed.
His fingers flexed, as Satchmo licked them again. That explained the wetness on his hand, though it was quickly followed by a cold nose pressing against his palm. Neal groaned and managed to raise his head a few inches off the cushion.
Peter was sitting at the dining room table in jeans and a grey t-shirt, the Saturday sports section opened in front of him, though he bent the newspaper over to give Elizabeth a kiss as she set a cup of coffee down next to him. "Thanks hon," he said, before she came over to the living room.
Seeing Neal's eyes open, Elizabeth came over to sit on the edge of the couch. "Morning, sleepyhead," she smiled. "You want coffee?"
"Hmnrmph," he replied.
"Dark roast it is," she said, patting him on the shoulder and standing back up. "Breakfast should be ready soon."
There was still something missing. He'd only brought one bottle of wine, certainly not enough to get him to this state. Except...
Peter anticipated the question as Neal sat up, trying to smooth his rumpled shirt and wondering where his suit jacket had gone. "Good morning. So it turns out," he said, sounding equal parts chagrined and amused, "that there's some sort of interaction with sulfites in the wine and that microbrew we had. At least that's what Mozzie said, when El texted him to ask."
That was the piece he was missing, Neal grimaced. Peter had produced a few bottles of microbrew he'd gotten from a friend once the wine bottle was empty, and to Neal's surprise he'd actually quite enjoyed it, as far as beer went. It had been a good night, laughing and teasing, making bets on future cases that hadn't even come across their desk yet. Somewhere after the third bottle out on the back patio, everything went old film grain in his memory.
Leveraging himself upright, Neal made his way over to the table, and El set the coffee down in front of him. It had been a long time since Neal Caffrey had felt this disheveled (that didn't involve a good deal less clothing, at least) but neither of the Burke's treated it like anything strange. There were eggs and bacon (turkey bacon, El informed them primly, when Peter looked at her in mock-betrayal), croissants that came from a bag, coffee that didn't come from a press, and it was the most relaxed -- the most at home -- Neal had felt in a long time.
"Thanks," he said, as Peter folded the newspaper and put it on the empty chair to begin eating. "And good morning."