H50/WC: random, self-indulgent snippet is random and self-indulgent.
The second part of the Sherlock fic is giving me trouble *shakes fist at self*, so here, instead, are the first 500 words of a White Collar/ Hawaii Five-O fic I know I will never finish because I have no idea what kind of plot would follow from this--I just liked the idea of them all meeting cute--
Think of it as an extra long plot bunny up for adoption, if you're so inclined--
“Peter,” Neal said, shielding his eyes from the horrific array of colors peeking out from under his partner's suit jacket, “please tell me you’re not actually going to wear that.”
“What?” Peter looked genuinely confused, “we’re in Hawaii, aren't we? And I’ve been waiting years to wear this-El doesn’t like it for some reason.”
“She’s going to kill me for letting you wear it now, isn’t she?” Neal asked.
Peter grinned the grin of a man who had just had fresh pineapple juice for breakfast and said, “not if we don’t take any pictures, she won’t.”
+++++++
The thing was, Elizabeth had already buttonholed Neal in JFK-drawn him aside on some pretext and whispered fiercely,
“Neal, I need you to be the level-headed one for once on this assignment-do you think you do that for me? Please?”
“Um, yeah, okay,” Neal had answered, a little miffed at her questioning of his usual judgment, but whatever. “What’s up?”
“I’ve met the guy you’re working with from the Hawaiian Governor’s office-he’s a friend of Anthony’s-“
Anthony? Neal had had to wrack his brains for a moment to remember who that was. But then he’d had it: Peter’s cousin in Naval Special Ops-the one who made Peter look like the 90-pound weakling of the Burke family.
“And by friend,” Elizabeth had continued, “I mean they spent their whole New York shore leave trying to top each other’s “who’s been in the worst fire fight and lived to tell about it” stories.”
“Alright,” Neal had admitted, “that does sound bad, but we’re not going to get into anything like that-we’re just going to try and figure out how those South Asian antiquities are getting from Honolulu to the East Coast.”
“Uh-huh,” Elizabeth clearly thought this information was irrelevant, “you just remind Peter that he works in the white collar crime division, not the shoot-‘em-up-for-fun division. Not to mention he’s not as young as he used to be.”
And, okay, Neal couldn’t really imagine trying the “you’re getting too old for this” argument on Peter without incurring several broken bones. But because he was a whole lot more scared of Elizabeth than he was of some blow-hard ex-Navy-SEAL he’d looked at her sincerely and said, “I promise.”
But after a mere twenty minutes with the real live Commander McGarrett, who came equipped not only with a thousand-yard stare and elaborate ink poking out from the sleeves of his t-shirt, but also with a diminutive but big-haired partner, wearing a cane slung across his shoulders like he wasn’t sure whether it was a medical aid or a lethal weapon, and Neal was starting to regret his promise.
Because Peter already had that look in his eye, the look that was always accompanied by a subtle drawing back of his lapels, so that whoever he was facing could see the shoulder-holster underneath. Of course, the holster was currently nestled amid some blindingly garish cotton hibiscus flowers, but still--
Neal heaved a huge inward sigh. It looked like their tropical adventure was going to involve a lot more dick-waving and a lot fewer palm fronds and pina-coladas than he had hoped.
Think of it as an extra long plot bunny up for adoption, if you're so inclined--
“Peter,” Neal said, shielding his eyes from the horrific array of colors peeking out from under his partner's suit jacket, “please tell me you’re not actually going to wear that.”
“What?” Peter looked genuinely confused, “we’re in Hawaii, aren't we? And I’ve been waiting years to wear this-El doesn’t like it for some reason.”
“She’s going to kill me for letting you wear it now, isn’t she?” Neal asked.
Peter grinned the grin of a man who had just had fresh pineapple juice for breakfast and said, “not if we don’t take any pictures, she won’t.”
+++++++
The thing was, Elizabeth had already buttonholed Neal in JFK-drawn him aside on some pretext and whispered fiercely,
“Neal, I need you to be the level-headed one for once on this assignment-do you think you do that for me? Please?”
“Um, yeah, okay,” Neal had answered, a little miffed at her questioning of his usual judgment, but whatever. “What’s up?”
“I’ve met the guy you’re working with from the Hawaiian Governor’s office-he’s a friend of Anthony’s-“
Anthony? Neal had had to wrack his brains for a moment to remember who that was. But then he’d had it: Peter’s cousin in Naval Special Ops-the one who made Peter look like the 90-pound weakling of the Burke family.
“And by friend,” Elizabeth had continued, “I mean they spent their whole New York shore leave trying to top each other’s “who’s been in the worst fire fight and lived to tell about it” stories.”
“Alright,” Neal had admitted, “that does sound bad, but we’re not going to get into anything like that-we’re just going to try and figure out how those South Asian antiquities are getting from Honolulu to the East Coast.”
“Uh-huh,” Elizabeth clearly thought this information was irrelevant, “you just remind Peter that he works in the white collar crime division, not the shoot-‘em-up-for-fun division. Not to mention he’s not as young as he used to be.”
And, okay, Neal couldn’t really imagine trying the “you’re getting too old for this” argument on Peter without incurring several broken bones. But because he was a whole lot more scared of Elizabeth than he was of some blow-hard ex-Navy-SEAL he’d looked at her sincerely and said, “I promise.”
But after a mere twenty minutes with the real live Commander McGarrett, who came equipped not only with a thousand-yard stare and elaborate ink poking out from the sleeves of his t-shirt, but also with a diminutive but big-haired partner, wearing a cane slung across his shoulders like he wasn’t sure whether it was a medical aid or a lethal weapon, and Neal was starting to regret his promise.
Because Peter already had that look in his eye, the look that was always accompanied by a subtle drawing back of his lapels, so that whoever he was facing could see the shoulder-holster underneath. Of course, the holster was currently nestled amid some blindingly garish cotton hibiscus flowers, but still--
Neal heaved a huge inward sigh. It looked like their tropical adventure was going to involve a lot more dick-waving and a lot fewer palm fronds and pina-coladas than he had hoped.