FIC: Nothing Special
Title: Nothing Special
Author: calis_1st
Rating: PG
Characters: Neal, Peter, Mozzie
Spoilers: 4.16, In The Wind; slightly for 4.10, Vested Interest, 4.11, Family Business and 4.13, Empire City. Also completely ignores Season 5.
Word count: ~ 2900
Disclaimer: Characters are all from the brilliant mind of Jeff Eastin.
Summary: Deviled ham and other childhood memories of home-cooked meals.
Note: Written for the "comfort food or item" square on my h/c bingo and submitted for Caffrey-Burke Day.
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After nearly four weeks in prison and another ten days with a tracker confining him to his house in Brooklyn, the grand jury convened and found insufficient evidence to indict Peter for the murder of Senator Terrance Pratt. He was free. There were a couple of strong leads on the whereabouts of James Bennett, so it would just be a matter of time until he was found. Even better, Peter was finally allowed to see Neal again for the first time since his arrest. Peter's first morning of freedom found him, Elizabeth, Jones, Diana, and Mozzie at Neal's for a celebratory brunch.
The meal was superb, the mimosas and Bloody Marys flowed copiously. Afterward, Diana and Jones chased the others out onto the balcony while they cleaned up. Elizabeth laughed and said she was happy to help with kitchen duty. Mozzie went back inside and brought out a bottle and three glasses. Peter and Neal sprawled on the two chaise lounges while Mozzie pulled a chair away from the table to join them.
“Suit, this may be an imitation, but I can assure you that you will never taste a finer single malt anywhere, unless you come across a second hidden stash in Antarctica,” and he poured them each a tumbler of Neal's faux Shackleton.
They toasted Peter’s freedom with the exquisite blend. Mozzie made sure no one's glass was ever empty.
“You know," Neal said to Peter, "you still owe me a story.”
“What might that be?”
“Your unnatural love of deviled ham. How did you possibly manage to get past the disgusting smell long enough to actually eat it?”
Peter couldn't help but smile. He could still remember the first time he'd eaten deviled ham in front of Neal. "What is that smell?" Neal had asked, a look of shock more than disgust on his face (at least the first time, after that it was usually accompanied by a look of irritation and a rolling of the eyes).
When Peter had been in prison (technically, as a pre-trial detainee rather than a prisoner) he had been allowed one one-hour social visit per week. He could have up to three "guests" in that hour, from a list of up to ten that he could request. He submitted his requests for five - Elizabeth, of course, Diana and Jones, and Neal. Hughes asked to be on his list, so he was. Peter had sent out the requisite paperwork to each of the five; it had been returned by all of them in short order. Four requests had been quickly approved; the last, being Neal's, was in limbo, until it was disapproved. Peter knew it was a long shot but was still disappointed. As it was, he had one hour a week - one hour - to see El. Jones or Diana usually accompanied her, spent a couple of minutes on office politics and updates, then quietly headed back to work.
But Neal was, not surprisingly, a prolific letter writer, and as Peter's first week in the detention center became his second week, and his second blended into his third morphing into the fourth, he had received a stack of over a dozen and a half letters from Neal, and could only assume that there were a few more waiting to be read before being forwarded to Peter. Neal had understood better than everyone, even better than Elizabeth, how much Peter would need contact with the outside world beyond one hour out of 168. By the end of the second week, Peter fully appreciated what Neal must have gone through, waiting for Kate's weekly visits. And he was starting to gain a new respect for Kate.
Neal's most recent letter had been on the topic of deviled ham. Actually, it was on the topic of the van (nothing about a case, that would have been redacted at best and lost privileges for Peter at worst, and Neal knew that). It was generic and light-hearted, completely Neal-like. He mentioned the new guy, how he had a far more refined palate for non-olfactory-offending foods while spending time in cramped, airless quarters in the late-night hours, and, by the way, Peter, just what's up with you and deviled ham? Seriously, how does one acquire a taste for - that?
Yes, Peter owed Neal a story.
“It was a Sunday morning ritual, started by my loving and wonderful grandmother.” Peter replied.
“Did said ritual involve the sacrificing of young children?” asked Mozzie, pouring another couple of fingers of Neal's special blend.
“Every Sunday after church we went to my grandmother’s house. Catholics were supposed to fast before Mass if we were going to receive Communion, which meant that I skipped breakfast instead of getting up really early. I mean, it was the only day that I got to sleep in a little, so I’d wait until we got to Grandmom’s to eat. Of course, by then I’d be starving.”
“That makes sense,” Neal said, nodding his head in understanding. “Starvation would make nearly anything edible.”
Peter laughed. “No, it wasn’t like that. She’d put a whole spread out for us and my mom's sister and her family. Sometimes my grandmother’s brothers might even show up. Out of everything she served, I really liked her deviled ham. It was a treat, I thought.”
“Alright, so, a hungry child’s uneducated palate,” said Moz. “But eventually you learned to appreciate better cuisine, didn’t you?”
“Not according to my wife,” Peter answered. “Why do you think she borrows Neal for taste testing?”
Neal put his hands up and shook his head.
“Maybe if you hadn’t ruined your taste buds she wouldn’t need mine. Finish your story, Peter.”
Peter had a far away look about him.
“My grandmother died when I was a freshman in high school. I really missed her, missed Sundays and holidays at her house. After she died our Sunday morning tradition, well, it died with her, I guess. A couple years later, right around her birthday, I was stressing over a paper I had due and was nervous over rumors about college baseball scouts coming to our next home game, and my mom made me a deviled ham sandwich. It was - perfect, and I thought about the fun times I had growing up with my grandmother, how grateful I was that I had her in my life, and I just felt better. I don’t always think about why I started eating it, of course, but when I feel like I need ’comfort food’ I remember my grandmom. So, now you know.”
He expected smirking, if not outright mockery, from both Neal and Mozzie, not the fond smiles both of them gave him.
“Enough about my food habits. What about you? Was there something special Mr. Jeffries made for - you know, I still don’t know your name. Did little Danny Brooks have a favorite?” Peter saw Mozzie and Neal exchange a quick glance.
“Oh, no, G-Man,” Mozzie said, pouring for Peter and Neal, but not himself. “I will not be divulging any secrets that could come back and poison me.”
Neal sat with a slightly lopsided grin, but made a lip-zipping motion and shook his head. Peter realized Neal might be a little drunk.
“Come on, Moz, what about Neal, then?”
“That’s not my story to tell, Suit,” Moz said, looking again at Neal. “I will take my leave, though. The food and drink were excellent, Neal." Then, softly and in a deeper voice than usual, "I'm pleased to see you out and about again, Peter.” With that he departed through the french doors.
“It is good to have you back, Peter,” Neal said after a few seconds of silence.
“It’s good to be back. Neal, I know how much you went through, between work and your - James - and how much you did for me. I can’t thank you enough for your letters. They were a lifeline in there.”
Neal just waved his hand as if it was not worth mentioning.
“I understood.” The misery, the fears, the unfairness of being innocent and in prison. Knowing that the law Peter had fought so hard to uphold his entire career - hell, probably even his entire life - might fail him when he needed it the most. Worries about Elizabeth, and how she would handle it if he was found guilty. Neal understood the darkness Peter was facing, even if he had tried to keep it inside for everyone else’s sake. Neal kept those thoughts to himself, even if his expression clouded over.
Peter noticed.
“So, that being said, I know I don’t have the right to ask you this, but, come on - what was Danny’s favorite food as a child?”
Even moderately intoxicated, probably from too many nights with too little sleep just as much as from the alcohol, Neal just smiled and said that it was a story for another day.
*****
Another day came a few months later. Peter had brought the subject up several times, during periods of mind-numbing boredom in the van, or over a working lunch at the conference room table. The closest thing Peter ever got to an answer was, "nothing special." Once he even pulled a deviled ham sandwich from his bag and waved it at Neal.
"C'mon, Neal, what guilty childhood food pleasure does Neal Caffrey secretly harbor?" he asked, enjoying the grimace on Neal's face as he backed away from the offending food.
Neal just shook his head.
"I can assure you, it was never - that," he replied, waving his hand in the general direction of Peter's traditional surveillance dinner.
*****
It was almost three a.m. when they decided to call it a night. The very nervous rare coin thief would be meeting with one of two couriers either tonight or tomorrow night to help him get several hundred stolen coins out of the country. Gary Rydell, smuggler extraordinaire and champion fencer, was angling to be the one chosen for the job, and needed to be nearby when the call came through. But if the squirrelly thief hadn't left his home outside of Purchase, NY by now, he probably wouldn't be going out later, either. There weren't that many places to meet that were still open this far away from anything. Worse still, freezing rain had been falling for the past few hours, resulting in a thin layer of ice coating the streets. Which, Peter and Neal both realized, were remarkably deserted.
They managed to not slip while they scraped ice off the Taurus's windows. Its traction control allowed for easy maneuvering over the ice-slicked roads. Its front and side curtain airbags protected both driver and passenger when Peter swerved to avoid the doe that ran out in the road and hit a tree instead (because even a car that practically drives itself can't go from 30 to zero miles per hour in 25 feet unless it hits something).
The problem arose when Peter exited the car to see just how bad the damage was before calling a tow truck, when he slipped on the ice, hit his temple against the open car door, and went down, hard, on the frozen ground. Neal hurried around to get to his partner, clinging to the car to keep from slipping himself. By the time he got around to the driver's side Peter was sitting upright but his chin was on his chest.
"Peter! Wake up, Peter, open your eyes. Look at me," Neal said, sliding to his knees as he reached Peter.
“’m up,” Peter mumbled, opening his eyes as Neal rubbed the agent's cheeks.
Peter was awake but his eyes were unfocused. Blood dripped from the side of his forehead.
“Can you move your fingers and your toes?” Neal asked.
Peter grunted. “I’m okay,” he replied, but he did move his hands and feet slightly. “See?”
“We should get you in the car before you freeze out here. Do you think you can get up if I help you?” Neal asked.
“Hurts.”
“What hurts beside your head?”
Peter squinted. “Mostly just that.”
“Come on, let’s get you and your concussed head out of the weather.”
Neal cautiously helped Peter to his feet and slid him into the back seat. He leaned in to re-start the ignition to run the heater, decided the Bureau could deal with the car later and called for an ambulance instead.
“I don't need an ambulance. I’ve had concussions before, and this isn’t one of them,” Peter said as Neal slid in beside him. “It’s just a bump."
“Peter, we’re almost an hour from home and it's 3:30 in the morning. Who would we call to come out here? Besides, maybe you don't have a concussion, and I'm reserving judgement on that, but you definitely need a few stitches.” He wiggled out of his coat and laid it over Peter, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gently daubed Peter's face.
"I remember the last time you did this for someone," Peter said.
Neal shook his head briefly. He remembered what came from that other bloody handkerchief and briefly wondered what would have happened if he never knew that the man claiming to be Sam was really James. He didn't care to think further on the matter.
“Peter, you can't go to sleep yet, okay?” Neal said instead as Peter's eyes drooped.
Peter was quiet and Neal was afraid he had passed out with his eyes open.
“I’ll tell you a story if you stay awake for me,” Neal said a little desparately.
Peter looked at him, a little more alertly.
“Nothing that you’d have to arrest me for,” he said. “Umm, alright, You asked me about what I liked to eat as a kid. Remember?”
Peter nodded.
“I did answer it when you asked what my favorite food was and I said ’nothing special.’ That was the answer, that was for real, but that wasn’t the whole story.” He stopped to make sure that Peter was following him, and that he was warm.
“My mother didn’t always like to cook."
Peter tilted his head and looked at Neal.
"Alright, my mother didn't always cook." Neal shrugged. "Or prepare food at all."
"I don't imagine there was a lot of take-out or delivery."
"No," Neal said after a short silence, looking out the window past Peter. "Sometimes, in the beginning, I remember that she'd make big batches of things - soup, stew, something she could freeze and we'd have later. But after a while when meals fell more to me it really became anything I could fix for us myself. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches usually topped the list. The problem with sandwiches was that we always ran out of bread, or it got moldy. We did eat a lot of pb and j right out of the jars, but it didn't work for school lunches, though."
"How old were you?" Peter asked.
"Around eight, maybe nine by then. I got pretty good with how to stretch eggs. At the beginning of the month we'd have everything - milk, bread, cheese, soup, chicken, ground beef, sometimes she'd buy a steak for us to share. By the end of the month there'd just be cereal and canned soup. I learned young how to ration food so it'd last, but sometimes I couldn't help it and went through a box of cereal before I should have. I only did that a couple of times before I learned better. How are you doing?" he asked, looking at the handkerchief and seeing that the bleeding was slowing down.
"Good, better," Peter said. "There's more to your story, isn't there?"
Neal nodded.
"One day Ellen found out, and she was angry. I mean, really angry. She and my mom got into an argument, then I wasn't allowed to see Ellen for a whole month. I guess they smoothed things over because Ellen came over one night and it was as if nothing ever happened."
"So, when you said 'nothing special,' you meant - "
"Anything we had."
Peter looked at Neal with both sympathy and respect, thinking about his own early life and how, even if it wasn't fancy, there was always plenty of healthful and well-prepared food at the Burkes' table.
"It sounds like you went hungry a lot as a kid," Peter said.
"Mmm, I actually did learn impulse control at a young age," Neal said, with a smirk. "I still remember it when I need it."
"So, Neal - "
"That's enough for now," Neal replied. "I see red flashing lights so our ride's almost here."
But - "
"Impulse control, Peter. You could use some, too, you know." He winked at Peter as he got out of the car, then turned to wave at the ambulance.
Later that morning, having gotten a ride to Peter's house from Hal Hoover and his cab, Peter gingerly touched the bandage covering the six stitches and bruised swelling just along his hairline and winced.
"Deviled ham would be nice right about now," he said.
Neal broke into a genuine laugh.
"Peter, you know, I might have - just might have - eaten deviled ham if we had ever had any. I may have even actually eaten - allegedly - the occasional serving of Spam."
"Did you ever have scrapple?"
"Let's not go there. Ever."
Thanks for reading.