In which I take a leaf from Neal's book and break some rules.
Alright. I'm having this problem involving too many ideas, and I needed to get some of them out of my system. I have three fics open currently, countless others planned, including several in what I'm going to go ahead and dub the Captain America 'verse, because as it turns out that little story arc is nowhere near done with me. And I was starting to feel overwhelmed, and I just needed to get some of it out of my system so I could focus, instead of jumping around opening new documents.
So, what I did, right, was go over to 1sentance and grab one of their prompt tables AND I'M REALLY SORRY IF THAT WAS WRONG, I WILL TAKE THIS DOWN IF IT WAS. But, see, I don't think it was all that wrong, because I did not, in fact, write one sentence for each prompt. I wrote, uh, several.
Please don't be mad at me.
Here's where you guys come in--go ahead and read these, if you feel like it, and then let me know which, if any, you'd like me to expand upon. Yes? Yes.
Title: Fifty More-Than-Sentences?
Rating: Don't think any of them go higher than R.
Spoilers: Nope
Pairing: Oh, you know. Some gen, some OT3, some Neal/Peter, some Peter/El.
Warnings: I don't think any? But there are a lot of these, let me know if there's stuff I should be warning for.
Summary: In which I write 50 drabblets from one word prompts.
Comfort:
"No," Peter snapped, "I do not need a hug, don't be ridiculous."
Still, Neal pressed his body into Peter's and held on, and Peter had to admit he did feel a little bit better.
Kiss:
"I want you to know," Neal said, getting into the car, "that your dog stuck his tongue in my mouth this morning." He scowled and licked the back of his own hand. "Ugh, I can't get the taste out of my mouth. See if I watch him for you again, just see."
"Smart dog," Peter said, before he could stop himself, and tried to ignore Neal's suddenly raised eyebrows.
Pain:
"It's a papercut," Jones heard Peter say, rounding the corner. He sounded exasperated; Jones poked his head in to watch. "I don't think you're going to die."
Neal glared back at him. "It's clearly been awhile since your last papercut."
"The only thing clear here," Peter said, glancing back down at file, "is that you're a baby."
Neal narrowed his eyes. Two seconds later, Jones was laughing hysterically as Peter bellowed and Neal ducked and weaved out of reach, his weapon crumpled up in his hand.
Potatoes:
"You're sure you guys can't make it home tonight?" Elizabeth asked. Her husband sighed into the phone, and she added, "I made potatoes au gratin."
There was the sound of a brief scuffle and then Neal, a little breathlessly, said "We'll be there in ten." She hung up smiling. They were so easy.
Rain:
"You'll catch your death out here," Peter said. Neal didn't even look up, just sat there in his soaked t-shirt, staring at the ground. Thunder cracked around them, and Peter gave up and sat down.
"How could I have been so stupid," Neal said, finally. Peter sighed and put an arm around him; Neal leaned close, shivering.
"Everyone does stupid stuff for people they've loved," he said, gruffly, after a minute. "Just makes you human."
Chocolate:
"I'm just saying," Neal told him, popping a sample into his mouth, "it's worth the extra ten dollars to go with the 70% cacao."
Peter eyed the chocolates suspiciously. "I don't know," he said, slowly, "she's always been a Hershey's kind of girl."
Neal rolled his eyes and then he smiled; Peter knew his heart should not be skipping from another man's grin at all, let alone while buying his wife chocolate.
"Trust me," Neal said, and Peter bought the damn stuff just to shut him up.
Happiness:
Elizabeth looked around her bedroom--husband, fast asleep; boyfriend, curled up next to him; dog, sacked out at the foot of the bed. There was an even an empty spot under those sheets with her name written all over it.
She smiled, and wondered if she should take a picture, in case she ever needed to present objective evidence of what happiness looked like.
Telephone:
"I wouldn't have run," Neal says, his voice breathy and desperate and warbling, "you have to know that, please tell me you know that--"
"I do know that," Peter rasps, relief singing through every fiber of his being. "Tell me where you are."
Ears:
"There's just something unsavory about him," Mozz insisted. Neal rolled his eyes. "I think it's the ears."
Neal scoffed incredulously. "I think it's that he'd a Fed," he said, "and you're in no position to talk about ears." Mozzie stared at him in outrage. Then he sniffed, looked away, and refused to speak again until Neal apologized.
Name:
"Keep it up and I'm gonna call you Captain America in front of Hughes."
"I'll send you back to prison."
"It'll be worth it."
Sensual:
Neal hissed between his teeth and arched to peer at the complicated mess of wires; Peter couldn't help but imagine the curve of his back in a different, more sensual setting.
Death:
Neal stared at her grave for a long moment. Then he sighed and sat against it, wrapped his arms around his knees, and waited for Peter to come and find him.
Sex:
"You had SEX with WHO?!" Mozzie screamed, and Neal considered, a little late, that mentioning that little detail to him might have waited until after they'd left the restaurant.
Touch:
He's full of Italian food and fine wine when they get back to her apartment, and he watches her unlock the door and wonders what the hell to do next. He's--well, he's all surveillance photos and well-meaning mistakes when it comes to this kind of thing. He's never been good at it.
Elizabeth smiles at him, pushes the door open, and steps inside. "D'you want to see?" she asks, and when it takes him a moment to answer she bites her lip. "It's ok if you don't," she adds, hurriedly, "I just thought--"
Peter steps forward and puts both hands on her waist. "I want to touch," he says, honestly, and when her lips yield under his he knows he's done something right.
Weakness:
Dearest Neal,
STOP MAKING THESE MUFFINS. I don't want any excuses this time--I don't care if you couldn't sleep or you had a dream about them or Peter held you at gunpoint until you agreed to make a batch. You know they're my only weakness, and I'm going to be fat as house if you don't stop.
They're delicious, though. Don't let Peter eat them all. I'll be home around 6; see you boys 8:30ish?
Love you!
El
Tears:
"I am NOT crying," Neal said, and Peter just smirked at him. After a moment, Neal sniffled again, and Peter's smirk turned into a grin.
"I wouldn't have rented it if I'd know you were so delicate," Elizabeth teased, and Neal threw a pillow at her. Peter laughed outright.
"It's a tragic story!" Neal protested, not looking at either of them. Peter kept laughing, but he pulled Neal against him and ruffled his hair all the same.
Speed:
"I told you I could drive!" Neal said triumphantly, grinning broadly as he pulled into the parking spot.
In the passenger seat, Peter finally felt it safe to release his white-knuckled grip on the dashboard. "Have you ever," he gasped, waiting for his heart rate to calm down, "met a law you didn't feel compelled to break?"
Wind:
Jones looked up from his paperwork; that was a really foul smell. Peter was still focused on the file he'd been looking at, but Neal was making a horrified face in the chair next to him.
Jones raised his eyebrows in a silent question, and Neal nodded. Then he pointed at Peter, rolled his eyes, and flapped a hand in front of his face. Peter looked up at exactly the wrong moment; he said "Hey! I saw that!"
Neal shrugged broadly, smiled at him, and went back to his paperwork; Jones looked quickly back down to his own files, hoping the boss hadn't seen his grin.
Freedom
Neal looked at his bare ankle one last time. It would be easy...but it wouldn't be worth it.
He sighed and knocked on Peter's door. Freedom, he'd discovered, was all relative.
Life:
Neal, Peter and Elizabeth all stared; Satchmo was curled up on his--on her side, licking a small, furry object.
"Um," Neal said, finally, because someone had to say something, "you guys know that's a puppy, right?"
Jealousy:
Mozz watched Neal. It was a pastime, something he'd gotten used to doing over the years--without someone keeping an eye on him, Neal tended to go rogue in upsetting way. Once, it had been interesting, watching Neal. It had been fun.
These day, Mozz looked on as he smiled at the Suit's jokes, and did what the Suit told him to do, and worried when the Suit was gone. It wasn't that Mozz was jealous, exactly. He just wasn't not jealous, either.
Hands:
"It's always been that way," Neal protested, when Peter turned his left hand over and traced the knotted lumps on his fingers. "Even before prison."
Peter gave him a stern look, and he laughed a little nervously. "What?" he said, too innocently, and when Peter raised an eyebrow, he sighed. "I told them it was my painting hand," he admitted. "Learned to draw with it, to make that believable. I always was good at running a con. "
Taste:
"What are you, pregnant?" Peter demanded, when he found Neal in the fridge late one night. Neal hastily shoved what he'd been eating back in there, but Peter was too fast for him. He pulled the offending object out and stared at in horror.
"Caffrey," he said, "this is a pickle. This is a pickle with peanut butter on it."
Neal shrugged. "There's no accounting for taste, Peter. Surely you know that."
Devotion:
They buried Satchmo in the backyard three days after Neal's tracker was cut for good. Elizabeth leaned heavily against Peter and Neal stood a few steps away, looking firmly at the sky.
"He was a good dog," Peter said, finally. When Elizabeth made a soft, sad sound, Neal moved close, pressed into her.
"I'll be faithful too," he whispered, and Elizabeth turned her face into his neck and let herself cry.
Forever:
"Seriously," Caffrey shouted, staring at Peter from across the river, "when are you going to stop chasing me?"
"When you stop running," Peter called back. He cursed the water and the pole Caffrey had used to vault across it and the stupid, mocking smile Peter could see all the way over here.
"So: never, then?" Caffrey yelled. His laughter echoed across the river long after he was gone.
Blood:
"What's his bloodtype?" the nurse asked. Elizabeth opened her mouth around the answer before she realized that, in her panic, she wasn't sure if she was recalling Peter's or Neal's.
Sickness:
"I never get sick," Neal snapped. Peter shook his head resignedly and waved him off. Still, he set the timer on his watch, and it had been thirteen minutes and twelve seconds when Jones stuck his head into Peter's office and beckoned him forward.
Neal was sacked out with his head on the conference table, snoring the light snore of the heavily congested. Peter sighed and rolled his eyes. "Oh, yeah," he said, mostly to himself, "you never get sick."
Melody:
The Giants were in double overtime when El came into the room and told him to come downstairs.
"It's the playoffs," he protested, and she put her hands on her hips.
"That's what TiVo is for," she said firmly. "This, you don't want to miss."
He had to admit, watching Neal dry the dishes, oblivious with his earphones in, belting out "American Woman": she'd been absolutely right.
Star:
"How the hell did you get back?" Peter asked, still too busy checking Neal for bullet holes and flesh wounds to really care about the answer.
Neal smiled enigmatically. "Polaris," he said, and Peter made a mental note to press that question further when he knew Neal was alright.
Home:
"Christ, Mozzie," Neal said, looking at the room in horror. "Why the hell didn't you tell me?"
Mozz glanced around and blushed, despite himself. "I know it's not much--" he started, and then Neal was cutting him off and ushering him out, talking already about June's incomparable hospitality.
Confusion:
Jones looked at the three of them, frozen in place--Neal, bright red and stark naked, Elizabeth hiding her face below him and Peter, looking fixedly at the ceiling from directly behind him. He blinked; the image didn't go away.
It took him a couple tries to find his voice. Then he cleared his throat and said "Um. Um. I....I don't understand."
Fear:
"It's not closed spaces," Neal said, his voice three octaves higher than Peter was accustomed to hearing it, "it's closed spaces from which there is no escape."
Peter looked desperately around the elevator. "I think I'm going to go ahead and call it claustrophobia," he joked, hoping to lighten the mood, but Neal just made a choked little sound and put his head between his knees again.
Lightening/Thunder:
"I loved listening to it," Peter said, staring out the window of the conference room. "When I was a kid, I mean. Stayed up late sometimes, listening."
"Really?" Neal asked mildly, glancing up. "I always liked watching."
Bonds:
"And those," Neal said, gleefully pointing them out. "And also those."
Peter groaned and dropped the whole pile. "You're sure the statute of limitations is up on this?"
Neal nodded, grinning at the pile of confiscated bonds in front of them. "Never would have told you otherwise."
Market:
Peter was surprised at exactly how much he didn't want to cuff him. Three years of his life spent chasing this guy--this should have been a victorious moment. It wasn't.
Still, duty was duty. He slapped the cuffs on Caffrey's wrists and bit down on the flood of regret that threatened to engulf him. To his surprise, Caffrey started laughing--it was a mournful little chuckle, but a chuckle all the same.
"You know," he said, "When I was a kid, I wanted to be a stock broker when I grew up."
Peter stared, considered denying him the answer to his unspoken question, and then decided he owed it to him. "Firefighter," he admitted, and Caffrey smiled at him, not without sadness. "Let's go."
Technology:
"One of these days I'll come up with a way to break it," Mozzie promised, and Neal smiled at him.
"I know you will, Mozz," he said. Both of them knew he didn't really want to lose the tracker, but it would have been gauche to admit it in company.
Gift:
Neal bounced on the balls of his feet as Peter unwrapped the box. "You really didn't need to get me anything," Peter started, and then he actually opened the present.
"Socks," he said, dryly, as Neal dissolved into laughter. "Happy birthday to me."
Smile:
"Don't," Peter said. "Just don't. No smiling from you. You just sit there and, and frown." He stared down at the remains of his pen resignedly. "Any chance you can tell me how much ink is on my face without laughing?"
He glanced up; Neal was shaking his head violently, both hands over his mouth, smiling with his fucking eyes.
Innocence:
"Peter," he said, putting both hands up and talking fast, "I didn't do this, I really didn't. I know it looks like me, I know that, but I swear I'm innocent--"
Peter gave him a long, hard look and then holstered his gun. "You're never innocent," he said, "but I believe you. This time."
Completion:
"I know I should," Neal said, with a shaky little laugh, "but I kind of don't want you to cut it."
Peter eyed the anklet with trepidation. "Why?"
"There won't be anything to keep me from running," Neal said, quietly. Peter stared at him in disbelief.
"Don't be an idiot," he said, finally, and sliced through the tracker. "You're not going anywhere."
Clouds:
"That one looks kind of like the Mona Lisa," Neal said, "if you squint."
Elizabeth squinted. Then she laughed. "How about that one?" she asked, pointing. "It's definitely got some Dali-esque composition." Neal glanced at it and smiled at her.
"I think that one looks like a nuclear warhead," Mozzie offered, gesturing to the right. "And that one underneath could totally be its mushroom cloud." They both stared at him. "What?"
"Your picnic privileges have been revoked," Neal informed him sternly.
"But--"
"Revoked."
Sky:
Peter had only been gone for five minutes, but when he came back Neal was practically mummified. The kite, which had been diving across the sky only minutes ago, was at his feet, and his arms were more or less frog-tied to his sides.
"Don't, Peter," he warned. Peter pursed his lips and shook his head.
"Usually when I leave you places I worry more about you running off than getting tied up," he said, and the fury on Neal's face was too much--he snapped a photo and laughed for ten minutes straight before letting him go.
Heaven:
"She's in a better place," Peter said. It was a ridiculous, a useless thing to say, but he didn't have anything else to offer.
Neal looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. "I've never believed in any of that stuff. I'd be doomed, if I did."
"Damned," Peter corrected, absently; the shattered look that crossed Neal's features was too much, and he stepped forward, drew him close. "I'm sorry," he whispered, as Neal keened against him, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
Hell:
"Yeah, GIANTS!" the guy in the next stool yelled. He waved his beer glass in triumph, dumped half of its contents on Neal's head, and didn't apologize.
Neal slumped down in his own stool, took a long pull from his own beer, and vowed to get Peter for making him come here.
Sun:
"Are those freckles?" Elizabeth asked, suddenly. Neal held up his hands in protest.
"Nooooo," he said, "they're definitely not--"
She tackled him, pulling at his borrowed t-shirt til it came off. "They are," she said, laughing, "they're all over!"
He scowled good-naturedly at her, reaching for his shirt. "It's a summer thing. I don't want to talk about it."
Moon:
Peter found Neal laying flat on his back in the backyard, hands behind his head, staring up at the full moon. He sighed and laid down next to him. They passed ten minutes in contented silence, and then Neal scooted over, put his head on Peter's stomach, and made a happy, relaxed kind of noise.
Peter smiled, despite himself. He could get used to this country thing.
Waves:
Elizabeth smiled as they turn down the driveway; she always waited until they're out of sight to let the worry show on her face, to let the tremors slip into her hands, to think about what it could mean every time one of them waves goodbye.
Hair:
"That's definitely a bald spot." Peter scowled at Neal and brushed at it--he couldn't feel anything different.
"I think you're crazy," he said. Neal shrugged.
"I think you're balding." He smiled suddenly, a challenge in his eyes. "Guess we'll have to wait and see which one of is right."
Supernova:
"Peter..."
"Yeah?"
"Does El use this iPod too?"
"No, she's got her own. Why?"
"You have Oasis on here."
"There's nothing wrong with Oasis!"
"Are you a fourteen-year-old girl?"
"Not the last time I checked."
"Then there's definitely something wrong with it."
"Give me that...hey, where'd you...?"
"You can have it back when I've improved it."
"I hate you, Caffrey."
Neal smiles, slow and secretive. He says, "No you don't."
So, what I did, right, was go over to 1sentance and grab one of their prompt tables AND I'M REALLY SORRY IF THAT WAS WRONG, I WILL TAKE THIS DOWN IF IT WAS. But, see, I don't think it was all that wrong, because I did not, in fact, write one sentence for each prompt. I wrote, uh, several.
Please don't be mad at me.
Here's where you guys come in--go ahead and read these, if you feel like it, and then let me know which, if any, you'd like me to expand upon. Yes? Yes.
Title: Fifty More-Than-Sentences?
Rating: Don't think any of them go higher than R.
Spoilers: Nope
Pairing: Oh, you know. Some gen, some OT3, some Neal/Peter, some Peter/El.
Warnings: I don't think any? But there are a lot of these, let me know if there's stuff I should be warning for.
Summary: In which I write 50 drabblets from one word prompts.
Comfort:
"No," Peter snapped, "I do not need a hug, don't be ridiculous."
Still, Neal pressed his body into Peter's and held on, and Peter had to admit he did feel a little bit better.
Kiss:
"I want you to know," Neal said, getting into the car, "that your dog stuck his tongue in my mouth this morning." He scowled and licked the back of his own hand. "Ugh, I can't get the taste out of my mouth. See if I watch him for you again, just see."
"Smart dog," Peter said, before he could stop himself, and tried to ignore Neal's suddenly raised eyebrows.
Pain:
"It's a papercut," Jones heard Peter say, rounding the corner. He sounded exasperated; Jones poked his head in to watch. "I don't think you're going to die."
Neal glared back at him. "It's clearly been awhile since your last papercut."
"The only thing clear here," Peter said, glancing back down at file, "is that you're a baby."
Neal narrowed his eyes. Two seconds later, Jones was laughing hysterically as Peter bellowed and Neal ducked and weaved out of reach, his weapon crumpled up in his hand.
Potatoes:
"You're sure you guys can't make it home tonight?" Elizabeth asked. Her husband sighed into the phone, and she added, "I made potatoes au gratin."
There was the sound of a brief scuffle and then Neal, a little breathlessly, said "We'll be there in ten." She hung up smiling. They were so easy.
Rain:
"You'll catch your death out here," Peter said. Neal didn't even look up, just sat there in his soaked t-shirt, staring at the ground. Thunder cracked around them, and Peter gave up and sat down.
"How could I have been so stupid," Neal said, finally. Peter sighed and put an arm around him; Neal leaned close, shivering.
"Everyone does stupid stuff for people they've loved," he said, gruffly, after a minute. "Just makes you human."
Chocolate:
"I'm just saying," Neal told him, popping a sample into his mouth, "it's worth the extra ten dollars to go with the 70% cacao."
Peter eyed the chocolates suspiciously. "I don't know," he said, slowly, "she's always been a Hershey's kind of girl."
Neal rolled his eyes and then he smiled; Peter knew his heart should not be skipping from another man's grin at all, let alone while buying his wife chocolate.
"Trust me," Neal said, and Peter bought the damn stuff just to shut him up.
Happiness:
Elizabeth looked around her bedroom--husband, fast asleep; boyfriend, curled up next to him; dog, sacked out at the foot of the bed. There was an even an empty spot under those sheets with her name written all over it.
She smiled, and wondered if she should take a picture, in case she ever needed to present objective evidence of what happiness looked like.
Telephone:
"I wouldn't have run," Neal says, his voice breathy and desperate and warbling, "you have to know that, please tell me you know that--"
"I do know that," Peter rasps, relief singing through every fiber of his being. "Tell me where you are."
Ears:
"There's just something unsavory about him," Mozz insisted. Neal rolled his eyes. "I think it's the ears."
Neal scoffed incredulously. "I think it's that he'd a Fed," he said, "and you're in no position to talk about ears." Mozzie stared at him in outrage. Then he sniffed, looked away, and refused to speak again until Neal apologized.
Name:
"Keep it up and I'm gonna call you Captain America in front of Hughes."
"I'll send you back to prison."
"It'll be worth it."
Sensual:
Neal hissed between his teeth and arched to peer at the complicated mess of wires; Peter couldn't help but imagine the curve of his back in a different, more sensual setting.
Death:
Neal stared at her grave for a long moment. Then he sighed and sat against it, wrapped his arms around his knees, and waited for Peter to come and find him.
Sex:
"You had SEX with WHO?!" Mozzie screamed, and Neal considered, a little late, that mentioning that little detail to him might have waited until after they'd left the restaurant.
Touch:
He's full of Italian food and fine wine when they get back to her apartment, and he watches her unlock the door and wonders what the hell to do next. He's--well, he's all surveillance photos and well-meaning mistakes when it comes to this kind of thing. He's never been good at it.
Elizabeth smiles at him, pushes the door open, and steps inside. "D'you want to see?" she asks, and when it takes him a moment to answer she bites her lip. "It's ok if you don't," she adds, hurriedly, "I just thought--"
Peter steps forward and puts both hands on her waist. "I want to touch," he says, honestly, and when her lips yield under his he knows he's done something right.
Weakness:
Dearest Neal,
STOP MAKING THESE MUFFINS. I don't want any excuses this time--I don't care if you couldn't sleep or you had a dream about them or Peter held you at gunpoint until you agreed to make a batch. You know they're my only weakness, and I'm going to be fat as house if you don't stop.
They're delicious, though. Don't let Peter eat them all. I'll be home around 6; see you boys 8:30ish?
Love you!
El
Tears:
"I am NOT crying," Neal said, and Peter just smirked at him. After a moment, Neal sniffled again, and Peter's smirk turned into a grin.
"I wouldn't have rented it if I'd know you were so delicate," Elizabeth teased, and Neal threw a pillow at her. Peter laughed outright.
"It's a tragic story!" Neal protested, not looking at either of them. Peter kept laughing, but he pulled Neal against him and ruffled his hair all the same.
Speed:
"I told you I could drive!" Neal said triumphantly, grinning broadly as he pulled into the parking spot.
In the passenger seat, Peter finally felt it safe to release his white-knuckled grip on the dashboard. "Have you ever," he gasped, waiting for his heart rate to calm down, "met a law you didn't feel compelled to break?"
Wind:
Jones looked up from his paperwork; that was a really foul smell. Peter was still focused on the file he'd been looking at, but Neal was making a horrified face in the chair next to him.
Jones raised his eyebrows in a silent question, and Neal nodded. Then he pointed at Peter, rolled his eyes, and flapped a hand in front of his face. Peter looked up at exactly the wrong moment; he said "Hey! I saw that!"
Neal shrugged broadly, smiled at him, and went back to his paperwork; Jones looked quickly back down to his own files, hoping the boss hadn't seen his grin.
Freedom
Neal looked at his bare ankle one last time. It would be easy...but it wouldn't be worth it.
He sighed and knocked on Peter's door. Freedom, he'd discovered, was all relative.
Life:
Neal, Peter and Elizabeth all stared; Satchmo was curled up on his--on her side, licking a small, furry object.
"Um," Neal said, finally, because someone had to say something, "you guys know that's a puppy, right?"
Jealousy:
Mozz watched Neal. It was a pastime, something he'd gotten used to doing over the years--without someone keeping an eye on him, Neal tended to go rogue in upsetting way. Once, it had been interesting, watching Neal. It had been fun.
These day, Mozz looked on as he smiled at the Suit's jokes, and did what the Suit told him to do, and worried when the Suit was gone. It wasn't that Mozz was jealous, exactly. He just wasn't not jealous, either.
Hands:
"It's always been that way," Neal protested, when Peter turned his left hand over and traced the knotted lumps on his fingers. "Even before prison."
Peter gave him a stern look, and he laughed a little nervously. "What?" he said, too innocently, and when Peter raised an eyebrow, he sighed. "I told them it was my painting hand," he admitted. "Learned to draw with it, to make that believable. I always was good at running a con. "
Taste:
"What are you, pregnant?" Peter demanded, when he found Neal in the fridge late one night. Neal hastily shoved what he'd been eating back in there, but Peter was too fast for him. He pulled the offending object out and stared at in horror.
"Caffrey," he said, "this is a pickle. This is a pickle with peanut butter on it."
Neal shrugged. "There's no accounting for taste, Peter. Surely you know that."
Devotion:
They buried Satchmo in the backyard three days after Neal's tracker was cut for good. Elizabeth leaned heavily against Peter and Neal stood a few steps away, looking firmly at the sky.
"He was a good dog," Peter said, finally. When Elizabeth made a soft, sad sound, Neal moved close, pressed into her.
"I'll be faithful too," he whispered, and Elizabeth turned her face into his neck and let herself cry.
Forever:
"Seriously," Caffrey shouted, staring at Peter from across the river, "when are you going to stop chasing me?"
"When you stop running," Peter called back. He cursed the water and the pole Caffrey had used to vault across it and the stupid, mocking smile Peter could see all the way over here.
"So: never, then?" Caffrey yelled. His laughter echoed across the river long after he was gone.
Blood:
"What's his bloodtype?" the nurse asked. Elizabeth opened her mouth around the answer before she realized that, in her panic, she wasn't sure if she was recalling Peter's or Neal's.
Sickness:
"I never get sick," Neal snapped. Peter shook his head resignedly and waved him off. Still, he set the timer on his watch, and it had been thirteen minutes and twelve seconds when Jones stuck his head into Peter's office and beckoned him forward.
Neal was sacked out with his head on the conference table, snoring the light snore of the heavily congested. Peter sighed and rolled his eyes. "Oh, yeah," he said, mostly to himself, "you never get sick."
Melody:
The Giants were in double overtime when El came into the room and told him to come downstairs.
"It's the playoffs," he protested, and she put her hands on her hips.
"That's what TiVo is for," she said firmly. "This, you don't want to miss."
He had to admit, watching Neal dry the dishes, oblivious with his earphones in, belting out "American Woman": she'd been absolutely right.
Star:
"How the hell did you get back?" Peter asked, still too busy checking Neal for bullet holes and flesh wounds to really care about the answer.
Neal smiled enigmatically. "Polaris," he said, and Peter made a mental note to press that question further when he knew Neal was alright.
Home:
"Christ, Mozzie," Neal said, looking at the room in horror. "Why the hell didn't you tell me?"
Mozz glanced around and blushed, despite himself. "I know it's not much--" he started, and then Neal was cutting him off and ushering him out, talking already about June's incomparable hospitality.
Confusion:
Jones looked at the three of them, frozen in place--Neal, bright red and stark naked, Elizabeth hiding her face below him and Peter, looking fixedly at the ceiling from directly behind him. He blinked; the image didn't go away.
It took him a couple tries to find his voice. Then he cleared his throat and said "Um. Um. I....I don't understand."
Fear:
"It's not closed spaces," Neal said, his voice three octaves higher than Peter was accustomed to hearing it, "it's closed spaces from which there is no escape."
Peter looked desperately around the elevator. "I think I'm going to go ahead and call it claustrophobia," he joked, hoping to lighten the mood, but Neal just made a choked little sound and put his head between his knees again.
Lightening/Thunder:
"I loved listening to it," Peter said, staring out the window of the conference room. "When I was a kid, I mean. Stayed up late sometimes, listening."
"Really?" Neal asked mildly, glancing up. "I always liked watching."
Bonds:
"And those," Neal said, gleefully pointing them out. "And also those."
Peter groaned and dropped the whole pile. "You're sure the statute of limitations is up on this?"
Neal nodded, grinning at the pile of confiscated bonds in front of them. "Never would have told you otherwise."
Market:
Peter was surprised at exactly how much he didn't want to cuff him. Three years of his life spent chasing this guy--this should have been a victorious moment. It wasn't.
Still, duty was duty. He slapped the cuffs on Caffrey's wrists and bit down on the flood of regret that threatened to engulf him. To his surprise, Caffrey started laughing--it was a mournful little chuckle, but a chuckle all the same.
"You know," he said, "When I was a kid, I wanted to be a stock broker when I grew up."
Peter stared, considered denying him the answer to his unspoken question, and then decided he owed it to him. "Firefighter," he admitted, and Caffrey smiled at him, not without sadness. "Let's go."
Technology:
"One of these days I'll come up with a way to break it," Mozzie promised, and Neal smiled at him.
"I know you will, Mozz," he said. Both of them knew he didn't really want to lose the tracker, but it would have been gauche to admit it in company.
Gift:
Neal bounced on the balls of his feet as Peter unwrapped the box. "You really didn't need to get me anything," Peter started, and then he actually opened the present.
"Socks," he said, dryly, as Neal dissolved into laughter. "Happy birthday to me."
Smile:
"Don't," Peter said. "Just don't. No smiling from you. You just sit there and, and frown." He stared down at the remains of his pen resignedly. "Any chance you can tell me how much ink is on my face without laughing?"
He glanced up; Neal was shaking his head violently, both hands over his mouth, smiling with his fucking eyes.
Innocence:
"Peter," he said, putting both hands up and talking fast, "I didn't do this, I really didn't. I know it looks like me, I know that, but I swear I'm innocent--"
Peter gave him a long, hard look and then holstered his gun. "You're never innocent," he said, "but I believe you. This time."
Completion:
"I know I should," Neal said, with a shaky little laugh, "but I kind of don't want you to cut it."
Peter eyed the anklet with trepidation. "Why?"
"There won't be anything to keep me from running," Neal said, quietly. Peter stared at him in disbelief.
"Don't be an idiot," he said, finally, and sliced through the tracker. "You're not going anywhere."
Clouds:
"That one looks kind of like the Mona Lisa," Neal said, "if you squint."
Elizabeth squinted. Then she laughed. "How about that one?" she asked, pointing. "It's definitely got some Dali-esque composition." Neal glanced at it and smiled at her.
"I think that one looks like a nuclear warhead," Mozzie offered, gesturing to the right. "And that one underneath could totally be its mushroom cloud." They both stared at him. "What?"
"Your picnic privileges have been revoked," Neal informed him sternly.
"But--"
"Revoked."
Sky:
Peter had only been gone for five minutes, but when he came back Neal was practically mummified. The kite, which had been diving across the sky only minutes ago, was at his feet, and his arms were more or less frog-tied to his sides.
"Don't, Peter," he warned. Peter pursed his lips and shook his head.
"Usually when I leave you places I worry more about you running off than getting tied up," he said, and the fury on Neal's face was too much--he snapped a photo and laughed for ten minutes straight before letting him go.
Heaven:
"She's in a better place," Peter said. It was a ridiculous, a useless thing to say, but he didn't have anything else to offer.
Neal looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. "I've never believed in any of that stuff. I'd be doomed, if I did."
"Damned," Peter corrected, absently; the shattered look that crossed Neal's features was too much, and he stepped forward, drew him close. "I'm sorry," he whispered, as Neal keened against him, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
Hell:
"Yeah, GIANTS!" the guy in the next stool yelled. He waved his beer glass in triumph, dumped half of its contents on Neal's head, and didn't apologize.
Neal slumped down in his own stool, took a long pull from his own beer, and vowed to get Peter for making him come here.
Sun:
"Are those freckles?" Elizabeth asked, suddenly. Neal held up his hands in protest.
"Nooooo," he said, "they're definitely not--"
She tackled him, pulling at his borrowed t-shirt til it came off. "They are," she said, laughing, "they're all over!"
He scowled good-naturedly at her, reaching for his shirt. "It's a summer thing. I don't want to talk about it."
Moon:
Peter found Neal laying flat on his back in the backyard, hands behind his head, staring up at the full moon. He sighed and laid down next to him. They passed ten minutes in contented silence, and then Neal scooted over, put his head on Peter's stomach, and made a happy, relaxed kind of noise.
Peter smiled, despite himself. He could get used to this country thing.
Waves:
Elizabeth smiled as they turn down the driveway; she always waited until they're out of sight to let the worry show on her face, to let the tremors slip into her hands, to think about what it could mean every time one of them waves goodbye.
Hair:
"That's definitely a bald spot." Peter scowled at Neal and brushed at it--he couldn't feel anything different.
"I think you're crazy," he said. Neal shrugged.
"I think you're balding." He smiled suddenly, a challenge in his eyes. "Guess we'll have to wait and see which one of is right."
Supernova:
"Peter..."
"Yeah?"
"Does El use this iPod too?"
"No, she's got her own. Why?"
"You have Oasis on here."
"There's nothing wrong with Oasis!"
"Are you a fourteen-year-old girl?"
"Not the last time I checked."
"Then there's definitely something wrong with it."
"Give me that...hey, where'd you...?"
"You can have it back when I've improved it."
"I hate you, Caffrey."
Neal smiles, slow and secretive. He says, "No you don't."