Home is Not a Sewage Pipe... (Christmas fic 2)
Christmas Fic
Title: Home is Not a Sewage Pipe
A/N: set after 4.10
Author: hurinhouse
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters: Neal, OFC
Summary: There's a new kid in town
Disclaimer: Entirely fiction
A/N: From various comments on the show, I'm guessing that canon Neal probably arrived in NYC in the spring, but I'm going to pretend I have missed some of those tidbits for this piece.
727 words
"What'd you say your name is?" Her voice had been scratchy and he'd wondered how old she was. Her wrinkles looked more from wear than age.
"I didn't, but Neal."
"Change it. You shouldn't have told me."
They'd forged down the sidewalk, Neal slipping on the ice every so often, having trouble keeping up with his twisted ankle and old Nikes. She'd had a schedule to keep. He'd been jealous of her boots and her gloves, but the rest of her was a study in grime and tangled frizz.
"You won't last out here with that pretty face. You better smear some dirt on your cheeks until some shag grows in. Get some baggy clothes and a knife or you'll be poked four times by the end of the week."
People had rushed past them, arms full of bags and packages with shiny silver ribbons. He'd wondered how many coins they'd dropped along the way.
Earlier, a group of skinheads had stolen his watch, and fortunately nothing else, so he had no clue of the hour, but he'd guessed there was no more time for charity as the stores were closing early this last day.
He followed her into an alley, collars turned up against the wind, and he'd felt a pang of loss at the sudden absence of twinkling lights and storefront greenery.
"Well, where's your bottle?"
He'd produced the near empty liter of Coke he'd nicked off a family of tourists earlier in the day.
"Dump it, rinse it, fill it."
She'd pointed him to a spigot at the back of a townhouse; the park fountains were turned off during the bitter cold. He had paused. There were no handles.
"Shit, how long have you been in New York anyway?" She'd sighed, fished through her many layers of clothing and handed him a pair of pliers.
She was disgusted with him, he knew. He'd been surprised that afternoon when she'd started feeding the pigeons, and a little impressed that she'd been helping animals during her own plight. He'd wanted to draw them but his lead had broken. Then he'd seen the cardboard box she'd left a trail of feed to.
"Just make sure it's quick if you're worried about it," she'd advised. He'd held the wriggling bird within a scarf, another souvenir from an oblivious tourist, but he couldn't do it. She'd grabbed it from him and wrung its neck herself while he threw up what was left of the previous night's stale biscuit. He'd been trying to get back into her good graces since.
"Okay, end of lesson one," her voice had brought him back to the alley, to his now full water bottle, and to the impending nightfall,. She waited, hand held out. Neal passed over the four dollars he'd promised, wishing for the thousandth time he'd grabbed the envelope of money between his mattresses before he'd left home.
"See ya 'round." She shuffled off, various "tools" clinking beneath her clothes.
"Wait. What about sleeping?"
"No way, Kid. I don’t show anyone where I crash. Find yourself a tire yard or some place without night guards or dogs, don't let anyone see you and for God's sake don't sleep in a sewage pipe."
"But- "
"Maybe you're not cut out for New York. You should go back home."
"Never mind."
"Here." She'd gifted him with a treat. That was six hours and twenty two blocks ago.
The light glowing through the steepled stained glass windows lets him pretend a warmth seeps into his thin jean jacket. It's just past midnight; he'd heard the bells. He can barely keep his eyes open but he thinks he can almost hear the pretty songs they must be singing inside.
He sucks once more on the remaining half of the candy cane from the old lady, convincing himself it's Ellen's mashed potatoes and apple pie. Then he wraps it back up and stashes it safely in his pocket, glancing once more across the empty frozen street.
He won't go into that house of lies and he won't go home. It's just one night. And all day tomorrow. But after that the streets will be filled with tourists again. He'll find something to eat; he'll learn more city tricks and his luck will turn.
He limps toward the corner drug store to search the parking lot for change.
-
thanks for reading
all my fics
Title: Home is Not a Sewage Pipe
A/N: set after 4.10
Author: hurinhouse
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters: Neal, OFC
Summary: There's a new kid in town
Disclaimer: Entirely fiction
A/N: From various comments on the show, I'm guessing that canon Neal probably arrived in NYC in the spring, but I'm going to pretend I have missed some of those tidbits for this piece.
727 words
"What'd you say your name is?" Her voice had been scratchy and he'd wondered how old she was. Her wrinkles looked more from wear than age.
"I didn't, but Neal."
"Change it. You shouldn't have told me."
They'd forged down the sidewalk, Neal slipping on the ice every so often, having trouble keeping up with his twisted ankle and old Nikes. She'd had a schedule to keep. He'd been jealous of her boots and her gloves, but the rest of her was a study in grime and tangled frizz.
"You won't last out here with that pretty face. You better smear some dirt on your cheeks until some shag grows in. Get some baggy clothes and a knife or you'll be poked four times by the end of the week."
People had rushed past them, arms full of bags and packages with shiny silver ribbons. He'd wondered how many coins they'd dropped along the way.
Earlier, a group of skinheads had stolen his watch, and fortunately nothing else, so he had no clue of the hour, but he'd guessed there was no more time for charity as the stores were closing early this last day.
He followed her into an alley, collars turned up against the wind, and he'd felt a pang of loss at the sudden absence of twinkling lights and storefront greenery.
"Well, where's your bottle?"
He'd produced the near empty liter of Coke he'd nicked off a family of tourists earlier in the day.
"Dump it, rinse it, fill it."
She'd pointed him to a spigot at the back of a townhouse; the park fountains were turned off during the bitter cold. He had paused. There were no handles.
"Shit, how long have you been in New York anyway?" She'd sighed, fished through her many layers of clothing and handed him a pair of pliers.
She was disgusted with him, he knew. He'd been surprised that afternoon when she'd started feeding the pigeons, and a little impressed that she'd been helping animals during her own plight. He'd wanted to draw them but his lead had broken. Then he'd seen the cardboard box she'd left a trail of feed to.
"Just make sure it's quick if you're worried about it," she'd advised. He'd held the wriggling bird within a scarf, another souvenir from an oblivious tourist, but he couldn't do it. She'd grabbed it from him and wrung its neck herself while he threw up what was left of the previous night's stale biscuit. He'd been trying to get back into her good graces since.
"Okay, end of lesson one," her voice had brought him back to the alley, to his now full water bottle, and to the impending nightfall,. She waited, hand held out. Neal passed over the four dollars he'd promised, wishing for the thousandth time he'd grabbed the envelope of money between his mattresses before he'd left home.
"See ya 'round." She shuffled off, various "tools" clinking beneath her clothes.
"Wait. What about sleeping?"
"No way, Kid. I don’t show anyone where I crash. Find yourself a tire yard or some place without night guards or dogs, don't let anyone see you and for God's sake don't sleep in a sewage pipe."
"But- "
"Maybe you're not cut out for New York. You should go back home."
"Never mind."
"Here." She'd gifted him with a treat. That was six hours and twenty two blocks ago.
The light glowing through the steepled stained glass windows lets him pretend a warmth seeps into his thin jean jacket. It's just past midnight; he'd heard the bells. He can barely keep his eyes open but he thinks he can almost hear the pretty songs they must be singing inside.
He sucks once more on the remaining half of the candy cane from the old lady, convincing himself it's Ellen's mashed potatoes and apple pie. Then he wraps it back up and stashes it safely in his pocket, glancing once more across the empty frozen street.
He won't go into that house of lies and he won't go home. It's just one night. And all day tomorrow. But after that the streets will be filled with tourists again. He'll find something to eat; he'll learn more city tricks and his luck will turn.
He limps toward the corner drug store to search the parking lot for change.
-
thanks for reading
all my fics