ficlet: sitting in a tree
White Collar! I started writing this for betweenthebliss for my drabble meme (still working on those, by the way! just going through them VERY SLOWLY due to sickness, haha), but didn't think it was turning out enough like her prompt to work, so I switched to something else. Then I finished this anyway. Now you can read it too if you want. Or not! It's all good. :D
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When Peter comes into the room, Neal and Cruz are laughing about something. Peter clears his throat and waves the folder he wrangled out of Hughes at them, ignoring the way his stomach's turning flips at the sight of Neal curled lazily over Peter's desk, jacket stretching taut over his back. "Hey, kids. Think we could get back to the actual work aspect of, well--work?" he asks instead, raising his eyebrows.
Cruz pivots expectantly, but Neal turns slowly, almost languidly. His eyebrows go up, and he leans back, crossing his arms and grinning. "Nice hair, Burke," he offers in that cool, teasing tone Peter's grown so used to hearing on the other side of his earpiece.
"I just ran up six flights of stairs. Besides, we can't all look as good as you do, Neal," Peter says, shrugging like he's sorry about it and heading towards the desk.
"I know, I know, but really--at least try to keep up, Peter," Neal admonishes. His face has arranged itself in a parody of disapproval, dark brows drawn low his eyes, but his mouth is turned up the slightest bit at the corners. "I can't take you anywhere, you know," he adds, sighing and tossing Cruz a glance of mock commiseration.
Peter rolls his eyes and shifts the file to his right hand, craning his neck to get a good look at his hair in the window. He grimaces when he catches sight of himself--okay, yeah, Neal's right about this one. He reaches up to fix it, but Neal halts him with a warm hand at his shoulder.
"No, no--here, just hold still," he murmurs, peering at Peter's head. With his other hand, he strokes gently through the front part of Peter's hair.
Peter holds still--breathing evenly like he was trained to do. Neal's eyes are focused and so intense this close up, a stunning blaze of blue, but Peter doesn't think about that. He doesn't think about how hot Neal's hand is, either, or how close they're standing; doesn't think about the way there's barely space between them, or the way his heart's beating too fast.
"There," Neal says finally, grinning. He takes a step back to obseve and gives a decisive nod. "Yeah. Now you look vaguely presentable."
"Oh, thanks," Peter tosses back, pulling up sarcasm to cover himself. "You're a real humanitarian, Neal. Hey, you know what? Just because you're such a nice guy, I think I'll give you the honor of grabbing the Caprioni file from Diana's office."
"So cruel to me, Peter," Neal sighs, fluttering his eyelashes. "So cruel."
"Get."
Neal gets, and Peter crosses his arms, shaking his head a little. He glances back at Cruz, mouth open to ask her a question, and is stopped short by the obvious smile she's biting back.
"What?" he says.
Cruz doesn't say anything, just raises her eyebrows at him and turns her gaze back to her stack of papers.
Peter scowls. "What?" he demands, resisting the urge to tug at his tie.
"Nothing, sir," she says, just a shade too calmly.
"Cruz," he warns. She gathers up her papers and avoids his eyes, sliding over to the door. "Cruz," he repeats, uncrossing his arms.
She turns to blink at him once, large dark eyes the picture of innocence. "Oh, you know. Just the same as you guys always are," she says, hiking the papers up further in her arms. "Neal and Peter, sitting in a tree, and all that," she adds, and then ducks out the door before he can register more than the bright, wicked curl of her grin.
He's left open-mouthed in his office, watching her through the glass as she wades jauntily through the desks and tables below, her words ringing in his mind. "H--" he starts, "I--. But--"
"What'd I miss?" Neal asks, coming back in from the adjoining room. "Wait, are you blushing?"
"No," Peter mutters, and turns to the shelter of his desk.