For Michelle, one Mozzie centric sweet short oneshot for Christmas. Hope you like it! BETAed and Titled by the lovely Casa.
"I hate hospitals, I hate hospitals, I. Hate. Hospitals." Mozzie continued his not so soothing mantra as he twitched, jumping at each unfamiliar sound. The whirs, clicks, and beeping of various devices made him most uncomfortable—a cacophony of irritating noise worse than the modern world considered music—as did these sheets. They were itchy, and hot, and crinkled when he moved. "The homeless live better," he thought. And Mozzie would know; he'd spent a lot of time homeless.
He couldn't believe Neal had brought him, h e r e. There were plenty of medical supplies at Thursday, and those of us on the right side of the establishment knew we needed to patch ourselves up. No, correction, he knew why Neal had brought him here. There were a handful of theories that explained that: Shock from the Evil Suit situation, he hoped other Suits were helping with that in his absence; temporary insanity at the sight of blood, Neal was never one for violence or gore; and the likeliest reason was probably Mr. and Mrs. Suit themselves. He rolled over and cringed, both from pain and the frustration of being here in sparkly white damnation. Indeed, the question wasn't why Neal brought him here, it was why Neal left him here to do this alone.
A loud knocking at his door roused him from his thoughts. Mozzie had little idea how to handle this situation, it wasn't as though he regularly had guests, at least not any he had not been expecting. Mozzie didn't have to ponder long, though, after a second round of knocking, a woman burst through the door. He added rude people to the list of why he hated hospitals. "Mis-ter," the nurse drew out the syllables like she were a child learning to read. He figured Neal had changed his mind a few different times on which last name to put on the form, leading to a mess in his generally ornate script. Thus, the bumbling nurse had trouble knowing what to call him. As far as Mozzie was concerned, they need not use names at all.
"Yes?" he replied, irritation coloring his tone.
"You have guests," she gestured towards the door, where Neal and The Suit were waiting.
"Well then, don't stand there, let them in!" Mozzie waved a hand and a machine beeped frantically until he set his arm down, the harried nurse scooted out in the hall, as Neal and The Suit came past her.
"Take it easy on her, Moz, she's just trying to do her job," Neal said, setting a somewhat hefty package on the ledge to Mozzie's right. Mozzie could scarcely believe his ears, take it easy on her? Her? He was the one fighting for his life here. "And Moz, you're no longer in danger of dying, so please cut the melodramatics."
"I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to."
"Why? Have you added mind-reading to your repertoire?"
"No. I just know your face."
"What does that even mean you 'know my face'?"
Neal turned toward him, with a shrug. "You use that same expression every time you feel you're being chided."
Peter tried feebly to intervene from his place on the chair in the corner, "Neal, Haver-"
Mozzie puffed himself up a bit. "What so now you can chide me? Am I your puppy?"
"Of course not, Moz, I just meant-"
"I'm older than you, you know."
"I haven't forgotten."
The back and forth continued for several more jabs until an exasperated Peter shouted "GENTLEMAN!"
Well not shouted per se, but still it was much too loud for a hospital setting, not that Mozzie really cared. He liked seeing Suit just a little uncomfortable every now and then.
Neal's expression changed, "Sorry Peter."
Mozzie gestured with a dramatic flourish. "Oh so now you apologize to him?"
"Without Peter I couldn't be here," Neal said, his voice softening a little. Mozzie opened his mouth to make some crack about Neal's government leash, but shut his mouth with an audible pop as Neal continued. "Peter picked the hospital, I know it's out of my radius, but it's the best and the Bureau is paying." He trailed off and room fell awkwardly silent as Mozzie understood. The Bureau wasn't paying, Mr. and Mrs. Suit were. Mozzie took a quick glance at him, still standing, though shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.
"Not to interrupt, Neal, but lunch break isn't that long," Peter tried a chuckle, but Neal didn't get the joke. Confusion flickered across his features, as he scanned the room. "Your package?"
"Oh right." Neal hoisted the bumpy brown bag off the bleak bleached sill and placed it the foot of Mozzie's bed. "I brought lunch," he explained pulling items from the bag, "I went with a french theme today: cheese, both soft and blue, fresh baguettes, some of your favorite smoked sausage. I also have a caramelized pear torte, and a bottle of chavigon blanc."
"Neal."
Neal turned towards Peter momentarily whilst continuing to unpack his spread, "What? No wine?"
"No. I mean yes, no wine, but"
"Wait was that a yes or a no to the wine?"
"Definite no to the wine, we're working and wine is certainly not fit for the infirmed, but that wasn't what I was talking about."
Neal sided with Peter and slid the bottle back in the bag, Mozzie was considering objecting when conversation started up again. "What then?"
"Well pardon me, but I was just the slightest bit curious as to where you procured such fine comestibles," Peter gave an awkward bow, and Mozzie let a smile slip.
"The origins of most things are largely unknown, Suit."
"Borrowed from Elizabeth." Neal had finished unpacking and was now slicing bread lengthwise, holding halves up to check for evenness and then setting them meticulously on a table cloth, Peter's table cloth.
"Borrowed? Or stole?" Peter asked.
"Gray area," all three men said at once, solidifying comradeship among the three men. Thus began the first of the lamest picnics ever, and larger grocery bills for Elizabeth and June.