Title: The Perfect Gift
Author: smilingsoprano
Rating: T, more to be safe than anything. Mild kissing, mild language.
Pairings: Peter/Elizabeth, Peter/Neal, hinted future Peter/Elizabeth/Neal.
Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me. If I owned White Collar, there would be no plot, only character development, and no one wants that.
Summary: Peter and Elle invite Neal over for Christmas. In the exchange of presents they all learn more about each other and Elle has a surprise for her favorite boys.
A/N: This is part of my Christmas present for fantastic friend and fellow fangirl harlequin dragon. Love you, dear! As a result of her tastes and my wanting to branch out, these will be silly, cracky, and slashy, probably in about that order. Hopefully, they'll also be fun. This story is a one-shot, and MADE OF FLUFF. Seriously, I think I got a cavity writing it, it's that sweet. Reviews are love and shall be loved in return. Enjoy this bit of Christmas-flavored fluff!
"I love your decorations, Elle. Subtle, classy . . . so very you." Even seated cross-legged on the floor, Neal's charm was nearly overpowering, his brilliant grin perfectly sincere. Feeling slightly dizzy, as she always did when the thief turned the full force of his charisma on her, Elle sat on the nearby couch.
"You flatterer," she laughed.
His dazzling blue eyes—it really was impossible not to notice his looks—widened innocently. "Flattery? Never. You have impeccable taste, and it shows. I'm simply giving credit where it's due."
"Well, thank you. You're very kind." Casting a glance into the kitchen, she called out. "Peter! Are you going to leave the fudge alone and come open presents?"
Moments later, Peter appeared from the adjoining room. "Neal, why are you on the floor?"
His charge smiled brightly. "It's been a long time since I had a family Christmas. This makes me feel like a kid again. Which reminds me, thank you again for the invite." He paused, his gaze softening. "It means a lot."
"Ah, well." Never good with gratitude, Peter brushed it off. "We couldn't leave you alone, what with Mozzie off doing God-knows-what and Alex . . . being Alex. Don't get me wrong, though. If you so much as look at one of my presents funny, I'll slap you in handcuffs."
Elle laughed again, diffusing any tension that statement had instigated. "All right, boys, settle down. Sorry Neal, Peter gets rather protective with his gifts. Speaking of . . . here. From me to you."
She handed over a flat, rectangular package in green and gold wrapping paper. Abandoning any pretense of calm, Neal tore it open with enthusiasm, revealing a cashmere sweater. The vibrant blue made his eyes almost inhumanly vivid.
"Oh, Elle," he breathed. "This is gorgeous! Thank you so much."
Smiling, she shrugged. "I figured you could use some clothes less than a decade old."
"I said you have too many clothes already," Peter interjected, "but she wouldn't listen."
"You should always listen to Elle. She has perfect instincts. Elle, I love it. May I try it on?"
"Of course. I just hope it fits."
With a mischievous grin, Neal tugged off the black turtleneck he had been wearing, exchanging it for his present. As much as she would have liked to ogle his sculpted upper body, Elle watched Peter instead. She smiled to herself as she saw her husband's eyes follow the younger man's movements. Subtle had never been Peter's strong suit, and she'd had suspicions about his attitude toward Neal for almost as long as they'd been working together.
As ever, her fashion sense had been dead-on. The sweater looked preternaturally good on Neal. It hugged his lean form, the v-neck revealing just enough of his chest to be enticing, the rich color complimenting his natural brightness. Elle congratulated herself on a present well-chosen.
The former thief produced a package of his own, pushing it toward her. "For the lady."
Unwrapping it, Elle found a small, leather-bound day planner in the style of an illuminated manuscript. Though the pages were mostly blank, each was headed with a date, elaborately colored and illustrated. Vines and Celtic knots twined through the old-fashioned lettering, and the parchment was edged with what looked like gold leaf. The front was etched with her name and the logo of her company. She stared, completely speechless.
"I . . . Neal . . . this is too much! It's . . . it's beautiful. I can't possibly accept this."
He smiled wistfully. "You deserve it. You have been nothing but welcoming to me. You've brought a notorious white collar criminal into your house and family without reservation. Elle, you have been a godsend. Besides, it already has your name on it."
She laughed, partly to forestall the tears she felt trembling at the edges of her vision. "Thank you. I can't thank you enough."
"Don't worry about it."
Peter cleared his throat suddenly. "Damn, Neal, you're upstaging me. You couldn't have let me give that to her?"
Elle placed one hand against her husband's cheek, kissing him gently. "No one can steal your spotlight, hon. Not even Neal."
"Yeah, well . . . here. My present."
Still wiping her eyes, Elle undid the ribbon, letting the wrapping paper slide to the floor. In her lap sat a box and an envelope bearing the words: "Read me first." She opened it, unfolding the letter.
"Dear Elle," she read. "In all our years of marriage, I don't think there's been a day you haven't surprised me in some way. You are the strongest, most complicated woman I have ever met. I see in you a domestic goddess, a great cook and friendly, normal person; a glamorous, high-fashion events planner, capable of mingling with the most exclusive crowds; and a sophisticated lover of art and beauty. So, this Christmas, I thought I'd get you something for each part of you. With all my love, Peter."
Tearing up again, Elle opened the box. Inside was a new non-stick saucepan, a gorgeous gold and pearl necklace, and two tickets to the opera's production of Così fan tutti. She placed it carefully on the coffee table, then flung her arms around Peter, kissing him thoroughly.
"It's perfect! Thank you so much."
Looking slightly nonplussed, but happy all the same, her husband grinned at her. "I'm glad you like it."
"Like it? Peter, I love it. You couldn't have done better. And I didn't know you could write like that!"
He coughed. "Uh, Neal might have helped me with the letter. A bit. Not much."
"Even better. My two favorite boys, collaborating to please me. I feel like some sort of idol. Let's open some other presents, before my sense of self-importance gets any more attention. Peter, is that another gift I see?"
"Yeah. For Neal." He passed the box to his charge.
"It won't explode, will it?" Neal laughed. Given that he was already tearing off the paper, it wasn't a serious question, but Peter shook his head anyway. Once open, the package was shown to contain a scroll. Eyes widening, Neal unrolled it, revealing a Japanese print in delicate yellows and blues, depicting a mountain shrine bordered by a waterfall.
"I saw you eying the Japanese collection in that dealer's house, so I thought maybe . . . it might be nice for you to have some art you didn't have to steal." Elle giggled at that.
"Peter, it's exactly what I wanted. More than I could have asked for, actually. I . . . thank you. It's lovely." Neal stared at it for a moment, then started out of his daze. "Right! I have your present. It's not much, but . . . I hope you like it."
Peter reached out and took the long, cylindrical gift from him. He unwrapped it slowly, looking as though he would be unsurprised to find the Mona Lisa rolled up in the cardboard tube. It was indeed a painting, which he unrolled and studied. It was beautiful, a subtle, muted study of a maple tree gilded with frost. It nearly seemed to glitter, the fissures in the trunk highlighted and the autumn-red leaves edged with delicate white crystals.
"Beautiful," Peter murmured. "My family had maples like this on our street. I always loved fall." He smiled at the former thief. "Thank you. Who's the artist?"
Neal gave a nervous half-shrug. "I am, actually. It's a Neal Caffrey original."
Peter stared for a moment. "Really? I thought . . . I mean, you're famous for . . ." He trailed off. Tact had never been his strong suit.
"I know." Neal answered the unspoken question. "You thought I could only copy. It's most of what I do, I'll admit. But plenty of galleries and private collectors have my forgeries—" he ignored Peter's glare and continued "—and very few people have my originals. So I thought it would be . . . special. You know."
"It is." Their eyes met, and Neal saw sincerity there. "It's perfect. You could be a great artist."
Neal grinned. "Oh, I rather think I am a great artist. Just not one the public knows much about." He gave a saucy wink. Peter sighed.
Finally Elle, who had been watching the exchange with a knowing expression, interrupted. "There's one more present left to give. Peter, I have something for you. I'll go get it." As she rose, she explained. "He's terrible with surprises, see. Has to know everything beforehand. So I have to keep it hidden, or he'll apply all that FBI training to trying to find out what it is. I'll be back shortly."
She swept out, leaving Peter and Neal sitting in comfortable silence. Neal studied his new print almost reverentially, taking in the colors and the stylistic markers. Peter toyed with the ribbon from his gift to Elle, absently tying knots. When she returned, she was holding something behind her back.
"Peter," she began. "I like to fancy myself a perceptive woman. And you're not exactly Mr. Subtle, so usually it's very easy to find something for you. But this year, I'm not certain you've even admitted what you want to yourself. So I'm taking a risk."
Her husband looked puzzled. Neal looked intrigued. That quickly changed to surprise when she reached out and stuck a shiny red ribbon on his forehead. He nearly went cross-eyed trying to look at it. Peter turned to her, shock and confusion written across his honest face.
"Elle, what in the world?"
She smiled benevolently. "Hon, like I said, you are not the most secretive person. I see the way you two look at each other. I can't blame you—he's gorgeous and intelligent, if a little on the wrong side of the law—but I also know you. You'd never, ever even entertain the idea of cheating. It's one of the things I like best about you. So, for Christmas, I'm giving you this promise: no guilt. It's not cheating. It's sanctioned. I might occasionally ask you to share—" she winked lasciviously "—but for now, he's all yours." Peter and Neal gaped at her, flabbergasted, and she sighed gustily. "Go on. I give you both full permission to kiss now."
It was Neal who looked away from her first, toward his friend and partner. She saw the spark of lust in those brilliant eyes that had been there ever since her husband had managed to catch him the first time. Next Peter turned and met his gaze. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. As they stared at each other, the faint tension which always permeated the air between them intensified and they, paradoxically, began to relax. Peter moved forward first, laying his hand on Neal's.
"You want this?" he asked.
Neal paused, then flashed his dazzling grin. "I'd be insane not to."
"Good," Peter murmured. He leaned in, running his thumb along the thief's jaw as he pressed a soft kiss to his lips. Neal flushed, raising his free hand to the back of Peter's neck, pulling him closer.
Smiling to herself, Elle left, closing the door behind her. A merry Christmas indeed.