Title: Peter Burke's Day Off
Author: QWERTYfaced
Fandom: White Collar
Wordcount: 1789
Rating: K+
Characters: Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Neal Caffrey
Genre: Gen
Notes: Hastily written for the LJ collarcorner community's Comment-a-Thon Round 28. First attempt at White Collar fic.
Summary: El and Neal go out, and Peter spends some quality "me" time. Oneshot.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. All characters and settings belong to their respective copyright holders, not me. Which is why I don't have a mansion yet.
"Are you sure you don't want to come with us, Peter?"
The inquiry sounded perfectly genuine, but the hint of mischief in Elizabeth Burke's eyes suggested she already knew the answer. She stood in the doorway, fastening an earring as she waited for the response.
"Champagne brunch, art galleries, and dress shopping?" Peter raised an eyebrow. His third cup of coffee sat on the table just within reach, surrounded by a chaotic assortment of folders and documents.
"Well, we might also look at some china patterns. Neal says he knows of this fabulous undiscovered Japanese designer," El said brightly, in the tones of one promising a child a special treat.
"Thanks, honey, but I have some work to catch up on. You and Neal go have lots of fun."
El gave him a wide, overly-innocent smile. "Oh, if there's that much work, maybe we could postpone. I'm sure Neal wouldn't mind. Then he could stay here, and help you." Suppressed laughter rippled in her voice; she was definitely in a teasing mood.
Playing along, Peter gave a slight shudder and growled, "Neal Caffrey staying out of my hair and not committing, abetting, or plotting felonies is helping me."
His wife chuckled and bent down to kiss him, her lips warm and quivering slightly with humor. The subtle scent of her perfume enveloped him—something French with roses and vanilla in it, a "little hostess gift" from Neal at the last event she'd invited him to.
(Peter had looked it up, and it was nearly $800 per ounce. Of course Neal would consider that a hostess gift. Smelled nice, though.)
"I sliced up some chicken and veggies for you and put them in the fridge," El said, straightening up. "You can make a nice salad for lunch."
"Oh...thank you, honey."
Fortunately, before she could notice and comment on the distinct lack of enthusiasm in Peter's voice, the doorbell rang, and El scurried away to answer it.
"Neal, you're right on time!" she said happily.
"You know what they say, punctuality is the politeness of princes. Elizabeth, you're looking as radiant as ever." The slim young man at the door stepped in and took her hand, dropping a playful kiss on her fingertips as she laughed. Peter, glancing over, fought not to roll his eyes.
"You're obviously ready, because I don't see how you could improve on this." Neal made a slight, graceful gesture to indicate El's whole appearance.
"Oh, you." El batted lightly at his arm, then laughed again as he raised his hand in a scout salute.
"Artist's honor," Neal said.
"Let me just run upstairs for my purse."
El clicked off up the stairs, and Neal wandered over to the table.
"Morning, Peter."
Instead of answering that directly, Peter leaned back in his chair and gave his partner a wry look. As always, the younger man was immaculately groomed and sharply dressed, giving the impression of something that had just stepped off the cover of GQ.
Wearing a tie even on a damned Saturday, Peter noticed. With a collar pin, no less.
"The politeness of princes," Peter said, his voice dry.
"And con artists," Neal conceded.
"Because con-men are inherently polite." Once again, it was more a skeptical statement than a question.
"It's so much easier to con people when you're polite, Peter," said Neal, flashing one of his easy, charming smiles. After pausing for a beat, he added, "And punctual."
This time Peter did roll his eyes. "Punctual? For those appointments with gallery vaults, I suppose."
"Those are some very tight appointments, Peter. ...I hear."
Peter decided not to dignify that with any more response than a soft snort.
Just then, El came back downstairs. Neal grinned at Peter and offered El his arm with that effortlessly light-hearted gallantry that always made the agent's eyebrows creep up towards his hairline. Peter suspected that was half the motivation behind it. The other half was just, well, Neal.
"Shall we?" El asked, linking her arm lightly through Neal's.
Neal nodded. "Later, Peter."
El's swept an affectionate glance from her husband to Satchmo, who was shamelessly lying in front of Neal, trying to cadge a belly-rub. "Be good, boys."
"No felonies, Caffrey," Peter said, directing a short glare at his partner.
Neal and El both laughed, then turned to leave. Right before the door closed, Peter could hear Neal starting with, "So a friend of mine has this tiny gallery, and they're featuring the most amazing photographer. Black-and-white, of course..."
Peter shook his head and took a long swallow of coffee.
"Right," he told Satchmo. "Case files."
A couple of hours later, Peter sat back in his chair and tried to ease the strain in his neck. After spending all morning poring over the ten-point type of Bureau forms, his vision was starting to blur and his feet were going a little numb from Satchmo's weight draped across them.
He looked down at the happily comatose dog and eased his legs away, causing the yellow tail to thump on the floor a few times. "I think it's time for a break, buddy."
Pushing back from the table, he went into the kitchen with Satchmo padding along behind him. It was a bit like having a furry surveillance detail, but Peter had long since gotten used to it. In fact, he found he liked the company.
"I bet you'd be a lot more fun on a stakeout than Caffrey is," he told the dog. "And you know the meaning of the word 'Stay.'"
After pouring himself another cup of coffee, Peter wandered out to the living room and flopped down on the couch. The paper sat on the coffee table, but he found his attention straying towards the television.
"You know, the Yankees have a day game today," he said.
Satchmo gave a soft whuff.
Peter put up a half-hearted struggle with himself, then reached for the remote.
It was the top of the second inning, and the game was tied at two runs.
Peter put down the coffee and went into the kitchen for a beer.
Three innings later, Peter decided it was about time for lunch. He stood in the kitchen, warily eyeing the plate of sliced chicken breast in his hand.
Satchmo, who knew the drill, sat looking hopefully up at the chicken.
Peter grinned at the dog, then scraped the chicken off into the dog bowl. The vegetables went down the disposal.
To the background of baseball announcers and happy dog noises, Peter rummaged in the back of the freezer until he found what he was looking for. "Aha, I knew she hadn't found them," he said, triumphantly bringing out a package of hot dogs. Not organic, locally-sourced beef, and not artisanal sausages imported from Italy. Just hot dogs.
He put a couple on a plate and popped them in the microwave, then carefully squirreled the rest away under a bag of frozen mini puff pastries.
A little digging at the back of their highest cabinet produced a can of spray cheese. (That huge bread board they never used was almost as good as a false cabinet back.) Peter gloated a little as he folded the steaming hot dogs into slices of bread, then topped them with a liberal stripe of good old-fashioned imitation cheese food product.
Satchmo was finished with the chicken and knew a softie when he saw one. He sat with his tail thumping and his eyes fixed on the hot dogs.
"All right," Peter said. "But really, don't tell Elizabeth." He leaned down and squirted a little cheese into the bowl.
A sudden roar from the TV made Peter dash into the next room, spray cheese in one hand and beer in the other. "Show the replay!"
And that was when Neal and Elizabeth decided to come home.
The sound of the door closing made Peter spin around guiltily. His partner and his wife stood side by side in the entryway, wearing identical, startled expressions. Their fascinated gazes tracked from Peter, to the TV and the pair of empty beer bottles on the coffee table, to Satchmo (blissfully licking a smear of bright orange goo off his nose), then back to Peter.
El's shopping bags slithered to the floor with soft thumps.
"Wow," said Neal.
"Oh, Peter," El said, her voice full of expertly blended reproach and amusement.
"You, uh, you guys are home early," Peter said rather lamely. He belatedly realized he was still holding the cheese and quickly set it down.
"Yes, well, I decided to drop off my shopping bags before we went to the gallery," El said. Her voice wobbled as she struggled to keep an even, matter-of-fact tone.
"Nice...costume," Neal supplied, after a moment. His blue eyes were still wide as he studied his partner.
Peter glanced down at the jersey he'd thrown on during a commercial break. "It completes the experience," he said defensively.
Neal nodded gravely. "Completing things is important. Take outfits, for example. Now, for me, the tie pin completes the outfit. I don't feel dressed without a tie pin. But for you, Peter, what would complete the outfit..."
He paused.
"...is pants."
El clapped her hand over her mouth.
Peter hastily glanced down further, suddenly remembering. He'd taken off his shoes, as you do, and then the pants really had been a bit binding, and he hadn't been expecting El and Neal back for some time, so...
Oh, good. He was wearing the boxers El had given him for Valentine's Day.
The ones with the...um, pink bunnies. Yes. Right. Good.
El was making muffled snorting noises.
He coughed nervously. "Not everyone's as much of a dandy as you, Caffrey."
"Right." Neal nodded slowly. "Right."
The consultant seemed to think about it for a moment, then pivoted to face El, whose shoulders were shaking. "Well, why don't we get going to the gallery?" he suggested. "And, uh, maybe a wine bar on the way?"
"Oh, definitely. After this? Definitely." El hadn't taken her hand from her mouth, and she sounded a little breathless. "Do you think they have magnums?"
Neal opened the front door and stood back for her.
"I was thinking more along the lines of a jeroboam..."
The door closed.
A bit dazed, and more than a bit defensive, Peter looked down.
"It comes to something when a man can't watch the game in his own house," he grumbled to Satchmo. "It's my day off!"
Then he went back to retrieve his lunch from the counter.
As he settled back on the sofa, a thought occurred to him and he sagged into the cushions.
Monday was going to be a fun day at the office.