#peter just already has a wife but neal is fine with that

[leverage-ot3]

neal caffrey and peter burke are nate and sophie in a different font and here’s why- *gunshots*

[words-writ-in-starlight]

White Collar ot3 number 14, 18 and/or 29 for the ship asks because you just reminded me how much I adore them today. Thank you and happy birthday!!

I cut this bad boy for length because I sure can go on about these three. That first one is basically a whole fic. Thank you, my birthday was great!

14) When one has a cold, what does the other do?

This feels like a great opportunity to talk about one of my favorite things to think about with this OT3, which is The First Time Neal Gets Sick, AKA The Time Peter And Elizabeth Almost Had A Heart Attack.

The thing is, they expect dramatics. Neal is someone who leans on dramatics as 70% of his social charms, and if you'd held a hot brand to Peter's skin while he was chasing Neal over half the godforsaken country, back in the day, he'd have said that Neal would be the type to wring every minor illness for all it was worth. Not, like, out of any particular irritation for that particular behavior--Elizabeth is the kind of person who gets dramatically sick even if all she has is a cold, and if he's being perfectly honest Peter kind of enjoys babying his wife for a few days--but just because. Well. All Neal ever does is make sure all eyes are on him, seeing exactly what he wants, doing exactly what he needs. It's the con he's best at, Neal's favorite magic trick: sweep everyone up in the delirium of those blue eyes and that shattering smile and take everything they've got in their distraction.

So anyway, then Neal doesn't show up to work. He's an hour late. Two hours late. By the third hour, Peter is silently doing the math for how far Neal could get on his anklet without setting it off, and then for any loopholes he might have missed--faking the signal somehow? Neal's passable but not phenomenal with computers, but could he have hired someone? Peter's never heard of someone pulling that off, but Neal's got an aura about him, that makes the impossible seem merely improbable.

It is very important that this be an issue of Neal trying to run, because if it's not, then something might have happened to him. Neal hasn't exactly been endearing himself to the criminal underworld lately.

At three hours and forty-nine minutes past Neal's appointed arrival time, Peter takes an early lunch break and goes to June's. He knocks on Neal's door for a few minutes, and then goes and politely 'acquires' the spare key from the staff and lets himself in.

Neal is asleep on the couch, buried in every blanket he could find in his apartment, and he blinks hazily at Peter for a second when Peter shakes him and then bolts upright so fast that Peter has to move or get concussed.

"Peter," Neal says in a good approximation of his usual good humor. "What are you doing here?"

"You didn't show up to work," Peter says, reaching out toward Neal's forehead automatically. Neal dodges him and Peter sees the dizzy wave cross his face. "Are you sick?"

"I'm fine," Neal says, and then immediately starts coughing, a wet sharp cough that hurts to listen to. "Sorry I'm late, I--fuck, is it past noon? Okay, just--give me a second, I can get ready to go--"

"How long have you been sick, Neal?"

It takes Peter the better part of fifty minutes to wring the facts out of Neal, and he does not like the facts, thanks. He more or less forces Neal back into the blanket nest on the couch and calls El, apologizes for interrupting one of her rare days off and asks her to bring Neal literally anything, and shuts down Neal's fourth attempt to convince Peter that he's fine.

Neal seems...really bothered by the idea that Peter knows he's sick, let alone Elizabeth, and Peter doesn't like what that implies. About anything. At least it doesn't seem personal--Neal doesn't seem to want anyone to know that he's sick, so much so that he's been taking double doses of DayQuil and drinking straight espresso in order to smother all his symptoms at work for the past three days. Peter does some quick math in his head about the number of DayQuil that would require and says "You're lucky you're not in the ER," and Neal says, "I know what I'm doing, Peter," in that voice that means he's thinking about getting offended.

"You're going to give yourself liver failure, is what you're doing. Why didn't you just call out sick, Neal, Jesus Christ." It's blunter than he meant to be--actually, Peter meant to let El work on Neal for a few hours before he came back to play Blunt Cop--but Neal looks awful and he has a fever and he's been taking ten DayQuil in a ten hour work day and Peter does actually read labels and Peter made him stay late at work two days ago because Peter didn't know he was sick.

And maybe it's because Neal's sick, maybe it's because the fever is blurring his reaction time, maybe Peter just knows him really well by this point, but he sees the second that Neal's face closes up and he goes from "defensive" to "ready to do whatever he needs to do in order to get Peter to back down".

And then Neal smiles, all guileless blue eyes and blithe schoolboy innocence, and he says, "Come on, Peter, you'd have thought I was trying to run."

It stings inordinately. Peter did think that, this morning, but only because Neal fucking vanished, didn't come in, didn't answer his phone, didn't even leave a message with someone when Peter showed up. If Neal had said he was sick, Peter might have come by to check on him--and sure, seeing that he was really sick would have put those concerns to bed, but--

"Besides," Neal is continuing, and his voice is starting to show the effect of the coughing now, and he's trying to get up again, wavering on his feet a little before he blinks twice and visibly forces himself to steady. "I'm fine. And even if I wasn't, it's what, seven hundred dollars a month? That's not covering a doctor, and it's not like I have pneumonia. It's just a cold, Uncle Sam, I can still go to work."

And then Neal gives Peter the slip while Peter's still sitting there, stinging.

And the thing is, he doesn't even know if Neal really thinks that of him, or if Neal just knew it would make him shut up long enough for Neal to walk into his bathroom and take more fucking DayQuil.

Well, fine, then. Peter can fight dirty too, and to prove it, he walks the ten feet to the door and leans back against it, just out of an excess of caution, as he pulls out his phone. First he texts his wife, because she's a very smart woman and deserves to have all the information. Second, he calls his boss, because he's already well outside his lunch break and he might as well do the thing properly. Neal comes out of the bathroom, wearing fresh slacks and an unbuttoned white shirt, just as Peter says, "Yes, sir, I'll keep an eye on him."

Then Peter hangs up and points his phone at Neal and says, "Lie the hell back down before I taze you. You're off until next week, and I'm taking the day off to make sure you don't go into organ failure. Don't you dare," he adds when Neal takes a purposeful step toward the kitchenette and its coffee maker. "El is going to be here with actual cold medicine in thirty minutes. Take those slacks off and lie down in your actual bed."

"I'm fine," Neal says again, as if he's not struggling with a shirt button for the first time since Peter's met him, including multiple occasions of being handcuffed.

"You're really not," Peter says, and then he pauses for a moment, and looks at the way Neal's fingers pause on the button, and then he says, a little cautiously, "And that's fine. Everyone gets sick, Neal."

"I don't need you to babysit me," Neal mutters.

"I'm only babysitting you because, apparently, you take life-ending doses of caffeine and cold medicine when you're left alone. Come on, Neal, this won't be the end of the world, El will bring you some food that won't hurt your throat and I'll let you make me watch one of your boring foreign films."

"I know your secrets," Neal says, and then pauses to cough up what's probably part of his failing liver, not that Peter is feeling any doom and gloom about this whole thing. "You watch romcoms with Elizabeth, she told me you enjoy things other than football and you'll never fool me again."

"Yeah, you got me," Peter says with a faint grin. He walks away from the door like he's approaching a feral dog, and closes his hands gently but inexorably around Neal's wrists, and then steers him firmly back onto the couch. Neal's skin is hot even through his shirt, and he trips twice, and he lets Peter push him down into the blankets like he's too tired to do anything else. "I'm going to go get you pajamas. Where do you keep them?"

"Second drawer," Neal says dismally.

"Okay," Peter says, and doesn't give into his impulse to maybe, like, brush Neal's rumpled curls out of his face or something. Half the reason that Peter caught him in the first place is because Peter knows when to press his advantage. He takes the win and gets Neal some pajamas.

18) When they fight, how do they make up?

Elizabeth is the best at this, because she works with vendors all the time and that makes her a literal professional at conflict resolution.  She has a temper and she’ll lose her cool with the best of them, but she knows how to say “I need a minute” and then she’ll leave and come back when she can be reasonable.  She’ll lay out what she’s upset about, hear the other person out, and then either apologize or expect an apology.  Then she’s the physical touch kind of person after a fight--she’ll take Peter’s hands and link their fingers together, or wrap her arms around Neal from behind with her cheek between his shoulder blades, and just kind of...rest against them until everyone’s tension starts to bleed out of them.

Peter isn’t an innately high-empathy person and he knows this, so it’s sometimes hard for him to figure out when a fight even started, let alone how to fix it.  He gets frustrated with himself for not knowing what to do, and then it’s easy for Elizabeth or Neal to feel like he’s mad at them for being mad at him, and then everyone gets madder and it’s just stressful.  So Peter’s the type to ask explicitly “wait, are we fighting” because, first of all, he would like to know so he can figure out how to resolve it, and, second of all, he’s discovered that being clear about it will sometimes shock everyone involved into taking a step back and figuring out if they’re arguing at all or if they’re both just frustrated.  After they’ve managed to figure out what’s wrong and talked it out, Peter’s an acts of service kind of person after a fight--his specific brand is to make someone’s favorite meal, regardless of who was doing the apologizing.  

Neal is...not good at conflict.  For obvious reasons, he’s inclined toward avoiding conflict when he can, and bailing immediately afterward when he can’t.  The first time he actually fought with Elizabeth, she had to come to his apartment and hammer on his door until he let her in.  Neal’s never really been able to argue with someone and then have them still be there except for maybe Mozzie, and it’s an extremely rough adjustment for everyone.  It requires a lot of patience from Elizabeth and Peter, and a lot of anxiety from Neal, for them to find a balance about it.  But Neal is a gifts person after an argument, once he learns to be anything after an argument, and not just extravagant things.  He brings flowers or Elizabeth’s favorite mixers or one of the boring patterned ties that Peter loves, he brings a paperweight or a mug, a hair pin, a new set of dress shoe laces, a pair of beautiful earrings, a six-pack of beer, whatever hoves into his field of vision and he can afford to acquire.

29) Why do they fall a little bit more in love?

One time when he got home from work, Peter caught Neal and Elizabeth waltzing in the kitchen while the radio played the Top 40 Hits station, and they were giggling while they tried to keep time to Umbrella, and Neal was complaining about El not letting him play classical while she was cooking, and Neal dipped El so that she could wink at Peter upside down, and they burned dinner because they left the stove on and the three of them got takeout ramen instead.

Peter thinks about that evening sometimes when he’s stuck in traffic.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

“don’t try to pin this on me”

prompt: “don’t try to pin this on me” (alt no.6)

whumpee: neal caffrey

fandom: white collar

back with neal today!! missed writing him :) this is set s3 or 4 ish, well into the show anyway. hope you enjoy!

“I’m missing dinner with June for this,” Neal grumbles, holding the door for Peter. 

“And I’m very sorry she’s missing your sparkling presence,” Peter replies, stepping through the door and flashing his badge to a security guard. “Maybe think about things like this the next time you decide to get yourself arrested.”

Neal spins and looks at him, mock affronted. “Low blow, Agent Burke.”

The two make their way through the apartment of the lobby towards the elevators. Around them, other agents begin coming into the building, overwhelming the poor security guard, who fights a losing battle of attempting to check everyone’s credentials. 

Peter and Neal step into the elevator just as the guard sinks helplessly down onto a bench, head in hands. 

“Poor guy,” Neal remarks, pressing the button for the top floor. 

Peter reaches over him and presses the button marked ‘5’ instead. 

“Can’t we go to the top first?” Neal asks. “I hear there’s a restaurant up there with amazing views of the city.”

“Right, an amazing restaurant that’s part of an apartment building being used to run a massive counterfeiting operation.”

“Still,” Neal complains, “it wouldn’t hurt to just take a look.”

Peter relents as the elevator opens onto the fifth floor. “Fine. After all of this is done.”

Neal seems happy enough about that prospect, and the two of them step into the hallway. 

“Lovely place,” says Neal, stepping over an empty can of paint. 

“This is the only floor currently under renovation,” Peter says, “and apart from the basement it’s most likely to be the center of operation for the entire thing.”

“And we’re here alone.”

“Other agents are coming up in a minute. Besides, these guys already know we’re here, and I’ve dealt with their ringleader before. He’ll run, not fight.”

“Great,” Neal says, not sounding much like he believes this. Apparently, though, he accepts it, and follows Peter down the dimly-lit hall, stepping over various construction materials and ducking the occasional piece of exposed pipe. 

--

Neal’s a few feet behind Peter when the agent steps around a corner, then quickly sticks his head back around it. “Found something,” he says, and Neal hurries after him. 

Peter has indeed found something. Several somethings, in fact, in a hallway that’s curiously devoid of the construction materials that litter the rest of the floor. A stack of counterfeit purses, some kind of large machine that Neal’s seen before in operations like this, and a safe with its door open. 

“Nothing in it,” Peter says, gesturing towards the safe. “And they didn’t take their bags.”

“Or unplug their machine,” Neal adds, as he pulls its cord from the wall. 

“They left in a hurry.”

“They could still be nearby.”

Peter radios this information to the rest of the team as the two of them continue down the hallway. 

“Watch your head,” Peter warns Neal, ducking underneath a metal pipe stretching across the hall. 

They reach the end of the hallway, which splits off into two directions. Neal looks down one, and Peter down the other. 

There’s movement at the end of his hallway, slightly obscured by the reemergence of the construction stuff, but visibly human. 

“Peter,” Neal hisses, trying not to let whoever it is know they’re there. 

“What?” Peter hisses back, coming to stand next to him. 

“Look,” he whispers, pointing to the movement.

Peter draws his gun. Neal keeps his eyes trained on the figure. 

Who must suddenly see them, because they start running. 

Neal takes off after them without a second of hesitation, hearing Peter shout behind him but ignoring him. He’ll catch this person. He will. 

He’s gaining on them slowly but surely, coming within a few feet as the two of them skid around a corner. He’s so close…

He looks back to Peter, several yards behind him, for just a second, to make sure he’s coming, then turns his attention fully back to his chase - 

And, too late, to the piece of metal pipe in front of him. 

He slams into the pipe at full speed, head colliding with a resonating metallic sound. The taste of blood fills his mouth almost immediately, and his ears start to ring as his forehead bursts into an explosion of pain. 

He stumbles to the ground in the shock of it all, the world spinning around him. He blinks to try and clear his head, and then the blurry shape of Peter is crouching in front of him. 

“Hey, you okay?” Peter asks, or at any rate, that’s the best approximation of what he says that Neal’s ringing ears are able to make out. 

Ugh...definitely not okay. He cannot believe that this has happened to him. It feels like something that might happen in a cartoon. He imagines little birds and stars floating around his head, and turns his blurry gaze to Peter’s face, and the offending piece of metal pipe behind it. He scowls at the pipe, wanting irrationally to get up and punch it.

--

Peter had been running as fast as he could behind Neal, who’d been incredibly stupid to just run after a potential suspect like that. Nevertheless, he’d been grateful, considering the lead Neal and the suspect both had had on him. 

The two had turned a corner, Peter hurrying along behind them. Neal had turned around to look at him a second after Peter had shouted a warning about the piece of metal pipe in front of him, and had then promptly run straight into it. 

Which brings them here, Peter kneeling worriedly by his CI’s side. Neal’s looking at him, though his eyes are unfocused, and he’s got this look of utter betrayal and anger on his face that’s definitely out of proportion for the situation, which is both funny and weirdly endearing. It’s also clearly not directed at Peter, he knows, turning around to see the piece of pipe directly behind him, dotted with a few small specks of blood. 

He turns back to Neal, whose gaze has not wavered, but is again aimed in Peter’s direction. 

“Don’t try to pin this on me, now,” Peter warns, grabbing a small flashlight from his jacket and turning it on, shining it into Neal’s eyes. 

“Cut it out,” Neal whines, turning his head away from the light. 

“I need to make sure the concussion that you almost certainly have isn’t too serious before I call for help,” Peter explains, gently guiding Neal’s face to once again look at him. 

Neal scowls again, a less severe version of the look he’d been giving the pipe, this time directed solely at Peter.

“I’m sorry,” Peter says, shining the light back into Neal’s eyes. “It’ll just take a second.”

He flicks off the flashlight as soon as he’s satisfied that both of Neal’s pupils are the same size. That, coupled with the fact that he’s conscious, though groggy and grouchy, makes Peter reasonably sure that his head injury is mild, moderate at worst. 

He radios for help, which Neal, predictably, balks at.

“I can walk, Peter,” he says, and attempts to stand to prove his point. 

He’s pitching forwards almost immediately, and Peter shoots to his feet to grab him before he hits the ground and hurts himself more. 

“Sure you can,” Peter replies, guiding the two of them back to the ground. “Just like you can avoid giant metal pipes.”

“Hey!” Neal protests. “‘S not my fault I turned around to look at you. You said something.”

“I said, watch out for that pipe.”

“Oh.”

Peter reaches out and touches a gentle hand to the blood on Neal’s forehead. As with most head wounds, this one is small, but bleeding a lot, and Peter wipes away some of the blood with his cuff to keep it away from Neal’s eyes. Neal winces and pulls away, then looks at Peter’s hand with confusion evident on his face.

“‘M bleeding?” Hands quickly reach for his head, and Peter pulls them away with his non-bloody hand. 

“It’s just a cut, Neal,” he reassures. “Nothing to worry about.”

Neal relents easily, dropping his hands down to the floor. It’s clear he’s pretty out of it, and Peter hopes the paramedics will arrive soon. Right now, Neal’s not feeling the full effects of having slammed into a metal pipe at full speed - he’s in a little bit of a daze, obviously hurting, but not nearly as much as Peter bets he will, once the initial shock wears off. He’d like for Neal to have some painkillers already in him when that happens. 

A minute or two later, a few paramedics come hurrying up to them, bustling Neal onto a stretcher, which he attempts a rather feeble protest at. They push him into the elevator, Peter walking next to him, speaking into his radio. 

“We’ve caught a suspect fleeing the building,” someone says, in response to Peter’s call. “Saw him climbing down the fire escape on the fifth floor. Dressed in a security guard’s uniform, pockets are full of money.”

“You hear that?” Peter asks Neal, as the elevator opens to the ground floor. “They caught him.”

Neal nods. “Knew I’d get him,” he mutters under his breath. Peter stifles a laugh, patting Neal softly on the shoulder. 

“Good work, buddy.”

“Aww, thanks,” Neal replies, with a self-satisfied grin. The paramedics stop them outside the doors of the building, helping Neal to sit on the back bumper of the ambulance, whereupon they begin to do various checks on Neal to make sure he’s not too concussed, and bandage his cut. 

As Peter’d figured, hoped, he’s fine - a mild concussion, treatment for which is a few days off of work, some better-than-over-the-counter pain meds courtesy of the paramedics, an ice pack, and someone to watch over him for 48 hours. 

“That would be me and my wife,” Peter tells the paramedics immediately after they pose the question of who exactly will be watching over him. Neal looks up at Peter from where he’s sitting, like he’s not sure he’d heard him correctly. 

“You’re coming home with me, understand?” Peter asks, offering Neal a hand up and a silently-given shoulder to lean onto. 

“Got it,” Neal says. “Thank you, Peter,” he adds, after a beat, voice soft and a little slurred, leaning into Peter a bit more. 

“Anytime,” Peter says, and he genuinely means it.

thanks for reading! hope you enjoyed :)

[pxperhearts]

ANSWER THE FOLLOWING SO PEOPLE KNOW HOW SHIPS WORK ON YOUR BLOG

WHAT’S YOUR OTP FOR YOUR MUSE? : Well, uh *looks through muses* I don’t have one for every muse but here are some of my OTPs (as in, pairing I super love and enjoy for that muse, but keep in mind I’m a multi-shipper). emma swan x neal cassidy, gamora x peter quill, jack x sally, kaitlyn x varric, lailah x zaveid, link x mipha, lucifer x chloe, & yuna x tidus. Most of my OTPs are friends to lovers because I just love and appreciate that dynamic. 

HOW LARGE DOES THE AGE GAP HAVE TO BE TO MAKE IT UNCOMFORTABLE? : Anything with a muse that is 18 or younger and with an adult. Otherwise like, as long as both are adults (24+) I’m generally OK with any age gap. It’s more about mindset than actual years. Though not all of my muses are interested in such large age gaps, but this is about what I’m comfortable with so...

ARE YOU SELECTIVE WHEN SHIPPING? :  Certain muses, yes. Others, no. Like Jecht would be one I’m picky about because 1. I know the thirst levels (I’m right there with you) and 2. he’s difficult af (personality-wise and for me to write) and I don’t wanna force anything. He still loves his wife too so.. that just makes it more difficult. But others, like Belle, I’d throw her into a lot of ships if I could.

HOW FAR DO STEAMY MOMENTS HAVE TO GO BEFORE THEY’RE CONSIDERED NS/FW? : On here, I don’t mind some light making out, but once clothes start coming off/things get more heated, then that’s it. On my nsfw sideblog.... everything is fair game.

WHO ARE OTHER MUSES YOU SHIP YOUR MUSE WITH? : Well, @theirohana, @passiondreamt, @multiplechoicepast, @voiceofmany & @arielthelionhearted are some that I just ship a lot of my muses with and I deeply love & appreciate these muns and their muses. I have too many muses and ships to get in-depth 

ANY NOTPS? : I think my thoughts right now is that while I may have NOTPs in their original media, it’s because of the dynamics they’re in. I may not like them there, but maybe I’d like an AU of the ship. However, I don’t think that would ever happen with r.eylo so I guess I can put that here.

DOES ONE HAVE TO ASK TO SHIP WITH YOU? : It’s preferred! However, in some of my muse’s rules I state that certain ships are fine to auto-ship with mine. So far this is just Jennifer/Marty and Gamora/Peter. These are just ships that I find very easy to write/already part of my muse’s feelings. Others, even though I really ship them, like Emma/Neal, my muse may have unresolved feelings or has walls up so auto-shipping would be more difficult if I don’t know your muse. I am generally open to just jumping into a ship and seeing how it goes, though asking first really helps simply so I know your intentions. My anxiety has a way of making me doubt things. 

HOW OFTEN DO YOU LIKE TO SHIP? : I love it! Of course, I love platonic interactions too, but idk shipping is just a lot of fun to me and discussing those dynamics. Not just the romantic aspects, but going through trials together, helping each other, picking up habits from each other, going on adventures, etc.

ARE YOU MULTISHIP? : Yup! Some of my muses are exclusive, but it’s not often. ARE YOU SHIP-OBSESSED OR SHIP MORE-OR-LESS? : I guess I’m more on the obsessed side in that I just really enjoy them? But there needs to be chemistry and development for me to really be involved, its just typically easy for me to get involved. But yeah, I take it as it comes and enjoy what I have.  WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SHIP IN YOUR CURRENT FANDOM? : I guess my ‘current’ fandom would be classified as MCU because I’m obsessed with Gamora rn. So... starmora lol look, I’m just all about that aesthetic and the songs and peter being a complete dumbass but exactly what she needs and don’t touch me I love them

FINALLY, HOW DOES ONE SHIP WITH YOU? :  uh... literally just slide into my IMs and be like ‘I have a ship idea’ and I’ll lean forward like yesssss? I feel the need to clarify this is for mutuals, though. I am a mutual only blog. 

TAGGED BY: @ironbloodied TAGGING: @voiceofmany, @venomhosted, @cadcnce, @passiondreamt, @multiplechoicepast, @multicoloredhorses-andfriends, annnd really just anyone that wants to

[sydbauman]

25th Wedding Anniversary Mishaps

I had a teleconferece call scheduled with my colleague Ashley Clark[1] at 14:00. We chose 14:00 to give me time to bicycle into Providence to have lunch with my friend Peter DiCamillo and then bike home, take a quick shower (if there was time), and start working. That made the timing a bit tight, but quite doable.

I worked from ~08:00 to ~11:00 and then stopped to order flowers for my wife, as it was our 25th wedding anniversary, and prepare to leave. But the florist I used last time[2] was closed for vacation. So I did some quick web searching and found Gilmore’s Flower Shop. I chose this one primarily because it was located such that it would be easy to give delivery instructions (only 2 turns from them to my wife’s office; it had also been 2 turns for Floral Designs, and only 1 turn for Carousel),[3] but also because it would be easy to stop by on my way into Providence if I wanted to pick flowers myself or drop off a vase. (It seemed like a good idea to me to re-use[4] a vase from home, rather than buy another.)

The nice woman I spoke to on the phone (whose name I have since forgotten) was willing to make a bouquet of flowers and put it in my vase, which seemed like a good idea to me. She did not think that it was reasonable to transport it by bicycle, though. I thought she was probably right, but I have a dual-strap bungee cord[5] in addition to a panier, so it might be worth the effort to avoid the $8 delivery fee.

After making all these phone calls (and getting a spam robo-call), then washing and wrapping a glass vase carefully in newspaper for the journey, I was now quite late. I had been planning to leave home shortly before 11:30, but it was actually ~11:40 by the time I left.

So I was already 10 mins late, and stopping at the florist would take another 10 mins. But because I was stopping at the florist, I was taking a slightly different route than usual, which would probably add another minute or two. This route takes me through Luthers Corners, an intersection I am very used to taking by bicycle.

As I approached the intersection (travelling downhill WSW on County Street, for those who looked at the map :-) I realized that it was being repaired, and it was now a large construction zone that was even bumpier than usual. So I deliberately slowed down. Not enough, though. Just as I cleared, my panier (which, remember, was holding a glass vase) fell off my rear rack, and started bouncing and dragging along the road, still attached to the bicycle by the bungee cord. I pulled over and stopped, picked up the panier and replaced it on the bike. The bungee cord, which had already been somewhat stretched and lame, was now pretty much shot. I wrapped it onto the bike (so that it wasn’t dragging or rubbing against the wheel), but it was no longer very useful at holding things (including my decades-old U-lock) on. Sigh. I resumed my journey.

I was worried that the vase might have broken, that I was now another 5+ minutes late, and that I really should replace the bungee cord ASAP. It is part of what holds the panier onto my rack,[6] and losing the panier, even when it does not have a large glass vase, can be very dangerous.[7] So a change of plan was in order. I should stop by East Providence Cycles and pick up a replacement dual bungee cord. But all this had me a bit discombobulated, I guess, because after passing my kids’ ex- high school I failed to take a turn towards the bike shop rather than the florist. I recognized my mistake a mere few hundred meters later, and turned back.[8] But this made me another 5+ minutes late.

When I got to NBX Bikes the salesperson there (who I recognize and who recognizes me, but I do not know her name — she has been there for years and is both helpful and nice) helped me out, but in the end did not have anything in stock that would do. So, an additional 5+ mins late, I went 250 m W on Warren Ave to the East Providence branch of Providence Bicycle. They also did not have anything particularly useful in stock. The salesperson (Neal) and I then had an interesting exchange:

Neal: We may have some at the main branch in Providence.

me: Is that the one over on …

Neal: Branch.

me: Right, Branch. That’s too far, I’m afraid. I’ll be on the East Side.

Neal: You could try Legend.

me: Oh. Is that where Rainbow used to be?

Neal: No, it’s right across the street where Hub used to be.

me: Oh, right — I’ve been there before.

Neal: Rainbow doesn’t exist anymore, it’s a dress store or something.

me: Yeah, that sounds right. In any case, I’ll be eating at Louis’, so it will be close.

Neal: Right down the hill. That was a very “Rhode Island” conversation we just had.

me (laughing): Indeed.

So, an additional 5 mins late, I headed out. The next decision I had to make was about the florist. Gilmore’s, the place I had intended to go, is not directly between Providence Bicycle and the bridge to Providence. It would add another 5+ mins to my journey to stop there. But Google Maps had listed 3 florists nearby, 2 of which were essentially on the same corner as Providence Bicycle, and 1 of which was just up Warren Ave, on the way to the bike path to Providence. I was unsure at the time (and still am), but I suspect 2 of those shops are no longer in business. But P&J across the street was certainly open.

However, I had already told Peter I would be late, and I was now late enough that there was no way I was going to get home in time to be just 3 mins late to talk to Ashley. I would have to call her and let her know I would be late no matter what I did. Since the woman from Gilmore’s had been nice on the phone, and I had already told her I was on the way, I decided to just tough out the extra ~5 mins and go to Gilmore’s.

The route from Providence Bicycle to Gilmore’s is pretty easy, despite the fact that this is the area of East Providence divided by I-195 – there are only a few roads that cross it between Broadway and the river. I had it in my head to just head W (really WNW) on Warren Ave, then turn N (really NNE) on Potter. Gilmore’s is on the corner of Potter and Taunton Ave (aka Route 44).[9]

But as I rode up Warren Ave, I could see all sorts of detour signs — the Potter Street bridge over I-195 must be under repairs, as traffic was not allowed. (And I remember from having driven on I-195 recently that traffic is down to 2 lanes in each direction for construction work on a bridge.) So I turned around and crossed I-195 over the Lyon Ave bridge, and made may way over to Potter on Orchard, adding another ~5 mins to my trip.

Once I was finally at Gilmore’s, I unpacked my panier, and carefully unwrapped the vase so that I would not get sliced by broken glass if it had shattered. Thankfully, it had not. I picked out some flowers for my lovely wife (which she adored) and gave the salesperson (not the same woman I had spoken to on the phone) my demographic details, delivery information,[10] and payment.

This all took only a few minutes longer than expected, and I was off on my way again. I headed over the Washington Bridge and into India Point Park on the East Bay Bike Path, then meandered over to Brook Street and stopped at Legend Bikes. They also did not have the kind of bungee cord I was looking for. I picked up a simple bungee cord so I would have something in case my current one snapped, and went up the street a few blocks to meet Peter for lunch.

We had a fine time at lunch, with no mishaps. I had originally planned to leave Louis around 13:00. (12:55 would give me time to take a shower, 13:05 would not, but either way I would make my meeting on time.) I was leaving at 13:45. Sigh. I sent Ashley a text message to let her know I would be late.

My route home takes me pretty close to my wife’s office. In fact, since you can take a bicycle from Dewey Ave to Office Parkway (even though you can’t drive a car through there), it only extends my trip from the Henderson Bridge to home by ~1–2 mins to pass her office. So I often do so and leave a little note in her car, just to cheer her up. Little did I know how much cheering she needed …

I was literally standing next to her car in her office’s parking lot when she sent me a text message that she was not feeling well at all, could I bring her some medicine from home. Well, no, I answered, but (given that it was an OTC medication) I could easily pick some up at the store and drop it off for her. Since I had to head the same direction whether I was going to the store or back home, I started off without waiting for a reply. But as I looked up from my phone and got on my bike, there was a woman walking towards the front door of the office building carrying the flowers! I scoot over and stopped her briefly so I could see them (I had picked out the types of flowers, but not seen them arranged). I thanked the delivery woman and went on my way. At the end of the road where I had to turn L to go home or R to go to the store I stopped and checked my phone. Anne indeed wanted me to go to the store, so I did so. It took me awhile (and some texting back & forth with Anne) to get the right medication, but luckily the store is very close, so it did not take long at all to get it back to Anne.

While I was waiting for her to come to the back door I got a text message from our housecleaner that she had inadvertantly broken a (glass) picture she had been dusting. She was quite distressed, and had sent a picture of the broken picture, which I showed to Anne. I sent her a message back not to worry about it too much, and finally started on my way home.

I finally arrived home and began my meeting with Ashley at ~15:09. We had a lot to do; and poor Ashley had not eaten lunch!

[1]: We usually, but not always, use Skype at the DSG. However, we had a problematic connection in that I could barely hear Ashley due to distortion that sounded to me like it was likely to be a loose connection in her microphone. So we tried Google Hangouts, and the connection was fine. So it was not her microphone.

[2]: Which I found because they took over the phone number of the previous shop I had been using — Floral Designs of Seekonk, IIRC — which phone number I quite liked because it was the same as my home number with 2 digits transposed.

[3]: Why I am worried about delivery instructions remains a mystery. There is no such thing as a first-world floral deliverer who does not use GPS.

[4]: I did not use the official page for fear that Mr. Pruitt will have removed it by the time you read this.

[5]: Similar to, but not the same as this one.

[6]: The rack itself is a bit bent, so the panier may pop off on any significant bump. I use the bungee cord to prevent this.

[7]: If the panier gets into the spokes of the rear wheel, the bicycle comes to a screeching halt whether you are in the middle of traffic or not.

[8]: Actually, having just missed Apuila I turned S onto George. In retrospect, I would have done just as well time-wise to head W to Broadway, but I did not know that, and headed E back to Pawtucket Ave. The difference is that the Broadway route is a somewhat nicer ride than super busy Pawtucket Ave.

[9]: Actually, N of 44 Potter is called Walnut. So technically Gilmore’s is on the corner of Walnut and Taunton.

[10]: “No, no card. If she doesn’t know who she’s getting flowers from on our anniversary, we have a problem.”

[smartgirlsaremean]

Stiltskin Family Bonding - Chapter 4 - Gideon

Fandom: OUAT

Relationships: Papafire, Henry & Baelfire, Henry & Rumplestiltskin

Rating: N/R    

Summary: The Stiltskin boys bond in a variety of ways. Sometimes it goes well, other times...not so much.

AO3

Chapter 4: Gideon

@notcoalbutgolden prompted: These are lovely. I adore these three bonding! As for prompts ... perhaps Henry and Neal meeting Gideon, the newest Stiltskin boy...?

Henry eyed his grandfather with concern. Rumplestiltskin sat stock-still in the plastic chair, his face etched with lines of worry, his fingers white-knuckled where they gripped his cane. Some stupid news channel was playing on the TV in the corner, and there weren’t even any good magazines sitting around, or Henry could have distracted himself. As it was, he had to watch the most powerful wizard in the world fret himself into a panic over his pregnant wife.

If there were some kind of world record for “most twisted family tree,” Henry knew he’d win hands down. His grandparents and his mom were the same age. His adopted mother was also his step-great-grandmother, and she had kind of a thing for his mom, who happened to be her step-granddaughter. (She tried not to let him know, but he was twelve, not stupid. Besides, he was pretty sure his mom was still hung up on his dad.) Things on his father’s side weren’t quite as tangled, but just as weird. His grandfather was a centuries-old sorcerer and the son of Peter Pan. Rumpletstiltskin’s wife was at least two hundred and fifty years younger than her husband and had no magic at all but somehow managed to boss him around just fine. Just a few months ago he’d gotten a baby uncle and in a minute - or an hour - or a couple of hours - he was going to have another baby uncle.

Grandpa Charming was right. Thanksgiving dinners were about to get really awkward.

“I’m sure everything’s fine,” Henry said eventually when he couldn’t stand the sound of the yapping people on the TV for one more second.

Rumplestiltskin met his eyes. “Hm?”

“Grandma Belle. She’s strong and brave, y’know? She’ll be okay.”

Chuckling, Rumplestiltskin shook his head. “I don’t know if she wants to be called Grandma. Just Belle ought to be fine.”

Henry nodded. “So...did you guys pick out a name?”

“We have a few options. Belle wants to meet him before she decides on his name.” Rumplestiltskin glanced at the big swinging doors Belle had disappeared through.

“I’m serious about her being okay,” Henry said. “Things are different here, y’know? Doctors and medicine and...even if something went wrong...and I’m not saying it will, cause it won’t...but even if it did, she’ll be okay. You don’t have to worry so much.”

“Old habits, I suppose,” his grandfather sighed, turning his cane in his hands.

“Like carrying that cane around even though you can walk just fine without it?”

“Yeah, exactly.” He tapped the cane against the floor. “It’s a reminder of who I was. Who I never want to be again.”

“I dunno,” Henry frowned. “I mean, sure, you shouldn’t go around cursing people or turning them into snails, but the old you wasn’t all bad. And it’s not like you were a terrible person when you were a spinner, either.”

Rumplestiltskin raised his eyebrows. “How would you know that?”

“Dad tells me things.”

“Does he?”

“Yeah. From when he was a kid.” Henry leaned back in his chair. “It wasn’t your fault people were so mean to you. You took care of him and helped him grow up when his mom left. That’s not something a bad person would do, is it?”

When his grandfather didn’t answer, Henry looked up and then down again very quickly. Rumplestiltskin’s eyes were kind of shiny, and he didn’t know what to do. Man, someone should have warned him about how sappy the Stiltskin men were. His dad was like that too, sometimes. His moms didn’t cry nearly as much.

“Here, Papa. Tea.” Neal appeared with two steaming styrofoam cups, and Rumplestiltskin took one with a nod of thanks. “You guys doing okay?”

“Yeah,” Henry said. “Grandpa was telling me about the names he and Belle picked out.”

Neal looked at his father, whose eyes were still slightly misty. “Uh-huh. So what are they?”

The big swinging doors opened and Dr. Whale looked out. “Um, excuse me, Mr. - uh - Rumple - uh…” He huffed and waved a hand. “If you wanted to be in the room for the birth, we need to get you suited up.”

Rumplestiltskin went white.

“Your big moment, Pops,” Neal said softly, taking the tea out of his father’s hand and helping him stand. “You can do this. Belle’s waiting.”

“Right,” Rumplestiltskin muttered. “Right. Belle’s waiting.”

Neal winked at Henry behind Rumplestiltskin’s back as, with an expression equal parts awe and terror, the father-to-be followed the doctor to the delivery room.

Dr. Whale wished he were allowed to take pictures in the delivery room, because a photo of the feared Dark One pale as a ghost, trussed up in scrubs, and clutching his panting wife’s hand like a lifeline would probably have made him a fortune. Belle had been screaming a moment before, but she was almost finished, and when it was time for the final push, she looked up into her husband’s eyes and seemed to draw fresh strength.

The squall of a newborn ripped through the air, and Belle collapsed against the back of the chair, her smile blindingly bright. Tears coursed down Rumplestiltskin’s cheeks as he watched his son being gently wiped down, swaddled in a blanket, and then placed in his wife’s arms. Belle stroked one finger over the baby’s cheek and Rumplestiltskin bent to place a kiss to the crown of his son’s head. Embarrassed, Dr. Whale turned away with an inexplicable lump in his throat. Dark One or not, he’d never seen a man look so completely conquered at the sight of his child.

Maybe Belle's love and faith in the old warlock wasn't as strange as everyone thought.

“When will we get to see him?” Henry asked for what was probably the millionth time. At least, it felt that way to Neal.

“When Dr. Whale says we can,” Neal said patiently for at least the hundred thousandth time.

“But what’s taking so long?”

“You heard the doctor, Henry. The baby has to have a bath, and Belle probably wants to at least comb her hair or something, and she has to be moved into a new room. There’s a lot for them to do. Besides...they probably want a little alone time, at least at first. He’s their new baby, y’know?”

“I guess,” Henry sighed, flopping back into his chair.

A tornado of blond hair and red leather whipped through the waiting room just then and skidded to a stop in front of Neal. “Hey! I got here as soon as I could. Everything okay?”

Neal smiled at Emma. “Yeah, the doc said everything went great. Healthy baby boy. Twenty-one inches, seven pounds twelve ounces.”

“Twenty-one inches? Holy crap, he’s a string bean,” Emma said. “How in the world did your dad and step-mom make a baby that long?”

“Uh. The usual way. I guess.” Not that that was something he really wanted to think about.

“Have you been in to see him yet?”

“No,” Henry groaned, stretching the word out for several syllables. Emma grinned and ruffled his hair.

“Impatient to meet your new uncle?”

“That’ll be fun to explain when he gets older,” Neal said.

“Yeah, he and Uncle Graham are probably gonna have a lot of questions when they get older.”

As always, Emma’s eyes softened when her baby brother was mentioned. Graham Nolan had been named for the huntsman who’d spared Snow’s life and freed Charming from Regina’s dungeon. He’d also been one of Emma’s first friends in Storybrooke, and Neal knew from Henry that she’d been devastated when he died. How he died was still something of a mystery, though Neal had his suspicions, which he’d never voice out loud unless forced.

They waited a while longer, the two of them telling stories to distract Henry, and then Dr. Whale appeared again and invited them to follow him back to Belle’s room.

“Why didn’t Papa come get us?” Neal asked.

Whale smirked. “He’s engaged in a bit of a...uh...disagreement, at the moment.”

“Disagreement?”

They were just outside the room, and they could all hear Belle, and though her words were stern, she sounded as if she was holding back laughter. “Rumple, you’ve held him for an hour. I really think it’s my turn now.”

“He’s just gone to sleep, sweetheart. I don’t want to disturb him. What if he wakes?”

“He’ll live, and besides you need to eat something.”

“I ate at lunch.”

“Which was six hours ago. Darling, please…”

There were a few seconds of silence, and then Rumplestiltskin sighed. “Fine. Very judicious use of the face, by the way.”

“Thank you. And you know the rules. You used your face already today, so you’re not allowed to use it again until tomorrow.”

“Tyrant,” the sorcerer muttered, but when Neal felt composed enough to walk in the room, his father’s face was suffused with so much love and tenderness that he might have imagined that last bit. Rumplestiltskin looked up from watching his new son sleeping and smiled. “Neal.”

“Hey, Papa. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

Neal walked to Belle’s side to get a better look at his baby brother.

Baby brother. Wow, that would take some getting used to.

“Hey, little guy,” he said softly. The baby snuffled in his sleep and pressed one fist to his cheek.

“What’s his name?” Henry asked softly from Belle’s other side.

“Gideon,” Rumplestiltskin replied.

“Gideon Gold,” Henry said. “That sounds awesome. Where’d you get it?”

“Where else? From your grandmother’s favorite book.”

“Step-grandmother, thank you,” Belle said with a smile. She looked up and caught Neal’s gaze, and he realized he had tears in his eyes. “Would you like to hold him, Neal?”

“Oh, uh...I don’t...I’ve never…”

“Sit here, son,” his father said, rising from his chair. “I’ll hand him to you.”

Before he knew what was happening, Neal was sitting in the chair next to Belle’s bed while baby Gideon was placed gently in the crook of his arm. He weighed next to nothing, but Neal sat like a statue, terrified of doing something wrong. After a minute Gideon gave a tiny grunt and opened his eyes, dark blue meeting startled brown, and Neal smiled.

“Hey, there, little bro,” he said softly. “How do you like being on the outside so far?”

The baby hiccuped.

“Yeah, it’s not so bad. A little crazy sometimes. But you’ve got me and your mom and your dad and your nephew, and we’ll make sure you get through it alright, okay?”

Sighing, Gideon closed his eyes again, and Neal looked up to see that everyone was staring at him, and all of them, except for Henry, had tears in their eyes.

“Hey, Henry?” Emma said, standing. “Let’s go see if we can rustle up some food for everybody, okay?”

“But I wanna hold Uncle Gideon!”

Rumplestiltskin made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a cross between a laugh and a sob.

“You can hold him when we get back. Let’s go.”

She herded her son out the door, pausing to look back at Neal and give him an encouraging smile. He smiled back, trying to let her know that she didn’t need to worry about him. He was with his family, and everything was fine.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

whumptober day 26

prompt: fist fight (alt prompt #5)

whumpee: neal caffrey

i woke up at 6:30 and wrote this lol sorry for any errors im a lil sleepy still

Most people, if you pickpocketed them right, wouldn’t even know they’d been pickpocketed until they went for their wallet and found it missing. Even then, they might suppose it had simply come out of their pocket, and it might take them quite a while to determine what had really happened. Maybe they’d go back over the events of the day mentally, and remember their brief but unusual encounter with you. But it was unlikely they’d be able to remember you, and you’d have at least half an hour to do some shopping with their credit cards before they called the bank to cancel them, plus you got whatever cash they’d happened to be carrying. Most people were easy to pickpocket.

Neal Caffrey was not most people. He was a conman-he knew all the tricks. So when a nice young man approached him, asking for directions and looking for all the world like another lost tourist, Neal was suspicious. He directed the man to the sandwich shop he’d been looking for, and felt a hand in his pocket that most people wouldn’t have noticed.

He stepped back away from the man and pushed his wallet back into his pocket. “Nice try,” he commented. 

The man looked at him in surprise for a second, and then his fight-or-flight instincts kicked in. Most pickpockets, when discovered, would go for the flight option, as it presented far less of a risk for further discovery then getting into a fight on the street.

But this man knew the risks-it was late evening, getting dark, and there weren’t a whole lot of people around. So he went for the option of fight.

Neal, who had not at all expected this, and who’d been prepared to simply let the man run off, was caught entirely off guard by a punch to the face. He stumbled backwards slightly, then stood back up. “You can run,” he offered. “I won’t tell anyone.”

The man grinned at him. “Just gimme your wallet and I’ll be on my way.”

“I really shouldn’t do that,” Neal replied. He could only imagine that the FBI would be angry at him if he had the audacity to get mugged, considering his background. He’d be a little angry at himself, too. So he also went for the fight option, and kicked at the man’s ankles, which sent him stumbling backwards as well.

The man was quick, though, and Neal found himself pushed into a wall, the bricks digging uncomfortably into his back. A fist connected with his eye and his head was slammed into the wall. He kicked the man again and wriggled away from his grasp, blinking away the stars from his vision. 

He attempted to punch the other man in the face as well, but was stopped by an uppercut to the jaw. He yelped in surprise as his head snapped back, throwing his balance off for a second-which was all his attacker needed. The hand once again snaked into his pocket. 

Neal decided he might as well use his already-aching head. But not in the thinking sense. He headbutted the man just as his wallet came out of his pocket which caused said wallet to clatter to the ground. He quickly scooped it up and was punched in the nose for his efforts. He felt blood begin to drip down his face and ran at his attacker, tackling him to the ground. They grappled for a few seconds, during which both of them sustained quite a few punches, and suddenly Neal’s wallet was ripped from his hands, and before he could do anything, he was alone.

Neal staggered to his feet, wiping the blood away from under his nose, which continued to bleed. His body ached, and his head was pounding, and his wallet was gone. He needed to do something about at least one of those things, he decided. So he went to the Burkes’.

It wasn’t a far walk-he supposed he should be thankful for that. Even a two-mile radius could turn into a lot of walking from one end to the other, but he’d been mugged around halfway between his place and the Burkes’. Lucky him.

It was a little after eight when he arrived at their door. Good, he thought. I won’t be interrupting their dinner or their sleep. He knocked, then leaned against the door to rest and wait for them to answer. 

The door was opened, and he nearly went stumbling into Elizabeth, managing to catch himself on the doorframe at the last second.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said. 

“What happened?” El asked, already pulling him inside. “Lean your head forward and pinch your nose closed, okay? That’ll stop the bleeding. Peter!” she called.

Neal did as he was told, glancing up when Peter came into the room. He asked the same question as his wife.

“Just a fistfight,” Neal replied in a slightly muffled voice, not wanting to tell Peter that his wallet had been stolen. How embarrassing was that, an (alleged) thief being stolen from?

Peter sighed and led him to the bathroom. “Please don’t bleed on my floor,” he said, directing Neal to sit down on the closed lid of the toilet.

“I’m not trying to,” Neal muttered, slightly regretting his decision to come.

“Be nice to him, Peter,” Elizabeth admonished her husband. “I’m sure it wasn’t his fault, was it, Neal?”

Neal shook his head, immediately wishing he hadn’t, as the movement caused his head to hurt even more. 

“See?” El said. 

Peter didn’t look convinced. “What did happen, then?” he asked.

Now it was Neal’s turn to sigh. Was he really going to have to tell them he’d been mugged?

“Fine, I got mugged, okay?” His hand came away from his nose, which had mostly stopped bleeding. “Some guy tried to take my wallet but I noticed him, and then he hit me, and I hit him, but he got away and he has my wallet now.”

“How many times did you hit each other?” Peter asked, as he applied antiseptic to the few scrapes Neal had received during the fight.

“I dunno. A lot,” Neal offered, sitting as still as he could while Peter worked. 

“You’re going to have a hell of a black eye,” Peter informed him as he finished with the antiseptic. “How much does it hurt?”

“It’s not that bad. Mostly it’s my head that hurts,” Neal confessed.

At this, El promptly stood up from her seat on the edge of the bathtub and hurried to the kitchen to grab some ibuprofen. 

While his wife was up, Peter carefully wiped the blood away from under Neal’s nose, and from the rest of his face below that, down to his neck. “How long was this bleeding?” he asked.

“Fifteen minutes?” Neal guessed. “I dunno.”

“Next time, try to stop the bleeding when it happens,” Peter advised.

“I was a little busy trying not to get beat up,” Neal retorted. 

Elizabeth returned with a glass of water and two ibuprofen. “For your headache,” she told him, pressing the items into his hands. He took them gratefully, then stood up slowly. 

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll get out of your hair now.”

“Oh no, you won’t,” El said. “Peter and I were just about to watch a movie. I’ll make some popcorn, and you two call the bank and cancel your cards.”

Neal looked to Peter uncertainly. 

“Of course you can stay,” Peter said finally. “Come sit on the couch and we’ll take care of your cards.”

“The FBI’s not gonna be mad at me?” Neal asked.

“They might be a little upset, but they’ll get over it,” Peter said reassuringly. 

A few minutes later, the three of them were settled on the couch, watching Return of the Jedi. Neal was sitting between the two Burkes, Elizabeth’s arm draped over his shoulders, her hand resting atop Peter’s shoulder. His head was aching less, and the bruises which he was sure he had were also managing to not hurt very much, thanks to the drugs. 

The Burkes still enjoyed their movie night, and if Neal happened to fall asleep halfway through with his head on Peter’s shoulder, who would ever know?

thanks for reading!!!