Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda
Aug. 20th, 2012 01:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hurinhouseTitle: Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda
Fandom: White Collar
Author: hurinhouse
Disclaimer: Entirely fiction
Warnings: Some melancholy, angst, character death, but not all are depressing.
Spoilers: through season 1 for all, through season 3 for one of them
Rating: PG13 at most
Characters: Neal/Kate, implied Neal/Sara, Peter, Elizabeth, Mozzie, Adler, Fowler, June,
Summary: Five alternate season 2 openers I’ve had in my head for a while and one guess at a future season finale.
1803 words
ONE…
“How long?”
There are a few more bubbles in the sweet dough, Elizabeth can see them from her spot at the stove, and the second batch needs to go in soon. She takes a break from stirring, check's the oven's timer and leans against the island. “Maybe another three minutes. Do you want to trade off?”
“No, I’m okay, thank you.”
Neal is the culinary guru but asking Kate to help instead has nothing to do with cooking lessons. Those delicate fingers sink into the dough over and over and Elizabeth can imagine she and Neal living in France or Spain or some other paradise, Kate running a bakery in heels, Neal painting from balconies and bridges while he charms the tourists. Of course the reality would probably be less ordinary, less legal.
Peter has Neal occupied with case talk on the patio, but Neal’s glance repeatedly strays through the window. He hasn’t gotten past the need to keep Kate in sight.
“Are you settling in at June’s?”
“The view is amazing.”
“But not like Paris or Rome or Athens?”
Kate replies with a polite smile, trying to mask placation, but she’s no Neal Caffrey and Elizabeth is no fool. Domestic life is Neal’s unwitting dream, not hers. They both know that Elizabeth’s nurturing attempts with recipes and girls’ lunches are the Burkes’ desperate ploy at holding Neal here through Kate.
“Mmmm, smells delicious in here.” Peter drops the steaks on the counter and grabs a beer from the fridge. His hand rests on the small of El’s back as he kisses her, pretending they’re all having the time of their lives.
"Yes, almost enough to mask the hops," Neal's nose wrinkles at the extra six-pack on the counter as he takes a sip of his Syrah. Elizabeth catches the hopeful question in his eyes just for Kate, the promise and grudging patience in her answering smile. She feels Peter's tension inch up as Kate sinks back against Neal, fingers gliding over his forearms, the two of them in their own world.
They’re perfect together and the worse thing for one another. Elizabeth’s not so cold that she regrets Neal waving Kate off the plane. But for Peter’s sake, she hopes Kate won’t win this tug of war, at least not till the anklet is gone.
TWO…
It seems he’s been chasing this thing for decades; quite the roller coaster for a man who doesn’t like to be ruffled. He can’t believe he let Fowler take care of this. Now he’s out the music box and his best playing piece, no matter that she’d been trying to con him for months.
He remembers back to the last time he saw Kate…
“So, you have it all figured out, do you? You think Neal won’t be able to resist a damsel in distress.”
“Specifically this damsel,” she'd smirked, finding a heel under the bed.
Vincent had leaned back against the pillows, watched her dress. Hers weren’t the baby blues he’d wanted looking up at him from his sheets, but that ship had sailed with an orange jumpsuit years ago.
“You’ll get your music box, I’ll get everything else. Being together finally… he’ll tell me where his stash is if he thinks it’ll protect me.”
“You sure about that, Kate?”
She'd shrugged. “I have a second parachute in case I’m wrong. Then I’ll work on him in the Caribbean.”
Vincent had actually felt sorry for Neal. He’d decided then to talk to Fowler about a remote detonator.
THREE…
She rubs his back as the shivers continue. His stomach must be empty by now.
“Hold your arms up.” Neal obeys and she pulls a dark t-shirt over his head, kisses the back of his neck. God, she’d missed him. “I got rid of the clothes and the gun. We need to get out of here.”
His knuckles turn white against the porcelain as he stands and pulls on the track pants she brought him. Grief and guilt have washed away the shock on his face, pale even in the moonlight. An instant later all of it's gone, like water rolling off feathers, and he leads the way.
They scramble through ancient cobbled alleys until they get to the parking lot. Fowler waits at the car. Kate moves forward but Neal’s hand holds her back, rubbing against the powder burns on her palm. His eyes are haunted, though she doesn't think anyone else would catch it. She’s glad he hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger.
“Neal, they were traffickers. They used children.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“You’re free because of Mentor. If we refuse assignments you’ll be back on Burke’s leash. Or in prison.”
“Either is better than this.”
FOUR…
Mrs. Suit had worked wonders. The opening is classy and understated, white lights hanging from the park's trees, champagne in sparkling flutes. A mix of patrons and creators from the art world linger the longest but it's the Suit’s promise of no badges this one day that allows a deluge of less than legal guests to mingle with the F.B.I. and Moz can’t wipe the pride from his face.
New artists’ paintings hang on the sides of the open square, the water/glare-proof glass proving the perfect protection against future years of rain and shine, not to mention the young vines growing above. There’s some fantastic talent, but it all pales in comparison to the four corners everyone gravitates toward, each one showcasing a Caffrey original. The Suit thinks one of Neal’s bolt holes funded this real estate inside a bit of public paradise but Mozzie has resources nobody can guess.
“Peter!” June’s hug is tight, laced with worn affection. Moz can see her smile from his spot in the trees, binoculars in hand. “This square is the perfect gallery. The co-op will be set up for decades. Neal’s work will rotate?”
“Yes, all of it from the warehouse; for the first year. Then the co-op will take over the corners also and galleries will bid for Neal's paintings.”
“Splendid. And Mozzie?”
“He’s around somewhere. Not one for crowds today.”
June smiles wistfully, then frowns at the sketches of Kate in the northeast corner. But when she turns, Mozzie can see the sad approval in her eyes. “A good choice. He would have been grateful.”
The Suit nods, but seems to have lost his voice. He’s remembering, and Mozzie has to look away. It had poured out of the man that awful night one year past, over seven cans of Coors and a bottle of Neal’s second-best Pinot; the sight of Neal stepping on that plane, the heat of the flames rushing over the tarmac. Moz had tried to cover his ears, but he couldn’t move his arms once Peter started talking. They’d sat together on the floor of Neal’s loft until dawn, until the Suit’s tears were gone and Mozzie had to leave to find his own.
Moz hadn’t wanted to hang Neal’s work. He'd never painted for others, not his own stuff. But when the Suit had pushed that the world should experience Neal’s brilliance, Moz conceded and gave him the keys to Neal’s warehouse.
After the cleanup, after everyone has left, he hovers round the only permanent piece, set in the middle of the square. It’s an abstract sculpture of an anonymous artist, the conviction in his eye surrounded by a twinkle of mischief, something that Moz had seen in Neal’s face countless times. He's forever grateful he'd stored Neal's welding equipment within his radius, and he drops a soft old deck of cards within the artists' metal palm as he passes out into the park. New York has lost its luster for Moz, but he'll always have this square to come back to.
FIVE (something nice for Neal)…
The lap of water against the wooden poles is soothing and he starts to drift off as her fingers draw a lazy pattern on his skin. The gauzy curtains tied round the dock gazebo had been the perfect choice for these afternoon naps, a brilliant blend of shade and breeze.
After all these months Neal still catches himself sometimes, just at the moment he’s come aware from a random daydream, grasping for her before he remembers that they’re together, safe and legal. He can barely feel the ache of her absence anymore; just a fleeting memory that's getting easier to tuck away every day.
No more running. The feeling is still so new - spring buds and freshly primed canvas. There are moments he suspects his heart will burst, the happiness bubbling out of him in blissful waves, like the goofy song he crooned to her through the markets last night, like her laughter when he went off key to see if she'd notice.
Kate rolls over and he rests his palm against her belly. The little kicks make him giddy and he decides that the next time Mozzie calls, he'll inform him what the P.T.A. is called in the south of France.
AND My Guess as to a season Finale one of these years…
“So… I hear you’re getting company again.”
Neal’s footsteps stop and Peter twists around to see Neal’s show of annoyance, his brow arched. “Sara told Elizabeth?”
“Well, you know, they’ve been hitting it off.”
Neal shakes his head, starts walking again, “Can’t beat jewelry parties and daiquiris over HGTV.”
“It sounds like this time the sleepover isn’t temporary.”
He barely catches the genuine smile before Neal changes the subject, “So, did the warrant for that warehouse come through last night?”
Peter chuckles but he doesn’t fall for the deflection. This day has been a long time coming. “I’m happy for you two.”
“You know, overselling is a salesman’s downfall, Pe- “ The footsteps stall again, but this time when Peter turns back, Neal isn’t looking at him. His jaw is dropped slightly, eyes wide and Peter follows his line of sight.
“Oh Christ.” Long brown hair and the only eyes Peter have ever known to rival Neal’s. Peter tries. Through his own crash of confusion and though he’s not sure what good it would do, he tries to steer Neal the other way, but the man’s feet are rooted to the sidewalk. Until her voice caresses his name and he staggers toward her.
It takes him an eternity to cross Riverside Drive but when he reaches her, Neal’s legs give out, his knees banging on the pavement as he drops. His arms clutch her thighs and he buries his face in her dress as her hands run through his hair.
“Kate.” He barely chokes out her name and Peter knows that everything he’s done to help Neal, everything Neal has done to help himself the last four years, is blown out of the water and there’s nothing Peter can do to save him.
Fandom: White Collar
Author: hurinhouse
Disclaimer: Entirely fiction
Warnings: Some melancholy, angst, character death, but not all are depressing.
Spoilers: through season 1 for all, through season 3 for one of them
Rating: PG13 at most
Characters: Neal/Kate, implied Neal/Sara, Peter, Elizabeth, Mozzie, Adler, Fowler, June,
Summary: Five alternate season 2 openers I’ve had in my head for a while and one guess at a future season finale.
1803 words
ONE…
“How long?”
There are a few more bubbles in the sweet dough, Elizabeth can see them from her spot at the stove, and the second batch needs to go in soon. She takes a break from stirring, check's the oven's timer and leans against the island. “Maybe another three minutes. Do you want to trade off?”
“No, I’m okay, thank you.”
Neal is the culinary guru but asking Kate to help instead has nothing to do with cooking lessons. Those delicate fingers sink into the dough over and over and Elizabeth can imagine she and Neal living in France or Spain or some other paradise, Kate running a bakery in heels, Neal painting from balconies and bridges while he charms the tourists. Of course the reality would probably be less ordinary, less legal.
Peter has Neal occupied with case talk on the patio, but Neal’s glance repeatedly strays through the window. He hasn’t gotten past the need to keep Kate in sight.
“Are you settling in at June’s?”
“The view is amazing.”
“But not like Paris or Rome or Athens?”
Kate replies with a polite smile, trying to mask placation, but she’s no Neal Caffrey and Elizabeth is no fool. Domestic life is Neal’s unwitting dream, not hers. They both know that Elizabeth’s nurturing attempts with recipes and girls’ lunches are the Burkes’ desperate ploy at holding Neal here through Kate.
“Mmmm, smells delicious in here.” Peter drops the steaks on the counter and grabs a beer from the fridge. His hand rests on the small of El’s back as he kisses her, pretending they’re all having the time of their lives.
"Yes, almost enough to mask the hops," Neal's nose wrinkles at the extra six-pack on the counter as he takes a sip of his Syrah. Elizabeth catches the hopeful question in his eyes just for Kate, the promise and grudging patience in her answering smile. She feels Peter's tension inch up as Kate sinks back against Neal, fingers gliding over his forearms, the two of them in their own world.
They’re perfect together and the worse thing for one another. Elizabeth’s not so cold that she regrets Neal waving Kate off the plane. But for Peter’s sake, she hopes Kate won’t win this tug of war, at least not till the anklet is gone.
TWO…
It seems he’s been chasing this thing for decades; quite the roller coaster for a man who doesn’t like to be ruffled. He can’t believe he let Fowler take care of this. Now he’s out the music box and his best playing piece, no matter that she’d been trying to con him for months.
He remembers back to the last time he saw Kate…
“So, you have it all figured out, do you? You think Neal won’t be able to resist a damsel in distress.”
“Specifically this damsel,” she'd smirked, finding a heel under the bed.
Vincent had leaned back against the pillows, watched her dress. Hers weren’t the baby blues he’d wanted looking up at him from his sheets, but that ship had sailed with an orange jumpsuit years ago.
“You’ll get your music box, I’ll get everything else. Being together finally… he’ll tell me where his stash is if he thinks it’ll protect me.”
“You sure about that, Kate?”
She'd shrugged. “I have a second parachute in case I’m wrong. Then I’ll work on him in the Caribbean.”
Vincent had actually felt sorry for Neal. He’d decided then to talk to Fowler about a remote detonator.
THREE…
She rubs his back as the shivers continue. His stomach must be empty by now.
“Hold your arms up.” Neal obeys and she pulls a dark t-shirt over his head, kisses the back of his neck. God, she’d missed him. “I got rid of the clothes and the gun. We need to get out of here.”
His knuckles turn white against the porcelain as he stands and pulls on the track pants she brought him. Grief and guilt have washed away the shock on his face, pale even in the moonlight. An instant later all of it's gone, like water rolling off feathers, and he leads the way.
They scramble through ancient cobbled alleys until they get to the parking lot. Fowler waits at the car. Kate moves forward but Neal’s hand holds her back, rubbing against the powder burns on her palm. His eyes are haunted, though she doesn't think anyone else would catch it. She’s glad he hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger.
“Neal, they were traffickers. They used children.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“You’re free because of Mentor. If we refuse assignments you’ll be back on Burke’s leash. Or in prison.”
“Either is better than this.”
FOUR…
Mrs. Suit had worked wonders. The opening is classy and understated, white lights hanging from the park's trees, champagne in sparkling flutes. A mix of patrons and creators from the art world linger the longest but it's the Suit’s promise of no badges this one day that allows a deluge of less than legal guests to mingle with the F.B.I. and Moz can’t wipe the pride from his face.
New artists’ paintings hang on the sides of the open square, the water/glare-proof glass proving the perfect protection against future years of rain and shine, not to mention the young vines growing above. There’s some fantastic talent, but it all pales in comparison to the four corners everyone gravitates toward, each one showcasing a Caffrey original. The Suit thinks one of Neal’s bolt holes funded this real estate inside a bit of public paradise but Mozzie has resources nobody can guess.
“Peter!” June’s hug is tight, laced with worn affection. Moz can see her smile from his spot in the trees, binoculars in hand. “This square is the perfect gallery. The co-op will be set up for decades. Neal’s work will rotate?”
“Yes, all of it from the warehouse; for the first year. Then the co-op will take over the corners also and galleries will bid for Neal's paintings.”
“Splendid. And Mozzie?”
“He’s around somewhere. Not one for crowds today.”
June smiles wistfully, then frowns at the sketches of Kate in the northeast corner. But when she turns, Mozzie can see the sad approval in her eyes. “A good choice. He would have been grateful.”
The Suit nods, but seems to have lost his voice. He’s remembering, and Mozzie has to look away. It had poured out of the man that awful night one year past, over seven cans of Coors and a bottle of Neal’s second-best Pinot; the sight of Neal stepping on that plane, the heat of the flames rushing over the tarmac. Moz had tried to cover his ears, but he couldn’t move his arms once Peter started talking. They’d sat together on the floor of Neal’s loft until dawn, until the Suit’s tears were gone and Mozzie had to leave to find his own.
Moz hadn’t wanted to hang Neal’s work. He'd never painted for others, not his own stuff. But when the Suit had pushed that the world should experience Neal’s brilliance, Moz conceded and gave him the keys to Neal’s warehouse.
After the cleanup, after everyone has left, he hovers round the only permanent piece, set in the middle of the square. It’s an abstract sculpture of an anonymous artist, the conviction in his eye surrounded by a twinkle of mischief, something that Moz had seen in Neal’s face countless times. He's forever grateful he'd stored Neal's welding equipment within his radius, and he drops a soft old deck of cards within the artists' metal palm as he passes out into the park. New York has lost its luster for Moz, but he'll always have this square to come back to.
FIVE (something nice for Neal)…
The lap of water against the wooden poles is soothing and he starts to drift off as her fingers draw a lazy pattern on his skin. The gauzy curtains tied round the dock gazebo had been the perfect choice for these afternoon naps, a brilliant blend of shade and breeze.
After all these months Neal still catches himself sometimes, just at the moment he’s come aware from a random daydream, grasping for her before he remembers that they’re together, safe and legal. He can barely feel the ache of her absence anymore; just a fleeting memory that's getting easier to tuck away every day.
No more running. The feeling is still so new - spring buds and freshly primed canvas. There are moments he suspects his heart will burst, the happiness bubbling out of him in blissful waves, like the goofy song he crooned to her through the markets last night, like her laughter when he went off key to see if she'd notice.
Kate rolls over and he rests his palm against her belly. The little kicks make him giddy and he decides that the next time Mozzie calls, he'll inform him what the P.T.A. is called in the south of France.
AND My Guess as to a season Finale one of these years…
“So… I hear you’re getting company again.”
Neal’s footsteps stop and Peter twists around to see Neal’s show of annoyance, his brow arched. “Sara told Elizabeth?”
“Well, you know, they’ve been hitting it off.”
Neal shakes his head, starts walking again, “Can’t beat jewelry parties and daiquiris over HGTV.”
“It sounds like this time the sleepover isn’t temporary.”
He barely catches the genuine smile before Neal changes the subject, “So, did the warrant for that warehouse come through last night?”
Peter chuckles but he doesn’t fall for the deflection. This day has been a long time coming. “I’m happy for you two.”
“You know, overselling is a salesman’s downfall, Pe- “ The footsteps stall again, but this time when Peter turns back, Neal isn’t looking at him. His jaw is dropped slightly, eyes wide and Peter follows his line of sight.
“Oh Christ.” Long brown hair and the only eyes Peter have ever known to rival Neal’s. Peter tries. Through his own crash of confusion and though he’s not sure what good it would do, he tries to steer Neal the other way, but the man’s feet are rooted to the sidewalk. Until her voice caresses his name and he staggers toward her.
It takes him an eternity to cross Riverside Drive but when he reaches her, Neal’s legs give out, his knees banging on the pavement as he drops. His arms clutch her thighs and he buries his face in her dress as her hands run through his hair.
“Kate.” He barely chokes out her name and Peter knows that everything he’s done to help Neal, everything Neal has done to help himself the last four years, is blown out of the water and there’s nothing Peter can do to save him.
