Author:
Regency
Title:
The Angry Artwork
Fandom:
White Collar
Pairing:
Neal/Peter
Spoilers:
General series.
Rating:
PG for just a bit of this and that.
Word
count: ~2,284
Summary: A piece of stolen artwork is more than a little angry about its accommodations and
makes sure that Neal, Peter, and Greater Manhattan knows it.
Author’s
Notes: Written for the comment_fic prompt, White
Collar, Neal/Peter, one of Neal's stolen paintings comes ALIVE! Ended up
being too long for even two comments. I’m down with constructive criticism if you’re interested.
Disclaimer:
I don’t own any characters recognizable as being from White Collar. They
are the property of their producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright
infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.
~!~
Peter's
already got the mansion half-evacuated by the time Neal's truly opened his eyes to the fact that something's gone incredibly
wrong in Wonderland.
With
practiced ease, he rolled out of bed and dropped into a defensive crouch. His
ears were ringing like god had banged a gong beside his head and he staggered pretty much as soon as he tried to move. He
dropped completely to his knees, thinking surely he could get below the sonic tirade if he did. It didn't work, but Neal had hope that if he dropped even lower it might.
Dragging
himself snake-like across his polished wood floor was not how he'd planned for his night to end. He'd expected to sleep in the delightfully snug arms of his own personal FBI keeper and wake in the morning
to a hard, insistent surprise that was not Peter's sidearm poking him in the back.
This,
as far as Neal was concerned, was complete crap. He covered his ears as he crawled
since he was half-certain that not doing so would eventually result in permanent hearing loss and his ability to listen was
half his charm. Couldn't lose that. He reached the door in time to miss being
hit by it as it was kicked open by a familiar leg, trousered leg. One second,
he was looking on in dizzy disbelief; the next, he was being bodily lifted out of the penthouse and ferried down the stairs.
The fireman's carry wasn't the most romantic way of getting swept off his feet, but as long as it was Peter, Neal supposed
there were worst things.
His
ears were still ringing like a payphone had taken up residence when they got to the sidewalk where all manner of FBI personnel
was standing around in apparent disbelief. A well-known and loved cheap suit
jacket made its way around Neal's bare shoulders and woke him up from what seemed like the strangest dream he'd ever had. Suddenly lucid, he recognized the piercing whine that had drawn him from sleep as
something else entirely. A vivid, horrified screaming filled the night. It was unceasing; the perpetrator seemed not even
to pause for breath.
Neal
clutched at the lapels of Peter's blazer, frowning, and looked around at the agents he stood amongst. They weren't so much as moving toward the noise. Why, he couldn't say.
Other than that it was pretty fucking terrifying to hear, this was sort of their forte, stopping terror and all that. He realized he must have spoken aloud when he heard Jones mutter, "My ass! I did not
sign up for Ghostbusters."
Peter’s,
“Tell me about it,” wasn’t much more encouraging. Neal started
getting a very bad feeling about whatever was going on here.
“Where
is this coming from,” he asked anyone listening, but particularly Peter because he’d been there the longest.
His
handler sighed and shook his head. He had his hands on his waist—well, one on his waist and the other hovering uncertainly
near his holster. It looked like an uncomfortable position but one that wasn’t about to change. “Something in there started screaming bloody murder fifteen minutes ago. Couldn’t figure out
where it was coming from. Got everybody out…” Looking suddenly guilty,
he dipped his head, “save Neal. I should have gotten you out first. It
was coming from the Penthouse but it was so damned loud I could barely tell.”
He shrugged. “Thought you’d be okay for a few minutes. Was not
expecting the door to lock on me when I left.”
Neal
narrowed his eyes in confusion. “It shouldn’t have done that. And
there is nowhere that scream should be coming from in my penthouse.”
Peter
laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, which Neal unconsciously leaned into, the mixed company be damned. He only had the man for the night until he had to give him back to Elizabeth, he was making the most of
his ruined evening. “It was definitely coming from there.”
“Yeah,
I know. I was there,” he murmured, annoyed. He knew Peter’s duty
was greater than their romance, didn’t mean he had to like it. “I’m going back up there to figure out what
the hell is going on.”
Peter’s
comforting hand suddenly became a lot more restraining. “I don’t
think that’s such a good idea, Neal.”
“I’m
not exactly gung ho about it, Peter, but somebody’s gotta put a stop to this.”
He turned to his sometimes federal partner in crime. “So, Jones,
you in?”
Jones
looked for all the world like he was considering transferring departments but, in the end, he nodded, albeit reluctantly. “Let’s do it.” His
gun was already in hand and Neal felt the seismic event that was Peter’s long-suffering sigh to his toes.
“Like
I could actually stop you.” He let go and locked-and-loaded. Neal spent exactly no time contemplating how sexy that was.
Really. “But, first, Neal, I want you in a vest.”
The
con murmured, “I want you in and out of one.” All things considered, it wasn’t exactly the loudest thing happening at the moment, but Jones still
coughed and Peter still glowered. Neal shrugged innocently, batting his lashes playfully.
The
sigh was practically Mt. Vesuvius unsettled this time. “Let’s go,
you.”
Ten
harrowing minutes later, Neal and his crack FBI team were creeping up the very stairs down which they’d fled not long
ago. They were wearing ear plugs to save their straining ear drums from further
damage. Neal realized that a crash course in hand signals was about as good as
no course at all. It all looked like mangled ASL and possibly some ill-advised gang signs to him.
He
kept going, fingers wrapped around the tails of Peter’s shirt to stay close. This
was Neal Caffrey Language, tug and pull. His lovers had never complained; Peter
Burke was hardly unique in that.
When
they reached the door to the penthouse, it was shut tight once again. Neal scowled
to match his companions. He didn’t need a damned slashing motion to know
that was a bad thing. His nice door still had Peter’s oil and mud shoeprint
on it and that was the least of what he was pissed about.
Peter
uncurled his fist and pointed at himself. He was going to proceed and they should wait was Neal’s best guess. Definitely not happy about that, but without a weapon he couldn’t be anything less than a liability.
The
agent jiggled the doorknob and had about equal to last time’s success. He
rolled his eyes, stood back, and unleashed a hell of a kick. Neal had to wonder
if he’d really gotten that kind of sheer, unrelenting force from playing b-ball or if his partner was holding out on
him.
He
had no chance to find out at the moment, suddenly finding himself tossed to the ground by something he definitely couldn’t
see but could feel certainly feel. He blinked his eyes shut against the visible
light distortions and held on to Jones who had the unlucky distinction of breaking his fall.
I should not be able to still hear this,
he thought frantically as he held on. Holy shit!
He felt like they were being pushed farther and farther back, which was bad because the staircase wasn’t far
behind them. Screaming he could take but that fall could kill them.
He
opened his eyes a crack to see Peter clinging to the doorway with all his might, the cords of muscle in his shoulders and
biceps bunching and straining against something unseen. The difference was that
Peter was being pulled the other way, in instead of out. Whatever the hell had
taken over his home wanted his Peter and Neal was not all right with that.
He
began to push back against whatever the hell it was with sheer might when everything else failed. There was nothing to anchor himself to and that would probably see the failure of this plan. All heart and no luck, he thought morosely.
With
a look so deep it seemed to pass straight through him, Peter vanished through the door.
Neal expected it to slam shut straight after. That’s how things
had declined in all the horror movies he’d seen. And if this wasn’t
horror in the making, he’d never seen any.
Unexpectedly,
he gained a little luck. The winds of force changed, yanking both he and Jones
into the penthouse like debris in a wind tunnel. Only then did the door slam
shut. He’d heard less intimidating bank vaults. Then again, he couldn’t
have heard a vault through these industrial strength ear buds. Talk about back to the drawing board.
They’d
landed safely on his couch in spite of the brute strength used to bring them. Without
any particular shame, Neal was definitely holding on to Jones. The junior agent
wasn’t exactly pulling away himself. The
hell is going on here, seemed to be the thought circling both of their minds.
Peter
for his part was kneeling beside Neal’s bed, actually under Neal’s bed headfirst.
Neal wanted to go to him but the scream wouldn’t hear of it, seeming to increase with his every attempt to move.
He wanted to pull him from under there, because, really, isn’t that where everyone goes to disappear forever? He didn’t want to live with that loss, or explain it to El.
“Peter,”
he shouted. Tried to shout. Would have if it were only that easy. Nothing was
going to be heard over the all-consuming screech in their heads. He thought their
ears should have been bleeding; hell, they probably were behind the rubber plugs.
The
senior agent suddenly reappeared with a cylindrical package in his hands and tension lines deep on his face. Neal blinked hard, knowing for certain that he saw trails of blood sliding down Peter’s twitching
jaw. He knew, suddenly, what was happening here, even if it made no sense whatsoever.
“Oh,
fuck,” Neal muttered in disbelief. This was not going to be his night or
even his lifetime.
Perpetually
flinching, Peter unscrewed the package and tipped its contents out into his hand. He
dropped the case and began to carefully unroll the canvas draped in velvet.
Just
as suddenly as the mayhem had begun, it ended. Neal and Jones cautiously removed their ear plugs to make use of what remained
of their hearing and drew closer. Peter was blinking dazedly at the canvas and
Neal immediately saw why.
Edvard
Munch’s master work had come to life. Normally beige and grey cheeks were
splotched red with waning agitation and the willowy chest was pulsing with effort to fill oil-based lungs. Neal could only really blink, too.
The
painted screaming man on the painted country lane seemed to sigh in relief. He ran a curved hand over his elongated face to
wipe away evident perspiration. Smiling surreally at the gathered three, he exclaimed
“Takk!” gratefully in Norwegian before assuming his signature pose. It
could have been fear or disbelief. Either way, he seemed much happier in it. Guess he didn’t like the dark, Neal
reasoned as if reason had any place here.
Once
the shock had passed, Neal began to wish he was in a painting himself. They couldn’t
prosecute paintings. At least, not in America.
He smiled weakly at his friend, lover, confidante, and partner. So much explaining
to do, so little time until the arraignment.
Peter
didn’t smile back. “I’m not even going to ask why you had The Scream under your bed, because I don’t need to know that. I do need to know that it’s going to be returned to its rightful owner before anyone else gets up
here. Do I have that assurance from you?” There was actually only one acceptable
answer and Neal knew it. In fact, he agreed with it completely.
“Absolutely. I’ll take it back personally.”
“No,”
Peter growled hotly, “you’ll do no such thing. Have Havisham take
care of it. I don’t want you anywhere near this thing when it miraculously reappears at the Munch Museum in Oslo. Got
me?”
Neal
nodded. Jones had said nothing so far, but, if the disappointed look in his eyes
was anything to go, he wasn’t happy either. Neal exhaled slowly. Yup, he was definitely having a crappy night and it was pretty much his own fault.
“So,”
he began, ready to start anew, “coffee?” Jones shook his head. Peter
glared. And he was almost positive the screaming man scoffed. He did not need
opinions from the artwork gallery. “Can we do something with him?”
“And
listen to him go off again,” Peter objected, “I don’t think so.”
Neal
pouted. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you liked him more than me.”
“Right
now, you’d be right.” If his permanent grimace was anything to go
by, Neal figured that was mostly true.
“Stupid
painting,” which was definitely saying for someone who revered art as much as Neal.
“Oh,
yeah, it’s the painting’s fault he didn’t like being cooped up in a cardboard tube under your bed instead
of a nice climate-controlled museum in Oslo.” His jaw twitched. “Let’s
get real here.”
“What
he said,” Jones echoed.
“Two
against one is not fair odds.”
Peter
jostled the painting—almost apologetically—for emphasis. “One
pissed off Munch against the world isn’t exactly equality at its best.”
There might have been low-grade Norwegian grumbling to be heard and ignored.
“Okay!”
Neal conceded.
“Okay,”
the other two men mimicked. The con figured their moods weren’t about to improve and that it was maybe time for Moz
to make an entrance before SWAT did.
“I
think I need a new hobby,” he noted to himself as he went in search of his phone.
Peter
snorted behind him and murmured, “You don’t say.”
And
Jones actually laughed.
It
had been a hell of a night.
