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Fic: White Collar Thanksgiving
mood: 
content
contentmusic: The Golden Floor || Snow Patrol
Title: Thanksgiving Plus One
Fandom: White Collar
The ex-art thief had popped up on his doorstep at noon that Thanksgiving morning, with a shrug, a smile and a claim about a great turkey recipe. Elle, who’d never been the best turkey-cooker, appeared at his elbow in her apron and frizzy hair, clearly nearing the end of her rope.
Periodically—to refill his Coke, to make a snack, to be nosy—he would creep into the kitchen and see things like Neal in the apron he hadn’t worn since Elle’d given it to him, stringing beans from the market. Elizabeth standing over the stovetop, cheeks pink from the heat, long wooden spoon in one hand and a tasting spoon in the other. Neal fending Satchmo off with a knee as he put the turkey in the oven. Elle catching a fork, slice of baked yam falling off, in her mouth with a laugh and a quick move, Neal’s open hand beneath her chin just in case.
Peter kept forgetting what he had gone into the kitchen for, why, and after some many visits, he forgot to leave again. He took up a seat at the small kitchen table and just watched the two interact. It surprised him, how they moved and talked like they’d known each other for years, laughing about his anniversary disasters and birthday screw-ups like Neal’d been there.
Dinner was served at five pm, sharp, and the three of them gathered around the table Peter had been ordered to set, the sound of football in the background and Neal’s knee bumping his. They both kept his mind at the table when it tried—twice—to wander towards work, and watched with an attention that made him nervous as he aligned a forkful of turkey and stuffing with his mouth.
Elizabeth feigned casualty, one hand supporting her chin and half of her smile visible, Neal with his elbows on the table and his fingers folded. He looked between them both, blinking.
“What? What is it?”
After a beat, “Nothing,” Elizabeth said, that little half-a-smile getting a little bigger. “Nothing at all. Right Neal?”
“Right Elle,” He answered quickly, and the entire situation stank of a set-up so much that if he’d been at work, Peter’s hand would be twitching for his gun. But he couldn’t think of anything they could have done, and that turkey did smell pretty good. So he forced down his instinct and ate the forkful.
He started coughing, and Neal beat unhelpfully on his back as he downed a gulp of tea. Elizabeth bit her lip anxiously.
“Peter honey? What’s wrong? Is it bad?”
Peter answered, raspy, batting Neal away, “Not at all.”
He speared another piece. “Best damn turkey I’ve ever had.”
Neal laughed, and Peter felt Elizabeth kick him lightly beneath the table.
Before dinner ended and the three migrated to the couch, Peter knew that Neal would be back next year.
He should probably expect him for Christmas too.
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chipper
full
hot
sleepy
bored
sore
