Fandom: White Collar
Characters: Peter, Neal (Gen)
Summary: It's a restless world inside the surveillance van, at least when Neal's involved.
Author's Notes: A very late birthday present for tsuki_no_bara. Sorry this took so long to finish!
Peter turned up the volume on the parabolic microphone, hoping he could hear it over the fidgeting sounds behind him. The source of the sounds was the same as always.
"How much longer 'til we give up?" Neal finally asked.
Peter's eyes flicked over to him, not for the first time that afternoon. "Tomorrow."
Neal's head whipped up. "Tomorr—"
"Oh come on, Neal," Peter said. "We've only been sitting in this van for an hour."
"Seems longer," Neal mumbled. He shifted around some more, loosening the tie that he wore even when it wasn't necessary.
Peter shook his head. "What is it with you and surveillance, anyway? How did you ever manage to case out galleries and museums for your burglaries, if you have this much trouble on a stakeout?"
Neal sat back in his chair and crossed his ankle over his knee. "If you remember," he said, "I never actually admitted to robbing anything."
"Fine," Peter muttered. He peered more closely at the camera display for the building's side exit. "If you ever theoretically cased out a spot for any reason, how were you able to tolerate the boredom?"
'Ah," Neal said. "Music. Games. Things like that."
"Games," Peter repeated. "Like 'I Spy With My Little Eye'? Or 'Name the Presidents'?"
"Or 'What if?' As in, What if Shelley had had water wings? Or,If you were Freud, what would have been on your bucket list?"
Peter looked at him, aghast.
"Hey, I didn't say we played it often," Neal laughed. "But it helps to have a variety of distractions."
"What about food?" Peter asked.
"Food! Yes—that'd be great."
"I didn't mean now," Peter said. "I meant in general."
"We had food back then," Neal said. "We believed in food."
"You make it sound like I'm starving you," Peter protested. "I brought lunch."
"No offense," Neal said, "but deviled ham is not food. Not in the FDA-approved sense."
"Hah-hah. How'd you know—"
"I smelled it as soon as I got into the van.
"Oh." Peter turned away and fiddled with a couple of knobs. He really liked deviled ham. "Well how about this: I'll buy you lunch as soon as we wrap this thing up."
Neal looked unconvinced. "How long will that—"
"He's coming," Peter interrupted. "There, around the corner."
"Okay, let's do it." Neal tightened his tie and straightened his jacket. "And then lunch—you promised."
"I know I did. Hurry up and get out there, Neal. But make it look casual…."
"I have done this before, Peter."
Neal rolled his eyes. "In the last two months. You were there."
"Oh." Peter fidgeted. "Yeah."
Neal grabbed the door handle, and delivered his parting shot before stepping outside:
"And lunch, Peter? Think cloth napkins, not a food cart or deli."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah."
Geez, a few deviled ham sandwiches and he was marked for life.
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