whitecollarhc

Title: The Lockpicker and the Elves, Part 1 of 7

Rating: Gen

Genre/Relationship: General Friendship

Spoilers: None

Word Count: whole story—16,298, this section—2772

Whole Story Summary: When Neal volunteers to help deliver some Christmas gifts, he finds that Santa has a need for his particular skill set. Can Neal save the day? Can Santa?

Part 1 Summary: Neal does his best to avoid the germs at the office because he and Mozzie have plans for Christmas Eve. A trip to the Riviera? Not likely....

A/N: Written for ”H/C Advent 2013” for the prompt Fevered Hallucination by love_82 hosted by rabidchild, at (Click HERE for link to H/C Advent 2013). What started as a silly, four-and-one-half-page story sort of...blossomed into this monster. I played a little fast and loose with the prompt, but I hope the entry is satisfactory. Lots of Neal, Mozzie, magic and friendship.

The Lockpicker and the Elves, Part 1 of 7

Neal was hunched over his desk, staring at his legal page of notes. “Peter, so help me—if you breathe on me, I am going to pop you,” he complained. Peter, who thought he'd been hovering inconspicuously, colored and backed up.

“I am not sick anymore,” he insisted. “I told you I got my flu shot right after--”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Neal. “And a lot of good it did. Unfortunately, since everybody--” Here he stopped to glare around the the rows of desks--”didn't do the same, you'd already given at the office.”

According to Neal, the cubicle farm had become a “toxic cesspool of germs.” Eschewing the break room, Neal had taken to eating lunch in the conference room, but his charm and personal magnetism had drawn others in his wake. He'd sighed, slapped on a smile and pushed his chair back, but when Laura May, who was on loan from Accounting, reached across and snagged one of his bread sticks just to annoy him, he'd taken to eating lunch out. Peter had found him today on the roof, cradling his turkey and provolone on focaccia bread protectively..

“Don't worry,” Peter had said. “I'm not coming out. I just wanted to let you know we're meeting on the Kelsey-Barnes case after lunch in the conference room.”

“All of us? In one room?”

“Yes, Neal,” Peter said patiently. “The whole team.”

Neal said nothing, but his face closed in stony silence.

“Neal?”

“Fine,” Neal muttered. “I'll be there.”

At the meeting itself, Neal sat in the doorway, halfway out the door into the hall, but he took notes and seemed engaged in the case. He'd offered a couple of good observations, fielded a couple of questions. When the meeting ended, he made to return to his office but Peter took a deep breath and braved the storm.

“Neal—a minute, please.”

He saw his C.I. hesitate, saw him struggle to control his face, then nod shortly and stand well back until everyone else had filed out. When everyone else had left he came into the conference room and stood at attention. At least, to Peter, that's what it looked like, and it made him feel like a despot or a dictator. He was absolutely certain that was exactly the way Neal wanted him to feel, and he ground his teeth and fought to keep his frustration from reaching his face.

“Thanks for your help in there,” he said. Neal nodded and said nothing for a moment, but when Peter didn't continue, he shifted.

“Is that--”

“No, damn it, that's not all,” Peter said. He wanted to take Neal by the shoulders and shake him, drag the truth out of him, but that was a conversation for another day, or another life. Baby steps, he reminded himself, and started where he thought they might find some common ground.

“Do you mind working with Garcia on this?” Peter asked. “You've had more experience—“

“Not a problem,” Neal said after a slight pause. Somehow—Peter wasn't sure how—Neal managed to convey that he knew he would be expected to do it whether he minded or not. Peter wondered, not for the first time, how he did that. He tried another tack.

“If you'd rather work alone—“

“It's fine.” Neal's stance softened a smidge, not wanting to appear ungracious. “Garcia's getting pretty good at these cases,” he offered. “I'll be glad to have his help.”

It wasn't an olive branch, but it wasn't a baseball bat either. Peter took the plunge.

“May I at least ask,” Peter said plaintively, “why you are suddenly such a germaphobe?”

“I am not suddenly such a germaphobe,” Neal snapped. “I am simply trying not to catch the plague you brought to our office so I don't spend my Christmas vacation throwing up into a stocking.”

“Okay, so you don't wanna catch this flu that going around—I get that. It's pretty nasty.”

“You brought it in—you should know,” Neal said testily.

“But you weren't like this last year. Why is this year different from all the other years?”

That was a loaded question, and for a moment, Peter saw anger—real and flaming—in Neal's eyes, then his face became bland again, if somewhat unfriendly. Peter put his hand out in a “hold on” gesture and shook his head, trying to backtrack out of the conversational minefield he'd just charged into, but when Neal still didn't answer, he put his hands on his hips and looked at Neal searchingly. “C'mon—spill.” For a moment, he was afraid Neal was going to insist he make it a command instead of a request, but Neal seemed to have exhausted his desire for a confrontation.

“It's...I have plans this year,” Neal mumbled.

“Going to the Riviera ?” Peter teased, but Neal just looked at him, stone-faced and rigid. He was used to being able to tease Neal, but the silences and the distance between them since Siegel's death had not only grown since, but settled. He could see Neal on the other side of the divide, but he was having trouble finding ways to bridge the gap when they spoke.

“No,” Neal said, and did not elaborate.

Peter tried not to show his surprise, but failed spectacularly. Neal shifted and looked at him, something like disdain on his face.

“Tell me again how you manage when you're undercover?” he said.

“I manage just fine,” Peter shot back, stung by the sarcasm in his C.I.'s voice. A dozen hurtful things sprang to his lips but the rational, calculating, observant part of himself stopped them before they could escape. When Neal was hiding something, he usually deflected and baiting him was one of his standard fallbacks. Peter took a deep breath and counted to ten, aware that Neal was watching him warily. He wanted to ask about Neal's plans, wished he'd thought to include Neal in some way but he was rotten at those things and Neal had been...distant, more than a little reserved lately, and today—downright hostile.

“Okay. So you have...plans. How can I help you with that short of putting you in a plastic bubble until flu season is over?”

If Neal had been snarky about Peter's lack of poker face, Peter should have been allowed a return volley. Seeing the shock on Neal's face was satisfaction enough, and Peter felt a warm surge of relief when Neal's surprise turned to embarrassed pleasure.

“Um, oh,” said Neal, obviously not expecting this. That—that he didn't expect help—made Peter's gut clench, but, taking a page from Neal's book, he slapped on a grin and waited.

“Well,” said Neal, obviously trying to collect his thoughts. “Mozzie and I have a ...thing.” As if realizing how that must sound, Neal's head shot up , his mouth full of protestations, but by now Peter had his reactions firmly under control.

“It's fine. Nevermind. Go on.”

“Mozzie's been volunteering at an orphanage,” Neal said carefully. A million questions flooded Peter's brain—things like background checks and encouraging the delinquency of a minor. In a different time, Peter might have voiced his objections, if only to hear Neal argue him out of them, but things had been strained—not just between him and Mozzie but between him and Neal, and there wasn't enough ease in their relationship to impose. Neal might be his business, but Mozzie definitely wasn't, although there had been a time.... Peter was glad he'd already pasted a smile on his face, or it would have been a hard call what expression would've shown. “We're supposed to show up on Christmas Eve and give out presents.”

Peter's eyebrows climbed. “You're Santa Claus?” he asked, and his mouth twitched at the corner.

Neal seemed to be having trouble with his own face, as close as he'd come to smiling all day. “Not exactly,” he said.

***

“Peace on earth,” ranted the man. “Merry Christmas to all—bah!”

It might be the happiest time of the year, but not everyone was planning holiday cheer. Sad as it is to relate, while some people are running to embrace forgiveness, togetherness, peace and goodwill, some are sulking and stewing and plotting. FBI agents—and C.I.s—are hardly in danger of being put out of business because of end-of-year celebrations.

“So—the holidays are supposed to bring old friends together,” the angry man snarled. “Let's just see how happy you are to see me!”

***

Despite his heroic efforts, even with Peter's help, Neal left on Christmas eve feeling rotten. He was pretty sure it wasn't the flu that had been going around, but his head hurt and his nose felt stuffy and tender. They had, at least, closed the case and carted away the bad guys from Kelsey-Barnes just in time for Christmas. Garcia had volunteered to do the paperwork solo before heading out.

“S'no problem,” Garcia had insisted. “Just go home already and stop breathing on me, man.” Neal had gone.

Back at June's, he'd put on his costume and waited for Mozzie to come get him. They were going over to the community center early, meeting the delivery truck and the other volunteers and helping to get things ready for the party. He was determined not to disappoint either the children or Mozzie, but he didn't think he was going to be worth much without a little lay-down beforehand. He flopped down on the couch and covered his eyes with his forearm, wishing he'd taken something but too lethargic to get up now that he was supine. Laying down was huge relief in and of itself, and he sighed with pleasure. That was better. A little down time and he'd be right as rain, ready to face anything. I don't need a nap, he told himself. Just a little calm before the storm. The moment Mozzie came in, he'd be on his feet, ready to go.

In moments, he was out.

***

“Are you sure? Maybe he's just held up with last-minute stuff.”

“We got the signal,” he said soberly.

“With the safe word?”

“Yep.”

“Oh. The safe word. It's bad, then.”

“Yeah. It's bad.”

“Well, it's not like it's the first time we've had to deal with him.”

“No, but I think he's serious this time.”

“What about the big guy—he okay?”

“Seems to be. You know him—he's tough. You can't spook him. He's a survivor.”

“Good thing. So...what are we going to do? You putting together a team?”

There was a slight hesitation. “Not much choice. I mean, it's Christmas Eve—”

“I know. So what? I'm in,” said the first man. “I'm way in.”

His companion nodded. “Okay—you're in. But...”

“What?” Something about the other man's expression clued in him that this was no ordinary mission. “What aren't you telling me?”

“I think we're going to have to call in someone from...the outside.”

“The outside? Outside outside? You're kidding me, right?”

“I wish I was,” came the muttered reply.

“I don't like it. It's—it's not the way we do things here.”

“Does it look like I'm happy about it?” said the second fellow.

“No! We can handle it! The last thing we need is a bunch of gawkers who will trip over their own big feet while we try to--”

“We need help.”

“What makes you think so?”

“The first team was...unsuccessful.”

“First team—oh! Oh dear. Was anyone—“

“Everyone came back just fine—except the big guy. He's stuck.”

“Did you try all the magic tricks?”

“Every one of them. This is different.”

“How different can it be. It's Jack again—right?”

“Right, but he's pretty serious this time.”

“Looks like last time would've shown him he's never gonna—“

The first fellow grunted. “He gets better—or worse—every time. This time, we're up against new technology.”

“New technology?”

“Yep. Ever heard of a company named 'Elsafe'?”

***

"Neal! NEAL!"

Neal shot up into a sitting position, his head sloshing miserably.

"Wuh?" He looked around, disoriented by the unexpected slumber. But there was nothing unexpected about the fellow who was shouting his name. In spite of himself, Neal grinned. Mozzie dressed like an elf—green tunic, green tights, fake points on his ears—was something to see--especially with the ginger mustache and whiskers. His green hat and the bobbing pompom on top were laughable, but the expression on the man's face was not.

"For Christmas' sake, get up! We need your help!”

“Right, right,” he mumbled. “I'm coming.”

“Well, hurry. Those presents aren't going to deliver themselves!"

Neal scrambled to his feet, slipping a little in the silly shoes. "Sorry," he said, running a hand over his face and through his hair. "Sorry--I...I guess I dozed off. I had a headache."

"I know all about your headache," his companion said gruffly. He held out a small vial and Neal looked at it askance.

"Um, not a fan," Neal said. "If all I have to do is give out presents to kids--"

"All you have to do? All you have to do?"

"Geez. Calm down. I'll take it." Neal put his hat back onto his head and took the vial. "This will make me feel better?"

"Getting the presents out will make everyone feel better," came the gruff reply. "But, yes, drink that and you'll think you can fly."

Neal sort of wished he hadn't swallowed it already, but he had, and that was that. It burned a little, but pleasantly so, like menthol or...maybe peppermint? The last thing Mozzie had concocted had been a little foul--this was, well, not bad. "I can see you've been working on the tasty pharmaceuticals," Neal teased, and got a pleased-sounding grunt in reply.

"Are you ready yet?"

Neal checked himself over, still not thrilled about the lack of pants, but if he looked half as adorable as his diminutive friend did in his own elf suit and tights, he figured it would be a hit with the kids. "I guess so," he said.

"Then get the lead out." Neal was suddenly facing the back of a short red-headed elf, and his doubts about the costume and the lack of pants were put to rest. Drafty the costume might be, but it covered the necessities. He wondered fleetingly if there were going to be any women at the party, but whether it was that thought or the fact that his headache was clearing, he skidded on the felt curl-toed shoes and almost fell, grasping for the back of the couch. A green-clad arm shot out, caught him, and kept him on his feet. The strength in that return grip surprised Neal, but he was glad to not wipe out on his butt. He grinned, his hat askew.

"Thanks," he said. "I haven't got the hang of--"

"What in Santa's name are you wearing on your feet?"

Neal looked down, staring at the silly shoes. "They came with the outfit," he mumbled, embarrassed. He'd assumed he was supposed to wear them to complete the costume. He glanced at Mozzie's feet and noticed the beautifully-tooled red leather lace-up boots on his companion. "Hey—where'd you get yours?" he demanded. Leave it to Mozzie to be holding out on him.

That got him a quizzical look, but Neal persevered. "How come you get cute elf boots when I'm wearing these house-shoe rejects?"

With a sigh, the well-shod elf in front of him turned and handed Neal a pair of boots that matched his own, except they were deep, forest-y green. There was a matching belt with them. Neal blinked, but took the boots and belt eagerly. “I suppose I should say 'thank you,'” he muttered, then used his grip on his friend's arm to steady himself while he put the boots on. They fit beautifully, and he had to admit he felt more...adult, he supposed, in the leather footwear than he had in the other shoes.

“Manners always matter,” elf-Mozzie said, straight-faced, and Neal flashed him a grin.

“So I've been told.”

“Are you ready now?” There was a plaintive tone in Mozzie's voice that told Neal he was getting antsy. He stood up straight and tightened the leather belt over the red tunic and adjusted his hat (again).

“Yeah,” Neal said. “Lead the way to Santa's sleigh.”

Part 2, click HERE