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asimaiyatTitle: "A Friend In Need"
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing: Mozzie and Neal friendship, or Mozzie/Neal, whichever you like.
Rating: G
Summary: Neal wants Mozzie to read him a story.
AN: Written forursula4x, who had a cold and wanted sick, woobie Neal.
"I'b bored."
There's something especially pathetic about hearing someone who can do every accent known to man -- who has successfully passed himself off as Polish, South African, Welsh, Argentine, and, on one occasion that Mozzie wishes he'd caught on tape, Minnesotan -- struggle and fail to maintain control of his own consonants. From the defeated look on Neal's face, he knows exactly how he sounds, too. Not to mention how he looks: stretched out on the couch in his bathrobe, buried under a heap of blankets, his assiduously maintained complexion marred by the red around his eyes and nose, the sheen of sweat on his forehead. And he less said about his hair, the better.
"You want a book? I mean, it isn't my library --" (Mozzie's personal library is distributed throughout several eight-by-ten storage units across the boroughs, and, in his head, also includes the various books that he thinks of as his own even though he does not technically possess them yet) "-- but June's got a pretty impressive collection, especially if you have a taste for early-twentieth-century lit. Her Fitzgerald shelf alone --"
"Somethin' happy," says Neal, looking up at Mozzie as if his dopey haze of corecedin and hot rum toddies has convinced him that he has acquired psychic powers and can read Mozzie's mind. "Where nobody dies. Please?"
Well, the Fitzgerald's out, then.
"You have anything other specifications?"
Neal picked up his mug and sipped his drink with as much elaborately-staged difficulty as possible, and fixed his bleary eyes on Mozzie. "I do't think I can handle Modernist poetry right now, either. No Prufrock."
Mozzie was starting to be concerned that Neal had acquired psychic powers and could read his mind. Maybe this was part of some new top-secret FBI initiative.
"Okay, princess. I'll see what I can do."
Mozzie adjourns to the library -- a lovely little room with William Morris wallpaper and a couple of overstuffed armchairs -- and spends some time just admiring the books before selecting one that seems to fit the bill. He brings it back with him -- taking note of where he found it so he can return it later -- and holds it out to Neal, who is letting his eyes flutter as if he can barely keep them open.
"Head's really killing me," he mutters, and it should not be so easy for him to play the sympathy card after all they've been through together, but Mozzie feels that inevitable little tug in his heart in spite of himself. "You think you could read it to me?"
"Has anyone ever told you that --"
"I turn into a spoiled little kid when I'm sick? Yes. Yes, I have been told that"
"I was going to say that you're a spoiled infant all the time. You just usually hide it much better."
"Mozzie?" There is no other way to put it: Neal's voice is an unabashed whine.
"Yes?"
"Shut up and read me a story."
Mozzie sighs and comforts himself with the fact that he has a very nice armchair to sit in while he reads. He opens the book and flips past the front matter.
"Now, touching this business of old Jeeves -- my man, you know -- how do
we stand? Lots of people think I'm much too dependent on him. My Aunt Agatha, in fact, has even gone so far as to call him my keeper. Well, what I say is: Why not? The man's a genius. From the collar upward he stands alone. I gave up trying to run my own affairs within a week of his coming to me. That was about half a dozen years ago, directly after the rather rummy business of Florence Craye, my Uncle Willoughby's book, and Edwin, the Boy Scout...."
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing: Mozzie and Neal friendship, or Mozzie/Neal, whichever you like.
Rating: G
Summary: Neal wants Mozzie to read him a story.
AN: Written for
ursula4x, who had a cold and wanted sick, woobie Neal."I'b bored."
There's something especially pathetic about hearing someone who can do every accent known to man -- who has successfully passed himself off as Polish, South African, Welsh, Argentine, and, on one occasion that Mozzie wishes he'd caught on tape, Minnesotan -- struggle and fail to maintain control of his own consonants. From the defeated look on Neal's face, he knows exactly how he sounds, too. Not to mention how he looks: stretched out on the couch in his bathrobe, buried under a heap of blankets, his assiduously maintained complexion marred by the red around his eyes and nose, the sheen of sweat on his forehead. And he less said about his hair, the better.
"You want a book? I mean, it isn't my library --" (Mozzie's personal library is distributed throughout several eight-by-ten storage units across the boroughs, and, in his head, also includes the various books that he thinks of as his own even though he does not technically possess them yet) "-- but June's got a pretty impressive collection, especially if you have a taste for early-twentieth-century lit. Her Fitzgerald shelf alone --"
"Somethin' happy," says Neal, looking up at Mozzie as if his dopey haze of corecedin and hot rum toddies has convinced him that he has acquired psychic powers and can read Mozzie's mind. "Where nobody dies. Please?"
Well, the Fitzgerald's out, then.
"You have anything other specifications?"
Neal picked up his mug and sipped his drink with as much elaborately-staged difficulty as possible, and fixed his bleary eyes on Mozzie. "I do't think I can handle Modernist poetry right now, either. No Prufrock."
Mozzie was starting to be concerned that Neal had acquired psychic powers and could read his mind. Maybe this was part of some new top-secret FBI initiative.
"Okay, princess. I'll see what I can do."
Mozzie adjourns to the library -- a lovely little room with William Morris wallpaper and a couple of overstuffed armchairs -- and spends some time just admiring the books before selecting one that seems to fit the bill. He brings it back with him -- taking note of where he found it so he can return it later -- and holds it out to Neal, who is letting his eyes flutter as if he can barely keep them open.
"Head's really killing me," he mutters, and it should not be so easy for him to play the sympathy card after all they've been through together, but Mozzie feels that inevitable little tug in his heart in spite of himself. "You think you could read it to me?"
"Has anyone ever told you that --"
"I turn into a spoiled little kid when I'm sick? Yes. Yes, I have been told that"
"I was going to say that you're a spoiled infant all the time. You just usually hide it much better."
"Mozzie?" There is no other way to put it: Neal's voice is an unabashed whine.
"Yes?"
"Shut up and read me a story."
Mozzie sighs and comforts himself with the fact that he has a very nice armchair to sit in while he reads. He opens the book and flips past the front matter.
"Now, touching this business of old Jeeves -- my man, you know -- how do
we stand? Lots of people think I'm much too dependent on him. My Aunt Agatha, in fact, has even gone so far as to call him my keeper. Well, what I say is: Why not? The man's a genius. From the collar upward he stands alone. I gave up trying to run my own affairs within a week of his coming to me. That was about half a dozen years ago, directly after the rather rummy business of Florence Craye, my Uncle Willoughby's book, and Edwin, the Boy Scout...."
(no subject)
Date: 2010-05-14 03:53 am (UTC)The amusing thing is, this is reminding me of a Kipper the Dog story. (Netflix led us
astrayto this lovely gentle British cartoon about animal friends... and our kids now won't stop watching it...)(no subject)
Date: 2010-05-14 07:52 pm (UTC)Kipper the Dog looks adorable. When I was a kid I always liked the sweet, gentle cartoons over the loud, neon-colored ones.