Title: Christmas Cards
Author: Flora
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Peter/El
Word Count: 1600
Warnings/Spoilers: Pilot
Summary: The Dutchman is intriguingly frustrating, but lately every time he looks at the files he finds himself wondering what Neal would make of them.
A/N: Written for sholio for fandom_stocking.



“She left a breadcrumb trail to that apartment on purpose.”

Peter brushes snow from his gloves as the front door closes, drops his coat on the back of the couch and pats Satchmo distractedly on his way to the hall. He flips a switch and the rope of tiny colored lights he’s just finished hanging along the outside windowsills flares to life, blazing bravely against the lacy curtain of white drifting over the streets.

“And who is this other woman you’ve been obsessing over all day instead of helping me with Christmas dinner?” El meets him in the living room and leans in for a quick kiss; her eyes are sparkling, amused, as she holds out a spoon for him to taste.

“Mmmmm,” he says around a mouthful of homemade cranberry sauce, tart and spicy and sweet at once.

“Dad called,” she calls over her shoulder as she moves into the living room, pulling the curtains back just enough so the tree is framed in the front window; it’s already plugged in, tiny colored lights glittering beside the fireplace. A pile of presents sits artfully arranged underneath. “They got stuck in traffic but they should be here in half an hour.”

Peter picks up a solid log from the rack by the hearth, careful of splinters, and shifts the fire screen out of the way. “I hope you told him we’re going to eat all the food if they’re any later than that.”

He sets the log on top of the smoldering charcoal in the grate, pokes the glowing orange embers to life and watches fluttering rags of flame lick along fresh wood, delicate, tasting. His eyes are caught by the row of cards along the mantel as he stands, replacing the screen and the poker; El arranged them in a neat line on either side of that snowglobe her father gave her last year.

El wraps her arms around him from behind as he stares at glitter-splashed snowy Kinkade landscapes, cheerful Santas and elegant angels with long trumpets, all printed with trite phrases in flowing script. “You’re hurt that he didn’t send you a card this year.”

“Hon, I arrested him only a month ago.” He was not just thinking that Caffrey’s cards were always more original and more interesting. “I’m not surprised he took me off his Christmas card list.”

“He didn’t hold it against you the last time.” She thrusts a slotted spoon at him as he follows her into the kitchen, shooing Satchmo out when he tries to tag along.

“Last time –“ Peter shakes his head as she steers him toward the stove. “Did I tell you what he said to me when I arrested him the last time?”

“Only about a dozen times.” But there’s no sting in the words as she lifts the lid off a wide frying pan; sliced sweet potatoes sizzle in a thick syrup of butter and brown sugar, mingling with the smells of roast turkey and mulled cider.“Stir those every now and then so they don’t stick to the pan,” she says, and then, “I think it’s romantic.”

Peter nudges a sweet potato with the spoon as El opens the oven door beside him and the smell of baking rolls escapes; he wants to laugh, wants to say it was only a theatrical con man’s flair for melodrama or a last-minute play for sympathy but he knows better. In Neal Caffrey’s life there have been only a few moments of absolute sincerity; Peter knows that handshake and the heartfelt thanks for reuniting him with Kate was one of them.

El pulls out the pan of rolls and sets it on a pair of pot-holders, mimes slapping his hands away as he leans closer to inhale the fragrant steam. “What is it about this one?”

“I’m sorry, hon.” He sweeps his free hand around the kitchen. “I know it’s –“ Christmas night and he’s obsessing about work. Sometimes he doesn’t know why she puts up with him. “You know me.” He offers an apologetic half-shrug and a weak smile. “I like to be thorough.”

“I do know you.” She folds her arms and her look is sharp, but she’s curious, not angry. “And you should be covering my dining room table with reports on the Dutchman twenty minutes before we sit down for Christmas dinner. Not digging into a closed case.” She catches his free hand and laces her fingers through his. “What is it about Caffrey?”

The Dutchman is intriguingly frustrating, but lately every time he looks at the files he finds himself wondering what Neal would make of them.

He knows they could bring the Dutchman in together; he knows Caffrey would be as terrifyingly effective working on the side of the law as against it. He knows Caffrey would enjoy matching wits with the Dutchman as much as he once enjoyed playing against Peter. What’s more, he suspects Caffrey knows it, too; he remembers a glint in Caffrey’s eyes as he made the offer. He honestly thinks chasing the Dutchman with Peter would be fun. It was a flash of true empathy and shared excitement that was hard to resist.

The game might be fun for a while but Neal won’t let it distract him from his goal; the Dutchman is a shiny toy but Neal is not, despite appearances, a child. He’s capable of a frightening degree of focus, and Kate Moreau will always be his pole star.

Since she left everything Neal has done is centered on her. That his interest in the Dutchman case is genuine doesn’t mean he’s not trying to manipulate Peter; he never would have offered his help if he didn’t think that somehow it would bring him closer to the woman he loves.

Peter sighs and he almost tells El it’s nothing, but he’s felt it before, this nagging feeling in his gut that says this isn’t over. “It’s not Caffrey,” he says at last. “It’s Kate.”

“Oh, you’re on a first-name basis with his girlfriend, now, too? You can turn those,” she says, nodding toward the sweet potatoes. Then, “Honey, at this rate we ought to invite them both to spend Christmas with us.”

“Only if we lock up the silver first.” Peter slides the spoon carefully under each of the sweet potatoes and flips them to expose a beautifully browned, crunchy-sugary underside. Usually he’s good at reading people, but Kate Moreau is opaque to him and that’s unsettling. “I’m not the only one looking for her, El.”

She leans against the counter. “You think Neal’s still trying to find her?”

“I know he is.” That Neal – oh, God, now he’s got his wife on a first-name basis with the kid, this has got to stop – is still searching for Kate is a given. What Kate is trying to do is anyone’s guess – he can’t tell if she’s playing her own game or if she’s got in over her head and is trying to extricate herself. But either way Peter has a sinking feeling she’s going to drag Caffrey down with her.

“Maybe he’s reconsidering his life choices,” El says. “Four more years could be a wake-up call. Maybe he’ll realize she’s gone and move on.”

“Maybe there really is a Santa Claus.” Peter shakes his head. “But someone else is looking for her, too,” he says. “Someone pulled everything on her from evidence a month before I did.”

El turns off the stove and moves the frying pan onto the counter. “So the Bureau’s investigating her, now, too?”

“I ran the badge number of the agent who pulled her file.” He watches as she slides the sweet potatoes into a heavy ceramic bowl; it was a gift from her mother last year, stylized candy canes painted around the rim. “It’s a fake.”

“You think Caffrey –“ She stops when he shakes his head.

“He’s got his own sources who’d know more about her than we would,” he says. “He wouldn’t be looking for her in FBI files. This is someone else.”

“She’s not hiding from Caffrey,” El realizes. “She’s running from your fake agent.”

“Could be a real agent for all we know.” Whoever he is, he knew all the procedures for requesting evidence, knew how to make it look legitimate until someone actually ran the badge. “But he doesn’t want his name connected with this. He’s trying very hard to keep all this off the radar.”

“I know that look.” Hers is fond and only slightly exasperated.

“No.” Peter shakes his head firmly, coming to a decision. Caffrey is a fascinating puzzle, but the feeling of triumph at having bested him has somehow melted away. He’s bright young man and if things had been different -

Thinking of Caffrey now, Peter is only sad and frustrated; he can’t help thinking what a waste. “It’s Christmas and I am not thinking about work anymore tonight.”

“Really?” El’s eyes are dancing, playful. He turns away from the stove and pulls her against him, breathing in the smell of her hair.

“I have everything I need right here.”

“Oh!” She pulls free suddenly, turning to grab something from the end of the counter. “I almost forgot. Someone pushed this under the front door a few hours ago. They ran off before I could see who it was.”

The shape and weight of the envelope is familiar. Peter tears it open and isn’t surprised to see a hand-drawn card; it looks like home, a house with light at the windows and a tree and the door open, letting in cold air to welcome strangers out of the snow. He’s always amazed how much depth of feeling Neal can evoke with stark black pen and ink.

You didn’t think I’d forgotten, did you? he reads. The hand is familiar, and the tone tells him Neal is working on a plan. Whatever that plan is, it’s likely to get Neal locked away for good. Still something warms him about the card; it’s familiar, almost friendly.

If you change your mind, you know where to find me.