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s2309Title: These Precious Days I'll Spend With You
Characters (Pairings): Kate Moreau, Neal Caffrey (Kate/Neal)
Rating: G
Word Count: 525
Spoilers: None.
Content Notes: None.
Disclaimer: White Collar is Jeff Eastin's brainchild. Not mine.
Summary: A golden warm evening.
Author's Note: Written for weekly quick fic 10 for the prompts “But I have promises to keep/ And miles to go before I sleep.” (“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost) and New York City, 2065.
Far in the future AU, a little sci-fi. I almost picked Alex, but ended up picking Kate for this one because she doesn't get to age in canon.
Title from September Song by Willie Nelson.
Walking is all the exercise she can handle now. But she walks so long and so fast that it doesn't make too much of a difference.
The streets have changed. The footpaths are still there, the trees, miraculously enough, still line the roads, and the subway still rattles along underfoot. But even in this sidelined part of New York that they chose for themselves, where there are no chain stores and no flashing lights, the people aren't the same. They're all lost in their virtual realities, talking to AIs, populating their worlds with friends that they've tailor made, nearly bumping into other people because their eyes aren't on the path in front of them.
Kate wishes she was young enough to join them. But technology leaped forward too fast for her to keep up without getting dizzy.
She's probably the one New Yorker left who walks the streets with only the leftover sounds of nature for company.
She pulls her coat tighter around her even though home is now in her sight. The chill is starting to seep into her bones, and she doesn't take unnecessary risks anymore. Neal takes enough for the both of them.
She keys the door open and steps in. Home is warm. She insists on it. When Neal begins to crib about it, she suggests that he stand outside in his boxers for a few minutes. (He did, once. He lasted about thirty seconds before hobbling his way indoors and hunting down a cashmere sweater.)
She doesn't sit down. There's no time for that. She heads straight for their studio, because she has a commission that's due on Tuesday and even though it's almost complete, she's not waiting for midnight on Monday before she adds the finishing touches.
Neal's there when she reaches, forging a Picasso, of all things. She doesn't know why he does it anymore - the old masters are only remembered when they're forced down the throats of this new generation by school curricula.
He says they'll make a bonfire in January if the attic gets too full. She's started putting aside money for a storage space. Forged art it may be, but it's still art, and she doesn't want to watch it go up in flames.
(She's given up on convincing him to try something original. He'll do it when he wants to.)
He doesn't notice that she's there till she sits down at the easel next to his. But when he does, he turns to her, smiles like a ray of sunshine, says "Kate," and kisses her gently.
He's still the only person who can lift her settled frown into a smile.
"Elizabeth called," Neal continues. "She invited us over for dinner tomorrow. What do you think?"
Kate grimaces. She likes the thought of having company, but company that includes Peter Burke gives her pause. (They never did quite manage to forget their differences.) But it'll make Neal happy. And if she and Peter continue their usual routine of nodding at each other once and then carefully avoiding each other in conversation, it'll make her happy too.
"Let's go," she says, and turns to her easel.
Characters (Pairings): Kate Moreau, Neal Caffrey (Kate/Neal)
Rating: G
Word Count: 525
Spoilers: None.
Content Notes: None.
Disclaimer: White Collar is Jeff Eastin's brainchild. Not mine.
Summary: A golden warm evening.
Author's Note: Written for weekly quick fic 10 for the prompts “But I have promises to keep/ And miles to go before I sleep.” (“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost) and New York City, 2065.
Far in the future AU, a little sci-fi. I almost picked Alex, but ended up picking Kate for this one because she doesn't get to age in canon.
Title from September Song by Willie Nelson.
Walking is all the exercise she can handle now. But she walks so long and so fast that it doesn't make too much of a difference.
The streets have changed. The footpaths are still there, the trees, miraculously enough, still line the roads, and the subway still rattles along underfoot. But even in this sidelined part of New York that they chose for themselves, where there are no chain stores and no flashing lights, the people aren't the same. They're all lost in their virtual realities, talking to AIs, populating their worlds with friends that they've tailor made, nearly bumping into other people because their eyes aren't on the path in front of them.
Kate wishes she was young enough to join them. But technology leaped forward too fast for her to keep up without getting dizzy.
She's probably the one New Yorker left who walks the streets with only the leftover sounds of nature for company.
She pulls her coat tighter around her even though home is now in her sight. The chill is starting to seep into her bones, and she doesn't take unnecessary risks anymore. Neal takes enough for the both of them.
She keys the door open and steps in. Home is warm. She insists on it. When Neal begins to crib about it, she suggests that he stand outside in his boxers for a few minutes. (He did, once. He lasted about thirty seconds before hobbling his way indoors and hunting down a cashmere sweater.)
She doesn't sit down. There's no time for that. She heads straight for their studio, because she has a commission that's due on Tuesday and even though it's almost complete, she's not waiting for midnight on Monday before she adds the finishing touches.
Neal's there when she reaches, forging a Picasso, of all things. She doesn't know why he does it anymore - the old masters are only remembered when they're forced down the throats of this new generation by school curricula.
He says they'll make a bonfire in January if the attic gets too full. She's started putting aside money for a storage space. Forged art it may be, but it's still art, and she doesn't want to watch it go up in flames.
(She's given up on convincing him to try something original. He'll do it when he wants to.)
He doesn't notice that she's there till she sits down at the easel next to his. But when he does, he turns to her, smiles like a ray of sunshine, says "Kate," and kisses her gently.
He's still the only person who can lift her settled frown into a smile.
"Elizabeth called," Neal continues. "She invited us over for dinner tomorrow. What do you think?"
Kate grimaces. She likes the thought of having company, but company that includes Peter Burke gives her pause. (They never did quite manage to forget their differences.) But it'll make Neal happy. And if she and Peter continue their usual routine of nodding at each other once and then carefully avoiding each other in conversation, it'll make her happy too.
"Let's go," she says, and turns to her easel.
