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elrhiarhodanTitle: I Have Borne the Burden Of Myself
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey (Peter/Neal)
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~ 7400
Summary: Set at some indefinite point in the future, Neal has reconciled himself to a life of virtue, if just so he can stay near the one thing he knows he can never have.
A/N: This is an accidental Valentine’s Day fic. A few days ago, my friendcoffeethyme4me was patiently listening to me moan about how uninspired I was feeling, and she gave me a bunch of wonderful, wonderful prompts. This one: Peter/Neal, pre-slash/UST, eating soup at the office, snow flurries just sent me into orbit. It was going to be a simple story of Neal feeding Peter, sublimating his desires through a gift of food. But since when is what I write ever simple?
Beta’d by my lovely friends,coffeethyme4me and jrosemary, so naturally all mistakes are mine and mine alone. Your comments are always adored and appreciated.
__________________
There were times when Neal hated Peter. Hated him with a deep, visceral intensity.
Not for putting him in prison. Never for that. It was his job and no matter what happened to him when he was there, none of it was Peter’s fault. Nor did Neal didn’t hate Peter when he accused him of stealing the Nazi treasure without reason or justification. That was pointless – he may not have stolen it, but he didn’t report it either. He never hated Peter for chasing after him, for holding him back as Kate’s plane turned into a ball of fire on that little runway. Never once, in the days and weeks and months after Kate was murdered and the powers that be put him back in prison did he hate him for what happened. Peter thought he was doing the right thing; he was trying to be a friend.
No, Neal didn’t hate Peter for any of the things that happened to him. He hated Peter for his blindness, for never seeing what Neal needed him to see, for what Neal dreaded that he’d see.
There were times that he was certain Peter knew what he felt, so certain that Peter could see him handing him his heart, but was deliberately ignoring it. For both their sakes. And then he’d think that Peter had no clue about what Neal felt when he was doing his best to push him back to Sara, to point out other available women with respectable lifestyles.
He hated Peter at those moments. And his heart would burn out, become cold, gray ash. The hatred would dissipate. And he’d go back to thinking about Peter with a resigned acceptance of what could and could never be.
Until the next time.
Neal never expected that the next time would become the last time on a cold, snowy evening, a few days before Valentine’s Day, a day that started out as innocuous as any other day in his reformed conman’s life.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Now that the tracker was off, Neal supposed he had better things to do than to be working full time for the FBI, with a regular paycheck, health insurance and a Government-funded pension plan. He could be strolling through the Metropolitan or the Cloisters or even the Rubin downtown. No tracker meant no radius. He didn’t even have to remain in New York. He still had enough resources to go anywhere he wanted. London, Paris, Hong Kong, a different city each month if he so desired.
Neal kept telling himself that there was no reason why he had to stay here. June had made it clear that the apartment was always his – it would always be his home base – even if he was no longer in the game. But each time he thought he was ready to leave, a face, a smile, a tug on the shoulder, a pat on the back told him it wasn’t time to go. Not yet, not now. Maybe, not ever.
Neal didn’t really like to think of himself as reformed, because there was nothing quite as sad as a reformed con artist. It conjured up images of a lonely old man in a cold, empty room, fingering the last sad bits of his stash with nothing better to do than dream about better days. But in truth – “reformed” was the best description of his life and lifestyle these days. He had his work, and even in his darkest moments, he never regretted that choice. The second act of Neal George Caffrey would be much stronger than the first.
And he had his friends: June and Moz, who were nicely balanced by Diana and Clinton. Sara and Alex too. They all made for an interesting life.
Of course there was Peter and Elizabeth. Always and never an afterthought. Neal kept himself busy, too busy to think about what he wanted, what he was missing.
Moz thought he was crazy – a conman working as a paid consultant for the FBI, wasting his time and his talents on the plebeian Suits and occasionally, he had to agree with his friend. While he had a better pay grade than the lowly GS-10 that Moz predicted, it wasn’t better by much. As many times as Moz offered, cajoled or downright pestered him to participate in some high-value opportunity (to keep him in the game, to supplement his income), Neal always found an excuse not to join in the fun. Moz would just shake his head; mutter “Quisling” or “cockroach” or any of the dozen other epithets that he had taken to calling him this past year, and go on his merry way.
On a wintery Saturday afternoon in mid-February, when the sun was content to hide behind a drifting mass of clouds, Neal found himself in an antsy mood. He was lonely and bored; a dangerous combination even for a reformed con artist. It was too cold to just go wandering. The museums – even the ones that had been so close and so out of reach when he had the anklet on – held little interest today. Moz had taken himself off to parts unknown (he had mentioned Boston and Georg Jensen and thirty pieces of silver), Diana and Christie may have become friends, but not the “just drop by” kind, particularly the weekend before Valentine’s Day. Clinton’s family was in town. Sara was out of town. So was June, and she had taken Cindy and Bugsy with her.
While Neal never really had problems with keeping his own company - four years in prison cured him of that - he was still a social creature and he found himself longing for another voice, another heartbeat. He didn’t want to think about whose voice he wanted to hear, whose heartbeat he longed to feel. Monsters were hiding behind those rocks, the kind that would eat him alive no matter how much he resisted.
But despite that, Neal briefly entertained the though of heading over to see Elizabeth (and Peter, of course). He even had an excuse - the pastel color study of Satchmo that El had asked for was still incomplete. He could have gone over to spend a few hours ostensibly sketching the dog (but in truth, basking in their company). But Peter had made it clear that Saturday was going to be an all-day “date night”; El had to leave early in the morning for a trip to California and Neal definitely wasn’t on the guest list.
He tried not to think of Peter and Elizabeth in bed, fucking. It would be wrong and dirty and nasty and wrong. But they would be (they must be) so beautiful together. Peter, so tall and strong and straight and … well, he’s stood next to Peter in the mens room. He’s seen it. It was beautiful.
El was certainly the perfect complement to her husband – small and delicious and curvy. Soft where Peter was hard, designed to fit him like a glove. They would be poetry together, not the polite, near-courtly passions of Byron, but the heady dark ardor of Lawrence.
He shook his head, to banish the images that were burning in his brain. He needed to do something, he needed to get out of his own head for a while. Maybe he’d cook – challenge himself with something he hadn’t tried before. The kitchens – all five of them – were his to use as he wanted. June was generous like that. And given the winter grayness, he knew just what he wanted to make.
He grabbed his coat and keys and headed out. There was an upscale market on Broadway that should have everything he needed. Neal checked the recipe as he walked the few blocks, energized by a purpose – no matter how short-lived.
Laden with a live lobster, herbs, tomatoes, cream and stock, even a bottle of good, dry Spanish sherry, he took over the small, well-appointed kitchen off of the library. Lobster bisque wasn’t that difficult to make, provided that the lobster wasn’t overcooked and the bisque properly seasoned. But Neal always made delicious soups, and this one – unfamiliar as it was – was not going to be the exception. An hour’s concentration and he created something fit for the gods.
Except he wasn’t hungry. The euphoria of creation was diminished by the realization that he had no one to share it with. Neal let it cool and tucked it into the fridge. He’d take some to work on Monday – maybe Diana would appreciate it.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Something was beeping, buzzing, humming, and it was driving Neal insane. Nothing he could do would make it stop. He pulled out the batteries from the smoke alarm, disconnected the CO2 detector. Unplugged the television, the microwave, the security monitors. Every lamp and gadget in the apartment; he tore apart books and bedding and everything he could lay his hands on, but the goddamned beep-buzz-beep wouldn’t stop.
Until he opened his eyes.
It was his cell phone ringing and the noise had set off the jackhammers pounding in his head.
After he finished cleaning up, he finished the bottle of sherry he had bought for the soup, as well the Shiraz that Moz opened during the week, the rest of the burgundy from the other night, and then he topped it off with a few glasses of the single malt that June kept in his cabinet.
Not wise, not wise at all. This level of self-medicating had to stop. Was going to stop.
The phone, mercifully, stopped ringing. Then started again. He picked it up – it was Peter. And it was a little before nine am.
Neal swallowed around the dryness in his mouth and hoped that at the very least he sounded awake as he answered the phone. “Hey, Peter. What’s up?”
“Good morning, sunshine!” Peter practically sang. He was never this cheerful, especially not when Elizabeth was going out of town. But maybe it was all the sex they had yesterday. Stop thinking about that.
Neal looked up at the skylight – there wasn’t a hell of a lot of sunshine coming though the heavy cloud cover. “Elizabeth’s flight was cancelled?”
“Nope – she got off …” There as a delicate pause there, “just fine. Caught a very early flight.”
Neal ignored the double entendre, it had to be unintentional. He licked his lips, and thought longingly about a cup of coffee that someone else would make for him. “So why are you so chipper?”
“Dropped El off at JFK at six, been in the office since seven. I think your lead on the problems with the Derrinson Gallery has played out. We got a few hits on some questionable provenance - well more than a few. It looks like there are over a dozen possible forgeries. Good work.”
Neal sat up, thoughts of coffee and the fuzziness of the hangover were chased away by the happy sensation of hearing Peter praise his contribution. “Do you want me to come in to the office?”
“That’s why I called. If you’ve got nothing better to do – that would be perfect. We could get a head start on the paperwork for the warrants.”
“Give me an hour or so – okay?”
Peter agreed and Neal disconnected the call. The edges of his wine and scotch-induced headache were creeping back. He hoped a hot shower and a few shots of espresso would cure it.
The promised hour was more like an hour and a half. The shower was too brief to dispel the headache completely - so caffeine was needed. As good and kind and understanding as June’s staff was, they still had Sundays off, which mean that Neal had to make his own. That gave him time to heat up a few servings of yesterday’s soup and pack up the basics of a picnic basket. They would have to eat and there were few places near the office (other than Chinatown) that would be open on a Sunday afternoon.
Neal was surprised that Peter was the only person in the office. While the FBI never closed, White Collar wasn’t a division that required around the clock staffing, but there was always someone in the office. Today, it looked like that someone was just Peter.
He didn’t want to examine why that made him happy - to have Peter all to himself. No distractions, no interruptions from staff or family. Just the two of them working and talking and …
And what?
And he cut off that train of thought with ruthless precision. There was no “and” for them. They were friends - they worked together, occasionally spend some downtime together. He had to believe that Peter treated him with the same fond pride and affection he had for any other member of his team - particularly now that Neal walked the paths of the righteous. Thinking otherwise would be a disaster.
“Didn’t think you’d ever get here.”
Neal shrugged. “I was still sleeping when you called. It took a while to get out to door.”
Peter peered at him. “You okay?”
“Yeah, fine. Why do you ask?”
“You look a little … off. Everything all right?”
“What would be wrong?” Neal deflected. It was an instinctive response.
Peter gave him a searching, narrow-eyed look, but didn’t call him on it. “I don’t know - but whatever’s going on - you can tell me.”
Neal decided to feed Peter a bone - nothing terribly meaty though. “Had a bit too much to drink last night.”
Damn, maybe that was saying too much.
“Is it becoming a problem?”
Neal was surprised at how delicately Peter asked the question. “It won’t be - not anymore.”
Peter nodded. “If it is - don’t hesitate to let me know. You don’t have to deal with it alone.”
The gentleness of the offer made his chest ache. Neal wondered who in Peter’s life had had a drinking problem. But all he said was “Thanks.”
There were a dozen files laid out on the conference room table, each with photographs of questionable paintings and extensive notes. Neal couldn’t wait to dig in.
“This is just your type of case, isn’t it.” Peter stood behind him. The comment - or maybe his voice - sent goose pimples down his spine.
“Yeah - definitely worth losing a lazy Sunday for.” He picked up the first folder - detailing the sale of a previously unknown Jackson Pollock. There were folders with details for similarly unknown Rothkos and Motherwells and dozen other Abstract Expressionists – most of the New York School was represented. And as meaty as the case was, probably what pleased Neal more was that Peter hadn’t asked if these were his works.
They worked through the files, exchanging notes and ideas.
“I can’t tell anything from the photographs.” Neal tossed a folder down in exasperation. It glided off the table and onto the floor. He got up to retrieve it.
“We’ll take a trip to the Derrinson tomorrow - if the promised blizzard doesn’t hit.”
“Blizzard?” Neal peered out the windows. There were a few flakes drifting out of the leaden sky.
“Yeah - the forecast is for nine to fourteen inches. Or nothing.”
“Hmmm.” He had never been much of a weather geek - unless it affected a job. “Hope it’s nothing.”
Peter chuckled. “When did Peter Pan grow up?”
Neal looked at Peter, a trifle hurt that he still saw him as a child.
Peter must have picked up on that. But he didn’t apologize. “It’s a sign of adulthood achieved when you no longer look forward to snow days - when you get irritated when the weather interferes with your life.”
Neal stuck his hands in his pockets, not quite buying the explanation. “I want to go to the gallery tomorrow and see the paintings. Even if they are fakes.” He hoped he didn’t sound like he was pouting.
Peter grinned, and Neal had to grin back. But whatever Peter was about to say was forgotten when both their stomachs rumbled.
“Want to break for lunch? I think the deli on the corner is opened.”
“No need - I brought lunch for us.”
Peter’s eyes lit up with appreciation. “You did? That was thoughtful.”
Neal cleared off a section of the conference table. “You like lobster, right?” He wondered if Peter would mock him for his extravagant tastes.
“You brought lobster for lunch?”
Neal licked his lips. “I made lobster bisque - had some left over.” No need for Peter to know that he hadn’t had any of it. “Thought it would be nice to have this afternoon.” He hoped he sounded as off-hand as he meant to. This shouldn’t have been so important. “You do eat lobster?” He asked again.
“El doesn’t let me have it too often. She’s been like the food police since my last physical.” Peter frowned then explained, “My cholesterol was a little high.”
Neal stopped setting out the food. “Then this is probably the worst thing you could have.” He looked at the container of lobster meat he was going to add to the soup and tucked it back into his messenger bag with a small sigh. “I guess we can get some turkey sandwiches from the deli. White meat, no mayo.”
“Not on your life. What El doesn’t know won’t hurt her. And it’s not like I have lobster every day.” Peter reached Neal’s his bag and took out the food - the lobster meat and the two Thermoses. “What possessed you to make this?”
Neal shrugged. “I was bored. I like to cook when I can’t figure out what else to do.”
“But lobster bisque?”
“Why not?”
“Okay - why not.” Peter unscrewed the cap to one of the bottles. “Mmmm. Smells delicious. Pass me that container.” He gestured for the meat. Neal complied and watch with bemused appreciation as Peter picked out some choice morsels and added them to the soup.
“Better than deviled ham?” Neal had to ask, and that earned him the stink-eye.
They ate in companionable silence, there was no need for conversation. Neal flipped through a file detailing the sale of a pair of de Kooning nudes to a billionaire publishing magnet. He was never particularly fond of the artist’s work, even the later period when his usually brutal depiction of women had been tempered by age, affection and Alzheimer’s.
“Those are enough to make you lose your appetite.” Peter gestured with his cup. “I’m not a big fan of Abstract Expressionism.”
“De gustibus …” Neal started to say.
“Non disputandem est.” Peter finished for him.
“Thank you, Tristam Shandy.” He toasted Peter back, warmed by more than the soup.
“Tristram, not Tristam.”
“You will always be my favorite pedant, Peter.”
“Should I be insulted or pleased that I come before Moz in that category?”
Neal grinned and didn’t bother to answer, it wasn’t necessary. Their banter made him happy. Neal understood that afternoons like this were probably the outer boundaries of their relationship – and he was okay with that (he had to be). Peter would never need to know the true expanse and nature of his feelings. He could feed Peter, and feed himself at the same time. It would be enough. It had to be.
“Would you look at that?”
“What?”
Peter pointed to the window. The flurries, drifting down since the morning, had become a real snowfall. “I’m thinking we should pack it in.”
Neal stood up and went to the window to watch. “Mmmm. There’s nothing quite like a snowy day in New York City.”
“Yeah – but only if you don’t have to travel in it.”
Neal ignored Peter’s comment. “Everything looks so fresh and new.” Peter opened his mouth and Neal knew exactly what he was going to say. “And yes, I know. In a day, that snow turns black and gross, and it’s a pain to get around. But for a while, it’s a kind of magic.”
Peter moved to stand next to him, watching the snow fall. It muffled the sounds of the city, sometimes apparent even more than twenty stories above the street. “Want to come over? We can continue working on this if you’d like. I can scrounge up something for dinner. El left me with a stocked fridge.”
Peter was trying hard not to sound like it mattered if he came over or not. Neal was intrigued at the amount of diffidence in the question. “Sure – I can catch the subway home when we’re done.” He didn’t want to think about what would happen if the promised blizzard arrived.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter watched Neal out of the corner of his eye when he should have been keeping his full attention on the road. The snow was coming down thick and fast, the road was slippery and he couldn’t quite figure out Neal’s mood. He liked to think that he could read Neal like a book, but that really wasn’t true. Even when Peter knew that he was falling apart inside, his partner rarely displayed anything but a happy, almost carefree disposition.
In a way, it disturbed him to see that mask slip, something that was happening with disturbing frequency. Something had to be very wrong. That pleasant mask hid a very complex man, and as close as they were, Neal rarely let anyone see beyond it. But today, Neal revealed more of himself than he had in years.
And that made Peter worry.
By the time they reached the Brooklyn Bridge, the snow was now coming down so heavily that it was impossible to see more than a few feet and traffic had slowed to a crawl. He tapped the brakes and the car skidded.
“Are we going to make it home?” There was a thread of concern in Neal’s off-hand question.
“Oh ye of little faith. This car has traction control.”
“No need to cite the wonders of the Taurus – this isn’t a commercial. Besides, traction control is only effective if the tires are in contact with the pavement. And it doesn’t keep us from getting stranded or if another car crashes into us.”
After so many years, Peter was accustomed to Neal’s complaints about his driving. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”
By the time they reached the house, it was full dark. The steadily falling snow diffused the orange glow from the street lights and the only sound was the steady thump from the windshield wipers.
“Looks like luck has smiled on us. The plows have been through and no one’s taken my spot.” They parked less than a few dozen yards away from the house, but by the time they made it inside, snow coated both men. Neal tipped the wet white stuff off his hat and chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing. Just thinking how right you were about being inconvenienced by snow is a hallmark of being a grownup.”
“It’s not so pretty when you have to be out in it.” He didn’t take off his coat. “I’m going to go let Satchmo out - can you start a fire?” He nodded to the pile of wood and kindling.
“Sure - I may not have been in the Boy Scouts, but I can lay a fire.” Neal toed off he shoes and knelt by the fireplace. Peter didn’t wait to see if Neal needed help. The dog was practically dancing on his toes and if Neal said he could do something, he could do it.
Peter absently watched Satch nose around for his spot in the snow and worried. Today wasn’t the first time that he’d seen Neal’s mask slip. Whatever was bothering him had been festering for the last few months. He could see it in Neal’s posture, in the tightness of his smile. The mornings that he came in early, impeccably groomed, but eyes bloodshot, a grayish pallor to his skin. Signs of too many sleepless nights, maybe?
It had occurred to him a few times over the last couple of months that Neal might have a problem with drinking. For all that he joked about Neal’s impulse control problems and his “see-want-take” mentality; Neal also had an iron will and immense self-control when it came to his body. It hurt like hell to think that he was losing that control.
So he had to ask. He was surprised that Neal didn’t deny it. But since when was he predictable. It seemed that Neal had recognized that there was a problem and was going to handle it. And if he couldn’t, Peter would be there for him. He was his friend - and that’s what friends were for, right?
He sighed, his breath a white cloud in the darkness. That’s all they’d ever be. Friends. It wasn’t as if he could ever really hope for more than that. And yet, sometimes he thought he had a reason to hope - to pin his desires on the slightest reasons. But more likely, he was just seeing things. The things that he wanted, not what was really there?
El understood, she had described it the best. Neal was like a tiny grain of sand - an irritant under his heart for more than a decade. The years of working with Neal, side by side - and more than occasionally in opposite directions - the years of love and aggravation, had put a thick, protective coating over that seed. Desire had polished it to a deep luster. What he felt for Neal now was a dark and shining pearl.
The first layers were frustration, then reluctant admiration. By the time he arrested Neal and testified at his trial, admiration became affection. Neal didn’t know about the watch he had kept over him during the four years he was in prison - at the first hint of trouble, he used whatever influence he could muster to get Neal into a “private” cell, to make sure that he had protection. That he didn’t anticipate the problem with Kate still galled, so many years later.
Peter didn’t have to think too hard about the moment when he understood that his feelings had always been more than affection and desire, that they were love. It was the morning after El’s escape. When Neal walked into the conference room and was prepared to make a full confession. To give up everything so Keller would pay for his crimes.
That gift of loyalty hit him like a punch, and he was still reeling.
He tossed a few snowballs at Satchmo, who gamely chased them and both dog and man were thoroughly soaked by time they came back inside. There was a blazing fire and Neal had a pair of towels in his hands.
“Making yourself right at home?”
“Just for that, you can have Satchmo’s towel.” He tossed the well-worn cloth at him, but Peter didn’t miss the slightly hurt look in Neal’s eyes. He dried the dog, who had curled up in front of the fireplace, then used the other towel on himself.
“It looks like the promised blizzard has hit.” Neal was peering out the front curtains.
“Yeah - I don’t think either of us will be going anywhere tomorrow. The Derrinson Gallery will have to wait. The guest room is ready for you.”
Neal sat down and started to put his shoes on.
“Where are you going?”
“Home - before I can’t.”
“You’re not going anywhere, Neal. There is a reason why it’s called a guest room.”
“Peter - I …”
“You’re staying put. No arguing.”
Neal got a truculent expression on his face.
“Come on - what’s the big deal? It’s not as if you haven’t spent the night before.”
Neal shrugged, but at least he put his shoes back down. “Okay - you’re right. I’d probably get pneumonia and die, and then you’d have to take time off of work to go to my funeral.”
God forbid. “Who says I’d go?”
“Very funny. And you’d never be able to wrap up the Derrinson case.”
“That may be true.” The moment of tension passed. “Want a drink?”
“Coffee?”
“You really want to drink my coffee? That would be a first.”
Neal gave him a look and stalked into the kitchen. “How is it that a man of your exceptional skills can’t manage something as basic as a French press?”
Peter had to smile. “My skills? My exceptional skills? I’m going to mark this date on my calendar.” He made a big production out of circling February 12th in red. Neal just glared at him in mock irritation. At least Peter hoped it was mock.
He left him in the kitchen and went to change into dry clothes. He didn’t bother with shoes, and padded down the stairs. Satchmo was sound asleep - the boy was getting old. Neal was standing in front of the fireplace, a framed photograph in his hand and an expression of deep melancholy etched on his face.
“You okay?”
Neal spun around - startled. “I didn’t hear you come down.”
“What are you looking at?” Neal handed him the photograph that El had taken of the two of them in their tuxedos. “Ah, our prom photo.” Peter couldn’t keep the grin off his face. That had been a good moment for them - the calm eye in a terrible storm. El had it framed and put it on the fireplace mantle, in a position of pride.
“Prom picture - yeah. That’s what Elizabeth called it.” Neal took the photograph back and gazed at it like it held all the answers to the universe, then replaced it very carefully.
Peter couldn’t keep it in anymore. “Neal - what’s the matter?”
“Why do you think anything is wrong?”
Unlike this morning, he wasn’t going to let things slide. “Stop deflecting. You’re upset about something. I can read it in your face.”
“Peter - trust me, everything’s fine.”
“Neal - I’ve known you too long to trust you when you say that. ‘Everything’s fine’ is usually the cue for imminent disaster.” He tried not to sound heavy handed, but was pretty sure he was coming across as a bit of jerk. Still, he was worried.
“Nothing is wrong, really.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Neal threw up his hands and stalked across the room. “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing - I just want to make sure you’re all right.” Actually, Peter wanted a hell of a lot more - but he wasn’t ever going to get that. “Please, Neal.”
“There’s nothing to worry about - I’m not going back to the life. You’ve firmly chained me to the straight and narrow path of virtue.”
Peter felt like he’d been slapped. “I never thought that, Neal.”
“No?”
The bitter skepticism in that single word made Peter’s stomach clench. “No, Neal. You told me that this was the life you wanted. You had a million choices after they commuted your sentence. You chose to stay. As far as I was concerned, that was it. You made a commitment; you were never going to go back to the life.”
“You have an awful lot of faith in me, Peter.”
“It’s deserved.”
Neal reached out for the picture again, brushing his thumb over the image. “I wonder, sometimes.” He dropped his hand and walked away.
Neal’s tone - the hints of bitterness, anger - were disturbing. He didn’t know what to say to soothe his distress. “Please, Neal - tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s nothing, Peter. Nothing you have to worry about.”
“I’m your friend; I’m allowed to worry about you.”
Neal didn’t say anything, he just seemed to retreat. “Don’t we have work to do?”
“Leave it, Neal.”
“Then what am I doing here?”
“Spending a little quality time with me?” Peter tried for some humor. “Keeping me from falling into the depths of despair?”
“El’s been away for what, twelve hours? How did you manage to survive when she spent almost six months in California?” Neal tone was wry, curious.
“I had other things to distract me.” I had you to worry about.
Neal didn’t seem inclined to pursue the matter and Peter thought to let things go for the moment.
Neal headed into the kitchen. “I made coffee - want a cup?”
They sat at the dining table, not talking, not looking at each other. The silence irked Peter. “How’s Moz?”
“Involved with his own plots and schemes. I stay out of them these days.”
“Anything I should be worried about?”
“No – and he’s out of your jurisdiction for the moment, anyway.”
“Hmmm.” Peter took a sip of coffee, it was almost as good as the Italian roast June served. “And Sara?”
“As far as I know, she’s fine.”
“As far as you know?” Peter wasn’t a selfish man, and given the impossibility of his own dreams, he had high hopes for Neal and Sara.
“We keep in touch occasionally.”
“Just occasionally?”
“We’re friends, Peter.”
“Good friends?”
“Friends.” Neal’s tone was repressive.
“Friends with benefits?” He couldn’t have stopped that question if his lips were stapled together. And then super-glued. Maybe if his tongue was removed.
“What are you, twelve years old?”
He didn’t rise to the bait. “I want to see you happy, Neal. You deserve to be happy.”
“And that means being with someone? A white picket fence and a lawn to mow? You have to know that Sara Ellis isn’t suburban housewife material.”
“Neal - I know you. You aren’t the type to live your life in isolated splendor.”
“Who says I am?”
Peter wanted to throw up his hands in frustration. “Damn it, Neal. Why won’t you let me care about you?”
Neal’s reply was a whisper, so low that Peter wasn’t quite sure the words were Neal’s or an echo of his own dreams. “Because I want you to care. I want it too much. I want –” He sat there, tense, still; hands resting palms down on the dark wood.
Time stopped. His heart stopped. “Neal?”
“Forget it, Peter. Just – forget I said anything.” He stood up abruptly, his chair clattering along the floor and the sudden noise was like a thunderclap. Neal paced across the room, flicking open the curtains to gaze at the snow-shrouded street before walking back over to the fireplace.
The living room was dark, illuminated only by the firelight and the weak glow spilling out from the kitchen. But despite the darkness, Peter could read the pain in Neal’s stance - in the stiffness of his shoulders, the rigid posture. If not for those last despairing words, Peter would have wondered if Neal was still mourning Kate. This was the fourth winter since her death. He knew that Neal had put her firmly in the past, but grief was never a tidy, easy thing. It could come back and bite without notice. But it wasn’t Kate, there was something else at work, something that was bleeding through the edges, something Neal was desperately trying to hide.
“Why would it be a bad thing for me to care? Why does that bother you?”
Neal turned to him, his face hidden in deep shadows. Peter wished for more light, he wanted to read the truth. “Because I always want what I can't have.”
A log collapsed, sending up a small flare, erasing the shadows - if just for a few seconds. There was so much longing, so much pain in Neal’s face. But as terrible as that pain was to see, it gave him hope. And from that hope Peter found courage. Maybe he needed to take the risk.
He left the dining room, and stood next to Neal - so close their shoulders were touching. The heat from the fire did nothing to dispel the chill of uncertainty inside him. “Maybe you can have what you want, Neal. Maybe you don’t have to travel alone.”
“Peter, you couldn't possibly imagine what I want.” The tension still rolled off of him in waves.
The words caught in Peter’s throat, repressed - but never denied - for so long. He just couldn't bear Neal’s pain anymore. He had to say it, even if it destroyed everything else between them. “I love you.”
The silence was broken only by the crackling of the fire and their breathing. With each breath, Peter felt that elusive blossom of hope wither away.
“I’m not your son, Peter. I’m not your brother.”
“I know that, Neal. I’ve always known that.”
“What are you saying, Peter?”
“I love you, Neal. And not like a father or a brother.”
“You can’t.” There was a touch of hysteria in Neal’s voice.
“Why not?”
“Because … because of Elizabeth! Your wife – your other half. The woman you love and cherish and adore.”
Peter took Neal’s forearm, turning him so they were face to face. “The woman who has known how I’ve felt for a long time, Neal. We have no secrets from each other.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
At this moment, Neal hated Peter as much as he ever did. To push and poke and pry and then dare use the word “love” like it meant something more than concern for a friend. He flung away Peter’s hand. He couldn’t bear that hot touch – he’d rather be burned by the fire in front of him. It would leave fewer scars.
“Neal – you don’t believe me, do you?”
“I don’t think you know what you’re saying, Peter.”
“I most certainly do.”
“Yeah – you love me. I’m your good buddy, your friend, your partner in crime and law.” Neal couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice; he didn’t care what it revealed.
Peter tilted his head and looked at him, a gentle, almost sad smile curving his beautiful lips. “Yes, that’s true. But that’s not all of it.”
Neal closed his eyes, as if the darkness would make denial any easier. He didn’t see Peter reach out and wrap his arms around him. And he told himself, if he didn’t see it, he didn’t have to resist when Peter drew him close. If his eyes were closed, he didn’t have to see Peter’s expression when he rested his head on his shoulder.
“I love you, Neal. With all that the word and the feeling entails. I never thought I’d tell you – I never thought you felt that way. But what you just said – you gave me hope. More than hope – you gave me courage. I couldn’t not tell you.” Peter was whispering, his voice low and urgent, as if the words could not be held back.
He never wanted to leave the shelter of those arms, but he had to. He had to find a way to fight this. He opened his eyes and tried to step back, but Peter wouldn’t let him go. “This can’t happen. I won’t allow you to ruin your life.”
“El knows, Neal. She always has. I just told you – we don’t keep secrets from each other.”
“And she’s okay with it? That I find hard to believe.”
Peter chuckled – he actually laughed and Neal wanted to hit him.
“Look at the mantle, Neal. Tell me what you see?”
Neal looked, puzzled by the question. “There’s the picture of us.”
“What else?”
Neal’s eyes skipped over the small collection of tchotkes and landed on another photo, quite a bit older but in a very similar frame.
“Neal, what else do you see?” Peter was implacable.
“Your wedding photo.” He whispered, shocked. In all the years since El had taken that snapshot and gave it a place of honor on the mantle, he never realized what it sat next to.
“That photo of the two of us isn’t there by accident, Neal. El put it there, with great ceremony. She refused to take it down when her folks visited, too.”
Neal thought his heart was going to burst. But he still had questions - it all seemed too unreal. “Why did you wait until now to tell me?”
Peter pulled him over to the couch and sat down. “Because I had no idea you felt anything more than affection for me. Because I was too afraid of losing you. And there was no way I would say anything - do anything - while you were still under my legal control. That would have been all kinds of wrong.”
He dropped his head in his hands, holding it tight - maybe that would keep it from exploding. “And here I was, thinking I was so goddamned painfully obvious. Five years of looking and longing and wanting and you never saw it. I’ve loved you for so long. Why do you think I stopped and looked back that day? Why do you think I didn’t pull the trigger? Why do you think I never ran when I could?”
“Neal?”
“That day - that day when we were back at the apartment and trying to get a hold of Moz, and I told you that we had argued, because I didn’t want to leave.”
Peter nodded slowly. “I remember. I asked you ‘why not?’”
“Do you remember what I said?”
“You said – ” Peter blinked, coming to his own realization.
“Yeah – I wanted to stay because of you.”
“And Elizabeth. And Sara. And the view and coming into the office on Monday morning.”
“That was window dressing, Peter. I stayed because of you. Because leaving you was never an option I could entertain for more than a few hours. Even if I left, I would have come back.” Neal sighed. “I didn’t need the damn tracker to keep me here.”
Another log collapsed against the grate, sending out a burst of light and heat.
Peter asked him a surprising question, “Are you ashamed of your feelings for me, Neal?”
“God, no. Are you?”
“No – never.” And for a man who had never hesitated to touch him in public, whether it was a tug on the forearm, a hand at the small of his back, or a hand on his shoulder, Peter was suddenly very cautious as he draped an arm around him and pulled him close. “Is this all right?”
Neal sighed and leaned back. “Yeah, it’s perfect.” But the revelations that passed between them, even their physical closeness, didn’t ease all his fears. He twisted around to face Peter. “It’s going to end in disaster, isn’t it?”
“No, it won’t. Trust me.”
Neal wanted to - he wanted to trust Peter in this as he had trusted him with everything else. And yet, he had to ask. “What happens when …” He swallowed hard. “When you realize that you don’t love me any more? What happens when El figures out that sharing her husband isn’t such a good idea? What happens then?” How do I go on, how do I survive without you?
“I know that until you talk to Elizabeth, you really won’t believe me. But understand this - she’s been sharing me with you for a very long time. She’s been wondering what has taken me so long to tell you how I feel.”
Neal swallowed, he didn’t deserve her generosity.
Peter brushed a hand down the side of his face before tangling in his hair, bringing him close. “I’ve loved you for more years than I care to count. Even when you have exasperated and angered me. Even when you made my life something close to a nightmare, I have loved you. I can’t imagine a time when I haven’t, and I can’t imagine a time when I won’t.”
The ice in Neal’s heart, the layers of worry and doubt and fear began to melt. He tried to say something, to rebuild the armor, to put some distance between them, to keep himself safe.
He opened his mouth and Peter kissed him.
That mouth, Peter’s mouth, was everything he dreamed of and nothing he could have imagined. It was gentle, cautious, patient. But never unsure, never hesitant. Neal felt himself open up, blossoming from the heat. Their tongues met, tangled and retreated. Peter tasted like coffee and desire and everything good and wonderful and Neal thought if he died at this moment, his life would have been perfect.
And it got better. He forgot his name; he lost himself in the heat of that mouth, the pressure of those hands cupping his head like he was something terrible and precious. He existed for the moment of a heartbeat, a pulse beat against his lips.
He existed for love.
Peter pulled back and Neal reluctantly let him go. He blinked and found it hard to focus.
“Now, do you believe me, Neal?”
He nodded, all capacity for speech lost. Peter smiled and pulled him back against him. They lay there, content for the moment. Neal took Peter’s hand and laid it against his heart, his own hand holding it there, fingers resting on Peter’s pulse, feeling their heartbeats slowly sync.
Finally at ease. Finally together.
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey (Peter/Neal)
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~ 7400
Summary: Set at some indefinite point in the future, Neal has reconciled himself to a life of virtue, if just so he can stay near the one thing he knows he can never have.
A/N: This is an accidental Valentine’s Day fic. A few days ago, my friend
coffeethyme4me was patiently listening to me moan about how uninspired I was feeling, and she gave me a bunch of wonderful, wonderful prompts. This one: Peter/Neal, pre-slash/UST, eating soup at the office, snow flurries just sent me into orbit. It was going to be a simple story of Neal feeding Peter, sublimating his desires through a gift of food. But since when is what I write ever simple? Beta’d by my lovely friends,
coffeethyme4me and jrosemary, so naturally all mistakes are mine and mine alone. Your comments are always adored and appreciated. There were times when Neal hated Peter. Hated him with a deep, visceral intensity.
Not for putting him in prison. Never for that. It was his job and no matter what happened to him when he was there, none of it was Peter’s fault. Nor did Neal didn’t hate Peter when he accused him of stealing the Nazi treasure without reason or justification. That was pointless – he may not have stolen it, but he didn’t report it either. He never hated Peter for chasing after him, for holding him back as Kate’s plane turned into a ball of fire on that little runway. Never once, in the days and weeks and months after Kate was murdered and the powers that be put him back in prison did he hate him for what happened. Peter thought he was doing the right thing; he was trying to be a friend.
No, Neal didn’t hate Peter for any of the things that happened to him. He hated Peter for his blindness, for never seeing what Neal needed him to see, for what Neal dreaded that he’d see.
There were times that he was certain Peter knew what he felt, so certain that Peter could see him handing him his heart, but was deliberately ignoring it. For both their sakes. And then he’d think that Peter had no clue about what Neal felt when he was doing his best to push him back to Sara, to point out other available women with respectable lifestyles.
He hated Peter at those moments. And his heart would burn out, become cold, gray ash. The hatred would dissipate. And he’d go back to thinking about Peter with a resigned acceptance of what could and could never be.
Until the next time.
Neal never expected that the next time would become the last time on a cold, snowy evening, a few days before Valentine’s Day, a day that started out as innocuous as any other day in his reformed conman’s life.
Now that the tracker was off, Neal supposed he had better things to do than to be working full time for the FBI, with a regular paycheck, health insurance and a Government-funded pension plan. He could be strolling through the Metropolitan or the Cloisters or even the Rubin downtown. No tracker meant no radius. He didn’t even have to remain in New York. He still had enough resources to go anywhere he wanted. London, Paris, Hong Kong, a different city each month if he so desired.
Neal kept telling himself that there was no reason why he had to stay here. June had made it clear that the apartment was always his – it would always be his home base – even if he was no longer in the game. But each time he thought he was ready to leave, a face, a smile, a tug on the shoulder, a pat on the back told him it wasn’t time to go. Not yet, not now. Maybe, not ever.
Neal didn’t really like to think of himself as reformed, because there was nothing quite as sad as a reformed con artist. It conjured up images of a lonely old man in a cold, empty room, fingering the last sad bits of his stash with nothing better to do than dream about better days. But in truth – “reformed” was the best description of his life and lifestyle these days. He had his work, and even in his darkest moments, he never regretted that choice. The second act of Neal George Caffrey would be much stronger than the first.
And he had his friends: June and Moz, who were nicely balanced by Diana and Clinton. Sara and Alex too. They all made for an interesting life.
Of course there was Peter and Elizabeth. Always and never an afterthought. Neal kept himself busy, too busy to think about what he wanted, what he was missing.
Moz thought he was crazy – a conman working as a paid consultant for the FBI, wasting his time and his talents on the plebeian Suits and occasionally, he had to agree with his friend. While he had a better pay grade than the lowly GS-10 that Moz predicted, it wasn’t better by much. As many times as Moz offered, cajoled or downright pestered him to participate in some high-value opportunity (to keep him in the game, to supplement his income), Neal always found an excuse not to join in the fun. Moz would just shake his head; mutter “Quisling” or “cockroach” or any of the dozen other epithets that he had taken to calling him this past year, and go on his merry way.
On a wintery Saturday afternoon in mid-February, when the sun was content to hide behind a drifting mass of clouds, Neal found himself in an antsy mood. He was lonely and bored; a dangerous combination even for a reformed con artist. It was too cold to just go wandering. The museums – even the ones that had been so close and so out of reach when he had the anklet on – held little interest today. Moz had taken himself off to parts unknown (he had mentioned Boston and Georg Jensen and thirty pieces of silver), Diana and Christie may have become friends, but not the “just drop by” kind, particularly the weekend before Valentine’s Day. Clinton’s family was in town. Sara was out of town. So was June, and she had taken Cindy and Bugsy with her.
While Neal never really had problems with keeping his own company - four years in prison cured him of that - he was still a social creature and he found himself longing for another voice, another heartbeat. He didn’t want to think about whose voice he wanted to hear, whose heartbeat he longed to feel. Monsters were hiding behind those rocks, the kind that would eat him alive no matter how much he resisted.
But despite that, Neal briefly entertained the though of heading over to see Elizabeth (and Peter, of course). He even had an excuse - the pastel color study of Satchmo that El had asked for was still incomplete. He could have gone over to spend a few hours ostensibly sketching the dog (but in truth, basking in their company). But Peter had made it clear that Saturday was going to be an all-day “date night”; El had to leave early in the morning for a trip to California and Neal definitely wasn’t on the guest list.
He tried not to think of Peter and Elizabeth in bed, fucking. It would be wrong and dirty and nasty and wrong. But they would be (they must be) so beautiful together. Peter, so tall and strong and straight and … well, he’s stood next to Peter in the mens room. He’s seen it. It was beautiful.
El was certainly the perfect complement to her husband – small and delicious and curvy. Soft where Peter was hard, designed to fit him like a glove. They would be poetry together, not the polite, near-courtly passions of Byron, but the heady dark ardor of Lawrence.
He shook his head, to banish the images that were burning in his brain. He needed to do something, he needed to get out of his own head for a while. Maybe he’d cook – challenge himself with something he hadn’t tried before. The kitchens – all five of them – were his to use as he wanted. June was generous like that. And given the winter grayness, he knew just what he wanted to make.
He grabbed his coat and keys and headed out. There was an upscale market on Broadway that should have everything he needed. Neal checked the recipe as he walked the few blocks, energized by a purpose – no matter how short-lived.
Laden with a live lobster, herbs, tomatoes, cream and stock, even a bottle of good, dry Spanish sherry, he took over the small, well-appointed kitchen off of the library. Lobster bisque wasn’t that difficult to make, provided that the lobster wasn’t overcooked and the bisque properly seasoned. But Neal always made delicious soups, and this one – unfamiliar as it was – was not going to be the exception. An hour’s concentration and he created something fit for the gods.
Except he wasn’t hungry. The euphoria of creation was diminished by the realization that he had no one to share it with. Neal let it cool and tucked it into the fridge. He’d take some to work on Monday – maybe Diana would appreciate it.
Something was beeping, buzzing, humming, and it was driving Neal insane. Nothing he could do would make it stop. He pulled out the batteries from the smoke alarm, disconnected the CO2 detector. Unplugged the television, the microwave, the security monitors. Every lamp and gadget in the apartment; he tore apart books and bedding and everything he could lay his hands on, but the goddamned beep-buzz-beep wouldn’t stop.
Until he opened his eyes.
It was his cell phone ringing and the noise had set off the jackhammers pounding in his head.
After he finished cleaning up, he finished the bottle of sherry he had bought for the soup, as well the Shiraz that Moz opened during the week, the rest of the burgundy from the other night, and then he topped it off with a few glasses of the single malt that June kept in his cabinet.
Not wise, not wise at all. This level of self-medicating had to stop. Was going to stop.
The phone, mercifully, stopped ringing. Then started again. He picked it up – it was Peter. And it was a little before nine am.
Neal swallowed around the dryness in his mouth and hoped that at the very least he sounded awake as he answered the phone. “Hey, Peter. What’s up?”
“Good morning, sunshine!” Peter practically sang. He was never this cheerful, especially not when Elizabeth was going out of town. But maybe it was all the sex they had yesterday. Stop thinking about that.
Neal looked up at the skylight – there wasn’t a hell of a lot of sunshine coming though the heavy cloud cover. “Elizabeth’s flight was cancelled?”
“Nope – she got off …” There as a delicate pause there, “just fine. Caught a very early flight.”
Neal ignored the double entendre, it had to be unintentional. He licked his lips, and thought longingly about a cup of coffee that someone else would make for him. “So why are you so chipper?”
“Dropped El off at JFK at six, been in the office since seven. I think your lead on the problems with the Derrinson Gallery has played out. We got a few hits on some questionable provenance - well more than a few. It looks like there are over a dozen possible forgeries. Good work.”
Neal sat up, thoughts of coffee and the fuzziness of the hangover were chased away by the happy sensation of hearing Peter praise his contribution. “Do you want me to come in to the office?”
“That’s why I called. If you’ve got nothing better to do – that would be perfect. We could get a head start on the paperwork for the warrants.”
“Give me an hour or so – okay?”
Peter agreed and Neal disconnected the call. The edges of his wine and scotch-induced headache were creeping back. He hoped a hot shower and a few shots of espresso would cure it.
The promised hour was more like an hour and a half. The shower was too brief to dispel the headache completely - so caffeine was needed. As good and kind and understanding as June’s staff was, they still had Sundays off, which mean that Neal had to make his own. That gave him time to heat up a few servings of yesterday’s soup and pack up the basics of a picnic basket. They would have to eat and there were few places near the office (other than Chinatown) that would be open on a Sunday afternoon.
Neal was surprised that Peter was the only person in the office. While the FBI never closed, White Collar wasn’t a division that required around the clock staffing, but there was always someone in the office. Today, it looked like that someone was just Peter.
He didn’t want to examine why that made him happy - to have Peter all to himself. No distractions, no interruptions from staff or family. Just the two of them working and talking and …
And what?
And he cut off that train of thought with ruthless precision. There was no “and” for them. They were friends - they worked together, occasionally spend some downtime together. He had to believe that Peter treated him with the same fond pride and affection he had for any other member of his team - particularly now that Neal walked the paths of the righteous. Thinking otherwise would be a disaster.
“Didn’t think you’d ever get here.”
Neal shrugged. “I was still sleeping when you called. It took a while to get out to door.”
Peter peered at him. “You okay?”
“Yeah, fine. Why do you ask?”
“You look a little … off. Everything all right?”
“What would be wrong?” Neal deflected. It was an instinctive response.
Peter gave him a searching, narrow-eyed look, but didn’t call him on it. “I don’t know - but whatever’s going on - you can tell me.”
Neal decided to feed Peter a bone - nothing terribly meaty though. “Had a bit too much to drink last night.”
Damn, maybe that was saying too much.
“Is it becoming a problem?”
Neal was surprised at how delicately Peter asked the question. “It won’t be - not anymore.”
Peter nodded. “If it is - don’t hesitate to let me know. You don’t have to deal with it alone.”
The gentleness of the offer made his chest ache. Neal wondered who in Peter’s life had had a drinking problem. But all he said was “Thanks.”
There were a dozen files laid out on the conference room table, each with photographs of questionable paintings and extensive notes. Neal couldn’t wait to dig in.
“This is just your type of case, isn’t it.” Peter stood behind him. The comment - or maybe his voice - sent goose pimples down his spine.
“Yeah - definitely worth losing a lazy Sunday for.” He picked up the first folder - detailing the sale of a previously unknown Jackson Pollock. There were folders with details for similarly unknown Rothkos and Motherwells and dozen other Abstract Expressionists – most of the New York School was represented. And as meaty as the case was, probably what pleased Neal more was that Peter hadn’t asked if these were his works.
They worked through the files, exchanging notes and ideas.
“I can’t tell anything from the photographs.” Neal tossed a folder down in exasperation. It glided off the table and onto the floor. He got up to retrieve it.
“We’ll take a trip to the Derrinson tomorrow - if the promised blizzard doesn’t hit.”
“Blizzard?” Neal peered out the windows. There were a few flakes drifting out of the leaden sky.
“Yeah - the forecast is for nine to fourteen inches. Or nothing.”
“Hmmm.” He had never been much of a weather geek - unless it affected a job. “Hope it’s nothing.”
Peter chuckled. “When did Peter Pan grow up?”
Neal looked at Peter, a trifle hurt that he still saw him as a child.
Peter must have picked up on that. But he didn’t apologize. “It’s a sign of adulthood achieved when you no longer look forward to snow days - when you get irritated when the weather interferes with your life.”
Neal stuck his hands in his pockets, not quite buying the explanation. “I want to go to the gallery tomorrow and see the paintings. Even if they are fakes.” He hoped he didn’t sound like he was pouting.
Peter grinned, and Neal had to grin back. But whatever Peter was about to say was forgotten when both their stomachs rumbled.
“Want to break for lunch? I think the deli on the corner is opened.”
“No need - I brought lunch for us.”
Peter’s eyes lit up with appreciation. “You did? That was thoughtful.”
Neal cleared off a section of the conference table. “You like lobster, right?” He wondered if Peter would mock him for his extravagant tastes.
“You brought lobster for lunch?”
Neal licked his lips. “I made lobster bisque - had some left over.” No need for Peter to know that he hadn’t had any of it. “Thought it would be nice to have this afternoon.” He hoped he sounded as off-hand as he meant to. This shouldn’t have been so important. “You do eat lobster?” He asked again.
“El doesn’t let me have it too often. She’s been like the food police since my last physical.” Peter frowned then explained, “My cholesterol was a little high.”
Neal stopped setting out the food. “Then this is probably the worst thing you could have.” He looked at the container of lobster meat he was going to add to the soup and tucked it back into his messenger bag with a small sigh. “I guess we can get some turkey sandwiches from the deli. White meat, no mayo.”
“Not on your life. What El doesn’t know won’t hurt her. And it’s not like I have lobster every day.” Peter reached Neal’s his bag and took out the food - the lobster meat and the two Thermoses. “What possessed you to make this?”
Neal shrugged. “I was bored. I like to cook when I can’t figure out what else to do.”
“But lobster bisque?”
“Why not?”
“Okay - why not.” Peter unscrewed the cap to one of the bottles. “Mmmm. Smells delicious. Pass me that container.” He gestured for the meat. Neal complied and watch with bemused appreciation as Peter picked out some choice morsels and added them to the soup.
“Better than deviled ham?” Neal had to ask, and that earned him the stink-eye.
They ate in companionable silence, there was no need for conversation. Neal flipped through a file detailing the sale of a pair of de Kooning nudes to a billionaire publishing magnet. He was never particularly fond of the artist’s work, even the later period when his usually brutal depiction of women had been tempered by age, affection and Alzheimer’s.
“Those are enough to make you lose your appetite.” Peter gestured with his cup. “I’m not a big fan of Abstract Expressionism.”
“De gustibus …” Neal started to say.
“Non disputandem est.” Peter finished for him.
“Thank you, Tristam Shandy.” He toasted Peter back, warmed by more than the soup.
“Tristram, not Tristam.”
“You will always be my favorite pedant, Peter.”
“Should I be insulted or pleased that I come before Moz in that category?”
Neal grinned and didn’t bother to answer, it wasn’t necessary. Their banter made him happy. Neal understood that afternoons like this were probably the outer boundaries of their relationship – and he was okay with that (he had to be). Peter would never need to know the true expanse and nature of his feelings. He could feed Peter, and feed himself at the same time. It would be enough. It had to be.
“Would you look at that?”
“What?”
Peter pointed to the window. The flurries, drifting down since the morning, had become a real snowfall. “I’m thinking we should pack it in.”
Neal stood up and went to the window to watch. “Mmmm. There’s nothing quite like a snowy day in New York City.”
“Yeah – but only if you don’t have to travel in it.”
Neal ignored Peter’s comment. “Everything looks so fresh and new.” Peter opened his mouth and Neal knew exactly what he was going to say. “And yes, I know. In a day, that snow turns black and gross, and it’s a pain to get around. But for a while, it’s a kind of magic.”
Peter moved to stand next to him, watching the snow fall. It muffled the sounds of the city, sometimes apparent even more than twenty stories above the street. “Want to come over? We can continue working on this if you’d like. I can scrounge up something for dinner. El left me with a stocked fridge.”
Peter was trying hard not to sound like it mattered if he came over or not. Neal was intrigued at the amount of diffidence in the question. “Sure – I can catch the subway home when we’re done.” He didn’t want to think about what would happen if the promised blizzard arrived.
Peter watched Neal out of the corner of his eye when he should have been keeping his full attention on the road. The snow was coming down thick and fast, the road was slippery and he couldn’t quite figure out Neal’s mood. He liked to think that he could read Neal like a book, but that really wasn’t true. Even when Peter knew that he was falling apart inside, his partner rarely displayed anything but a happy, almost carefree disposition.
In a way, it disturbed him to see that mask slip, something that was happening with disturbing frequency. Something had to be very wrong. That pleasant mask hid a very complex man, and as close as they were, Neal rarely let anyone see beyond it. But today, Neal revealed more of himself than he had in years.
And that made Peter worry.
By the time they reached the Brooklyn Bridge, the snow was now coming down so heavily that it was impossible to see more than a few feet and traffic had slowed to a crawl. He tapped the brakes and the car skidded.
“Are we going to make it home?” There was a thread of concern in Neal’s off-hand question.
“Oh ye of little faith. This car has traction control.”
“No need to cite the wonders of the Taurus – this isn’t a commercial. Besides, traction control is only effective if the tires are in contact with the pavement. And it doesn’t keep us from getting stranded or if another car crashes into us.”
After so many years, Peter was accustomed to Neal’s complaints about his driving. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”
By the time they reached the house, it was full dark. The steadily falling snow diffused the orange glow from the street lights and the only sound was the steady thump from the windshield wipers.
“Looks like luck has smiled on us. The plows have been through and no one’s taken my spot.” They parked less than a few dozen yards away from the house, but by the time they made it inside, snow coated both men. Neal tipped the wet white stuff off his hat and chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing. Just thinking how right you were about being inconvenienced by snow is a hallmark of being a grownup.”
“It’s not so pretty when you have to be out in it.” He didn’t take off his coat. “I’m going to go let Satchmo out - can you start a fire?” He nodded to the pile of wood and kindling.
“Sure - I may not have been in the Boy Scouts, but I can lay a fire.” Neal toed off he shoes and knelt by the fireplace. Peter didn’t wait to see if Neal needed help. The dog was practically dancing on his toes and if Neal said he could do something, he could do it.
Peter absently watched Satch nose around for his spot in the snow and worried. Today wasn’t the first time that he’d seen Neal’s mask slip. Whatever was bothering him had been festering for the last few months. He could see it in Neal’s posture, in the tightness of his smile. The mornings that he came in early, impeccably groomed, but eyes bloodshot, a grayish pallor to his skin. Signs of too many sleepless nights, maybe?
It had occurred to him a few times over the last couple of months that Neal might have a problem with drinking. For all that he joked about Neal’s impulse control problems and his “see-want-take” mentality; Neal also had an iron will and immense self-control when it came to his body. It hurt like hell to think that he was losing that control.
So he had to ask. He was surprised that Neal didn’t deny it. But since when was he predictable. It seemed that Neal had recognized that there was a problem and was going to handle it. And if he couldn’t, Peter would be there for him. He was his friend - and that’s what friends were for, right?
He sighed, his breath a white cloud in the darkness. That’s all they’d ever be. Friends. It wasn’t as if he could ever really hope for more than that. And yet, sometimes he thought he had a reason to hope - to pin his desires on the slightest reasons. But more likely, he was just seeing things. The things that he wanted, not what was really there?
El understood, she had described it the best. Neal was like a tiny grain of sand - an irritant under his heart for more than a decade. The years of working with Neal, side by side - and more than occasionally in opposite directions - the years of love and aggravation, had put a thick, protective coating over that seed. Desire had polished it to a deep luster. What he felt for Neal now was a dark and shining pearl.
The first layers were frustration, then reluctant admiration. By the time he arrested Neal and testified at his trial, admiration became affection. Neal didn’t know about the watch he had kept over him during the four years he was in prison - at the first hint of trouble, he used whatever influence he could muster to get Neal into a “private” cell, to make sure that he had protection. That he didn’t anticipate the problem with Kate still galled, so many years later.
Peter didn’t have to think too hard about the moment when he understood that his feelings had always been more than affection and desire, that they were love. It was the morning after El’s escape. When Neal walked into the conference room and was prepared to make a full confession. To give up everything so Keller would pay for his crimes.
That gift of loyalty hit him like a punch, and he was still reeling.
He tossed a few snowballs at Satchmo, who gamely chased them and both dog and man were thoroughly soaked by time they came back inside. There was a blazing fire and Neal had a pair of towels in his hands.
“Making yourself right at home?”
“Just for that, you can have Satchmo’s towel.” He tossed the well-worn cloth at him, but Peter didn’t miss the slightly hurt look in Neal’s eyes. He dried the dog, who had curled up in front of the fireplace, then used the other towel on himself.
“It looks like the promised blizzard has hit.” Neal was peering out the front curtains.
“Yeah - I don’t think either of us will be going anywhere tomorrow. The Derrinson Gallery will have to wait. The guest room is ready for you.”
Neal sat down and started to put his shoes on.
“Where are you going?”
“Home - before I can’t.”
“You’re not going anywhere, Neal. There is a reason why it’s called a guest room.”
“Peter - I …”
“You’re staying put. No arguing.”
Neal got a truculent expression on his face.
“Come on - what’s the big deal? It’s not as if you haven’t spent the night before.”
Neal shrugged, but at least he put his shoes back down. “Okay - you’re right. I’d probably get pneumonia and die, and then you’d have to take time off of work to go to my funeral.”
God forbid. “Who says I’d go?”
“Very funny. And you’d never be able to wrap up the Derrinson case.”
“That may be true.” The moment of tension passed. “Want a drink?”
“Coffee?”
“You really want to drink my coffee? That would be a first.”
Neal gave him a look and stalked into the kitchen. “How is it that a man of your exceptional skills can’t manage something as basic as a French press?”
Peter had to smile. “My skills? My exceptional skills? I’m going to mark this date on my calendar.” He made a big production out of circling February 12th in red. Neal just glared at him in mock irritation. At least Peter hoped it was mock.
He left him in the kitchen and went to change into dry clothes. He didn’t bother with shoes, and padded down the stairs. Satchmo was sound asleep - the boy was getting old. Neal was standing in front of the fireplace, a framed photograph in his hand and an expression of deep melancholy etched on his face.
“You okay?”
Neal spun around - startled. “I didn’t hear you come down.”
“What are you looking at?” Neal handed him the photograph that El had taken of the two of them in their tuxedos. “Ah, our prom photo.” Peter couldn’t keep the grin off his face. That had been a good moment for them - the calm eye in a terrible storm. El had it framed and put it on the fireplace mantle, in a position of pride.
“Prom picture - yeah. That’s what Elizabeth called it.” Neal took the photograph back and gazed at it like it held all the answers to the universe, then replaced it very carefully.
Peter couldn’t keep it in anymore. “Neal - what’s the matter?”
“Why do you think anything is wrong?”
Unlike this morning, he wasn’t going to let things slide. “Stop deflecting. You’re upset about something. I can read it in your face.”
“Peter - trust me, everything’s fine.”
“Neal - I’ve known you too long to trust you when you say that. ‘Everything’s fine’ is usually the cue for imminent disaster.” He tried not to sound heavy handed, but was pretty sure he was coming across as a bit of jerk. Still, he was worried.
“Nothing is wrong, really.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Neal threw up his hands and stalked across the room. “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing - I just want to make sure you’re all right.” Actually, Peter wanted a hell of a lot more - but he wasn’t ever going to get that. “Please, Neal.”
“There’s nothing to worry about - I’m not going back to the life. You’ve firmly chained me to the straight and narrow path of virtue.”
Peter felt like he’d been slapped. “I never thought that, Neal.”
“No?”
The bitter skepticism in that single word made Peter’s stomach clench. “No, Neal. You told me that this was the life you wanted. You had a million choices after they commuted your sentence. You chose to stay. As far as I was concerned, that was it. You made a commitment; you were never going to go back to the life.”
“You have an awful lot of faith in me, Peter.”
“It’s deserved.”
Neal reached out for the picture again, brushing his thumb over the image. “I wonder, sometimes.” He dropped his hand and walked away.
Neal’s tone - the hints of bitterness, anger - were disturbing. He didn’t know what to say to soothe his distress. “Please, Neal - tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s nothing, Peter. Nothing you have to worry about.”
“I’m your friend; I’m allowed to worry about you.”
Neal didn’t say anything, he just seemed to retreat. “Don’t we have work to do?”
“Leave it, Neal.”
“Then what am I doing here?”
“Spending a little quality time with me?” Peter tried for some humor. “Keeping me from falling into the depths of despair?”
“El’s been away for what, twelve hours? How did you manage to survive when she spent almost six months in California?” Neal tone was wry, curious.
“I had other things to distract me.” I had you to worry about.
Neal didn’t seem inclined to pursue the matter and Peter thought to let things go for the moment.
Neal headed into the kitchen. “I made coffee - want a cup?”
They sat at the dining table, not talking, not looking at each other. The silence irked Peter. “How’s Moz?”
“Involved with his own plots and schemes. I stay out of them these days.”
“Anything I should be worried about?”
“No – and he’s out of your jurisdiction for the moment, anyway.”
“Hmmm.” Peter took a sip of coffee, it was almost as good as the Italian roast June served. “And Sara?”
“As far as I know, she’s fine.”
“As far as you know?” Peter wasn’t a selfish man, and given the impossibility of his own dreams, he had high hopes for Neal and Sara.
“We keep in touch occasionally.”
“Just occasionally?”
“We’re friends, Peter.”
“Good friends?”
“Friends.” Neal’s tone was repressive.
“Friends with benefits?” He couldn’t have stopped that question if his lips were stapled together. And then super-glued. Maybe if his tongue was removed.
“What are you, twelve years old?”
He didn’t rise to the bait. “I want to see you happy, Neal. You deserve to be happy.”
“And that means being with someone? A white picket fence and a lawn to mow? You have to know that Sara Ellis isn’t suburban housewife material.”
“Neal - I know you. You aren’t the type to live your life in isolated splendor.”
“Who says I am?”
Peter wanted to throw up his hands in frustration. “Damn it, Neal. Why won’t you let me care about you?”
Neal’s reply was a whisper, so low that Peter wasn’t quite sure the words were Neal’s or an echo of his own dreams. “Because I want you to care. I want it too much. I want –” He sat there, tense, still; hands resting palms down on the dark wood.
Time stopped. His heart stopped. “Neal?”
“Forget it, Peter. Just – forget I said anything.” He stood up abruptly, his chair clattering along the floor and the sudden noise was like a thunderclap. Neal paced across the room, flicking open the curtains to gaze at the snow-shrouded street before walking back over to the fireplace.
The living room was dark, illuminated only by the firelight and the weak glow spilling out from the kitchen. But despite the darkness, Peter could read the pain in Neal’s stance - in the stiffness of his shoulders, the rigid posture. If not for those last despairing words, Peter would have wondered if Neal was still mourning Kate. This was the fourth winter since her death. He knew that Neal had put her firmly in the past, but grief was never a tidy, easy thing. It could come back and bite without notice. But it wasn’t Kate, there was something else at work, something that was bleeding through the edges, something Neal was desperately trying to hide.
“Why would it be a bad thing for me to care? Why does that bother you?”
Neal turned to him, his face hidden in deep shadows. Peter wished for more light, he wanted to read the truth. “Because I always want what I can't have.”
A log collapsed, sending up a small flare, erasing the shadows - if just for a few seconds. There was so much longing, so much pain in Neal’s face. But as terrible as that pain was to see, it gave him hope. And from that hope Peter found courage. Maybe he needed to take the risk.
He left the dining room, and stood next to Neal - so close their shoulders were touching. The heat from the fire did nothing to dispel the chill of uncertainty inside him. “Maybe you can have what you want, Neal. Maybe you don’t have to travel alone.”
“Peter, you couldn't possibly imagine what I want.” The tension still rolled off of him in waves.
The words caught in Peter’s throat, repressed - but never denied - for so long. He just couldn't bear Neal’s pain anymore. He had to say it, even if it destroyed everything else between them. “I love you.”
The silence was broken only by the crackling of the fire and their breathing. With each breath, Peter felt that elusive blossom of hope wither away.
“I’m not your son, Peter. I’m not your brother.”
“I know that, Neal. I’ve always known that.”
“What are you saying, Peter?”
“I love you, Neal. And not like a father or a brother.”
“You can’t.” There was a touch of hysteria in Neal’s voice.
“Why not?”
“Because … because of Elizabeth! Your wife – your other half. The woman you love and cherish and adore.”
Peter took Neal’s forearm, turning him so they were face to face. “The woman who has known how I’ve felt for a long time, Neal. We have no secrets from each other.”
At this moment, Neal hated Peter as much as he ever did. To push and poke and pry and then dare use the word “love” like it meant something more than concern for a friend. He flung away Peter’s hand. He couldn’t bear that hot touch – he’d rather be burned by the fire in front of him. It would leave fewer scars.
“Neal – you don’t believe me, do you?”
“I don’t think you know what you’re saying, Peter.”
“I most certainly do.”
“Yeah – you love me. I’m your good buddy, your friend, your partner in crime and law.” Neal couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice; he didn’t care what it revealed.
Peter tilted his head and looked at him, a gentle, almost sad smile curving his beautiful lips. “Yes, that’s true. But that’s not all of it.”
Neal closed his eyes, as if the darkness would make denial any easier. He didn’t see Peter reach out and wrap his arms around him. And he told himself, if he didn’t see it, he didn’t have to resist when Peter drew him close. If his eyes were closed, he didn’t have to see Peter’s expression when he rested his head on his shoulder.
“I love you, Neal. With all that the word and the feeling entails. I never thought I’d tell you – I never thought you felt that way. But what you just said – you gave me hope. More than hope – you gave me courage. I couldn’t not tell you.” Peter was whispering, his voice low and urgent, as if the words could not be held back.
He never wanted to leave the shelter of those arms, but he had to. He had to find a way to fight this. He opened his eyes and tried to step back, but Peter wouldn’t let him go. “This can’t happen. I won’t allow you to ruin your life.”
“El knows, Neal. She always has. I just told you – we don’t keep secrets from each other.”
“And she’s okay with it? That I find hard to believe.”
Peter chuckled – he actually laughed and Neal wanted to hit him.
“Look at the mantle, Neal. Tell me what you see?”
Neal looked, puzzled by the question. “There’s the picture of us.”
“What else?”
Neal’s eyes skipped over the small collection of tchotkes and landed on another photo, quite a bit older but in a very similar frame.
“Neal, what else do you see?” Peter was implacable.
“Your wedding photo.” He whispered, shocked. In all the years since El had taken that snapshot and gave it a place of honor on the mantle, he never realized what it sat next to.
“That photo of the two of us isn’t there by accident, Neal. El put it there, with great ceremony. She refused to take it down when her folks visited, too.”
Neal thought his heart was going to burst. But he still had questions - it all seemed too unreal. “Why did you wait until now to tell me?”
Peter pulled him over to the couch and sat down. “Because I had no idea you felt anything more than affection for me. Because I was too afraid of losing you. And there was no way I would say anything - do anything - while you were still under my legal control. That would have been all kinds of wrong.”
He dropped his head in his hands, holding it tight - maybe that would keep it from exploding. “And here I was, thinking I was so goddamned painfully obvious. Five years of looking and longing and wanting and you never saw it. I’ve loved you for so long. Why do you think I stopped and looked back that day? Why do you think I didn’t pull the trigger? Why do you think I never ran when I could?”
“Neal?”
“That day - that day when we were back at the apartment and trying to get a hold of Moz, and I told you that we had argued, because I didn’t want to leave.”
Peter nodded slowly. “I remember. I asked you ‘why not?’”
“Do you remember what I said?”
“You said – ” Peter blinked, coming to his own realization.
“Yeah – I wanted to stay because of you.”
“And Elizabeth. And Sara. And the view and coming into the office on Monday morning.”
“That was window dressing, Peter. I stayed because of you. Because leaving you was never an option I could entertain for more than a few hours. Even if I left, I would have come back.” Neal sighed. “I didn’t need the damn tracker to keep me here.”
Another log collapsed against the grate, sending out a burst of light and heat.
Peter asked him a surprising question, “Are you ashamed of your feelings for me, Neal?”
“God, no. Are you?”
“No – never.” And for a man who had never hesitated to touch him in public, whether it was a tug on the forearm, a hand at the small of his back, or a hand on his shoulder, Peter was suddenly very cautious as he draped an arm around him and pulled him close. “Is this all right?”
Neal sighed and leaned back. “Yeah, it’s perfect.” But the revelations that passed between them, even their physical closeness, didn’t ease all his fears. He twisted around to face Peter. “It’s going to end in disaster, isn’t it?”
“No, it won’t. Trust me.”
Neal wanted to - he wanted to trust Peter in this as he had trusted him with everything else. And yet, he had to ask. “What happens when …” He swallowed hard. “When you realize that you don’t love me any more? What happens when El figures out that sharing her husband isn’t such a good idea? What happens then?” How do I go on, how do I survive without you?
“I know that until you talk to Elizabeth, you really won’t believe me. But understand this - she’s been sharing me with you for a very long time. She’s been wondering what has taken me so long to tell you how I feel.”
Neal swallowed, he didn’t deserve her generosity.
Peter brushed a hand down the side of his face before tangling in his hair, bringing him close. “I’ve loved you for more years than I care to count. Even when you have exasperated and angered me. Even when you made my life something close to a nightmare, I have loved you. I can’t imagine a time when I haven’t, and I can’t imagine a time when I won’t.”
The ice in Neal’s heart, the layers of worry and doubt and fear began to melt. He tried to say something, to rebuild the armor, to put some distance between them, to keep himself safe.
He opened his mouth and Peter kissed him.
That mouth, Peter’s mouth, was everything he dreamed of and nothing he could have imagined. It was gentle, cautious, patient. But never unsure, never hesitant. Neal felt himself open up, blossoming from the heat. Their tongues met, tangled and retreated. Peter tasted like coffee and desire and everything good and wonderful and Neal thought if he died at this moment, his life would have been perfect.
And it got better. He forgot his name; he lost himself in the heat of that mouth, the pressure of those hands cupping his head like he was something terrible and precious. He existed for the moment of a heartbeat, a pulse beat against his lips.
He existed for love.
Peter pulled back and Neal reluctantly let him go. He blinked and found it hard to focus.
“Now, do you believe me, Neal?”
He nodded, all capacity for speech lost. Peter smiled and pulled him back against him. They lay there, content for the moment. Neal took Peter’s hand and laid it against his heart, his own hand holding it there, fingers resting on Peter’s pulse, feeling their heartbeats slowly sync.
Finally at ease. Finally together.
