![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: Red Velvet - Part Four of Nine
Notes: See Master Post - On LJ | On DW
Three Months Later
“I’m off,” Elizabeth poked her head into the kitchen. Neal was wiping down the counters and putting away the last of the equipment. It was close to seven and he was getting ready to leave, too. “Unless you want a lift over to Peter’s?”
Neal gave her a smile and shook his head. “No, I’m good. I’m going to head home this evening.”
“Is everything okay?” El sounded a touch concerned.
“Everything’s fine. Peter has some business function he can’t get out of, but he’s going to stop by when he’s done. Spend the night.” Probably. Hopefully.
“I’m still surprised you haven’t moved in together.” This wasn’t the first time that El had commented that they maintained separate residences.
“It’s only been three months. Besides, our schedules are so different that we’d probably see less of each other if we started co-habitating.” Since the best defense was a good offense, “And when are you going to give in and put Reese out of his misery?”
El shrugged. “I keep thinking about it. Everything would change, you know? Moving in with him. I haven’t lived with anyone since I left college. I don’t know if I remember how. Besides, it feels too quick.”
Neal had to note, “It’s been three months.”
And of course, El retorted. “Or, it’s only been three months.”
“There’s a joke in there about lesbians and u-hauls, I think.”
El laughed and swatted at him. “Are you sure you don’t want a lift? I’m heading into Manhattan; I wouldn’t mind dropping you off. Your place isn’t that much out of my way.”
“Nah, I’m good. With Friday night traffic, I’ll probably be home before you get close to the Upper West Side.”
“Okay – but don’t say I didn’t ask.” El left with a pert sniff.
Neal was a little sorry that he didn’t take her up on her offer, if just to spend time with a dear friend. Their lives were growing so divergent these days.
El was all but living with Reese Hughes in his classic six off of Amsterdam Avenue and he was gentle pressuring her to make it full time. Neal had the feeling that if she did succumb, he’d be baking her wedding cake before the year was out. Reese was an old-fashioned kind of guy, and while El was anything but old-fashioned herself, the two of them were well-suited for each other. Seeing them together, it was clear that they didn’t have in a stereotypical May-December romance. In fact, they seemed more like an old married couple that two people in the early days of courtship. They completed each other’s sentences and had their own shorthand for the little things in their lives. Nothing about El and Reese was hearts-and-flowers lovey-dovey, but you couldn’t mistake the affection, the respect, and even the passion between them.
Pity he couldn’t say the same about his relationship with Peter.
Yes, there certainly was affection, respect and passion between them. They had sparks galore, but something was missing, but Neal couldn’t put his finger on what that something was.
They’d talk for hours about everything under the sun – art and music, sports, politics, world events. He sometimes had to pinch himself because their compatibility seemed so unreal. Their sex life was fantastic; Peter was everything he could want, and then some. Neal always knew, with the right person – the right man – he’d take the most pleasure in submitting. Peter was so perfectly, so casually dominant, that Neal couldn’t not submit with utter joy.
And yet, he had the feeling that Peter didn’t feel the same way. There were odd looks, pauses and uncomfortable silences. An emotional distance that Neal didn’t know how to close. He had this nagging sensation that something was wrong, something that couldn’t be fixed.
Like last Saturday night, when they were watching the Yankees lose again. Well, Peter was watching and Neal was reading, but it was a companionable way to spend an evening. He looked up when Peter shut off the television and muttered a few choice words about a certain third baseman who couldn’t tell the truth if someone held a gun to his head.
Peter had tossed the remote on the coffee table and flopped back with a deep sigh. Neal put his book down. “It’s only a ball game – one of, what, a hundred and sixty-two in the regular season?”
That earned him a proud smile from Peter. “Do you know how much I love that you know that?”
Neal ducked his head, a little shy. “I’m not really a sports geek, but I’m American – I also know that there are sixteen games in a regular season of football and eighty-two games in a basketball season. But when it comes to hockey, I don’t have a clue.”
Peter had laughed, but there was an undercurrent to the sound that troubled Neal. “Neither do I. I know you really would rather be doing anything else than sitting here, listening to the ball game.”
“No, not at all. I want to spend time with you and if this is what you want to do, why not?”
“Really?” Peter seemed skeptical. “Come on, a Saturday night in July, and you prefer to hang around and read while I’m giving myself heartburn over a team of millionaire slackers? I would think you’d much rather be out dancing or clubbing or having fun than pretending to be a couch potato.” There was too much bitterness in those questions.
Neal took off his glasses and set them down on top of his book. “I don’t know what gave you that idea. If I wanted to go out, I’d have said something. I’m thirty-six years old and know how to speak my own mind. If I didn’t want to be here, having a quiet evening with you, I wouldn’t be.”
Peter looked at him, like he was judging the truth of those words and not quite believing them. “Sorry – I just feel like I’m stifling you.”
“Why?” Neal had been honestly puzzled. “I work hard six days a week. I have no desire to do anything right now but relax. And by relax, I mean, I spend the best part of my week with you.” Neal reached out and took Peter’s hand. He wasn’t sure if those words satisfied Peter, but the odd tension evaporated. At least for the rest of the evening.
There’d been other times that this tension blossomed like some noxious flower, when Neal felt like they’d been talking at cross purposes – or that there were two conversations going on. One that was verbal; the other, pure subtext that Neal couldn’t quite get a handle on.
And then there was the past. His past, Peter’s past.
In every relationship he’d been it – there came a point when you talked about your exes. About the people who’d been in your life. It was part of the courtship ritual, even if you went from delivering cupcakes to having your laundry done in less than twenty-four hours. But no matter how many times Neal tried to get Peter to tell him about the guys (and maybe girls) that he’d dated, Peter clammed up, or deflected, or changed the subject. Neal even tried telling him about his own prior relationships.
But Peter was having none of it. He wasn’t interested and he didn’t seem to care.
So, Neal drew three conclusions. Peter was a virgin – or more appropriately, had been a virgin. Or he’d never been in a long term relationship and was afraid to admit it. Or he’d been with someone who’d hurt him, badly.
Since Peter was the best, most creative lover Neal ever had, the idea that he’d been a virgin until the night they screwed on the couch was ludicrous in the extreme. And while it was just as odd that Peter might never have had a serious relationship with another person, or even just with another man – he couldn’t imagine that he’d be too embarrassed to tell him so.
The last and most logical conclusion was that there was something – no, someone – in Peter’s past that damaged him. Okay, Neal could understand that. No one liked to talk about failure, particularly in the early stages of a relationship. He may have told Peter about Matthew, but he’d need to be water-boarded to admit anything about his own humiliating experience with Gordon.
Even if that was the case, did it explain or excuse the moments of emotional coldness? The distance that Peter seemed to place between them? It was becoming obvious that he was only allows into a part of Peter’s life. Maybe that should have been enough for him, but there were times – like tonight – when he wanted more. He wanted to fit into Peter’s life the way Peter fit into his.
As Neal locked up, he tried to rationalize, he tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter. That he loved Peter and that would be enough to make this work. What else was he going to do? Confront Peter about this coldness, which seemed ridiculous. Peter really wasn’t cold; he was just a man who was used to being on his own. And it had been only three months – right?
The forty-minute subway ride back into Manhattan was usually a good time to think and sort things out, but Neal couldn’t find any clarity.
What he knew was that Peter was Peter. He was a good man. An honest man. Someone who cared for him and respected him, someone Neal knew he could trust. He’d never had that in a relationship before.
Yes, he and Elizabeth cared and respected each other and they certainly trusted each other, but they were friends. Sex was a convenience for them, a way to scratch an itch without complications. There was no question that he’d never feel for her what he felt for Peter, and he know that love ever entered into her equations.
Thinking about Elizabeth reminded him of the other women who’d been part of his life. Kate had been sweet and young, but far too damaged to ever trust anyone. They met in culinary school and lasted all the way to graduation, fighting and fucking and fighting some more. She’d taken off for California and last Neal had heard, she was working at a vegan naturist colony near Big Sur.
He thought about Sara. Was it really only six months ago that he’d felt heartbroken and betrayed when she left for Europe? Not that the feeling lasted for long. He had liked her a hell of a lot and at one point he thought that she could be the one for him, as strange a combination as a baker and a supermodel could be. But after she’d left, he was quick to realize that it was the hint of danger he brought to her life that drove their relationship – and that was not the recipe for the happily ever after he dreamed of. He’d always think of her with great fondness, but there was no ache, no gaping Sara Ellis-shaped hole in his soul.
For that matter, despite how badly it had ended, there was never really a Matthew Keller-shaped hole or even one that remotely looked like Gordon Taylor.
Those failed relationships had saddened him, make him a little wary, a little wiser, but they didn’t permanently damage him.
Peter, though ... The very simple truth was that he loved Peter Burke and he wanted to spend the rest of his life with him. He wanted to make Peter as happy as Peter made him. And yet, those moments when he wasn’t at all certain just what, if anything, Peter felt for him made him want to run and hide and forget he’d ever met the man.
And that would destroy him completely.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter was bored out of his mind and tried not to be so obvious when he looked at his watch. It was nearly eleven. Arthur Kostler was a long-standing client of the firm and was worth at least six figures a year in billings. The food was decent (although the dessert was barely passable to his palate), the wine was better than decent, the company sparkling, but all Peter could think about was how much he wanted to leave and get to Neal’s place. Instead, he was stuck in a Central Park South penthouse, listening to a blow-by-blow description of his recent Twentieth Century Paintings sale at Sotheby’s, and his own hard-fought acquisition of a pair of Byron Ellington streetscapes that the artist’s widow had decided to sell.
Elaine, Arthur’s wife, noticed his abstraction and gave him a sympathetic smile before leaning over and whispering in his ear. “He does like to go on, doesn’t he?”
Peter shrugged and smiled back.
She took pity on him and the rest of the gathering. “Dearest, I don’t think anyone else is all that interested. They want to see the paintings, right?”
The other guests nodded quite vigorously and Arthur gave a good natured laugh. “I do apologize – I tend to get a little carried away.” He stood up. “Come along; let me show off my newest pride and joy.”
Elaine tucked her arm in his and pulled him over to the balcony. “I do wish you’d let me fix you up, Peter. I think that you and my eldest son would get along famously.”
“Elaine, your son lives in Washington and he’s too young for me.” Peter had met Jason Kostler. He was nice enough, but from the few times they’d spoken, it was pretty clear to Peter that the man was a closet case. Not that Peter couldn’t understand that. Jason was a senior staff member for a U.S. Senator. The political world in DC was not particularly gay-friendly. Even these days. He didn’t want to badmouth him to his mother, who thought her child was perfect.
“Jason’s not too young for you. He’ll be in New York next week, and besides, age is irrelevant when the heart is true.”
“Did you read that on a greeting card?”
She laughed. “You found me out. It was on the card Arthur gave me for my birthday, because, you know, I’m at least twenty-five years younger than he is.”
Peter played along, “Hmm, you sure you don’t mean thirty-five?” Arthur and Elaine had been childhood sweethearts, who, to their parent’s horror, had eloped the summer after their high school graduation.
“Maybe forty, but you’re deflecting, Peter. You’re very good at that, you know.”
“What can I say?”
Elaine deserved points for persistence. “That you’ll see Jason when he comes in to town next weekend. I really do think you’d hit it off.”
Peter wondered what would put Elaine off and decided on the truth. “I’m actually seeing someone, so being set up on a blind date might be kind of awkward.”
“Peter Burke!” She gave him a light slap on the shoulder. “You’re seeing someone and you didn’t bring him tonight?”
He shrugged. “This is business; I didn’t think it would be appropriate.”
Now Elaine looked hurt. “Business? Arthur and I are only business? I thought we were friends, people you enjoyed spending time with?” She stepped away from him. The humor left her normally animated face. The disappointment that replaced it made her look a decade older than her fifty-seven years.
Peter felt like an ass. “I’m sorry – that’s not what I meant. I am proud to count you and Arthur as my personal friends, as well as my clients. It’s just that Neal is …” How could he explain?
“A boy toy? You’re having a middle-aged fling and are embarrassed?” He could see that Elaine was trying to salvage something of this conversation and their friendship. “He’s completely, wildly inappropriate? Prone to giggling?”
Peter could accept any of those excuses and maybe save this relationship. They’d laugh a little, and she’d push her son at him. He could even go out for drinks with the man, if just to appease his mother. But that would all be a disastrous, monstrous lie.
“No. Neal’s not my boy toy, he’s not a fling.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, guilty and embarrassed. “He’s someone I’m very much involved with – but I just never thought to invite him.”
Elaine looked at him, the disappointment was gone, but now there was speculation in her eyes. “Why not?”
“Because … I don’t know. We spend most of the weekends together, but we live separate lives otherwise.”
“Why? Are you embarrassed by him?”
“No! Of course not.” The truth was the opposite. He didn’t want to share Neal.
“Then tell me all about him.” Elaine was implacable. “How did you meet?”
He sighed. At this point, full disclosure was probably the best. “Okay – I’m telling you only because you’ll pry it out of Reese if I don’t.”
Elaine laughed and nodded. “Or that lovely assistant of yours, Diana.”
“She’s not my assistant, she’s a senior associate on her way to making partner.” Peter corrected.
Elaine waved a hand, dismissing the minor detail. “Spill, Peter.”
“Okay, okay. I have a secret vice. I love cupcakes and Neal’s a baker.” By the time he finished – making the tale as romantic as he possibly could, Elaine was smiling, her goodwill mostly restored.
“I want to meet him, this paragon of confection, and I won’t be put off. You’ve been alone far too long, and you’re too good a man for that.”
“Okay …”
“Don’t ‘okay’ me, Peter Burke. There’s the gala at the Met three weeks from tomorrow. I presume that Hughes-Burke has bought a table?”
“Of course we have.” It was a tradition – the firm didn’t attend the most famous of the Met’s social events, the Costume Gala, but they did officially support the museum at other times of the year and the upcoming Multicultural Gala was one of the anchor events of the summer season.
“And you’ll be bringing Neal, right?”
Peter had thought about asking Neal a dozen times, but each time, he found another excuse not to. Now, it looked like he had no choice. “I’ll ask him tomorrow, but if he says no …” He didn’t figure he’d have a problem convincing Neal to come, but he wanted to hedge his bets.
Elaine remained persistent. “You don’t take no for an answer, you hear me?”
He gave in as gracefully as he could. “All right.”
“Now – do you have a picture of him?”
There was no way he was going to avoid this, so Peter fished out his phone. For years, the lock screen on his phone had been the Hughes-Burke logo, but not anymore. He’d replaced the elegant H-B with an image of Neal.
A few weeks after he started seeing Neal, Peter had gone with him to the bakery on a Saturday morning. Even though he told him that he just wanted his cupcakes fresh from the oven, Peter really wanted to watch him work. This was nothing new. He wasn’t a creative man, but he took pleasure in seeing the execution of genius.
And of course, there was the added bonus of spending the hours in Neal’s company.
He watched and what Neal did seemed to be a cross between wizardry and art and chemistry. Peter didn’t mind that Neal ignored him as he worked; he wasn’t there to be entertained. At one point, though, Peter took out his cell phone and snapped a picture, capturing Neal in profile with that curl flopping onto his forehead, a smudge of flour on his cheek. Neal looked up as the phone’s camera gave off it fake shutter-click and Peter took another shot.
This was the one that now adorned his phone’s lock screen. Neal, messy and perfect.
Peter showed the picture to Elaine and she gave an incredulous look. “That’s him?”
“Yeah? Why – is there a problem?” He wondered if she knew Neal.
“Oh, no! He doesn’t look much like a baker, does he?”
“No.” Peter chuckled. “That was just my reaction, too.”
Elaine handed him back his phone. “I can see why you’d want to keep him to yourself.”
“Neal’s – ” He was going to say, “more than just a pretty face,” but got cut off. Arthur came looking for them.
“You’re being mean, sweetness – holding Peter hostage when I’m sure he’s dying to see the new Ellingtons.”
Elaine tucked her arm back in his. “Well, come along. I know that the only reason you’re here is to see Arthur’s latest acquisitions. Our company is just irrelevant.” There was a tiny bite under the gentle sarcasm of her comment.
They all chuckled and Peter hoped that his earlier, carelessly hurtful comment had been forgotten.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“So, you’re defying the edicts of he who shall not be named.”
Moz had stopped by after finishing the Friday night deliveries. He sat back on the couch, enjoying the last of the Malbec Neal had planned to drink with Peter this evening, and looked, for all the world, like a very smug tortoise.
“Yeah. I think it’s time. What can they do to me?”
“I don’t know, Moz. Astronomers, physicists, planetary scientists … they are a nasty and dangerous bunch – worse than Canadians. You might find yourself fitted with cement overshoes and dumped off the coast of Santa Barbara as food for a great white shark.”
“Very funny, mon frère.”
Neal leaned forward, all humor gone. “You really want to go back to California?”
“It’s where Sally is.”
Neal had to remind him, “And where Gina’s going.”
Moz gave him a self-satisfied smile. “That’s true.”
Neal raised his own glass in appreciation. “You are a dog, you know that.”
“Maybe. Or I’m just very good at managing … priorities.”
Neal sipped the wine. It tasted a little like nostalgia. “I’ll miss you, my friend.”
Moz sighed and blinked. “And I’ll miss you. Elizabeth, too. But you’ve both got other lives now, with other people. I don’t want to hang around like the quirky friend, or worse – unwanted and barely tolerated.”
“You may be quirky, Moz. And you’ll always be my best friend. There’s no one who can ever replace you in my life. There’s no relationship that will ever change that.” Neal got up and went to Moz, planting a kiss on his bald head.
Mozzie glared at him but made no comment about cooties or germs. The glare softened into something like affection. “You can always visit me. That is, if Elizabeth can find another baker with your talents so you can take off for a few days.”
“True, but that’s a baker’s life. I didn’t take vacations when I owned the bakery.” Which had been a source of friction between him and Matthew, who wanted Neal to travel with him at the drop of a hat. “I never really minded before. But now …” Neal wondered if Peter had any interest in going away together. He hoped so. “Maybe I should take on an apprentice?”
“Sounds good to me – a bright young thing fresh out of culinary school, ready and eager to absorb everything you’ve got to teach.”
They chatted for a while about the hypothetical apprentice. Moz raided his wine collection again, this time going for a 2002 Brunello. Neal stopped him before he could open it. “Not that one. I’m saving it for a special occasion.”
Moz seemed a touch offended. “Isn’t my departure an occasion worthy enough?”
“Unless you’re leaving tomorrow, it isn’t.” Neal paused and looked at Moz. “You’re not leaving tomorrow?”
“No, no, not for a few weeks. El and I have to find a replacement driver and train him. I’ve got to acquire a suitable residence, plus get some things set up. And by things, I mean several forms of protection. Astronomers …”
Neal stifled a grin. “Are a bloodthirsty lot.”
“Make fun of me all you want, but when the death threats start coming, you’ll be the last to laugh.”
“Okay, Moz – and I’m sorry. Not too many people can be exiled from the most populous state in the union by a bunch of scientists.” He put the Brunello away and pulled out a bottle of ‘98 Bordeaux. Not a terribly storied vintage, but still a worthy one. “Let’s open this.”
Moz actually checked the time. “Damn, I’m late.”
“Late, for what?”
“The Hayden’s having a special late night open sky program.”
“I thought you loathed the very idea of an urban planetarium. With all the light pollution, there’s no way to actually see the night sky.”
Moz looked at him like he was crazy. “Of course I know that, and the Hayden even doesn’t have a telescope. But its digital projector is one of the best in the world, and that’s what I want. I promised Gina I’d show her the position of the constellations in the year 4623 BCE. That was the final clue in A.B. Tattersall’s last book. She’s leaving next week and I won’t see her again until I get to California.”
“Ah.” Neal didn’t want to burst Mozzie’s bubble and tell him that there were programs on the iPad for that. But then, sitting in a dark theater with your girlfriend and pointing out the stars was a hell of a lot more romantic than tapping and pinching on a screen.
Moz departed and it felt like all of the life, all of the energy left his apartment. Neal checked the time and was surprised to see how late it was, almost midnight. Peter had said he’d be over when his dinner party was finished, sometime around ten. Neal wondered whether he’d forgotten or was just having such a good time that he lost track of the hour. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. Peter was a busy professional who needed to cultivate clients and Neal understood that he wasn’t going to keep baker’s (or even banker’s) hours.
Still, it felt strange to be alone on a Friday night. He felt a bit lost, a bit forgotten and forlorn. El was busy with Reese, Moz had left for his date, and other than Peter, he really didn’t have anyone who’d be interested in socializing at this hour.
There was a time in his life when he’d just be getting started at quarter to midnight. That was during his high-flying days – when he could burn the candle at both ends. He and Matthew would go clubbing until three in the morning. He wouldn’t bother going home; he’d head over to the bakery and start work. By eight, everything was done and then he’d head back to their apartment. He’d sleep for a few hours, go back to the bakery and start all over again. It seemed like he lived on espresso and wine and the energy of being with someone who was his creative equal.
Except that Matthew had been a self-centered jerk with an ego bigger than Manhattan. Neal had wondered if he hadn’t lost the bakery, if they would have lasted any longer than they did. Not that it mattered. He never loved Matthew. Looking back, he wondered just why he had moved in with him. Well, okay, he didn’t have to wonder too hard. Matthew fucked like a rabbit, and in those days, he’d been more interested in quantity than quality.
Maybe it was maturity; maybe it was losing everything and having to rebuild himself from the ground up that made him appreciate what he had with Peter. His “relationship” with Keller wasn’t even in the same universe as that.
All the uncertainty he felt earlier, the insecurity, the worry that what he felt for Peter wasn’t reciprocated, came flooding back. He sent Peter a text that he should come over when he could but he was going to sleep, and then tried to do just that. An hour later, a thin blade of light cut through the darkness, completely fracturing his broken sleep. He sat up and turned on the night table lamp.
“Sorry I’m so late. Hope you don’t mind…” Peter stood in the doorway, ready to leave, not quite sure if he should stay.
“No – don’t mind. I really wasn’t sleeping anyway. Come to bed.”
Peter striped, dropping his clothes on the floor and climbed into bed next to him. Neal turned off the light. The scent of a tired man enveloped him, and Neal breathed deep. This was what had been missing; this was why he couldn’t sleep.
He rested his head on Peter’s shoulder, finally able to relax, and in an unguarded moment before sleep truly claimed him, Neal heard himself say, “Love you.”
He didn’t hear Peter’s answer. If Peter answered at all.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter woke to the scent of freshly made coffee. The aroma teased him out of a strange and disturbing dream. He was back with the Bureau (or maybe he’d never left) and Neal wasn’t a baker but a world-renown art forger, thief and con man. He’d broken out of jail and Peter was asked to help capture him.
Or recapture him, since he’d been the one to arrest him in the first place. Somehow, it hadn’t taken him much effort to find the man – he was sitting on the floor of an empty apartment, holding an empty bottle of the same ‘82 Bordeaux that they’d consumed their first night together.
In the dream, he’d stood over a forlorn Neal, with his hands on his hips like some avenging angel of justice, but had gently asked “She leave you a message in that?”
Dream-Neal hadn’t even bothered to look up – he was absorbed by the thing and just replied, “The bottle is the message.”
He felt off-kilter, not because he’d been wearing a badge and carrying a gun, not because Neal wasn’t really Neal but some superman version of a con artist. No, what threw him out of whack was his dream-self’s presumption of Neal’s heterosexuality.
“Hey there, sleepyhead.” Neal put a cup of espresso on the night table and when Peter tried to kiss him, he pulled back and made a face. “Morning breath.”
Peter blinked, his brain still wrapped in the dream.
“You okay?” Neal looked at him intently and Peter found himself drowning in that gaze.
“Yeah. Still half asleep.” He sat up and Neal handed him the coffee. The caffeine gave him a minor jolt. “You showered already?”
“Yeah.”
Peter frowned, disappointed. He liked morning showers with Neal. Especially mornings when they didn’t have to rush off. He pushed back the covers and got out of bed. “Give me a few? I’m still not sure I’m awake yet.”
Neal went back to the kitchen. “Sure – the croissants won’t be ready for a while.” It might have been his own skewed perception, but Neal seemed a little out of sorts. He wasn’t clear-headed enough to address it just yet. Peter put on the robe he’d been keeping here and went to take a shower. The endless hot water finished the job the caffeine started. By the time he’d finished grooming, the last of his distress over that stupid dream had disappeared. He went back into the apartment, ready to confront whatever was bothering Neal.
His partner had finished prepping whatever feast he’d planned for breakfast and was staring out at nothing. Peter just stood there, taking in glory of Neal Caffrey, wearing just an ancient pair of blue cotton sleep pants and a tacky apron that read “Bakers Rise to the Occasion.”
“Been up long?”
“About an hour or so.” Neal bent down to take the croissants out of the oven and Peter admired his blue cotton-covered ass.
Desperately needing to erase the chill, Peter apologized. “I’m sorry I was so late last night. I know I said I’d be over before midnight.”
Neal gave him an odd look. “Wild party?”
“Not in the least. The Kostlers aren’t the party-hardy type.” He paused at Neal’s deliberately bland expression. “Sorry, didn’t catch the sarcasm. I should have sent a text or called when I saw how late it was. Forgive me?”
Neal seemed to debate that very question with himself, but finally smiled. “Of course.” He took the espresso pot off the stove and poured a small cup for both of them. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Yeah – I like them. Elaine and Arthur are good people; you’d like them, too. And you want to hear something funny?”
“Sure. But let’s go out onto the terrace. The morning’s too nice to waste.” He took the croissants and gestured for Peter to bring his cup.
They settled at the small table, which Neal had already set with fresh fruit and a collection of small pots of homemade preserves. Peter fixed a plate for himself, and waited for Neal to do the same.”
“So – funny story?”
“The dinner last night turned out to be something more than a review of the Kostler’s accounts. It turned out to be a dinner party to celebrate some new acquisitions.”
“You run with a dangerous crowd, Peter.” Neal’s sarcasm, this time was gentle and obvious. “Impromptu dinner parties because someone just buys a new piece of art.”
“Yeah – I know. But that’s not what’s funny.”
“No?”
“Arthur just bought the two paintings of Byron’s that June had consigned to Sotheby’s last month.”
“Seriously. Those streetscapes? The ones she hated? The ones she always said reminded her of the crap you’d buy in a ‘Starving Artist’ sale?”
“Yup. Arthur paid about three hundred fifty grand for each one. He considers the acquisitions something of a steal.”
“Did you tell your friends that you know June, that you knew Byron?”
“I may have mentioned it once. But I didn’t want to make a big deal of it. June didn’t want to sell the paintings privately and I didn’t want to have a conflict of interest.” Peter wondered if that was going to come back and bite him in the ass someday.
“Anyways, like I said – you’d like Arthur and Elaine.”
“Hmmm.” Neal toyed with his croissant, tearing it to crumbs instead of eating it. Peter thought that was sacrilege.
“They’d like to meet you.”
“Huh? You told them about me?” He seemed a little incredulous.
Neal’s reaction was both puzzling and worrisome. “Why wouldn’t I?” Peter ignored the fact that he, himself, had been reluctant to tell Elaine about Neal.
“Dunno – because.” Now Neal sounded like a sulky teenager.
Peter thought he understood. “I’m almost too good at compartmentalizing. My personal life is personal, private. My business life is business. But that really isn’t true. A lot of my clients are people I consider friends. Like June, like Elaine and Arthur. There’s no reason why you should be part of that part of my life.”
“And even though you’ve never hidden the fact that you’re gay – you’ve never flaunted it either?” The truth of Neal’s question cut to the bone.
“Yeah. Sort of.” Peter immediately regretted that qualification. It could lead to so many things he didn’t want to talk about.
“What do you mean, sort of?”
Damn. “Once, a long time ago, I tried to be flamboyant.” That wasn’t a lie. “I had gone to a gay student alliance meeting at Harvard during my freshman year. I’d affected every possible stereotypical behavior. I pranced and lisped for about an hour. After the meeting, a really sweet guy – a junior in the history department – told him me didn’t need to be such a conformist and maybe we could go for a beer? I lost my virginity that night.”
Neal blinked and let out a crack of laugher. “I’d pay money to have seen that.”
“What, me having sex for the first time?”
“No, you putting on the queen. Seems impossible.” Neal sounded like he was trying to dare him to do just that. Peter didn’t rise to the bait, but he was relieved that his distraction worked.
“Anyway – they want to meet you and aren’t going to take no for an answer.”
Neal gave him a considering look. “You could invite them to dinner. I could make something very fancy and impressive.”
“You could, but I thought maybe you’d like to come with me to the gala at the Metropolitan next month. They call it the Multicultural Ball. Hughes-Burke always has a table, and I thought, maybe?”
Neal’s eyes lit up. “Really? You want me to come with you to a ball at the Met?”
Peter couldn’t pretend diffidence in the face of such enthusiasm. “Yeah, I’d really like to take you. Been thinking about asking you …” He trailed off, realizing that he may have just stepped in a pile of shit.
But Neal seemed to understand. “That compartmentalizing, again?”
“Yeah. So, do you want to put on a monkey suit and meet a few of my friends? Maybe hobnob with the beautiful and the famous?”
Neal leaned over the table, and this time gave him a proper good morning kiss. “I’d love to.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal buttoned and unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket. He straightened his cuffs, checked the shine on his shoes, unbuttoned his jacket again.
Yes, yes. He was nervous. Cat in a room full of rocking chairs nervous. He shouldn’t have been, but he was. The Kostlers were just people, and they were Peter’s friends. But this was the first time he was meeting them and he wanted to make a good impression, he wanted them to like him. He waited for Peter to come out of the bathroom and checked himself in the mirror. The tuxedo fit perfectly: a vintage Dior that Byron had worn the night he and June were introduced to President Kennedy. Neal tried to take strength in that. If Byron wore this when he met the President of the United States, Neal could wear it and meet Peter’s clients and friends.
Nothing to be nervous about. Nothing at all.
Neal took a deep breath and tried not to pass out.
“You look fantastic.” Peter came up behind him, wearing only his trousers and socks. His chest was still a little damp and Neal took another deep breath, loving the subtle scent of Peter’s aftershave.
Their eyes met in the mirror. “You look pretty fabulous yourself.” Peter did and Neal wished he was an artist, that he could paint or draw and capture Peter just like this – half naked but fully groomed. A lion ready for the hunt.
Peter must have sensed his desire and he kissed him under his ear, just above the jaw line, right where a lion would bite down on his prey. Neal shivered.
“We don’t have time.”
“They’re your friends, they’d understand if we were a little late.”
Peter laughed, lips still pressed close and Neal loved how the sound rumbled through him. “We would be more than a little late if I did everything I wanted to do to you.” To Neal’s disappointment, Peter stepped back and retrieved his shirt.
Neal watched as Peter dressed, thinking that it was a terrible shame to cover all that beauty. But the white cotton fit perfectly over his broad shoulders and the black satin braces framed them to perfection. He had a brief moment of fantasy – of Peter in a shoulder holster – and made a mental note to ask him if he wore one or carried his gun on his belt.
Not that he had a cop fetish or anything. His father had been a cop – killed in the line of duty when he was five – and some of his earliest memories were of men in dark uniforms whispering to his mother, clapping him on the shoulder and telling him he needed to be the man of the house now.
Neal shook his head, annoyed at the unwelcome intrusion of his past.
“Can you help me?” Peter was struggling with his bowtie.
“Of course.” Neal pushed Peter’s hands away and expertly tied the bit of silk, then put in Peter’s cufflinks and helped him into his jacket.
“You know, if you ever get tired of baking, you could probably find a job as a valet.”
“Very funny.” Neal stepped back and gave Peter the once over and his breath caught at the magnificence before him. “You look like a man made to wear a tuxedo, you know that?”
Peter actually blushed. “Well, I don’t know about that, but I had the tuxedo custom made for me.”
“Remind me to send a box of cupcakes to your tailor in thanks.”
“Very funny, Caffrey.”
“I’m serious. You’re gorgeous.”
Peter ignored the compliment. “You ready?”
“More than you are.” Neal looked down at Peter’s feet. His sock-clad, shoeless feet.
Peter gave him a dirty look, but didn’t say another word as he slipped on the loafers.
Neal opened the door and gestured for Peter to precede him.
Because it was one of those rare summer nights without humidity, they walked the few blocks to where Peter’s friends, the Kostlers, lived.
Neal couldn’t stop fidgeting with his jacket and cuffs while the waited for the elevator.
“Why are you so nervous?”
Neal thought about denying that, for about a second. “I – these are your friends. I guess I don’t want to embarrass you.”
Peter smiled at him and cupped a warm palm against his cheek. “You could never do that. You are wonderful and I’m proud to introduce you to them.”
In a small, dark corner of his heart, Neal had hoped that Peter might have included some declaration of his feelings. And then he chastised himself. The lobby of an apartment building was not the place for that. But his heart was also a bit irrational and the disappointment tasted sour.
“You’ll be fine. Arthur and Elaine are good people, no reason to be nervous.” Peter had said that before, as if it was some magical incantation.
“And yet Elaine wanted to fix you up with their son – the DC powerbroker. I feel like I’ve got a lot to measure up to.” Neal wondered if the elevator was ever going to arrive. Waiting was making him even more nervous.
Peter gave him a wry grin. “She’s got a little bit of the matchmaker in her. Her eldest son is gay, I’m gay. Therefore we ought to be gay together.”
That didn’t mollify Neal at all. “Have you ever met the man?”
“Yeah, a few times. Nice enough, but not my type.”
“And just what is your type, Peter?”
“I’d say, ‘smart, leggy brunets’ but you might think I’m shallow.”
The elevator let off a discreet musical chime, signaling the arrival of a car. A well-dressed couple in their seventies – probably heading for the same event – nodded and smiled as they exited. Peter pressed a button for the 17th floor and Neal pressed Peter for an answer. “Seriously, why wouldn’t you want to date this guy?” Neal figured he wouldn’t get an answer but Peter surprised him.
“Aside from the fact that he lives in Washington and I’m not interested in a long distance relationship, Jason’s pretty much living in the closet. He’s out to his family, but no one he works with knows he’s gay. I don’t do closets. Not anymore.”
Whatever Neal was going to say got cut off when the elevator stopped. He took a deep breath and tried to put the thought of handsome, powerful but closeted men out of his mind. He was the one here with Peter, and that’s what mattered, right?
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Even though this was supposed to be a social occasion, Peter still had to work the room and at some point after dinner, he and Neal had gotten separated. He’d caught glimpses of him in the crowd, smiling and beautiful, like he’d been born on the party circuit. Introducing him to Arthur and Elaine had gone like a dream, and they had taken to Neal like he was a long-lost family member. Arthur, being Arthur, was thrilled to learn that Neal was living in the Ellington mansion and wanted to know all about the place. And of course, he had to show off the two paintings he’d bought. Elaine had taken the opportunity to give Peter her own approval.
“I was a little worried, you know.”
“No – I didn’t.” Peter was surprised at Elaine’s comment.
“When you showed me his picture, I thought – how gorgeous, how young. But he’s really not that young.”
“Or that gorgeous?”
Elaine had smacked him lightly on the arm. “He’s absolutely gorgeous, but it’s more than skin deep. And seeing the two of you together – even for just a few moments, I realize that you and Jason would never have worked out.”
Peter nodded. “Your son’s a lovely man, Elaine – but we’d never be right for each other.”
“But Neal is. He’s perfect for you. Smart and funny and down to earth. And I can see how much he cares for you. He loves you, darling.”
Peter wasn’t sure he could believe Elaine’s last words. They’d only been together for a few months and love was such an untrustworthy emotion. Daniel never stopped saying how much he loved Peter, after everything he’d done …
Looking out at crowd of beautiful people, Peter couldn’t stop thinking about Elaine’s words and as much as he wanted to disregard them, he couldn’t help but revel in the hope that maybe it was true. There had been that moment, the night that he had shown up so late at Neal’s, when they were both on the edge of sleep, that he thought he heard Neal tell him that he loved him. He wasn’t sure if it was a dream or his imagination.
But Neal never said it again, and Peter eventually dismissed it as a product of his tired mind and too-wishful thinking.
Peter finished the rest of his drink and was about to go look for Neal when Bitsy Cunningham approached. Bitsy had been a fixture on the art world’s social circuit since the mid-1950s, when she made her society debut. Rumor had it that she’d been part of Warhol’s crowd at The Factory, but when asked, Bitsy would simply say she wasn’t the type of girl to kiss and tell.
Not that it made a difference these days, since Bitsy was in her eighties. Still spry and still appreciative of a man’s well-muscled ass, Peter knew better than to turn his back on her. Her fingers pinched like a Doberman’s bite. Despite Bitsy’s penchant for manhandling (hell, he’d swear that she once grabbed his junk at a New Year’s Eve party), she was someone he liked and respected.
“Who’s that luscious piece of man candy over there?” Bitsy waved a hand with a martini glass over to where a crowd of lovely young things were laughing – and at the center of the group was his missing partner. “And what are the odds that he’s single and straight? If he’s not, you just might have a shot.”
Peter grinned wolfishly. “I can tell you, from close, personal experience that he’s definitely not straight and he’s definitely not single.”
She grinned back at him. “Already staked a claim?”
“Don’t need to. He’s my date tonight, and we’ve been together for three months.”
“Good for you!” Bitsy took a sip of her martini and looked at it in disgust. “Damn thing’s watered down.” She gestured for a waiter, who took her glass. “Doctor says I should cut back. I tell him that I’ll stop drinking when they go to bury me. Anyways, what the hell are you doing talking to an old woman when you’ve got a hot date. Go get ‘em, tiger.”
Peter kissed her cheek and took her advice.
Go to Part Five - On LJ | On DW
Notes: See Master Post - On LJ | On DW
Three Months Later
“I’m off,” Elizabeth poked her head into the kitchen. Neal was wiping down the counters and putting away the last of the equipment. It was close to seven and he was getting ready to leave, too. “Unless you want a lift over to Peter’s?”
Neal gave her a smile and shook his head. “No, I’m good. I’m going to head home this evening.”
“Is everything okay?” El sounded a touch concerned.
“Everything’s fine. Peter has some business function he can’t get out of, but he’s going to stop by when he’s done. Spend the night.” Probably. Hopefully.
“I’m still surprised you haven’t moved in together.” This wasn’t the first time that El had commented that they maintained separate residences.
“It’s only been three months. Besides, our schedules are so different that we’d probably see less of each other if we started co-habitating.” Since the best defense was a good offense, “And when are you going to give in and put Reese out of his misery?”
El shrugged. “I keep thinking about it. Everything would change, you know? Moving in with him. I haven’t lived with anyone since I left college. I don’t know if I remember how. Besides, it feels too quick.”
Neal had to note, “It’s been three months.”
And of course, El retorted. “Or, it’s only been three months.”
“There’s a joke in there about lesbians and u-hauls, I think.”
El laughed and swatted at him. “Are you sure you don’t want a lift? I’m heading into Manhattan; I wouldn’t mind dropping you off. Your place isn’t that much out of my way.”
“Nah, I’m good. With Friday night traffic, I’ll probably be home before you get close to the Upper West Side.”
“Okay – but don’t say I didn’t ask.” El left with a pert sniff.
Neal was a little sorry that he didn’t take her up on her offer, if just to spend time with a dear friend. Their lives were growing so divergent these days.
El was all but living with Reese Hughes in his classic six off of Amsterdam Avenue and he was gentle pressuring her to make it full time. Neal had the feeling that if she did succumb, he’d be baking her wedding cake before the year was out. Reese was an old-fashioned kind of guy, and while El was anything but old-fashioned herself, the two of them were well-suited for each other. Seeing them together, it was clear that they didn’t have in a stereotypical May-December romance. In fact, they seemed more like an old married couple that two people in the early days of courtship. They completed each other’s sentences and had their own shorthand for the little things in their lives. Nothing about El and Reese was hearts-and-flowers lovey-dovey, but you couldn’t mistake the affection, the respect, and even the passion between them.
Pity he couldn’t say the same about his relationship with Peter.
Yes, there certainly was affection, respect and passion between them. They had sparks galore, but something was missing, but Neal couldn’t put his finger on what that something was.
They’d talk for hours about everything under the sun – art and music, sports, politics, world events. He sometimes had to pinch himself because their compatibility seemed so unreal. Their sex life was fantastic; Peter was everything he could want, and then some. Neal always knew, with the right person – the right man – he’d take the most pleasure in submitting. Peter was so perfectly, so casually dominant, that Neal couldn’t not submit with utter joy.
And yet, he had the feeling that Peter didn’t feel the same way. There were odd looks, pauses and uncomfortable silences. An emotional distance that Neal didn’t know how to close. He had this nagging sensation that something was wrong, something that couldn’t be fixed.
Like last Saturday night, when they were watching the Yankees lose again. Well, Peter was watching and Neal was reading, but it was a companionable way to spend an evening. He looked up when Peter shut off the television and muttered a few choice words about a certain third baseman who couldn’t tell the truth if someone held a gun to his head.
Peter had tossed the remote on the coffee table and flopped back with a deep sigh. Neal put his book down. “It’s only a ball game – one of, what, a hundred and sixty-two in the regular season?”
That earned him a proud smile from Peter. “Do you know how much I love that you know that?”
Neal ducked his head, a little shy. “I’m not really a sports geek, but I’m American – I also know that there are sixteen games in a regular season of football and eighty-two games in a basketball season. But when it comes to hockey, I don’t have a clue.”
Peter had laughed, but there was an undercurrent to the sound that troubled Neal. “Neither do I. I know you really would rather be doing anything else than sitting here, listening to the ball game.”
“No, not at all. I want to spend time with you and if this is what you want to do, why not?”
“Really?” Peter seemed skeptical. “Come on, a Saturday night in July, and you prefer to hang around and read while I’m giving myself heartburn over a team of millionaire slackers? I would think you’d much rather be out dancing or clubbing or having fun than pretending to be a couch potato.” There was too much bitterness in those questions.
Neal took off his glasses and set them down on top of his book. “I don’t know what gave you that idea. If I wanted to go out, I’d have said something. I’m thirty-six years old and know how to speak my own mind. If I didn’t want to be here, having a quiet evening with you, I wouldn’t be.”
Peter looked at him, like he was judging the truth of those words and not quite believing them. “Sorry – I just feel like I’m stifling you.”
“Why?” Neal had been honestly puzzled. “I work hard six days a week. I have no desire to do anything right now but relax. And by relax, I mean, I spend the best part of my week with you.” Neal reached out and took Peter’s hand. He wasn’t sure if those words satisfied Peter, but the odd tension evaporated. At least for the rest of the evening.
There’d been other times that this tension blossomed like some noxious flower, when Neal felt like they’d been talking at cross purposes – or that there were two conversations going on. One that was verbal; the other, pure subtext that Neal couldn’t quite get a handle on.
And then there was the past. His past, Peter’s past.
In every relationship he’d been it – there came a point when you talked about your exes. About the people who’d been in your life. It was part of the courtship ritual, even if you went from delivering cupcakes to having your laundry done in less than twenty-four hours. But no matter how many times Neal tried to get Peter to tell him about the guys (and maybe girls) that he’d dated, Peter clammed up, or deflected, or changed the subject. Neal even tried telling him about his own prior relationships.
But Peter was having none of it. He wasn’t interested and he didn’t seem to care.
So, Neal drew three conclusions. Peter was a virgin – or more appropriately, had been a virgin. Or he’d never been in a long term relationship and was afraid to admit it. Or he’d been with someone who’d hurt him, badly.
Since Peter was the best, most creative lover Neal ever had, the idea that he’d been a virgin until the night they screwed on the couch was ludicrous in the extreme. And while it was just as odd that Peter might never have had a serious relationship with another person, or even just with another man – he couldn’t imagine that he’d be too embarrassed to tell him so.
The last and most logical conclusion was that there was something – no, someone – in Peter’s past that damaged him. Okay, Neal could understand that. No one liked to talk about failure, particularly in the early stages of a relationship. He may have told Peter about Matthew, but he’d need to be water-boarded to admit anything about his own humiliating experience with Gordon.
Even if that was the case, did it explain or excuse the moments of emotional coldness? The distance that Peter seemed to place between them? It was becoming obvious that he was only allows into a part of Peter’s life. Maybe that should have been enough for him, but there were times – like tonight – when he wanted more. He wanted to fit into Peter’s life the way Peter fit into his.
As Neal locked up, he tried to rationalize, he tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter. That he loved Peter and that would be enough to make this work. What else was he going to do? Confront Peter about this coldness, which seemed ridiculous. Peter really wasn’t cold; he was just a man who was used to being on his own. And it had been only three months – right?
The forty-minute subway ride back into Manhattan was usually a good time to think and sort things out, but Neal couldn’t find any clarity.
What he knew was that Peter was Peter. He was a good man. An honest man. Someone who cared for him and respected him, someone Neal knew he could trust. He’d never had that in a relationship before.
Yes, he and Elizabeth cared and respected each other and they certainly trusted each other, but they were friends. Sex was a convenience for them, a way to scratch an itch without complications. There was no question that he’d never feel for her what he felt for Peter, and he know that love ever entered into her equations.
Thinking about Elizabeth reminded him of the other women who’d been part of his life. Kate had been sweet and young, but far too damaged to ever trust anyone. They met in culinary school and lasted all the way to graduation, fighting and fucking and fighting some more. She’d taken off for California and last Neal had heard, she was working at a vegan naturist colony near Big Sur.
He thought about Sara. Was it really only six months ago that he’d felt heartbroken and betrayed when she left for Europe? Not that the feeling lasted for long. He had liked her a hell of a lot and at one point he thought that she could be the one for him, as strange a combination as a baker and a supermodel could be. But after she’d left, he was quick to realize that it was the hint of danger he brought to her life that drove their relationship – and that was not the recipe for the happily ever after he dreamed of. He’d always think of her with great fondness, but there was no ache, no gaping Sara Ellis-shaped hole in his soul.
For that matter, despite how badly it had ended, there was never really a Matthew Keller-shaped hole or even one that remotely looked like Gordon Taylor.
Those failed relationships had saddened him, make him a little wary, a little wiser, but they didn’t permanently damage him.
Peter, though ... The very simple truth was that he loved Peter Burke and he wanted to spend the rest of his life with him. He wanted to make Peter as happy as Peter made him. And yet, those moments when he wasn’t at all certain just what, if anything, Peter felt for him made him want to run and hide and forget he’d ever met the man.
And that would destroy him completely.
Peter was bored out of his mind and tried not to be so obvious when he looked at his watch. It was nearly eleven. Arthur Kostler was a long-standing client of the firm and was worth at least six figures a year in billings. The food was decent (although the dessert was barely passable to his palate), the wine was better than decent, the company sparkling, but all Peter could think about was how much he wanted to leave and get to Neal’s place. Instead, he was stuck in a Central Park South penthouse, listening to a blow-by-blow description of his recent Twentieth Century Paintings sale at Sotheby’s, and his own hard-fought acquisition of a pair of Byron Ellington streetscapes that the artist’s widow had decided to sell.
Elaine, Arthur’s wife, noticed his abstraction and gave him a sympathetic smile before leaning over and whispering in his ear. “He does like to go on, doesn’t he?”
Peter shrugged and smiled back.
She took pity on him and the rest of the gathering. “Dearest, I don’t think anyone else is all that interested. They want to see the paintings, right?”
The other guests nodded quite vigorously and Arthur gave a good natured laugh. “I do apologize – I tend to get a little carried away.” He stood up. “Come along; let me show off my newest pride and joy.”
Elaine tucked her arm in his and pulled him over to the balcony. “I do wish you’d let me fix you up, Peter. I think that you and my eldest son would get along famously.”
“Elaine, your son lives in Washington and he’s too young for me.” Peter had met Jason Kostler. He was nice enough, but from the few times they’d spoken, it was pretty clear to Peter that the man was a closet case. Not that Peter couldn’t understand that. Jason was a senior staff member for a U.S. Senator. The political world in DC was not particularly gay-friendly. Even these days. He didn’t want to badmouth him to his mother, who thought her child was perfect.
“Jason’s not too young for you. He’ll be in New York next week, and besides, age is irrelevant when the heart is true.”
“Did you read that on a greeting card?”
She laughed. “You found me out. It was on the card Arthur gave me for my birthday, because, you know, I’m at least twenty-five years younger than he is.”
Peter played along, “Hmm, you sure you don’t mean thirty-five?” Arthur and Elaine had been childhood sweethearts, who, to their parent’s horror, had eloped the summer after their high school graduation.
“Maybe forty, but you’re deflecting, Peter. You’re very good at that, you know.”
“What can I say?”
Elaine deserved points for persistence. “That you’ll see Jason when he comes in to town next weekend. I really do think you’d hit it off.”
Peter wondered what would put Elaine off and decided on the truth. “I’m actually seeing someone, so being set up on a blind date might be kind of awkward.”
“Peter Burke!” She gave him a light slap on the shoulder. “You’re seeing someone and you didn’t bring him tonight?”
He shrugged. “This is business; I didn’t think it would be appropriate.”
Now Elaine looked hurt. “Business? Arthur and I are only business? I thought we were friends, people you enjoyed spending time with?” She stepped away from him. The humor left her normally animated face. The disappointment that replaced it made her look a decade older than her fifty-seven years.
Peter felt like an ass. “I’m sorry – that’s not what I meant. I am proud to count you and Arthur as my personal friends, as well as my clients. It’s just that Neal is …” How could he explain?
“A boy toy? You’re having a middle-aged fling and are embarrassed?” He could see that Elaine was trying to salvage something of this conversation and their friendship. “He’s completely, wildly inappropriate? Prone to giggling?”
Peter could accept any of those excuses and maybe save this relationship. They’d laugh a little, and she’d push her son at him. He could even go out for drinks with the man, if just to appease his mother. But that would all be a disastrous, monstrous lie.
“No. Neal’s not my boy toy, he’s not a fling.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, guilty and embarrassed. “He’s someone I’m very much involved with – but I just never thought to invite him.”
Elaine looked at him, the disappointment was gone, but now there was speculation in her eyes. “Why not?”
“Because … I don’t know. We spend most of the weekends together, but we live separate lives otherwise.”
“Why? Are you embarrassed by him?”
“No! Of course not.” The truth was the opposite. He didn’t want to share Neal.
“Then tell me all about him.” Elaine was implacable. “How did you meet?”
He sighed. At this point, full disclosure was probably the best. “Okay – I’m telling you only because you’ll pry it out of Reese if I don’t.”
Elaine laughed and nodded. “Or that lovely assistant of yours, Diana.”
“She’s not my assistant, she’s a senior associate on her way to making partner.” Peter corrected.
Elaine waved a hand, dismissing the minor detail. “Spill, Peter.”
“Okay, okay. I have a secret vice. I love cupcakes and Neal’s a baker.” By the time he finished – making the tale as romantic as he possibly could, Elaine was smiling, her goodwill mostly restored.
“I want to meet him, this paragon of confection, and I won’t be put off. You’ve been alone far too long, and you’re too good a man for that.”
“Okay …”
“Don’t ‘okay’ me, Peter Burke. There’s the gala at the Met three weeks from tomorrow. I presume that Hughes-Burke has bought a table?”
“Of course we have.” It was a tradition – the firm didn’t attend the most famous of the Met’s social events, the Costume Gala, but they did officially support the museum at other times of the year and the upcoming Multicultural Gala was one of the anchor events of the summer season.
“And you’ll be bringing Neal, right?”
Peter had thought about asking Neal a dozen times, but each time, he found another excuse not to. Now, it looked like he had no choice. “I’ll ask him tomorrow, but if he says no …” He didn’t figure he’d have a problem convincing Neal to come, but he wanted to hedge his bets.
Elaine remained persistent. “You don’t take no for an answer, you hear me?”
He gave in as gracefully as he could. “All right.”
“Now – do you have a picture of him?”
There was no way he was going to avoid this, so Peter fished out his phone. For years, the lock screen on his phone had been the Hughes-Burke logo, but not anymore. He’d replaced the elegant H-B with an image of Neal.
A few weeks after he started seeing Neal, Peter had gone with him to the bakery on a Saturday morning. Even though he told him that he just wanted his cupcakes fresh from the oven, Peter really wanted to watch him work. This was nothing new. He wasn’t a creative man, but he took pleasure in seeing the execution of genius.
And of course, there was the added bonus of spending the hours in Neal’s company.
He watched and what Neal did seemed to be a cross between wizardry and art and chemistry. Peter didn’t mind that Neal ignored him as he worked; he wasn’t there to be entertained. At one point, though, Peter took out his cell phone and snapped a picture, capturing Neal in profile with that curl flopping onto his forehead, a smudge of flour on his cheek. Neal looked up as the phone’s camera gave off it fake shutter-click and Peter took another shot.
This was the one that now adorned his phone’s lock screen. Neal, messy and perfect.
Peter showed the picture to Elaine and she gave an incredulous look. “That’s him?”
“Yeah? Why – is there a problem?” He wondered if she knew Neal.
“Oh, no! He doesn’t look much like a baker, does he?”
“No.” Peter chuckled. “That was just my reaction, too.”
Elaine handed him back his phone. “I can see why you’d want to keep him to yourself.”
“Neal’s – ” He was going to say, “more than just a pretty face,” but got cut off. Arthur came looking for them.
“You’re being mean, sweetness – holding Peter hostage when I’m sure he’s dying to see the new Ellingtons.”
Elaine tucked her arm back in his. “Well, come along. I know that the only reason you’re here is to see Arthur’s latest acquisitions. Our company is just irrelevant.” There was a tiny bite under the gentle sarcasm of her comment.
They all chuckled and Peter hoped that his earlier, carelessly hurtful comment had been forgotten.
“So, you’re defying the edicts of he who shall not be named.”
Moz had stopped by after finishing the Friday night deliveries. He sat back on the couch, enjoying the last of the Malbec Neal had planned to drink with Peter this evening, and looked, for all the world, like a very smug tortoise.
“Yeah. I think it’s time. What can they do to me?”
“I don’t know, Moz. Astronomers, physicists, planetary scientists … they are a nasty and dangerous bunch – worse than Canadians. You might find yourself fitted with cement overshoes and dumped off the coast of Santa Barbara as food for a great white shark.”
“Very funny, mon frère.”
Neal leaned forward, all humor gone. “You really want to go back to California?”
“It’s where Sally is.”
Neal had to remind him, “And where Gina’s going.”
Moz gave him a self-satisfied smile. “That’s true.”
Neal raised his own glass in appreciation. “You are a dog, you know that.”
“Maybe. Or I’m just very good at managing … priorities.”
Neal sipped the wine. It tasted a little like nostalgia. “I’ll miss you, my friend.”
Moz sighed and blinked. “And I’ll miss you. Elizabeth, too. But you’ve both got other lives now, with other people. I don’t want to hang around like the quirky friend, or worse – unwanted and barely tolerated.”
“You may be quirky, Moz. And you’ll always be my best friend. There’s no one who can ever replace you in my life. There’s no relationship that will ever change that.” Neal got up and went to Moz, planting a kiss on his bald head.
Mozzie glared at him but made no comment about cooties or germs. The glare softened into something like affection. “You can always visit me. That is, if Elizabeth can find another baker with your talents so you can take off for a few days.”
“True, but that’s a baker’s life. I didn’t take vacations when I owned the bakery.” Which had been a source of friction between him and Matthew, who wanted Neal to travel with him at the drop of a hat. “I never really minded before. But now …” Neal wondered if Peter had any interest in going away together. He hoped so. “Maybe I should take on an apprentice?”
“Sounds good to me – a bright young thing fresh out of culinary school, ready and eager to absorb everything you’ve got to teach.”
They chatted for a while about the hypothetical apprentice. Moz raided his wine collection again, this time going for a 2002 Brunello. Neal stopped him before he could open it. “Not that one. I’m saving it for a special occasion.”
Moz seemed a touch offended. “Isn’t my departure an occasion worthy enough?”
“Unless you’re leaving tomorrow, it isn’t.” Neal paused and looked at Moz. “You’re not leaving tomorrow?”
“No, no, not for a few weeks. El and I have to find a replacement driver and train him. I’ve got to acquire a suitable residence, plus get some things set up. And by things, I mean several forms of protection. Astronomers …”
Neal stifled a grin. “Are a bloodthirsty lot.”
“Make fun of me all you want, but when the death threats start coming, you’ll be the last to laugh.”
“Okay, Moz – and I’m sorry. Not too many people can be exiled from the most populous state in the union by a bunch of scientists.” He put the Brunello away and pulled out a bottle of ‘98 Bordeaux. Not a terribly storied vintage, but still a worthy one. “Let’s open this.”
Moz actually checked the time. “Damn, I’m late.”
“Late, for what?”
“The Hayden’s having a special late night open sky program.”
“I thought you loathed the very idea of an urban planetarium. With all the light pollution, there’s no way to actually see the night sky.”
Moz looked at him like he was crazy. “Of course I know that, and the Hayden even doesn’t have a telescope. But its digital projector is one of the best in the world, and that’s what I want. I promised Gina I’d show her the position of the constellations in the year 4623 BCE. That was the final clue in A.B. Tattersall’s last book. She’s leaving next week and I won’t see her again until I get to California.”
“Ah.” Neal didn’t want to burst Mozzie’s bubble and tell him that there were programs on the iPad for that. But then, sitting in a dark theater with your girlfriend and pointing out the stars was a hell of a lot more romantic than tapping and pinching on a screen.
Moz departed and it felt like all of the life, all of the energy left his apartment. Neal checked the time and was surprised to see how late it was, almost midnight. Peter had said he’d be over when his dinner party was finished, sometime around ten. Neal wondered whether he’d forgotten or was just having such a good time that he lost track of the hour. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. Peter was a busy professional who needed to cultivate clients and Neal understood that he wasn’t going to keep baker’s (or even banker’s) hours.
Still, it felt strange to be alone on a Friday night. He felt a bit lost, a bit forgotten and forlorn. El was busy with Reese, Moz had left for his date, and other than Peter, he really didn’t have anyone who’d be interested in socializing at this hour.
There was a time in his life when he’d just be getting started at quarter to midnight. That was during his high-flying days – when he could burn the candle at both ends. He and Matthew would go clubbing until three in the morning. He wouldn’t bother going home; he’d head over to the bakery and start work. By eight, everything was done and then he’d head back to their apartment. He’d sleep for a few hours, go back to the bakery and start all over again. It seemed like he lived on espresso and wine and the energy of being with someone who was his creative equal.
Except that Matthew had been a self-centered jerk with an ego bigger than Manhattan. Neal had wondered if he hadn’t lost the bakery, if they would have lasted any longer than they did. Not that it mattered. He never loved Matthew. Looking back, he wondered just why he had moved in with him. Well, okay, he didn’t have to wonder too hard. Matthew fucked like a rabbit, and in those days, he’d been more interested in quantity than quality.
Maybe it was maturity; maybe it was losing everything and having to rebuild himself from the ground up that made him appreciate what he had with Peter. His “relationship” with Keller wasn’t even in the same universe as that.
All the uncertainty he felt earlier, the insecurity, the worry that what he felt for Peter wasn’t reciprocated, came flooding back. He sent Peter a text that he should come over when he could but he was going to sleep, and then tried to do just that. An hour later, a thin blade of light cut through the darkness, completely fracturing his broken sleep. He sat up and turned on the night table lamp.
“Sorry I’m so late. Hope you don’t mind…” Peter stood in the doorway, ready to leave, not quite sure if he should stay.
“No – don’t mind. I really wasn’t sleeping anyway. Come to bed.”
Peter striped, dropping his clothes on the floor and climbed into bed next to him. Neal turned off the light. The scent of a tired man enveloped him, and Neal breathed deep. This was what had been missing; this was why he couldn’t sleep.
He rested his head on Peter’s shoulder, finally able to relax, and in an unguarded moment before sleep truly claimed him, Neal heard himself say, “Love you.”
He didn’t hear Peter’s answer. If Peter answered at all.
Peter woke to the scent of freshly made coffee. The aroma teased him out of a strange and disturbing dream. He was back with the Bureau (or maybe he’d never left) and Neal wasn’t a baker but a world-renown art forger, thief and con man. He’d broken out of jail and Peter was asked to help capture him.
Or recapture him, since he’d been the one to arrest him in the first place. Somehow, it hadn’t taken him much effort to find the man – he was sitting on the floor of an empty apartment, holding an empty bottle of the same ‘82 Bordeaux that they’d consumed their first night together.
In the dream, he’d stood over a forlorn Neal, with his hands on his hips like some avenging angel of justice, but had gently asked “She leave you a message in that?”
Dream-Neal hadn’t even bothered to look up – he was absorbed by the thing and just replied, “The bottle is the message.”
He felt off-kilter, not because he’d been wearing a badge and carrying a gun, not because Neal wasn’t really Neal but some superman version of a con artist. No, what threw him out of whack was his dream-self’s presumption of Neal’s heterosexuality.
“Hey there, sleepyhead.” Neal put a cup of espresso on the night table and when Peter tried to kiss him, he pulled back and made a face. “Morning breath.”
Peter blinked, his brain still wrapped in the dream.
“You okay?” Neal looked at him intently and Peter found himself drowning in that gaze.
“Yeah. Still half asleep.” He sat up and Neal handed him the coffee. The caffeine gave him a minor jolt. “You showered already?”
“Yeah.”
Peter frowned, disappointed. He liked morning showers with Neal. Especially mornings when they didn’t have to rush off. He pushed back the covers and got out of bed. “Give me a few? I’m still not sure I’m awake yet.”
Neal went back to the kitchen. “Sure – the croissants won’t be ready for a while.” It might have been his own skewed perception, but Neal seemed a little out of sorts. He wasn’t clear-headed enough to address it just yet. Peter put on the robe he’d been keeping here and went to take a shower. The endless hot water finished the job the caffeine started. By the time he’d finished grooming, the last of his distress over that stupid dream had disappeared. He went back into the apartment, ready to confront whatever was bothering Neal.
His partner had finished prepping whatever feast he’d planned for breakfast and was staring out at nothing. Peter just stood there, taking in glory of Neal Caffrey, wearing just an ancient pair of blue cotton sleep pants and a tacky apron that read “Bakers Rise to the Occasion.”
“Been up long?”
“About an hour or so.” Neal bent down to take the croissants out of the oven and Peter admired his blue cotton-covered ass.
Desperately needing to erase the chill, Peter apologized. “I’m sorry I was so late last night. I know I said I’d be over before midnight.”
Neal gave him an odd look. “Wild party?”
“Not in the least. The Kostlers aren’t the party-hardy type.” He paused at Neal’s deliberately bland expression. “Sorry, didn’t catch the sarcasm. I should have sent a text or called when I saw how late it was. Forgive me?”
Neal seemed to debate that very question with himself, but finally smiled. “Of course.” He took the espresso pot off the stove and poured a small cup for both of them. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Yeah – I like them. Elaine and Arthur are good people; you’d like them, too. And you want to hear something funny?”
“Sure. But let’s go out onto the terrace. The morning’s too nice to waste.” He took the croissants and gestured for Peter to bring his cup.
They settled at the small table, which Neal had already set with fresh fruit and a collection of small pots of homemade preserves. Peter fixed a plate for himself, and waited for Neal to do the same.”
“So – funny story?”
“The dinner last night turned out to be something more than a review of the Kostler’s accounts. It turned out to be a dinner party to celebrate some new acquisitions.”
“You run with a dangerous crowd, Peter.” Neal’s sarcasm, this time was gentle and obvious. “Impromptu dinner parties because someone just buys a new piece of art.”
“Yeah – I know. But that’s not what’s funny.”
“No?”
“Arthur just bought the two paintings of Byron’s that June had consigned to Sotheby’s last month.”
“Seriously. Those streetscapes? The ones she hated? The ones she always said reminded her of the crap you’d buy in a ‘Starving Artist’ sale?”
“Yup. Arthur paid about three hundred fifty grand for each one. He considers the acquisitions something of a steal.”
“Did you tell your friends that you know June, that you knew Byron?”
“I may have mentioned it once. But I didn’t want to make a big deal of it. June didn’t want to sell the paintings privately and I didn’t want to have a conflict of interest.” Peter wondered if that was going to come back and bite him in the ass someday.
“Anyways, like I said – you’d like Arthur and Elaine.”
“Hmmm.” Neal toyed with his croissant, tearing it to crumbs instead of eating it. Peter thought that was sacrilege.
“They’d like to meet you.”
“Huh? You told them about me?” He seemed a little incredulous.
Neal’s reaction was both puzzling and worrisome. “Why wouldn’t I?” Peter ignored the fact that he, himself, had been reluctant to tell Elaine about Neal.
“Dunno – because.” Now Neal sounded like a sulky teenager.
Peter thought he understood. “I’m almost too good at compartmentalizing. My personal life is personal, private. My business life is business. But that really isn’t true. A lot of my clients are people I consider friends. Like June, like Elaine and Arthur. There’s no reason why you should be part of that part of my life.”
“And even though you’ve never hidden the fact that you’re gay – you’ve never flaunted it either?” The truth of Neal’s question cut to the bone.
“Yeah. Sort of.” Peter immediately regretted that qualification. It could lead to so many things he didn’t want to talk about.
“What do you mean, sort of?”
Damn. “Once, a long time ago, I tried to be flamboyant.” That wasn’t a lie. “I had gone to a gay student alliance meeting at Harvard during my freshman year. I’d affected every possible stereotypical behavior. I pranced and lisped for about an hour. After the meeting, a really sweet guy – a junior in the history department – told him me didn’t need to be such a conformist and maybe we could go for a beer? I lost my virginity that night.”
Neal blinked and let out a crack of laugher. “I’d pay money to have seen that.”
“What, me having sex for the first time?”
“No, you putting on the queen. Seems impossible.” Neal sounded like he was trying to dare him to do just that. Peter didn’t rise to the bait, but he was relieved that his distraction worked.
“Anyway – they want to meet you and aren’t going to take no for an answer.”
Neal gave him a considering look. “You could invite them to dinner. I could make something very fancy and impressive.”
“You could, but I thought maybe you’d like to come with me to the gala at the Metropolitan next month. They call it the Multicultural Ball. Hughes-Burke always has a table, and I thought, maybe?”
Neal’s eyes lit up. “Really? You want me to come with you to a ball at the Met?”
Peter couldn’t pretend diffidence in the face of such enthusiasm. “Yeah, I’d really like to take you. Been thinking about asking you …” He trailed off, realizing that he may have just stepped in a pile of shit.
But Neal seemed to understand. “That compartmentalizing, again?”
“Yeah. So, do you want to put on a monkey suit and meet a few of my friends? Maybe hobnob with the beautiful and the famous?”
Neal leaned over the table, and this time gave him a proper good morning kiss. “I’d love to.”
Neal buttoned and unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket. He straightened his cuffs, checked the shine on his shoes, unbuttoned his jacket again.
Yes, yes. He was nervous. Cat in a room full of rocking chairs nervous. He shouldn’t have been, but he was. The Kostlers were just people, and they were Peter’s friends. But this was the first time he was meeting them and he wanted to make a good impression, he wanted them to like him. He waited for Peter to come out of the bathroom and checked himself in the mirror. The tuxedo fit perfectly: a vintage Dior that Byron had worn the night he and June were introduced to President Kennedy. Neal tried to take strength in that. If Byron wore this when he met the President of the United States, Neal could wear it and meet Peter’s clients and friends.
Nothing to be nervous about. Nothing at all.
Neal took a deep breath and tried not to pass out.
“You look fantastic.” Peter came up behind him, wearing only his trousers and socks. His chest was still a little damp and Neal took another deep breath, loving the subtle scent of Peter’s aftershave.
Their eyes met in the mirror. “You look pretty fabulous yourself.” Peter did and Neal wished he was an artist, that he could paint or draw and capture Peter just like this – half naked but fully groomed. A lion ready for the hunt.
Peter must have sensed his desire and he kissed him under his ear, just above the jaw line, right where a lion would bite down on his prey. Neal shivered.
“We don’t have time.”
“They’re your friends, they’d understand if we were a little late.”
Peter laughed, lips still pressed close and Neal loved how the sound rumbled through him. “We would be more than a little late if I did everything I wanted to do to you.” To Neal’s disappointment, Peter stepped back and retrieved his shirt.
Neal watched as Peter dressed, thinking that it was a terrible shame to cover all that beauty. But the white cotton fit perfectly over his broad shoulders and the black satin braces framed them to perfection. He had a brief moment of fantasy – of Peter in a shoulder holster – and made a mental note to ask him if he wore one or carried his gun on his belt.
Not that he had a cop fetish or anything. His father had been a cop – killed in the line of duty when he was five – and some of his earliest memories were of men in dark uniforms whispering to his mother, clapping him on the shoulder and telling him he needed to be the man of the house now.
Neal shook his head, annoyed at the unwelcome intrusion of his past.
“Can you help me?” Peter was struggling with his bowtie.
“Of course.” Neal pushed Peter’s hands away and expertly tied the bit of silk, then put in Peter’s cufflinks and helped him into his jacket.
“You know, if you ever get tired of baking, you could probably find a job as a valet.”
“Very funny.” Neal stepped back and gave Peter the once over and his breath caught at the magnificence before him. “You look like a man made to wear a tuxedo, you know that?”
Peter actually blushed. “Well, I don’t know about that, but I had the tuxedo custom made for me.”
“Remind me to send a box of cupcakes to your tailor in thanks.”
“Very funny, Caffrey.”
“I’m serious. You’re gorgeous.”
Peter ignored the compliment. “You ready?”
“More than you are.” Neal looked down at Peter’s feet. His sock-clad, shoeless feet.
Peter gave him a dirty look, but didn’t say another word as he slipped on the loafers.
Neal opened the door and gestured for Peter to precede him.
Because it was one of those rare summer nights without humidity, they walked the few blocks to where Peter’s friends, the Kostlers, lived.
Neal couldn’t stop fidgeting with his jacket and cuffs while the waited for the elevator.
“Why are you so nervous?”
Neal thought about denying that, for about a second. “I – these are your friends. I guess I don’t want to embarrass you.”
Peter smiled at him and cupped a warm palm against his cheek. “You could never do that. You are wonderful and I’m proud to introduce you to them.”
In a small, dark corner of his heart, Neal had hoped that Peter might have included some declaration of his feelings. And then he chastised himself. The lobby of an apartment building was not the place for that. But his heart was also a bit irrational and the disappointment tasted sour.
“You’ll be fine. Arthur and Elaine are good people, no reason to be nervous.” Peter had said that before, as if it was some magical incantation.
“And yet Elaine wanted to fix you up with their son – the DC powerbroker. I feel like I’ve got a lot to measure up to.” Neal wondered if the elevator was ever going to arrive. Waiting was making him even more nervous.
Peter gave him a wry grin. “She’s got a little bit of the matchmaker in her. Her eldest son is gay, I’m gay. Therefore we ought to be gay together.”
That didn’t mollify Neal at all. “Have you ever met the man?”
“Yeah, a few times. Nice enough, but not my type.”
“And just what is your type, Peter?”
“I’d say, ‘smart, leggy brunets’ but you might think I’m shallow.”
The elevator let off a discreet musical chime, signaling the arrival of a car. A well-dressed couple in their seventies – probably heading for the same event – nodded and smiled as they exited. Peter pressed a button for the 17th floor and Neal pressed Peter for an answer. “Seriously, why wouldn’t you want to date this guy?” Neal figured he wouldn’t get an answer but Peter surprised him.
“Aside from the fact that he lives in Washington and I’m not interested in a long distance relationship, Jason’s pretty much living in the closet. He’s out to his family, but no one he works with knows he’s gay. I don’t do closets. Not anymore.”
Whatever Neal was going to say got cut off when the elevator stopped. He took a deep breath and tried to put the thought of handsome, powerful but closeted men out of his mind. He was the one here with Peter, and that’s what mattered, right?
Even though this was supposed to be a social occasion, Peter still had to work the room and at some point after dinner, he and Neal had gotten separated. He’d caught glimpses of him in the crowd, smiling and beautiful, like he’d been born on the party circuit. Introducing him to Arthur and Elaine had gone like a dream, and they had taken to Neal like he was a long-lost family member. Arthur, being Arthur, was thrilled to learn that Neal was living in the Ellington mansion and wanted to know all about the place. And of course, he had to show off the two paintings he’d bought. Elaine had taken the opportunity to give Peter her own approval.
“I was a little worried, you know.”
“No – I didn’t.” Peter was surprised at Elaine’s comment.
“When you showed me his picture, I thought – how gorgeous, how young. But he’s really not that young.”
“Or that gorgeous?”
Elaine had smacked him lightly on the arm. “He’s absolutely gorgeous, but it’s more than skin deep. And seeing the two of you together – even for just a few moments, I realize that you and Jason would never have worked out.”
Peter nodded. “Your son’s a lovely man, Elaine – but we’d never be right for each other.”
“But Neal is. He’s perfect for you. Smart and funny and down to earth. And I can see how much he cares for you. He loves you, darling.”
Peter wasn’t sure he could believe Elaine’s last words. They’d only been together for a few months and love was such an untrustworthy emotion. Daniel never stopped saying how much he loved Peter, after everything he’d done …
Looking out at crowd of beautiful people, Peter couldn’t stop thinking about Elaine’s words and as much as he wanted to disregard them, he couldn’t help but revel in the hope that maybe it was true. There had been that moment, the night that he had shown up so late at Neal’s, when they were both on the edge of sleep, that he thought he heard Neal tell him that he loved him. He wasn’t sure if it was a dream or his imagination.
But Neal never said it again, and Peter eventually dismissed it as a product of his tired mind and too-wishful thinking.
Peter finished the rest of his drink and was about to go look for Neal when Bitsy Cunningham approached. Bitsy had been a fixture on the art world’s social circuit since the mid-1950s, when she made her society debut. Rumor had it that she’d been part of Warhol’s crowd at The Factory, but when asked, Bitsy would simply say she wasn’t the type of girl to kiss and tell.
Not that it made a difference these days, since Bitsy was in her eighties. Still spry and still appreciative of a man’s well-muscled ass, Peter knew better than to turn his back on her. Her fingers pinched like a Doberman’s bite. Despite Bitsy’s penchant for manhandling (hell, he’d swear that she once grabbed his junk at a New Year’s Eve party), she was someone he liked and respected.
“Who’s that luscious piece of man candy over there?” Bitsy waved a hand with a martini glass over to where a crowd of lovely young things were laughing – and at the center of the group was his missing partner. “And what are the odds that he’s single and straight? If he’s not, you just might have a shot.”
Peter grinned wolfishly. “I can tell you, from close, personal experience that he’s definitely not straight and he’s definitely not single.”
She grinned back at him. “Already staked a claim?”
“Don’t need to. He’s my date tonight, and we’ve been together for three months.”
“Good for you!” Bitsy took a sip of her martini and looked at it in disgust. “Damn thing’s watered down.” She gestured for a waiter, who took her glass. “Doctor says I should cut back. I tell him that I’ll stop drinking when they go to bury me. Anyways, what the hell are you doing talking to an old woman when you’ve got a hot date. Go get ‘em, tiger.”
Peter kissed her cheek and took her advice.
Go to Part Five - On LJ | On DW
Tags:
- character: clinton jones,
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: june ellington,
- character: matthew keller,
- character: mozzie,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: ofc,
- character: omc,
- character: peter burke,
- character: reese hughes,
- character: sara ellis,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: domesticity,
- genre: fluff,
- genre: food,
- genre: friendship,
- genre: het,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: romance,
- genre: slash,
- pairing: elizabeth/mozzie,
- pairing: elizabeth/neal,
- pairing: elizabeth/reese,
- pairing: neal/kate,
- pairing: neal/keller,
- pairing: neal/sara,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- white collar,
- written for: wcbb,
- year: 2013
