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elrhiarhodanTitle: Red Velvet - Part Five of Nine
Notes: See Master Post - On LJ | On DW
By the time Peter was able to get to Neal – he had to stop and shake hands with more people than he wanted to – the crowd had shifted again. The collection of beautiful young things had been whittled down to just two. A short, dark-haired man with an aggressively pugnacious attitude and a tall redhead who looked vaguely familiar.
Neal’s expression was deliberately bland, and Peter knew him long enough to realize that something about the situation was making him uncomfortable. Although Peter wasn’t one for public displays of affection – at least not anymore – he stalked over to Neal, draped an arm around him and pressed a kiss on his temple. “Introduce me?”
The look Neal gave him was a cross between pure gratitude and utter desperation.
“Peter, this is an old, old friend of mine, Matthew Keller.”
Peter hid a smile and held out his hand. Matthew Keller was Neal’s ex – the asshole who had kicked Neal out after he’d lost the bakery. Time for a little revenge, maybe. “Ah, I think Neal might have mentioned you? The tailor, right? Dressmaker?”
“No, not quite.” Keller held out a hand and tried to turn it into a contest of machismo, squeezing Peter’s with excessive enthusiasm. Peter tried not to laugh at Keller’s pained expression when he squeezed back, hard.
“No? I’m sure that’s what Neal told me.” He turned to Neal, who was doing his best not to crack a smile.
“Designer – Matthew’s a designer.”
Peter just kept squeezing. “Hmm, interior designer? Because you know I’ve been meaning to have the townhouse redone.”
“Clothing, I’m a fashion designer.” Keller tugged, trying to extricate his hand from Peter’s grip. Peter finally let go.
“Ah. Afraid I don’t know too much about the fashion world. Were you on Project Runway?” This was almost too easy.
Keller turned an interesting shade of red, which clashed with the peach-pink of his date’s dress. “No – I studied at Central Saint Martins in London, and trained with both Vivian Westwood and Alexander McQueen. My collections have been featured in Vogue and Women’s Wear Daily. I’ve shown in Paris and Milan.” The man recited his accomplishments like some laundry list, sounding like he would be more comfortable in the factories and on the loading docks of industrial Brooklyn than the rarified world of high fashion. He also looked like a thug and Peter had to wonder at just what Neal ever saw in the man.
“Hmm. Like I said, I don’t follow fashion. If it’s not art or baseball, I’m not really interested.”
Neal snagged a glass of champagne from a passing server and handed it to Keller with a slight smirk. “Matthew, here. You look like you could use this.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce me, Neal?” The redhead was stunning, if almost impossibly skinny. But she was more than good looks and hair, there seemed to be a spark of intelligence and humor behind those big green eyes.
“Of course. This is my partner, Peter Burke. Peter, Sara Ellis.”
Peter wondered how Neal knew this woman, but didn’t ask. He could find out later. Instead, he took Sara’s hand and kissed it, a deliberately over-the-top gesture that was received with a delighted laugh.
“Have we met?” Peter had to ask. He didn’t think they had, but her face was very familiar.
“No, I don’t believe so.”
Keller stuck his two cents in. “Sara’s a model, you might have seen her on the cover of Vogue, wearing something from my latest collection. She’s become my muse.”
Peter had to admit that was probably it.
But Keller didn’t leave it there. “Or you might have seen picture of her in Neal’s apartment.”
"Huh?” Why would Neal have photographs of this woman in his apartment?
“I guess Neal never told you. He and Supermodel Sara here were banging back in the day.” Sara gave Keller a playful slap, obviously used to his crudity.
Peter looked over at Neal – hoping he’d deny what this little turd just told him. Neal simply stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged, as if to say “so what?”
The bottom dropped out of Peter’s world.
But Neal seemed oblivious to Peter’s distress. He gave Keller a tight smile, kissed his old girlfriend on the cheek and stood there, looking like Peter’s worst nightmare come true. Keller and his muse wandered off and Peter wanted to be sick, or punch Neal or go home and never leave again. How could this have happened to him? How could Neal do this to him?
Finally, Neal seemed to pick up on the fact that something was wrong. “Hey, are you okay?”
He looked at Neal, but he didn’t see the man he’d liked and respected, and yes, the man he thought he loved. Instead, he saw a betrayer. A liar and a cheat.
“No. I need to get out of here.”
“Okay – I’m sorry about that. Keller’s poison and he loves nothing more than to cause trouble.”
Peter felt instant relief. “Ah. So you and this Sara – you weren’t dating?”
And that relief was flushed away by Neal’s next words.
“Yes – we were. For a few months, but it didn’t work out.”
Peter stood there, trying to contain his fury at this – this betrayal. His fists curled into his palm, the edges of his nails cutting into the skin, a mere pinprick of pain against the anguish in his heart.
“We need to go. Now.”
“Okay.” Neal looked puzzled – he didn’t realize what he’d done. “I’ll find Elaine and tell her you’re not feeling well. She’d said something about going back to their place for drinks.”
“Don’t bother.” Peter’s temper was barely under control. He didn’t think he could control himself. “I’ll send her a text.” He turned and stalked out of the room, not waiting to see if Neal followed.
The museum’s galleries and wide hallways were filled with party-goers, and people he knew waved at him, tried to talk with him, but Peter didn’t stop. He practically ran down the Grand Staircase and out the Met’s front doors. Thank god there were taxis lined up, waiting to take the revelers home, or to some other event. He flew down the front steps, desperate to get into a cab, to get away from here. Away from Neal.
“Peter, damn it. Slow down.” Neal was panting, and pulled on his jacket sleeve to stop him. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
He turn to Neal, vicious in his anger. “You fucked her. You fuck women. You fuck around.”
“What?”
“You’re bisexual, aren’t you?” He didn’t care who overheard him, he didn’t care that he was going to end everything right here on Fifth Avenue under the streetlights and a huge August moon. He didn’t care because his heart was breaking and he didn’t know how to stop the pain except by making Neal bleed as much as he was.
Neal stepped back in the face of Peter’s fury. “I don’t like what you’re implying, Peter.”
“I’m not implying anything. You fucked that woman. You fuck women. You fuck around.” He was repeating himself so maybe Neal would finally get the point.
“I’ve had relationships with women and with men, Peter. I thought you knew that.” Neal sounded so reasonable. Like they were discussing the weather or what to have for lunch.
“No, Neal – I didn’t know that. You never told me you fucked women.” His voice was rising and people were looking at him. He didn’t care.
“Peter – please.” Neal walked towards a waiting taxicab. “Let’s go home and talk about this.”
He wasn’t sure he wanted to spend even a second more in Neal’s presence, but he needed to end this and doing it in such a public space wasn’t right. He got into the taxi and Neal followed, giving the cabbie his address.
The drive took a painfully long time, since all of the Fifth Avenue entrances through Central Park were closed to automobile traffic. Peter didn’t say a word, he tried not to look at Neal, he tried not to think, not to feel, not to be anything more than a man in complete control.
And he was failing miserably.
The taxi pulled up, in front of the Ellington mansion and Neal paid the driver. Peter got out and followed Neal up the front steps. The housekeeper was surprised to see them – it was still early and Neal had told her as they left that they wouldn’t be home until very late. She asked if they wanted anything and Neal gave her a smile and said no, to just lock up and go to bed.
Peter trailed Neal up to the fourth floor apartment, for the very last time. He glanced over at the bed, it was still mussed, his towel draped over the comforter, the pillow still bearing the indents from both their heads. They’d actually napped together that afternoon and Peter tried not to think of all the last times that had happened today.
“Peter? What’s going on?” Neal spoke carefully, as if he finally understood just what a dangerous minefield he was entering.
Perhaps that interminable cab ride did some good. He seemed to find a leash for his temper. “I will not be in a relationship with a bisexual. I will not go through that hell again.” He was proud of how even-tempered he sounded.
“What? You’re ending this? You're breaking up with me?”
“Yes, Neal. We’re done.”
“I don’t understand, Peter. What has my past have to do with our future?” Peter tried to close his ears to the pain, the confusion that laden Neal’s questions.
“I don’t date men who date women. Is that so hard to understand?”
“Why?” Neal stood by the dining table, looking like he was waiting for a blow to fall.
“I don’t need to explain myself to you.” Peter knew he sounded like an asshole.
“Yes, I think you do.” Neal’s tone was steely.
“It’s over – just accept it.” His hand sliced through the air, trying to cut off any further discussion.
“No – I can’t just accept it. You owe me an explanation. You don’t just get to walk out of my life like this without telling me why.”
“I don’t date bisexuals. Had I known this about you, I would never have let you into my house; I certainly would never have touched you. And all I can say is thank god we’ve never gone without condoms, because the thought of fucking you bare makes my skin crawl now.”
Peter watched the color rise in Neal’s face, watched his fists tighten and a cold, detached part of him mind wondered if Neal was going to hit him. Maybe he deserved that, but he wasn’t going to give Neal the chance. He turned to leave.
“No – you aren’t going anywhere, you son of a bitch. We’ve been together for three months and I’ve never – ever – given you the slightest reason to distrust me. I've never so much as looked at anyone else, thought about anyone else but you. But you find out that I once dated a woman and you end things? You don’t have that right.”
“You once dated a woman? Come on, she’s a damn supermodel. And she’s not the only woman you’ve been with, right?”
Neal didn’t answer.
The light dawned, a terrible and ugly light. “You’ve slept with Elizabeth – Elizabeth Mitchell, right?”
“El and I are just friends, Peter. We’ve known each other a long time.” Neal answered carefully.
“Just friends, my ass. More like friends with benefits.”
“Call it that if you want, but that side of our friendship was over since before you and I started seeing each other.”
Peter wanted to ask, “Long over?” Except that it was irrelevant. Neal was bisexual, which was all that mattered. He turned to leave again, but Neal's next words stopped him.
“You know, Peter – I’ve always wondered if this was going to happen.”
He stopped. “What?”
“I could never shake the feeling that you would turn on me. There was always this coldness, this uncertainty I’d get from you. Like you were just waiting for something to go wrong.”
He should just keep going, just walk out the door and leave forever, but he couldn’t. The anguish in Neal’s voice kept him anchored here.
“I kept telling myself that I was just being insecure, needy. That I was seeing things that weren’t there. But I wasn’t, was I? You never trusted me, Peter. You never really had any faith in what we had.”
“You lied to me.”
“What? I never – ”
Peter cut him off. “A lie of omission is still a lie. Why didn’t you ever tell me you were bisexual?”
Neal looked like he’d been struck. “You’re a fine one to talk. Every time I tried to talk about the past, you’d brush me off. You never once told me anything about your own history – it was like you didn't even have one. Christ, I once even thought you might have been a virgin. You were a man who had no emotional past and you made it pretty clear you didn’t want to hear about mine, so how the hell was I supposed to tell you? Just drop it into the middle of a conversation? What do you want for dinner and by the way, I’ve dated women a few times.”
Peter didn’t want to concede the point, but Neal was right. He’d made a deliberate effort to avoid talking about the past. He waved a hand at Neal. “It doesn’t matter now. You’re bisexual – ”
“And that means what? That I’m promiscuous? A disease carrier? That I’m fucking every hole I can fit my dick in?”
Neal was so angry, so self-righteous, but all Peter could see was Daniel screwing some bimbo behind the stage in his favorite dance club. And then Daniel lying in a hospital bed, covered in sarcomas and weighing about seventy-five pounds, a tube down his throat and his eyes begging him to end the misery.
A single syllable erupted from his mouth, a shout loud enough to set the windows rattling. “YES!”
“Then this is it. We’re done and there’s nothing more that needs to be said.” Neal walked to the door and opened it. “I – ” He shook his head, cutting himself off. “Go. Just go.”
And Peter did.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Once upon a time, Neal had thought that losing the bakery was the darkest moment in his life. He had no idea how wrong he could be.
He didn’t even try to sleep in his bed – the sheet still bore Peter’s scent. Hell, the whole apartment reeked of Peter. His aftershave, his own personal musk, even the bittersweet stink of his feet – all scents that Neal reveled in and now made him ill. He went out onto the terrace – at least there, the air was fresh, with the ever-present undertone of carbon monoxide. But Peter was everywhere – in his memories. Dinner out here that first time, breakfasts and lunches and other dinners. Dancing together, watching Peter dance with June, or just the three of them talking.
Neal couldn’t take another memory, another moment in this place. He made his way to the large walk-in closet and stripped out of the tuxedo he’d so nervously donned a few short hours ago. He ignored the items of Peter’s wardrobe and put on jeans and a tee shirt. He grabbed his wallet, his keys, his phone and left without any destination in mind.
Mozzie was gone; he’d left for California yesterday. Elizabeth was with Reese and there was no way he’d go and cry on her shoulder. June was with her daughter, in Chicago or Miami or someplace else. Neal didn’t know and didn’t – for the moment – care.
He was alone like he’d never been alone before. No one was there for him, no one to hold him in the night and tell him that this was all a terrible, terrible dream.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Saturday night at the Met gala had been sheer perfection. Of course she’d met Reese’s colleagues and even a few of his clients since they’d started seeing each other. He might have grumbled that he wasn’t really a social animal, and only did this for the good of the firm, but El could see how much he enjoyed this aspect of the business. It wasn’t just schmoozing, it gave him a much more human connection to his clients.
But Saturday night was the first time they’d attended such a major event on the New York social calendar as a couple. She’d been nervous, not because she’d be meeting the rich and the powerful (hell, she’d planned events for a few of them and knew just how neurotic and empty their lives were), but because they were pretty much announcing to the world that they were a couple.
The age difference between them never bothered her, and it had long since stopped bothering Reese. Practically from the beginning they seemed to fit together like an old married couple. Their lives dovetailed perfectly. That night, though – they were exposing their relationship to people who might look at Reese and say he was an old fool or look at her and think she was a gold digger.
Reese understood exactly what was going through her head, and told her that they couldn’t control what other people thought and nothing was going to change the way he felt about her. His words calmed most of her outward jitters but it wasn’t until they were introduced to an octogenarian banker and his twenty-two year old fourth wife did El realize that her May-December relationship with Reese would never raise a single eyebrow in this crowd.
Peter and Neal seemed like they were having a great time too, and there was a look in Neal’s eyes that told her that whatever issues he’d been having with Peter (he hadn’t confided about any trouble, but she knew he wasn’t completely happy) had been resolved.
The only dark cloud was when she caught site of Neal’s ex, Matthew Keller, squiring another one of Neal’s exes, Sara Ellis. She’d liked Sara, she’d loathed Matthew, and she hoped that Neal didn’t run into that son of a bitch.
At some point, Peter and Neal had disappeared, but Elizabeth hadn’t worried. Why should she – they were grown men and if they’d wanted to sneak home for a little tuxedo-inspired nookie, more power to them.
She had figured that Reese would want to stay until the very end of the evening, but the party was still going strong when he asked her if she wanted to head home. El hadn’t minded at all, and to her surprise and delight, at the foot of the staircase in front of the museum was a horse and carriage waiting to take them home.
As Reese helped her into the carriage, El had to say, “I feel a little like Cinderella!”
He replied as he settled down next to her. “But Cinderella only got to ride in style on the way to the ball. Didn’t the carriage turn into a pumpkin on the way home?”
She laughed at the silliness of her own comment, “And it’s well after midnight, besides.”
The carriage ride, something she’d always thought of as a little silly and touristy, turned out to be a near endless moment of magic. Reese had ordered champagne, and even if the vintage was less than stellar and the glasses were plastic, it was still something out of her dreams. The ride through the park, under the full August moon, was pure romance.
As they passed the Belvedere Castle, Reese took her hand and held to his lips. “Elizabeth – it’s been only three months. But these have been the happiest three months of my life and I can’t imagine a future without you in it.”
“Reese – ”
“I look at you and wonder how I’ve managed to be so lucky. I never hope, never dreamed that you’d sit across from me at breakfast, smack my hand away from the sugar bowl and tell me that you love me.”
She laughed, a small and embarrassed chuckle. “Not a terribly romantic declaration.”
“No – it was perfect.”
She had cupped her hand around his cheek – not seeing any of the lines and wrinkles – just the wonder of the love in his eyes.
“Elizabeth – I know we’ve talked about you moving in with me. Or about me moving in with you – but before that decision’s made, perhaps maybe … ”
El held her breath.
“Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
She had blinked against the sudden rush of tears and wrapped her arms around him. “Of course, yes. Yes!”
Maybe the horse and carriage grew wings and took flight, because suddenly they were in front of Reese’s building and the driver was waiting patiently for them to get down.
Sunday had been spent lazing about, just reveling in their happiness, making plans. Reese wanted to give her the wedding of her dreams, but she could hear the touch of horror when he asked her if she wanted to get married in New York or maybe have a big event somewhere special.
“Hon – I don’t have much family and my circle of friends is small. I’d prefer something private, intimate. I’ve created too many huge society weddings to take pleasure from the crush of people. What do you want?”
Reese assured her – with no small amount of relief – that that was exactly what he wanted, too.
Monday morning, Elizabeth waltzed into the bakery on a cloud of pure joy. Was it possible to be any happier? She wanted to blurt out her news, and conversely, keep it to herself for a little while longer.
The lights were on in the kitchens and she could hear the hum of machinery and smell the always-delicious aroma of cakes baking. Neal was here and already hard at work. She called out, “Morning,” but didn’t wait for him to answer. She snapped on the light in her tiny office and went to make herself a cup of coffee. That was the plan, except that the milk she kept in the small fridge in her office had turned sour. No big deal, there was always fresh milk in the bakery refrigerators.
She took her cup and headed back to the kitchen. “Neal – I hope your weekend was as good as mine …”
Her voice trailed off as she took in the chaos that had transformed the normally spotless facility. The racks were full of cakes and pastries, far more than they needed to fill even a week’s worth of orders. Dirty bowls and pots were crowded into the sinks, flour was on every surface and it looked like a bag of powdered cocoa had exploded over everything. In the middle of this mess, Neal was working frantically, like he was desperately trying to keep up with some insane taskmaster.
She stood in the doorway, watching in surprise as Neal started pouring his signature red velvet batter into a cupcake tin. She’d seen him do this a thousand times. He’d meticulously measure out the right portion and deposit it into each indention in the pan, but not this time. He had turned the mixing bowl directly over the cupcake tin and just let the batter slop out. Then, to her shock, Neal first pitched the bowl across the room, then the cupcake tin. The spilled batter was like drying blood across the walls.
He stood in the middle of the mess, panting, his shoulders slumped. From behind, he looked like a portrait of a man defeated.
“Neal?”
He turned and Elizabeth was horrified by the transformation in Neal. When she'd seen him Saturday night, his face was relaxed, his eyes glowing with happiness. Now, he looked like a man in the throes of profound grief. His cheeks, covered by two days of black stubble, were sunken, his eyes bloodshot, his skin gray.
“What happened to you?”
Neal didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was hoarse, raw, as if he’d been screaming for days. “Peter dumped me.”
El was stunned. “Why?”
“I’m bisexual, and apparently a filthy, disease ridden whore, not fit to be in the same room as the oh-so-pure Peter Burke.”
“What?” This seemed impossible.
Moving like an old man, Neal slowly walked over to one of the work tables and leaned against it, as if he could barely stay upright. “Sara was at the gala on Saturday.”
“I know – I saw her with Matthew, of all people.”
“Yeah – she’s his ‘muse’ now.” Neal waved a hand, dismissing that as irrelevant. “Peter was there and Matthew mentioned that Sara and I dated once and Peter just lost it. He – ” Neal’s breath caught in a sob. “He said that he would never date a bisexual – he’d have never touched me if he knew I’d been with women.”
Of course, Elizabeth couldn’t help but remember what her long-ago co-worker at the Diarmitt had told her about Peter; that his boyfriend was cheating on him, with men and with women and her own decision not to tell Neal when he’d first met Peter. And now was definitely the wrong time to tell Neal that. And besides, no amount of past trauma could excuse what Peter had said to Neal. Elizabeth did the only thing she could think of, she wrapped her arms around Neal and held him tight.
Neal stood there, stiff, unyielding. Elizabeth wondered if Peter’s comments about his sexuality somehow made it impossible to accept comfort from her. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she murmured, still holding him. He took a deep breath and shuddered, finally letting go. His tears were scalding hot against her cheek and Elizabeth wondered how someone who seemed so wonderful could be so cruel.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“Boss?” Diana knocked on Peter’s office door, surprised that it was closed and the privacy coatings built into the glass walls were activated. In the five years she’d been at Hughes-Burke, she’d never seen Peter close himself off like this, even when he had a meeting with a client. Transparency was essential in their field and both Peter and Reese Hughes insisted that everyone practice what they preached.
She knocked again, worried.
Finally, Peter responded. “One moment.” She heard him getting up and the door opened. “What’s up?” His voice was scratchy, and although he was wearing a suit and tie and was properly groomed for a Monday morning, Peter looked – for lack of a better term – disheveled.
“I – umm.” Diana was not one to hem and haw; she prided herself on being as forthright as possible without being rude. “Can I come in?”
Peter stepped back and she entered the office. Everything in it was pin neat, but she couldn’t escape the feeling that there was something terribly wrong.
Peter repeated his earlier question. “What’s the matter, Diana?”
“Saturday night …” She paused.
“What about it?”
“Christie and I left a little early – ”
Peter cut her off. “That’s fine – nothing to apologize about. These affairs can be trying. No one expects you to stay until the bitter end.”
She wondered if she should just take the out Peter handed to her and leave well enough alone. “Actually, that’s not why I stopped by. I wanted to make sure that you’re all right.”
Peter stared at her through narrowed eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
She licked her lips, and wondered if she was about to commit career suicide. “Christie and I were on Fifth Avenue, thinking about taking a carriage ride through the park when we …”
Peter’s expression didn’t change, but the temperature in the room felt like it just dropped fifteen degrees.
She plowed forward. “We heard you …” She was about to say “arguing with Neal” but there really was no argument going on. Peter was flinging some rather vile insults at his boyfriend and Neal hadn’t seemed to be saying anything. “Just wanted to make sure you’re okay. That’s all.” She stopped; there was nothing more she could think of to say.
“My private life is private for a reason, Ms. Berrigan.” Peter’s tone was colder than the chill in the room.
Diana knew she’d just made a mistake. A big one. She wondered if she could transfer to a different department or if she’d have to leave the firm.
But maybe not. Peter seemed to soften, just a bit. “Diana, I appreciate your concern but everything is fine.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Anything else?”
She shook her head. “Nothing other than the Pedersons. My contact at the U.S. Attorney’s office says that this time the subpoena won’t be quashed and we’re going to have to produce the records. And you’ll probably need to testify before a Grand Jury.”
“Ah, great.” Peter grimaced. “Thanks for the update.”
Diana opened the door, knowing she was about to step over a very bright line. “Peter – I hope you think of me as a friend. If you ever need to just talk …”
He gave her a small, tight nod. “You are my friend, and well, thanks. Maybe.”
She left Peter’s office, closing the door behind her, hearing the lock slide into place. She had some damage control to do. While she was the only H-B employee to actually hear Peter go off on Neal Caffrey, somehow half the office knew that one of the bosses threw a hissy fit on the front steps of the Metropolitan. The rumors were flying fast and thick. She needed to get with Clinton and figure out the best way to stop the wagging tongues and stop them quickly.
Peter’s business was his own, but he was her friend and she always looked after her friends.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
September
The first month after he ended things with Neal was pure hell.
It wasn’t the whispers going around the office. Peter knew he had made a very public spectacle of himself and even if Diana had kept her mouth shut (and he was certain that she did), there were always connections and people loved a scandal. He that he didn’t care about that. None of the side-eyeing he got from staff and associates, the well-meaning questions from the other partners, even Reese’s avuncular concern, made a damn bit of difference to him.
It was the loneliness that was killing him. The ache in his body, the need and desire for someone who wasn’t there and who would never be there again. The emptiness in his life, the feeling that nothing mattered, that it was all pointless.
The righteous fury that drove him away from Neal faded into something less definable, less justifiable. And underneath the loneliness, beyond the ache and the sense of futility, was as the feeling that he’d made a terrible mistake. One that was going to be impossible to fix and impossible to get passed.
So Peter filled his days with hard work, and his nights, too, staying at the office until after midnight most nights. Because he couldn’t bear to go home to an empty house and deal with what he’d done.
Peter tried to tell himself he was being stupid and sentimental. It wasn’t like Neal had lived there, or that they’d even spent a lot of time together at his house. Most of their time had been spent in his apartment, but still, Peter couldn’t escape the ghosts of his former happiness.
He’d had the couch replaced – the one that they’d first made love on. He replaced his bed, too. And all of the linens. Plus every pot and pan and dish that Neal might have used in the kitchen. Money was an amazing thing. So were Internet shopping sites.
And for all the changes he made, all the effort to erase Neal Caffrey from his life, he was still haunted.
So most of his wardrobe had migrated to the large closet in his office. Back in the early days of the firm, back when he really needed to bust ass and work ungodly hours, he purchased a good quality sofa bed for his office. During tax season, it still saw some use, but not like now. He slept there four, five nights a week. No one knew, at least he didn’t think they did. He went home – no, back to the house – just a few times a week, to pick up the mail and make sure the place hadn’t flooded or burned down.
Good thing he never got that dog.
Part of him – the part that had fallen so deep, so hard for Neal Caffrey – kept insisting that he’d behaved like the worst type of idiot. He had no reason to believe that Neal had ever been unfaithful, no reason to think that he’d been promiscuous. And the fact that he’d had relationships with women in the past didn’t mean that he was looking for that now. No reason at all.
The other part – the younger man who’d been so badly hurt – told him that he did the right thing. Even if Neal had been faithful up until now, that didn’t mean he was going to stay faithful and it was inevitable that he was going to want something that Peter couldn’t provide. No, he was better off ending it. Maybe he could have been nicer, but in the long run, this was for the best.
Except that it wasn’t. He dreamed of holding Neal and waking in his arms every morning. He couldn’t stop dreaming about seeing the sun rise in those beautiful eyes; he couldn’t stop thinking about the wonder and the joy as he held Neal, the perfection of sex, the happiness at the simple pleasure of sharing a life with someone who completed him.
Peter scrubbed at his face and tried to dispel those longings and deny his mistakes. There was no point in dreaming about what he could no longer have.
Almost fifty years old and you’re going to be alone for the rest of your life.
And whose fault is that, asshole. You did this to yourself.
A knock on the door interrupted his session in self-hatred. It was Hughes.
“Peter – can we talk?”
“Sure, Reese. What’s up?” He leaned back in his chair and plastered on what he hoped was a reasonably friendly smile.
His business partner and old friend cut right to the chase. “I’m worried about you.”
“Why?”
“Oh, don’t be stupid, Peter. You’re burning the candle at both ends. When was the last time you slept in your own bed?”
Peter opened his mouth to answer, but Hughes held up a hand, forestalling him.
“Don’t think I don’t know that you’ve been all but living in the office. You’ve been sleeping here, showering in the health club in the mornings – that’s the third time this week that you’ve worn that damn tie.”
“Sorry – I didn’t realize my sartorial choices were boring you.”
“Cut the sarcasm, Peter. I’m concerned about you.”
“Don’t be, Reese.”
The older man sighed. “That’s like asking the sun not to rise. I’ve seen you go through this before, remember?”
“I’m not drinking, if that’s worrying you.” He wouldn’t start that cycle again.
“The thought had crossed my mind.” There was so much that Reese wasn’t saying.
“I’ve learned my lesson. Nothing – no piece of ass is worth going through that hell.”
“Damn it, Peter! You don’t mean that. Neal was a hell of a lot more to you than that.”
No, he didn’t mean it, not really, but he didn’t retract the statement either.
The two men sat there, the silence bitter. Reese gave him a look, one he couldn’t quite decipher.
Peter decided to break the silence. “Anything else?”
“I don’t suppose you’re busy tomorrow night.”
“No, I’m not.” It should have been his poker night, but Peter had cancelled out of the game, not in the least mood for dealing with the sly ribbing about being a free man again. He could lie, though. Except it wasn’t worth the effort.
“I thought maybe you’d like to have dinner with El and me.”
Peter’s stomach roiled. In theory, he had nothing against Elizabeth Burke, and when his partner had started dating her all those months ago, he’d been delighted. The four of them had socialized a quite a few times and it was such a pleasure to see Reese happy and relaxed and in love.
Now, though – knowing that Neal and Elizabeth had been lovers – he was a little sick at the thought of facing her. Peter wondered if Reese knew about the two of them.
“Peter?”
He couldn’t avoid the woman – Elizabeth – forever. They were bound to cross paths frequently and he was just going to have to cowboy up and get used to the fact that one of Neal’s former lovers was going to be a part of his life. “Sure – tomorrow night sounds good.”
Reese nodded. “Our place.”
“Our?”
The older man gave him a proud smile. “El’s moved in permanently.”
Peter nodded, he supposed this was inevitable.
“Anyway, dinner’s at eight. Nothing fancy – you know me.”
“Yeah.”
Reese stood up, looming over him for a moment and Peter felt – for an instant – like a small, burrowing animal urgently needing to hide from a predator. “And Peter – one more thing.”
“Hmm, yes?”
“Stop living here. This isn’t a hotel. You have a home, that’s where you’re supposed to spend your nights.”
Peter didn’t say anything. If only it was that easy.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“Neal, sweetie. Come to dinner – you’ll be among friends. Nothing to worry about.”
The reasonableness in Elizabeth’s voice grated on his nerves. Of course she was right. El was one of his oldest friends – hell, now that Moz was gone – his only friend. And he liked Reese. The man was smart, he had a dry sense of humor and he clearly adored El.
It was just that making the effort to be nice and pleasant, to have an adult conversation about things that really didn’t matter, seemed just too difficult right now. He baked and slept and got up and repeated that pattern, day in and day out, seven days a week, no time off for good behavior.
He baked because he couldn’t think of anything else to do. He slept because when he wasn’t baking, he didn’t want to do anything else but sleep.
El had offered to let him stay in her apartment in Fort Greene, so he didn’t have to go back to Manhattan – back to the scene of that disaster. She had moved in with Reese and told him that there was no reason why her place should sit empty until the lease was up. But Neal declined. He wasn’t really a masochist, but he needed to stay in the apartment; he needed to be where he’d been so happy. When he slept, he could dream about Peter, he could pretend that they were still together. It was ridiculous, but even a month after Peter walked out, Neal thought he could still smell him. It was all his imagination, of course. The morning that El had discovered him in the midst of a breakdown in the bakery, she’d taken him back to the apartment, made him sit out on the terrace while she cleaned out every trace of Peter.
She left nothing behind, not even a stray button, to remind him of the man who’d meant everything to him, and who so utterly destroyed him.
“Neal?” Elizabeth leaned against one of the polished steel tables like an immovable fixture. Not coincidentally, it was the one he needed to work at.
He stood there, holding a mixing bowl full of batter. “El? You’re in my way.”
“Give me an answer and I’ll get out of your way.”
Neal sighed. “I really am not in the mood for socializing tonight.”
“No – you’d rather work until you drop and then hole up in your apartment until you come back here for another marathon session. I hate seeing you like this.”
“And dinner with you and Reese is supposed to fix everything?”
“No – of course not. You need – ”
Neal cut her off. “El, don’t tell me what I need.” His voice was sharp, sharper than he intended.
But Elizabeth gave as good as she got. “Someone has to. You seem to enjoy your wallowing way too much.”
Neal pushed past her and set the mixing bowl on the table with extreme care. “I’m not wallowing.”
“No, then what do you call this behavior?”
“Getting on with my life? Doing what I’m good at?”
“You may be doing what you’re good at, but you’re doing it far too much. Neal – I’m worried about you. You’re spiraling into to a dark place that you might never be able to climb out of.”
“Huh? ‘Spiraling into a dark place?’ You’re beginning to sound like Moz.”
She didn’t let up. “Who you haven’t talked to in weeks.”
“The whole time zone thing, you know.” The excuse was weak and he knew that.
“What – three hours? He’s your best friend. He’s worried about you, too. You could answer an email or, god-forbid, send him a text message.”
Neal heard the words and he didn’t want to agree with them. A small, mean and very selfish part of his heart kept thinking that if Moz was so worried, he’d be back here helping him cope instead of enjoying the California sunshine and the unstinting affections of both his wife and his girlfriend.
“So – are you going to come to dinner tonight?” El was persistent.
“You’re not going to leave me alone until I do, right?”
She smiled at him. “Got it in one, ace.”
He sighed, giving in. “Where and what time?”
“Eight o’clock. Reese’s place.” Then El corrected herself, “Our place.”
“You’re making dinner?” Neal was incredulous. Elizabeth, for all that she was involved in a food-oriented business, hated cooking.
She grinned. “Nah – having it catered. Nothing to worry about. Your digestive track’s safe.”
Neal felt some unused muscles in his face stretch and he realized that he was smiling. “I’m bringing dessert, right?”
“You’d better, ace. Now, get back to work.”
Neal obeyed her command, working with a bit more life, a bit enthusiasm than he managed for the past month. In a fit of inspiration, he dug out an old recipe for a Dobostorte, an elaborate seven layer confection with chocolate buttercream filling and a caramel glaze. The cake was finished early and he gave it to El to take home, promising to show up at the appointed time with a few bottles of wine and a better frame of mind.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter was filled with misgivings as rang the doorbell at Reese’s – no, wait, Elizabeth and Reese’s – front door. He was genuinely happy for his old friend – he knew damn well how hard it was to find someone. But still, Elizabeth Mitchell was always going to be a tangible reminder of everything he’d lost.
Everything he deliberately destroyed.
He was about to ring again when Reese opened the door. As long as he’d known him – more than twenty years – he couldn’t remember ever seeing the man looking so relaxed, so happy. The smile was almost a touch scary. “Peter, you made it.”
“Yup – I said I’d be here. I didn’t dare back out.”
Reese clapped him on the shoulder. “Not if you knew what’s good for you.”
Peter had been in the apartment – a classic six off of Amsterdam Avenue on the Upper West Side – a number of times since his business partner purchased it, the first year after Hughes-Burke had taken off. It had always been tastefully decorated – a showplace to entertain select clients. Looking around the entryway, he noticed a few small changes that warmed up the space without cluttering it: a collection of vintage mercury glass bottles, a vase filled with peacock feathers, a framed map of some unknown country. Probably Elizabeth’s touch.
“Here.” He handed Reese a bottle of wine. “You didn’t tell me what El was cooking, but I figured we couldn’t go wrong with this.” He had pulled out the bottle of Barolo that Neal had given to him on a “just because” occasion.
“Oh, El’s not cooking. We’ve had it catered, but this will go nicely. I’ll open it now and let it breathe.”
Following Reese down the hall into the main living room, Peter steeled himself to say hello Elizabeth.
She was as lovely as ever, and while she greeted him warmly, her reserve was obvious. Peter didn’t blame her, not really. If their positions had been reversed, if she’d dumped Reese and he was asked to entertain her, Peter wondered if he’d manage to be half this civilized.
“A drink?” Reese was standing the bar.
“A beer, if you don’t mind.” He didn’t think he had the head for anything stronger.
He’d just taken his first sip, when the doorbell rang. This time, it was Elizabeth who went to answer the door, but not before exchanging freighted looks with Reese. Peter got a sinking feeling that he didn’t want to know who was on the other side of the door.
“Now, Peter…” Reese held up a hand, forestalling any action.
“You didn’t. Please, tell me you didn’t.”
Reese didn’t have to say anything, because he could hear Neal’s voice from down the hallway.
“This isn’t what you think.”
“No? Then what is it?”
Elizabeth came back, Neal a few steps behind her. Their eyes met and Neal’s face drained of color, as Peter figured his own did. But then Neal flushed and his eyes blazed with a painful, horrible hope. Peter looked at his beer bottle, unable to keep his eyes on Neal. If he did, he just might break down and beg for forgiveness.
Peter listened to Reese asking Neal what he wanted to drink, and Neal declining. He walked over to the bank of windows and stared out onto the darkening Manhattan sky. It was early September and despite the warmth, the days were growing short. Peter wondered if he could just stand there and pretend for the rest of the evening, just pretend that his life wasn’t a train wreck in slow motion.
But he couldn’t, Neal came over and stood next to him. “I didn’t know that you’d be here.”
Peter found his voice. “I didn’t know you’d be here, either.”
“Do you think that they’re trying to get us to patch things up?”
He could feel Neal’s eyes on him, like a caress, like a brand. “Maybe.”
“Is it possible?” Neal’s question was a barely audible whisper.
Yes. Oh, yes. “No.” Peter closed his eyes against the onslaught of memory.
“Ah.” Neal turned to go, and then paused. “For what it’s worth, Peter, I’m sorry for whatever happened to you, for what made you like this. If I could, I’d rip apart the bastard who ruined you.”
Peter managed a bitter chuff of laughter. “You can’t. He’s dead.”
Neal reached out, his hand hovering over Peter’s, so close that he could feel the other man’s body heat. But Neal thought better of it, his palm closed into a fist and he walked away. Peter just stood there, looking out of the window and seeing nothing but the reflection of a lonely, damaged man.
Elizabeth’s bright voice called out, asking Neal to join her in the kitchen. Peter took a sip of his beer and wondered why the hell he was here.
“I suppose you’re wondering if El and I are trying to engineer your reconciliation.” Reese joined him at the window, echoing his thoughts.
“Yeah, and I wish you hadn’t. There’s no chance of that.”
“Actually, El and I didn’t invite you and Neal over in a misguided attempt to push the two of you back together.”
“Oh?” Peter was skeptical.
“No, we didn’t. You and Neal, whether you're together or apart, are important to the both of us. You’re my friend. Neal is Elizabeth’s friend. Neither of us wants to spend the rest of our lives trying to negotiate our way through whatever problems there are between the two of you.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“So, consider tonight a test run, to see if you and Neal can be in the same room without going for each other’s throats.”
Peter didn’t think that his old friend was being very nice. It had only been a month, after all. “Our relationship wasn’t like that – there was no acrimony…”
Reese threw up a hand, dismissing Peter’s words. “Don’t lie to me. I heard what happened in front of the Metropolitan. At least a half-dozen clients heard you and they couldn’t wait to tell me.”
Peter felt himself flush against the censure in Reese’s tone. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not a bold-faced name.”
His tone harsh, Reese agreed. “Yes, it is. You did quite a bit of damage that night.”
Peter wondered what would happen if he put down his bottle and left and never came back.
Reese softened. “The firm’s reputation will survive.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I am too. You’re my friend, Peter. I hate seeing you like this.”
He shrugged. “I’m okay.”
Reese snorted in disbelief.
“Just – just let me be.”
“Okay. But if you need to talk, I’m here. If you need some time, take it.”
That didn’t sound like a bad idea. Maybe go away for a little while. Not too long ago, he’d thought about going back to Europe – taking an extended vacation. With Neal. Fuck.
Elizabeth and Neal came out of the kitchen and Reese clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s have dinner.”
The meal was decent, and as if they were operating under a flag of truce, the conversation was kept light. When Peter complimented Elizabeth, she confessed that it was catered. She hated to cook and everyone laughed. It seemed so absurd that someone so intimately involved in the food business didn’t actually enjoy preparing food.
“But the dessert isn’t catered. Neal would kill me if I committed such a sin.” Elizabeth stood up. “Reese – come help me.” Her voice brooked no objection and if Peter were in a better mood, he’d make some quip about his partner answering to the crack of a whip.
Reese and Elizabeth retreated into the kitchen and Peter sat there, desperately trying not to look at Neal, and hoping he wasn’t being obvious about it. But he figured he was failing miserably.
In the lull, Neal asked, “Do you know why we’re both here?”
That, at least, he could answer. “They apparently want to make sure we can behave in a civilized fashion if we find ourselves in the same room.”
“Hmmm. Can we?” Neal sounded a touch skeptical.
“I think we’re doing fine.”
“Seems that way.” Peter was actually proud of himself. At least until Neal commented, “Except that you haven’t been able to look at me since I came in.”
The words, so quietly spoken, filled with such pain, set Peter’s temper on edge. “Really? You really want to start something here, now?”
Neal retorted sharply, “You’re looking to start an argument and you still can’t look at me.”
Peter knew he was being goaded. He deserved this and he deserved a hell of a lot worse. He turned and deliberately looked at Neal.
His former lover was still so beautiful he stole Peter’s breath, but now there were lines bracketing his mouth, at the corner of his eyes. He hadn’t shaved too closely and Peter could see threads of gray in the late day beard. He was thinner, too; there were shadows under his eyes, hollows under his cheekbones. He looked hardened, as if all the gentleness, the sweetness that had been so attractive to Peter, had been beaten out of him.
Neal met his eyes, and his lips twitched under Peter’s regard.
Peter looked away.
Elizabeth came out of the kitchen. She was holding an elaborate cake on an equally elaborate tray, and announced, “Dessert, courtesy of Neal.”
Peter hadn’t had the least bit of interest in pastry since that awful, horrible night. Whenever he even thought of cupcakes, he felt slightly ill.
The pop of a cork distracted Peter from his contemplation of the confection. He just noticed that Reese had opened a bottle of Champagne and was pouring generous portions into four crystal flutes.
Peter took the glass that Reese handed to him, then the plate that Elizabeth offered. He didn’t know if he could actually eat any of the cake, but he had to admit that it looked delicious.
“Are we celebrating something?” Neal asked, but he sounded like he already knew the answer to that question.
Peter was startled, a sudden and almost horrible thought occurred to him. He watched as his business partner, his former mentor, his oldest friend, took the hand of the smiling woman standing next to him and raised it to his lips in some inevitable, all too romantic gesture.
“A few weeks ago, on a very beautiful moonlit night, I somehow found the courage to ask this wonderful woman to marry me. I still find myself a little awestruck that she said yes.”
Elizabeth made some equally sappy comment and Peter watched as Neal got up and went over to the nauseatingly happy couple and congratulated them. Sharp musical pings cut through the happy voices as the three of them shared a toast.
Peter felt like the troll under the bridge or maybe the wicked fairy at Sleeping Beauty’s christening. He wanted to be happy for his friend, he really did.
So when Reese turned to him, a look of expectation on his face, Peter curved him mouth into something that might have been a smile, lifted his glass of Champagne, and made a toast. Except the words of goodwill he should have said didn’t come out of his mouth. Instead, he heard himself say, “Reese, do you know that Neal fucked her?”
Go to Part Six - On LJ | On DW
Notes: See Master Post - On LJ | On DW
By the time Peter was able to get to Neal – he had to stop and shake hands with more people than he wanted to – the crowd had shifted again. The collection of beautiful young things had been whittled down to just two. A short, dark-haired man with an aggressively pugnacious attitude and a tall redhead who looked vaguely familiar.
Neal’s expression was deliberately bland, and Peter knew him long enough to realize that something about the situation was making him uncomfortable. Although Peter wasn’t one for public displays of affection – at least not anymore – he stalked over to Neal, draped an arm around him and pressed a kiss on his temple. “Introduce me?”
The look Neal gave him was a cross between pure gratitude and utter desperation.
“Peter, this is an old, old friend of mine, Matthew Keller.”
Peter hid a smile and held out his hand. Matthew Keller was Neal’s ex – the asshole who had kicked Neal out after he’d lost the bakery. Time for a little revenge, maybe. “Ah, I think Neal might have mentioned you? The tailor, right? Dressmaker?”
“No, not quite.” Keller held out a hand and tried to turn it into a contest of machismo, squeezing Peter’s with excessive enthusiasm. Peter tried not to laugh at Keller’s pained expression when he squeezed back, hard.
“No? I’m sure that’s what Neal told me.” He turned to Neal, who was doing his best not to crack a smile.
“Designer – Matthew’s a designer.”
Peter just kept squeezing. “Hmm, interior designer? Because you know I’ve been meaning to have the townhouse redone.”
“Clothing, I’m a fashion designer.” Keller tugged, trying to extricate his hand from Peter’s grip. Peter finally let go.
“Ah. Afraid I don’t know too much about the fashion world. Were you on Project Runway?” This was almost too easy.
Keller turned an interesting shade of red, which clashed with the peach-pink of his date’s dress. “No – I studied at Central Saint Martins in London, and trained with both Vivian Westwood and Alexander McQueen. My collections have been featured in Vogue and Women’s Wear Daily. I’ve shown in Paris and Milan.” The man recited his accomplishments like some laundry list, sounding like he would be more comfortable in the factories and on the loading docks of industrial Brooklyn than the rarified world of high fashion. He also looked like a thug and Peter had to wonder at just what Neal ever saw in the man.
“Hmm. Like I said, I don’t follow fashion. If it’s not art or baseball, I’m not really interested.”
Neal snagged a glass of champagne from a passing server and handed it to Keller with a slight smirk. “Matthew, here. You look like you could use this.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce me, Neal?” The redhead was stunning, if almost impossibly skinny. But she was more than good looks and hair, there seemed to be a spark of intelligence and humor behind those big green eyes.
“Of course. This is my partner, Peter Burke. Peter, Sara Ellis.”
Peter wondered how Neal knew this woman, but didn’t ask. He could find out later. Instead, he took Sara’s hand and kissed it, a deliberately over-the-top gesture that was received with a delighted laugh.
“Have we met?” Peter had to ask. He didn’t think they had, but her face was very familiar.
“No, I don’t believe so.”
Keller stuck his two cents in. “Sara’s a model, you might have seen her on the cover of Vogue, wearing something from my latest collection. She’s become my muse.”
Peter had to admit that was probably it.
But Keller didn’t leave it there. “Or you might have seen picture of her in Neal’s apartment.”
"Huh?” Why would Neal have photographs of this woman in his apartment?
“I guess Neal never told you. He and Supermodel Sara here were banging back in the day.” Sara gave Keller a playful slap, obviously used to his crudity.
Peter looked over at Neal – hoping he’d deny what this little turd just told him. Neal simply stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged, as if to say “so what?”
The bottom dropped out of Peter’s world.
But Neal seemed oblivious to Peter’s distress. He gave Keller a tight smile, kissed his old girlfriend on the cheek and stood there, looking like Peter’s worst nightmare come true. Keller and his muse wandered off and Peter wanted to be sick, or punch Neal or go home and never leave again. How could this have happened to him? How could Neal do this to him?
Finally, Neal seemed to pick up on the fact that something was wrong. “Hey, are you okay?”
He looked at Neal, but he didn’t see the man he’d liked and respected, and yes, the man he thought he loved. Instead, he saw a betrayer. A liar and a cheat.
“No. I need to get out of here.”
“Okay – I’m sorry about that. Keller’s poison and he loves nothing more than to cause trouble.”
Peter felt instant relief. “Ah. So you and this Sara – you weren’t dating?”
And that relief was flushed away by Neal’s next words.
“Yes – we were. For a few months, but it didn’t work out.”
Peter stood there, trying to contain his fury at this – this betrayal. His fists curled into his palm, the edges of his nails cutting into the skin, a mere pinprick of pain against the anguish in his heart.
“We need to go. Now.”
“Okay.” Neal looked puzzled – he didn’t realize what he’d done. “I’ll find Elaine and tell her you’re not feeling well. She’d said something about going back to their place for drinks.”
“Don’t bother.” Peter’s temper was barely under control. He didn’t think he could control himself. “I’ll send her a text.” He turned and stalked out of the room, not waiting to see if Neal followed.
The museum’s galleries and wide hallways were filled with party-goers, and people he knew waved at him, tried to talk with him, but Peter didn’t stop. He practically ran down the Grand Staircase and out the Met’s front doors. Thank god there were taxis lined up, waiting to take the revelers home, or to some other event. He flew down the front steps, desperate to get into a cab, to get away from here. Away from Neal.
“Peter, damn it. Slow down.” Neal was panting, and pulled on his jacket sleeve to stop him. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
He turn to Neal, vicious in his anger. “You fucked her. You fuck women. You fuck around.”
“What?”
“You’re bisexual, aren’t you?” He didn’t care who overheard him, he didn’t care that he was going to end everything right here on Fifth Avenue under the streetlights and a huge August moon. He didn’t care because his heart was breaking and he didn’t know how to stop the pain except by making Neal bleed as much as he was.
Neal stepped back in the face of Peter’s fury. “I don’t like what you’re implying, Peter.”
“I’m not implying anything. You fucked that woman. You fuck women. You fuck around.” He was repeating himself so maybe Neal would finally get the point.
“I’ve had relationships with women and with men, Peter. I thought you knew that.” Neal sounded so reasonable. Like they were discussing the weather or what to have for lunch.
“No, Neal – I didn’t know that. You never told me you fucked women.” His voice was rising and people were looking at him. He didn’t care.
“Peter – please.” Neal walked towards a waiting taxicab. “Let’s go home and talk about this.”
He wasn’t sure he wanted to spend even a second more in Neal’s presence, but he needed to end this and doing it in such a public space wasn’t right. He got into the taxi and Neal followed, giving the cabbie his address.
The drive took a painfully long time, since all of the Fifth Avenue entrances through Central Park were closed to automobile traffic. Peter didn’t say a word, he tried not to look at Neal, he tried not to think, not to feel, not to be anything more than a man in complete control.
And he was failing miserably.
The taxi pulled up, in front of the Ellington mansion and Neal paid the driver. Peter got out and followed Neal up the front steps. The housekeeper was surprised to see them – it was still early and Neal had told her as they left that they wouldn’t be home until very late. She asked if they wanted anything and Neal gave her a smile and said no, to just lock up and go to bed.
Peter trailed Neal up to the fourth floor apartment, for the very last time. He glanced over at the bed, it was still mussed, his towel draped over the comforter, the pillow still bearing the indents from both their heads. They’d actually napped together that afternoon and Peter tried not to think of all the last times that had happened today.
“Peter? What’s going on?” Neal spoke carefully, as if he finally understood just what a dangerous minefield he was entering.
Perhaps that interminable cab ride did some good. He seemed to find a leash for his temper. “I will not be in a relationship with a bisexual. I will not go through that hell again.” He was proud of how even-tempered he sounded.
“What? You’re ending this? You're breaking up with me?”
“Yes, Neal. We’re done.”
“I don’t understand, Peter. What has my past have to do with our future?” Peter tried to close his ears to the pain, the confusion that laden Neal’s questions.
“I don’t date men who date women. Is that so hard to understand?”
“Why?” Neal stood by the dining table, looking like he was waiting for a blow to fall.
“I don’t need to explain myself to you.” Peter knew he sounded like an asshole.
“Yes, I think you do.” Neal’s tone was steely.
“It’s over – just accept it.” His hand sliced through the air, trying to cut off any further discussion.
“No – I can’t just accept it. You owe me an explanation. You don’t just get to walk out of my life like this without telling me why.”
“I don’t date bisexuals. Had I known this about you, I would never have let you into my house; I certainly would never have touched you. And all I can say is thank god we’ve never gone without condoms, because the thought of fucking you bare makes my skin crawl now.”
Peter watched the color rise in Neal’s face, watched his fists tighten and a cold, detached part of him mind wondered if Neal was going to hit him. Maybe he deserved that, but he wasn’t going to give Neal the chance. He turned to leave.
“No – you aren’t going anywhere, you son of a bitch. We’ve been together for three months and I’ve never – ever – given you the slightest reason to distrust me. I've never so much as looked at anyone else, thought about anyone else but you. But you find out that I once dated a woman and you end things? You don’t have that right.”
“You once dated a woman? Come on, she’s a damn supermodel. And she’s not the only woman you’ve been with, right?”
Neal didn’t answer.
The light dawned, a terrible and ugly light. “You’ve slept with Elizabeth – Elizabeth Mitchell, right?”
“El and I are just friends, Peter. We’ve known each other a long time.” Neal answered carefully.
“Just friends, my ass. More like friends with benefits.”
“Call it that if you want, but that side of our friendship was over since before you and I started seeing each other.”
Peter wanted to ask, “Long over?” Except that it was irrelevant. Neal was bisexual, which was all that mattered. He turned to leave again, but Neal's next words stopped him.
“You know, Peter – I’ve always wondered if this was going to happen.”
He stopped. “What?”
“I could never shake the feeling that you would turn on me. There was always this coldness, this uncertainty I’d get from you. Like you were just waiting for something to go wrong.”
He should just keep going, just walk out the door and leave forever, but he couldn’t. The anguish in Neal’s voice kept him anchored here.
“I kept telling myself that I was just being insecure, needy. That I was seeing things that weren’t there. But I wasn’t, was I? You never trusted me, Peter. You never really had any faith in what we had.”
“You lied to me.”
“What? I never – ”
Peter cut him off. “A lie of omission is still a lie. Why didn’t you ever tell me you were bisexual?”
Neal looked like he’d been struck. “You’re a fine one to talk. Every time I tried to talk about the past, you’d brush me off. You never once told me anything about your own history – it was like you didn't even have one. Christ, I once even thought you might have been a virgin. You were a man who had no emotional past and you made it pretty clear you didn’t want to hear about mine, so how the hell was I supposed to tell you? Just drop it into the middle of a conversation? What do you want for dinner and by the way, I’ve dated women a few times.”
Peter didn’t want to concede the point, but Neal was right. He’d made a deliberate effort to avoid talking about the past. He waved a hand at Neal. “It doesn’t matter now. You’re bisexual – ”
“And that means what? That I’m promiscuous? A disease carrier? That I’m fucking every hole I can fit my dick in?”
Neal was so angry, so self-righteous, but all Peter could see was Daniel screwing some bimbo behind the stage in his favorite dance club. And then Daniel lying in a hospital bed, covered in sarcomas and weighing about seventy-five pounds, a tube down his throat and his eyes begging him to end the misery.
A single syllable erupted from his mouth, a shout loud enough to set the windows rattling. “YES!”
“Then this is it. We’re done and there’s nothing more that needs to be said.” Neal walked to the door and opened it. “I – ” He shook his head, cutting himself off. “Go. Just go.”
And Peter did.
Once upon a time, Neal had thought that losing the bakery was the darkest moment in his life. He had no idea how wrong he could be.
He didn’t even try to sleep in his bed – the sheet still bore Peter’s scent. Hell, the whole apartment reeked of Peter. His aftershave, his own personal musk, even the bittersweet stink of his feet – all scents that Neal reveled in and now made him ill. He went out onto the terrace – at least there, the air was fresh, with the ever-present undertone of carbon monoxide. But Peter was everywhere – in his memories. Dinner out here that first time, breakfasts and lunches and other dinners. Dancing together, watching Peter dance with June, or just the three of them talking.
Neal couldn’t take another memory, another moment in this place. He made his way to the large walk-in closet and stripped out of the tuxedo he’d so nervously donned a few short hours ago. He ignored the items of Peter’s wardrobe and put on jeans and a tee shirt. He grabbed his wallet, his keys, his phone and left without any destination in mind.
Mozzie was gone; he’d left for California yesterday. Elizabeth was with Reese and there was no way he’d go and cry on her shoulder. June was with her daughter, in Chicago or Miami or someplace else. Neal didn’t know and didn’t – for the moment – care.
He was alone like he’d never been alone before. No one was there for him, no one to hold him in the night and tell him that this was all a terrible, terrible dream.
Saturday night at the Met gala had been sheer perfection. Of course she’d met Reese’s colleagues and even a few of his clients since they’d started seeing each other. He might have grumbled that he wasn’t really a social animal, and only did this for the good of the firm, but El could see how much he enjoyed this aspect of the business. It wasn’t just schmoozing, it gave him a much more human connection to his clients.
But Saturday night was the first time they’d attended such a major event on the New York social calendar as a couple. She’d been nervous, not because she’d be meeting the rich and the powerful (hell, she’d planned events for a few of them and knew just how neurotic and empty their lives were), but because they were pretty much announcing to the world that they were a couple.
The age difference between them never bothered her, and it had long since stopped bothering Reese. Practically from the beginning they seemed to fit together like an old married couple. Their lives dovetailed perfectly. That night, though – they were exposing their relationship to people who might look at Reese and say he was an old fool or look at her and think she was a gold digger.
Reese understood exactly what was going through her head, and told her that they couldn’t control what other people thought and nothing was going to change the way he felt about her. His words calmed most of her outward jitters but it wasn’t until they were introduced to an octogenarian banker and his twenty-two year old fourth wife did El realize that her May-December relationship with Reese would never raise a single eyebrow in this crowd.
Peter and Neal seemed like they were having a great time too, and there was a look in Neal’s eyes that told her that whatever issues he’d been having with Peter (he hadn’t confided about any trouble, but she knew he wasn’t completely happy) had been resolved.
The only dark cloud was when she caught site of Neal’s ex, Matthew Keller, squiring another one of Neal’s exes, Sara Ellis. She’d liked Sara, she’d loathed Matthew, and she hoped that Neal didn’t run into that son of a bitch.
At some point, Peter and Neal had disappeared, but Elizabeth hadn’t worried. Why should she – they were grown men and if they’d wanted to sneak home for a little tuxedo-inspired nookie, more power to them.
She had figured that Reese would want to stay until the very end of the evening, but the party was still going strong when he asked her if she wanted to head home. El hadn’t minded at all, and to her surprise and delight, at the foot of the staircase in front of the museum was a horse and carriage waiting to take them home.
As Reese helped her into the carriage, El had to say, “I feel a little like Cinderella!”
He replied as he settled down next to her. “But Cinderella only got to ride in style on the way to the ball. Didn’t the carriage turn into a pumpkin on the way home?”
She laughed at the silliness of her own comment, “And it’s well after midnight, besides.”
The carriage ride, something she’d always thought of as a little silly and touristy, turned out to be a near endless moment of magic. Reese had ordered champagne, and even if the vintage was less than stellar and the glasses were plastic, it was still something out of her dreams. The ride through the park, under the full August moon, was pure romance.
As they passed the Belvedere Castle, Reese took her hand and held to his lips. “Elizabeth – it’s been only three months. But these have been the happiest three months of my life and I can’t imagine a future without you in it.”
“Reese – ”
“I look at you and wonder how I’ve managed to be so lucky. I never hope, never dreamed that you’d sit across from me at breakfast, smack my hand away from the sugar bowl and tell me that you love me.”
She laughed, a small and embarrassed chuckle. “Not a terribly romantic declaration.”
“No – it was perfect.”
She had cupped her hand around his cheek – not seeing any of the lines and wrinkles – just the wonder of the love in his eyes.
“Elizabeth – I know we’ve talked about you moving in with me. Or about me moving in with you – but before that decision’s made, perhaps maybe … ”
El held her breath.
“Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
She had blinked against the sudden rush of tears and wrapped her arms around him. “Of course, yes. Yes!”
Maybe the horse and carriage grew wings and took flight, because suddenly they were in front of Reese’s building and the driver was waiting patiently for them to get down.
Sunday had been spent lazing about, just reveling in their happiness, making plans. Reese wanted to give her the wedding of her dreams, but she could hear the touch of horror when he asked her if she wanted to get married in New York or maybe have a big event somewhere special.
“Hon – I don’t have much family and my circle of friends is small. I’d prefer something private, intimate. I’ve created too many huge society weddings to take pleasure from the crush of people. What do you want?”
Reese assured her – with no small amount of relief – that that was exactly what he wanted, too.
Monday morning, Elizabeth waltzed into the bakery on a cloud of pure joy. Was it possible to be any happier? She wanted to blurt out her news, and conversely, keep it to herself for a little while longer.
The lights were on in the kitchens and she could hear the hum of machinery and smell the always-delicious aroma of cakes baking. Neal was here and already hard at work. She called out, “Morning,” but didn’t wait for him to answer. She snapped on the light in her tiny office and went to make herself a cup of coffee. That was the plan, except that the milk she kept in the small fridge in her office had turned sour. No big deal, there was always fresh milk in the bakery refrigerators.
She took her cup and headed back to the kitchen. “Neal – I hope your weekend was as good as mine …”
Her voice trailed off as she took in the chaos that had transformed the normally spotless facility. The racks were full of cakes and pastries, far more than they needed to fill even a week’s worth of orders. Dirty bowls and pots were crowded into the sinks, flour was on every surface and it looked like a bag of powdered cocoa had exploded over everything. In the middle of this mess, Neal was working frantically, like he was desperately trying to keep up with some insane taskmaster.
She stood in the doorway, watching in surprise as Neal started pouring his signature red velvet batter into a cupcake tin. She’d seen him do this a thousand times. He’d meticulously measure out the right portion and deposit it into each indention in the pan, but not this time. He had turned the mixing bowl directly over the cupcake tin and just let the batter slop out. Then, to her shock, Neal first pitched the bowl across the room, then the cupcake tin. The spilled batter was like drying blood across the walls.
He stood in the middle of the mess, panting, his shoulders slumped. From behind, he looked like a portrait of a man defeated.
“Neal?”
He turned and Elizabeth was horrified by the transformation in Neal. When she'd seen him Saturday night, his face was relaxed, his eyes glowing with happiness. Now, he looked like a man in the throes of profound grief. His cheeks, covered by two days of black stubble, were sunken, his eyes bloodshot, his skin gray.
“What happened to you?”
Neal didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was hoarse, raw, as if he’d been screaming for days. “Peter dumped me.”
El was stunned. “Why?”
“I’m bisexual, and apparently a filthy, disease ridden whore, not fit to be in the same room as the oh-so-pure Peter Burke.”
“What?” This seemed impossible.
Moving like an old man, Neal slowly walked over to one of the work tables and leaned against it, as if he could barely stay upright. “Sara was at the gala on Saturday.”
“I know – I saw her with Matthew, of all people.”
“Yeah – she’s his ‘muse’ now.” Neal waved a hand, dismissing that as irrelevant. “Peter was there and Matthew mentioned that Sara and I dated once and Peter just lost it. He – ” Neal’s breath caught in a sob. “He said that he would never date a bisexual – he’d have never touched me if he knew I’d been with women.”
Of course, Elizabeth couldn’t help but remember what her long-ago co-worker at the Diarmitt had told her about Peter; that his boyfriend was cheating on him, with men and with women and her own decision not to tell Neal when he’d first met Peter. And now was definitely the wrong time to tell Neal that. And besides, no amount of past trauma could excuse what Peter had said to Neal. Elizabeth did the only thing she could think of, she wrapped her arms around Neal and held him tight.
Neal stood there, stiff, unyielding. Elizabeth wondered if Peter’s comments about his sexuality somehow made it impossible to accept comfort from her. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she murmured, still holding him. He took a deep breath and shuddered, finally letting go. His tears were scalding hot against her cheek and Elizabeth wondered how someone who seemed so wonderful could be so cruel.
“Boss?” Diana knocked on Peter’s office door, surprised that it was closed and the privacy coatings built into the glass walls were activated. In the five years she’d been at Hughes-Burke, she’d never seen Peter close himself off like this, even when he had a meeting with a client. Transparency was essential in their field and both Peter and Reese Hughes insisted that everyone practice what they preached.
She knocked again, worried.
Finally, Peter responded. “One moment.” She heard him getting up and the door opened. “What’s up?” His voice was scratchy, and although he was wearing a suit and tie and was properly groomed for a Monday morning, Peter looked – for lack of a better term – disheveled.
“I – umm.” Diana was not one to hem and haw; she prided herself on being as forthright as possible without being rude. “Can I come in?”
Peter stepped back and she entered the office. Everything in it was pin neat, but she couldn’t escape the feeling that there was something terribly wrong.
Peter repeated his earlier question. “What’s the matter, Diana?”
“Saturday night …” She paused.
“What about it?”
“Christie and I left a little early – ”
Peter cut her off. “That’s fine – nothing to apologize about. These affairs can be trying. No one expects you to stay until the bitter end.”
She wondered if she should just take the out Peter handed to her and leave well enough alone. “Actually, that’s not why I stopped by. I wanted to make sure that you’re all right.”
Peter stared at her through narrowed eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
She licked her lips, and wondered if she was about to commit career suicide. “Christie and I were on Fifth Avenue, thinking about taking a carriage ride through the park when we …”
Peter’s expression didn’t change, but the temperature in the room felt like it just dropped fifteen degrees.
She plowed forward. “We heard you …” She was about to say “arguing with Neal” but there really was no argument going on. Peter was flinging some rather vile insults at his boyfriend and Neal hadn’t seemed to be saying anything. “Just wanted to make sure you’re okay. That’s all.” She stopped; there was nothing more she could think of to say.
“My private life is private for a reason, Ms. Berrigan.” Peter’s tone was colder than the chill in the room.
Diana knew she’d just made a mistake. A big one. She wondered if she could transfer to a different department or if she’d have to leave the firm.
But maybe not. Peter seemed to soften, just a bit. “Diana, I appreciate your concern but everything is fine.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Anything else?”
She shook her head. “Nothing other than the Pedersons. My contact at the U.S. Attorney’s office says that this time the subpoena won’t be quashed and we’re going to have to produce the records. And you’ll probably need to testify before a Grand Jury.”
“Ah, great.” Peter grimaced. “Thanks for the update.”
Diana opened the door, knowing she was about to step over a very bright line. “Peter – I hope you think of me as a friend. If you ever need to just talk …”
He gave her a small, tight nod. “You are my friend, and well, thanks. Maybe.”
She left Peter’s office, closing the door behind her, hearing the lock slide into place. She had some damage control to do. While she was the only H-B employee to actually hear Peter go off on Neal Caffrey, somehow half the office knew that one of the bosses threw a hissy fit on the front steps of the Metropolitan. The rumors were flying fast and thick. She needed to get with Clinton and figure out the best way to stop the wagging tongues and stop them quickly.
Peter’s business was his own, but he was her friend and she always looked after her friends.
September
The first month after he ended things with Neal was pure hell.
It wasn’t the whispers going around the office. Peter knew he had made a very public spectacle of himself and even if Diana had kept her mouth shut (and he was certain that she did), there were always connections and people loved a scandal. He that he didn’t care about that. None of the side-eyeing he got from staff and associates, the well-meaning questions from the other partners, even Reese’s avuncular concern, made a damn bit of difference to him.
It was the loneliness that was killing him. The ache in his body, the need and desire for someone who wasn’t there and who would never be there again. The emptiness in his life, the feeling that nothing mattered, that it was all pointless.
The righteous fury that drove him away from Neal faded into something less definable, less justifiable. And underneath the loneliness, beyond the ache and the sense of futility, was as the feeling that he’d made a terrible mistake. One that was going to be impossible to fix and impossible to get passed.
So Peter filled his days with hard work, and his nights, too, staying at the office until after midnight most nights. Because he couldn’t bear to go home to an empty house and deal with what he’d done.
Peter tried to tell himself he was being stupid and sentimental. It wasn’t like Neal had lived there, or that they’d even spent a lot of time together at his house. Most of their time had been spent in his apartment, but still, Peter couldn’t escape the ghosts of his former happiness.
He’d had the couch replaced – the one that they’d first made love on. He replaced his bed, too. And all of the linens. Plus every pot and pan and dish that Neal might have used in the kitchen. Money was an amazing thing. So were Internet shopping sites.
And for all the changes he made, all the effort to erase Neal Caffrey from his life, he was still haunted.
So most of his wardrobe had migrated to the large closet in his office. Back in the early days of the firm, back when he really needed to bust ass and work ungodly hours, he purchased a good quality sofa bed for his office. During tax season, it still saw some use, but not like now. He slept there four, five nights a week. No one knew, at least he didn’t think they did. He went home – no, back to the house – just a few times a week, to pick up the mail and make sure the place hadn’t flooded or burned down.
Good thing he never got that dog.
Part of him – the part that had fallen so deep, so hard for Neal Caffrey – kept insisting that he’d behaved like the worst type of idiot. He had no reason to believe that Neal had ever been unfaithful, no reason to think that he’d been promiscuous. And the fact that he’d had relationships with women in the past didn’t mean that he was looking for that now. No reason at all.
The other part – the younger man who’d been so badly hurt – told him that he did the right thing. Even if Neal had been faithful up until now, that didn’t mean he was going to stay faithful and it was inevitable that he was going to want something that Peter couldn’t provide. No, he was better off ending it. Maybe he could have been nicer, but in the long run, this was for the best.
Except that it wasn’t. He dreamed of holding Neal and waking in his arms every morning. He couldn’t stop dreaming about seeing the sun rise in those beautiful eyes; he couldn’t stop thinking about the wonder and the joy as he held Neal, the perfection of sex, the happiness at the simple pleasure of sharing a life with someone who completed him.
Peter scrubbed at his face and tried to dispel those longings and deny his mistakes. There was no point in dreaming about what he could no longer have.
Almost fifty years old and you’re going to be alone for the rest of your life.
And whose fault is that, asshole. You did this to yourself.
A knock on the door interrupted his session in self-hatred. It was Hughes.
“Peter – can we talk?”
“Sure, Reese. What’s up?” He leaned back in his chair and plastered on what he hoped was a reasonably friendly smile.
His business partner and old friend cut right to the chase. “I’m worried about you.”
“Why?”
“Oh, don’t be stupid, Peter. You’re burning the candle at both ends. When was the last time you slept in your own bed?”
Peter opened his mouth to answer, but Hughes held up a hand, forestalling him.
“Don’t think I don’t know that you’ve been all but living in the office. You’ve been sleeping here, showering in the health club in the mornings – that’s the third time this week that you’ve worn that damn tie.”
“Sorry – I didn’t realize my sartorial choices were boring you.”
“Cut the sarcasm, Peter. I’m concerned about you.”
“Don’t be, Reese.”
The older man sighed. “That’s like asking the sun not to rise. I’ve seen you go through this before, remember?”
“I’m not drinking, if that’s worrying you.” He wouldn’t start that cycle again.
“The thought had crossed my mind.” There was so much that Reese wasn’t saying.
“I’ve learned my lesson. Nothing – no piece of ass is worth going through that hell.”
“Damn it, Peter! You don’t mean that. Neal was a hell of a lot more to you than that.”
No, he didn’t mean it, not really, but he didn’t retract the statement either.
The two men sat there, the silence bitter. Reese gave him a look, one he couldn’t quite decipher.
Peter decided to break the silence. “Anything else?”
“I don’t suppose you’re busy tomorrow night.”
“No, I’m not.” It should have been his poker night, but Peter had cancelled out of the game, not in the least mood for dealing with the sly ribbing about being a free man again. He could lie, though. Except it wasn’t worth the effort.
“I thought maybe you’d like to have dinner with El and me.”
Peter’s stomach roiled. In theory, he had nothing against Elizabeth Burke, and when his partner had started dating her all those months ago, he’d been delighted. The four of them had socialized a quite a few times and it was such a pleasure to see Reese happy and relaxed and in love.
Now, though – knowing that Neal and Elizabeth had been lovers – he was a little sick at the thought of facing her. Peter wondered if Reese knew about the two of them.
“Peter?”
He couldn’t avoid the woman – Elizabeth – forever. They were bound to cross paths frequently and he was just going to have to cowboy up and get used to the fact that one of Neal’s former lovers was going to be a part of his life. “Sure – tomorrow night sounds good.”
Reese nodded. “Our place.”
“Our?”
The older man gave him a proud smile. “El’s moved in permanently.”
Peter nodded, he supposed this was inevitable.
“Anyway, dinner’s at eight. Nothing fancy – you know me.”
“Yeah.”
Reese stood up, looming over him for a moment and Peter felt – for an instant – like a small, burrowing animal urgently needing to hide from a predator. “And Peter – one more thing.”
“Hmm, yes?”
“Stop living here. This isn’t a hotel. You have a home, that’s where you’re supposed to spend your nights.”
Peter didn’t say anything. If only it was that easy.
“Neal, sweetie. Come to dinner – you’ll be among friends. Nothing to worry about.”
The reasonableness in Elizabeth’s voice grated on his nerves. Of course she was right. El was one of his oldest friends – hell, now that Moz was gone – his only friend. And he liked Reese. The man was smart, he had a dry sense of humor and he clearly adored El.
It was just that making the effort to be nice and pleasant, to have an adult conversation about things that really didn’t matter, seemed just too difficult right now. He baked and slept and got up and repeated that pattern, day in and day out, seven days a week, no time off for good behavior.
He baked because he couldn’t think of anything else to do. He slept because when he wasn’t baking, he didn’t want to do anything else but sleep.
El had offered to let him stay in her apartment in Fort Greene, so he didn’t have to go back to Manhattan – back to the scene of that disaster. She had moved in with Reese and told him that there was no reason why her place should sit empty until the lease was up. But Neal declined. He wasn’t really a masochist, but he needed to stay in the apartment; he needed to be where he’d been so happy. When he slept, he could dream about Peter, he could pretend that they were still together. It was ridiculous, but even a month after Peter walked out, Neal thought he could still smell him. It was all his imagination, of course. The morning that El had discovered him in the midst of a breakdown in the bakery, she’d taken him back to the apartment, made him sit out on the terrace while she cleaned out every trace of Peter.
She left nothing behind, not even a stray button, to remind him of the man who’d meant everything to him, and who so utterly destroyed him.
“Neal?” Elizabeth leaned against one of the polished steel tables like an immovable fixture. Not coincidentally, it was the one he needed to work at.
He stood there, holding a mixing bowl full of batter. “El? You’re in my way.”
“Give me an answer and I’ll get out of your way.”
Neal sighed. “I really am not in the mood for socializing tonight.”
“No – you’d rather work until you drop and then hole up in your apartment until you come back here for another marathon session. I hate seeing you like this.”
“And dinner with you and Reese is supposed to fix everything?”
“No – of course not. You need – ”
Neal cut her off. “El, don’t tell me what I need.” His voice was sharp, sharper than he intended.
But Elizabeth gave as good as she got. “Someone has to. You seem to enjoy your wallowing way too much.”
Neal pushed past her and set the mixing bowl on the table with extreme care. “I’m not wallowing.”
“No, then what do you call this behavior?”
“Getting on with my life? Doing what I’m good at?”
“You may be doing what you’re good at, but you’re doing it far too much. Neal – I’m worried about you. You’re spiraling into to a dark place that you might never be able to climb out of.”
“Huh? ‘Spiraling into a dark place?’ You’re beginning to sound like Moz.”
She didn’t let up. “Who you haven’t talked to in weeks.”
“The whole time zone thing, you know.” The excuse was weak and he knew that.
“What – three hours? He’s your best friend. He’s worried about you, too. You could answer an email or, god-forbid, send him a text message.”
Neal heard the words and he didn’t want to agree with them. A small, mean and very selfish part of his heart kept thinking that if Moz was so worried, he’d be back here helping him cope instead of enjoying the California sunshine and the unstinting affections of both his wife and his girlfriend.
“So – are you going to come to dinner tonight?” El was persistent.
“You’re not going to leave me alone until I do, right?”
She smiled at him. “Got it in one, ace.”
He sighed, giving in. “Where and what time?”
“Eight o’clock. Reese’s place.” Then El corrected herself, “Our place.”
“You’re making dinner?” Neal was incredulous. Elizabeth, for all that she was involved in a food-oriented business, hated cooking.
She grinned. “Nah – having it catered. Nothing to worry about. Your digestive track’s safe.”
Neal felt some unused muscles in his face stretch and he realized that he was smiling. “I’m bringing dessert, right?”
“You’d better, ace. Now, get back to work.”
Neal obeyed her command, working with a bit more life, a bit enthusiasm than he managed for the past month. In a fit of inspiration, he dug out an old recipe for a Dobostorte, an elaborate seven layer confection with chocolate buttercream filling and a caramel glaze. The cake was finished early and he gave it to El to take home, promising to show up at the appointed time with a few bottles of wine and a better frame of mind.
Peter was filled with misgivings as rang the doorbell at Reese’s – no, wait, Elizabeth and Reese’s – front door. He was genuinely happy for his old friend – he knew damn well how hard it was to find someone. But still, Elizabeth Mitchell was always going to be a tangible reminder of everything he’d lost.
Everything he deliberately destroyed.
He was about to ring again when Reese opened the door. As long as he’d known him – more than twenty years – he couldn’t remember ever seeing the man looking so relaxed, so happy. The smile was almost a touch scary. “Peter, you made it.”
“Yup – I said I’d be here. I didn’t dare back out.”
Reese clapped him on the shoulder. “Not if you knew what’s good for you.”
Peter had been in the apartment – a classic six off of Amsterdam Avenue on the Upper West Side – a number of times since his business partner purchased it, the first year after Hughes-Burke had taken off. It had always been tastefully decorated – a showplace to entertain select clients. Looking around the entryway, he noticed a few small changes that warmed up the space without cluttering it: a collection of vintage mercury glass bottles, a vase filled with peacock feathers, a framed map of some unknown country. Probably Elizabeth’s touch.
“Here.” He handed Reese a bottle of wine. “You didn’t tell me what El was cooking, but I figured we couldn’t go wrong with this.” He had pulled out the bottle of Barolo that Neal had given to him on a “just because” occasion.
“Oh, El’s not cooking. We’ve had it catered, but this will go nicely. I’ll open it now and let it breathe.”
Following Reese down the hall into the main living room, Peter steeled himself to say hello Elizabeth.
She was as lovely as ever, and while she greeted him warmly, her reserve was obvious. Peter didn’t blame her, not really. If their positions had been reversed, if she’d dumped Reese and he was asked to entertain her, Peter wondered if he’d manage to be half this civilized.
“A drink?” Reese was standing the bar.
“A beer, if you don’t mind.” He didn’t think he had the head for anything stronger.
He’d just taken his first sip, when the doorbell rang. This time, it was Elizabeth who went to answer the door, but not before exchanging freighted looks with Reese. Peter got a sinking feeling that he didn’t want to know who was on the other side of the door.
“Now, Peter…” Reese held up a hand, forestalling any action.
“You didn’t. Please, tell me you didn’t.”
Reese didn’t have to say anything, because he could hear Neal’s voice from down the hallway.
“This isn’t what you think.”
“No? Then what is it?”
Elizabeth came back, Neal a few steps behind her. Their eyes met and Neal’s face drained of color, as Peter figured his own did. But then Neal flushed and his eyes blazed with a painful, horrible hope. Peter looked at his beer bottle, unable to keep his eyes on Neal. If he did, he just might break down and beg for forgiveness.
Peter listened to Reese asking Neal what he wanted to drink, and Neal declining. He walked over to the bank of windows and stared out onto the darkening Manhattan sky. It was early September and despite the warmth, the days were growing short. Peter wondered if he could just stand there and pretend for the rest of the evening, just pretend that his life wasn’t a train wreck in slow motion.
But he couldn’t, Neal came over and stood next to him. “I didn’t know that you’d be here.”
Peter found his voice. “I didn’t know you’d be here, either.”
“Do you think that they’re trying to get us to patch things up?”
He could feel Neal’s eyes on him, like a caress, like a brand. “Maybe.”
“Is it possible?” Neal’s question was a barely audible whisper.
Yes. Oh, yes. “No.” Peter closed his eyes against the onslaught of memory.
“Ah.” Neal turned to go, and then paused. “For what it’s worth, Peter, I’m sorry for whatever happened to you, for what made you like this. If I could, I’d rip apart the bastard who ruined you.”
Peter managed a bitter chuff of laughter. “You can’t. He’s dead.”
Neal reached out, his hand hovering over Peter’s, so close that he could feel the other man’s body heat. But Neal thought better of it, his palm closed into a fist and he walked away. Peter just stood there, looking out of the window and seeing nothing but the reflection of a lonely, damaged man.
Elizabeth’s bright voice called out, asking Neal to join her in the kitchen. Peter took a sip of his beer and wondered why the hell he was here.
“I suppose you’re wondering if El and I are trying to engineer your reconciliation.” Reese joined him at the window, echoing his thoughts.
“Yeah, and I wish you hadn’t. There’s no chance of that.”
“Actually, El and I didn’t invite you and Neal over in a misguided attempt to push the two of you back together.”
“Oh?” Peter was skeptical.
“No, we didn’t. You and Neal, whether you're together or apart, are important to the both of us. You’re my friend. Neal is Elizabeth’s friend. Neither of us wants to spend the rest of our lives trying to negotiate our way through whatever problems there are between the two of you.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“So, consider tonight a test run, to see if you and Neal can be in the same room without going for each other’s throats.”
Peter didn’t think that his old friend was being very nice. It had only been a month, after all. “Our relationship wasn’t like that – there was no acrimony…”
Reese threw up a hand, dismissing Peter’s words. “Don’t lie to me. I heard what happened in front of the Metropolitan. At least a half-dozen clients heard you and they couldn’t wait to tell me.”
Peter felt himself flush against the censure in Reese’s tone. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not a bold-faced name.”
His tone harsh, Reese agreed. “Yes, it is. You did quite a bit of damage that night.”
Peter wondered what would happen if he put down his bottle and left and never came back.
Reese softened. “The firm’s reputation will survive.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I am too. You’re my friend, Peter. I hate seeing you like this.”
He shrugged. “I’m okay.”
Reese snorted in disbelief.
“Just – just let me be.”
“Okay. But if you need to talk, I’m here. If you need some time, take it.”
That didn’t sound like a bad idea. Maybe go away for a little while. Not too long ago, he’d thought about going back to Europe – taking an extended vacation. With Neal. Fuck.
Elizabeth and Neal came out of the kitchen and Reese clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s have dinner.”
The meal was decent, and as if they were operating under a flag of truce, the conversation was kept light. When Peter complimented Elizabeth, she confessed that it was catered. She hated to cook and everyone laughed. It seemed so absurd that someone so intimately involved in the food business didn’t actually enjoy preparing food.
“But the dessert isn’t catered. Neal would kill me if I committed such a sin.” Elizabeth stood up. “Reese – come help me.” Her voice brooked no objection and if Peter were in a better mood, he’d make some quip about his partner answering to the crack of a whip.
Reese and Elizabeth retreated into the kitchen and Peter sat there, desperately trying not to look at Neal, and hoping he wasn’t being obvious about it. But he figured he was failing miserably.
In the lull, Neal asked, “Do you know why we’re both here?”
That, at least, he could answer. “They apparently want to make sure we can behave in a civilized fashion if we find ourselves in the same room.”
“Hmmm. Can we?” Neal sounded a touch skeptical.
“I think we’re doing fine.”
“Seems that way.” Peter was actually proud of himself. At least until Neal commented, “Except that you haven’t been able to look at me since I came in.”
The words, so quietly spoken, filled with such pain, set Peter’s temper on edge. “Really? You really want to start something here, now?”
Neal retorted sharply, “You’re looking to start an argument and you still can’t look at me.”
Peter knew he was being goaded. He deserved this and he deserved a hell of a lot worse. He turned and deliberately looked at Neal.
His former lover was still so beautiful he stole Peter’s breath, but now there were lines bracketing his mouth, at the corner of his eyes. He hadn’t shaved too closely and Peter could see threads of gray in the late day beard. He was thinner, too; there were shadows under his eyes, hollows under his cheekbones. He looked hardened, as if all the gentleness, the sweetness that had been so attractive to Peter, had been beaten out of him.
Neal met his eyes, and his lips twitched under Peter’s regard.
Peter looked away.
Elizabeth came out of the kitchen. She was holding an elaborate cake on an equally elaborate tray, and announced, “Dessert, courtesy of Neal.”
Peter hadn’t had the least bit of interest in pastry since that awful, horrible night. Whenever he even thought of cupcakes, he felt slightly ill.
The pop of a cork distracted Peter from his contemplation of the confection. He just noticed that Reese had opened a bottle of Champagne and was pouring generous portions into four crystal flutes.
Peter took the glass that Reese handed to him, then the plate that Elizabeth offered. He didn’t know if he could actually eat any of the cake, but he had to admit that it looked delicious.
“Are we celebrating something?” Neal asked, but he sounded like he already knew the answer to that question.
Peter was startled, a sudden and almost horrible thought occurred to him. He watched as his business partner, his former mentor, his oldest friend, took the hand of the smiling woman standing next to him and raised it to his lips in some inevitable, all too romantic gesture.
“A few weeks ago, on a very beautiful moonlit night, I somehow found the courage to ask this wonderful woman to marry me. I still find myself a little awestruck that she said yes.”
Elizabeth made some equally sappy comment and Peter watched as Neal got up and went over to the nauseatingly happy couple and congratulated them. Sharp musical pings cut through the happy voices as the three of them shared a toast.
Peter felt like the troll under the bridge or maybe the wicked fairy at Sleeping Beauty’s christening. He wanted to be happy for his friend, he really did.
So when Reese turned to him, a look of expectation on his face, Peter curved him mouth into something that might have been a smile, lifted his glass of Champagne, and made a toast. Except the words of goodwill he should have said didn’t come out of his mouth. Instead, he heard himself say, “Reese, do you know that Neal fucked her?”
Go to Part Six - 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
