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elrhiarhodanTitle: Red Velvet - Part Seven of Nine
Notes: See Master Post - On LJ | On DW
December
After a mild autumn, it looked to be a ridiculously cold winter. Thanksgiving Day had been an unseasonable seventy degrees, but by that Sunday, the temperature dropped to 35 and kept dropping. Now, a few days before Christmas, it just might end up being the coldest December in almost twenty years. Peter just hoped that the skies would stay clear and dry. It could snow for days, but only after the New Year, when he’d be out of New York.
London was a much more temperate city.
“Doctor Teller is ready for you, Mr. Burke.”
Peter followed Mandy, the receptionist, into the session room with its comfortable armchairs facing each other. Before he started therapy, he had a preconceived notion that he’d be made to lie back on a couch and tell his therapist all about his terrible childhood. When he’d told the doctor that, she just smiled at him and said that if he be more at ease with the stereotypical set up, something could be arranged.
He wasn’t – preferring the less intimidating armchairs arranged at an angle.
The sessions over the past two months had been productive. His doctor hadn’t been thrilled at he’d deliberately sought out Neal, but she was cautiously encouraged by his apology and his reasons for offering it.
Peter took a seat, feeling relaxed and confident.
“The big day’s coming up. How do you feel?”
“Excited, happy. Nervous.”
“Nervous? Why?”
“Because …”
“Peter – I thought we’d moved past the meaningful pauses.”
He let out a small laugh. “Okay – I’m nervous about seeing Neal.”
“Good.”
“It’s good that I’m nervous?”
“That – and it’s good that you’ve admitted it.”
“I’m ready to talk to him.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.” He’d made up his mind not long after that moment in the cold, poorly lit loading dock that he needed to be honest. Not just with Neal, but with himself. “I went to the cemetery.”
Doctor Teller wasn’t at all fazed by the apparent non sequitur. “Good. When?”
“Yesterday – I wasn’t planning on going, but I realized I had to. I just got into my car and went.” They’d talked about this step a few times and Peter had been extremely resistant to the idea.
“How did you feel?”
He thought for a moment, trying organize the catalog of emotions that hit him. “Sad. Still a little angry. But really, mostly just sad. I’d never been there, you know.” Of course she knew. That had been something that came out in one of their earliest sessions. “I think, maybe going gave me some closure.”
“Funerals are for the living, the act of witness gives us closure. When you refused to go to Daniel’s, you denied yourself that comfort, even if not going had seemed like the comfort you needed at that time.”
Peter nodded, overwhelmed by sadness, a sense of futility. “I never denied he was dead, but I guess – ” He took a deep, shuddering breath, “I guess not seeing his grave gave me some illogical, unreasonable hope that it really never happened.”
The therapist gently prodded him. “And now?”
“Now – ” Peter took a deep breath, “Dan’s dead. He’s been dead for fourteen years and nothing will change that. Seeing the dates on his headstone, hell – just seeing how worn the stone was –meant something. Fourteen years.” Peter shook his head in disbelief. “Dan died before 9/11. That seems so – so unreal. I can’t believe how much time has passed.” How long I’ve been stuck in this rut.
“Before, when I asked you what you felt at seeing Dan’s grave, you said you were a little angry. Who were you angry at?”
Peter knew the tricks Doctor Teller was playing on him, and today, they didn’t bother him. “I was angry at Dan.”
“Why?” The question was gentle, but still challenging.
Peter had an easy answer for that. “He lied to me. He cheated on me. He compromised my health.”
“But those are the old issues, Peter. Old ground. Have you learned anything new?” She was relentless.
Peter didn’t say anything for a minute, but finally admitted to something he’d been struggling against for years. “Okay, okay. I’m still angry that – ” The words clogged in his mouth, strangling him. “I’m angry that he took such stupid fucking – ” He laughed bitterly at the irony of his chosen invective. “Fucking risks. That he left me behind. That I didn’t make things right with him. That I didn’t forgive him.” He scrubbed at his face, wiping away the tears.
Doctor Teller didn’t say anything, but she pushed the ever-present box of tissues towards him.
He blew his nose and caught his breath. It felt like a storm had passed through him.
“I need to tell Neal this, don’t I?”
Of course, the therapist didn’t give him a direct answer. “It will be easier next time.”
“Yeah, I hope.”
“Your friends’ wedding…”
“Jeez, I’m not going to lay this on him then.”
“That’s not what I was going to say, Peter.”
“Ah.”
“I was going to tell you to try and keep it casual. Don’t get worked up and don’t rush things.”
“Not like I did last month?”
“Exactly. That could have been a disaster, you know.”
“Yeah – Neal could have punched me in the face and walked over my doubled up body.”
“In a way, that might have been better.”
“Huh?”
“In the long run, it would have been a disaster if Neal had agreed to take you back – right then and there.”
Peter finally understood. “And I would never have broken out of the cycle if he had.”
She cautioned him. “Peter – you’ve still got a ways to go. I think that even before we started, you were at a point where you were ready to begin healing. This is why you’ve made fantastic progress, but three months of therapy is just the beginning. We agreed, when you started, that therapy was going to be a long-term commitment.”
“I know. I know I’ve still got a lot of work to do.”
Doctor Teller wasn’t encouraging. “It might be better to wait.”
“Until I come back from London? That’s six months from now.”
“And you’re worried that Neal might have moved on by then?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“Your Neal sounds like he’s got a good head on his shoulders. If things do work out for you before you go, what are you going to do about your trip?”
That was something Peter had considered. “I’d ask him to come with me. Even if it’s just for a little while. I want to give us a chance to get to know each other again, in a less pressured environment.”
“Peter – I’d strongly think about waiting to have this conversation with Neal. Your breakthrough is too recent, too fragile.”
“I’ll take that under advisement, Doctor.” A clock softly chimed, signaling the end of their session. “So, this is it for a while. We won’t see each other until June.”
“You can call me if you need to talk. And if you want a referral, I do have some excellent colleagues in London.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Peter turned to leave, but the doctor had one more thing to say. “If it does work out for you and Neal, you both might benefit from a few sessions of couples therapy.”
Peter should his head, amused by her up-selling.
“I’m serious, Peter.”
“I know, and I’ll consider it.”
“You’ll ‘take it under advisement’?”
“Yeah, exactly.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Standing in front of the full length mirror the bedroom in her old apartment, Elizabeth fussed with her hair, wondering if the up-do really worked with the suit. She reached for the pins to take it down, but Neal slapped her hands away.
“It’s perfect.”
“Are you sure?”
“El, I’m positive. Now, finished getting dressed.”
She probably should have felt a little weird about walking around in her slip with Neal in her bedroom, but then, Neal had seen her in a lot less. If Reese wasn’t bothered by his presence, then she wouldn’t be.
The suit was new, the barest blush pink, with an embroidered velvet and satin collar. Her shoes, five-inch pumps, would probably kill her feet before she finished reciting her vows. She’d kept her makeup to a minimum – mostly because her hands were shaking too much. She even had a hard time buttoning the suit jacket.
Neal did it for her. Smoothing and adjusting and making sure she looked perfect.
“You know, you could get a job as a valet, if you ever decide to give up baking.”
The smile he gave her was heartbreaking. “Peter said the same thing to me once.”
At the risk of ruining her makeup, El pressed a kiss against his cheek. “Give it time. Give him time.”
Neal didn’t say anything, but she could tell that Peter wasn’t far from his thoughts these days. She wondered if the two of them would ever find their way back to each other. And then she laughed to herself. Of course they would, if she had anything to say about it.
She rechecked herself in the mirror and had to admit that she’d never looked better. Love, she guessed, did that.
“Just one final touch.” Neal pulled a small bag out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Your ‘something borrowed,’ courtesy of June.”
Elizabeth opened the bag and tipped it over into her palm. She gasped. It was a strand of pearls, just a shade darker than her suit. Neal took them from her and fastened him around her neck.
“Even though you’re not going through all the rigmarole of a full-blown wedding celebration, you’ve got your bases covered.”
“Thank you.” El kissed his other cheek this time. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He touched the tip of her nose. “I can say the same thing.”
Over the last two months, when they hadn’t been talking about her wedding – a very private affair in a judge’s chambers that seemed to need as much planning as a gala society event – they were talking about Neal’s sojourn to London. Not so much the particulars and practicalities, but how much how different their lives would be. Even today, when she was bubbling over with happiness, El was just a little sad, knowing that everything was changing. “I’m going to miss you.”
“You’ll be too busy to think about me. And it’s not like I won’t be back.”
“Nothing will ever be the same.”
“No, but it’s going to be better.” Neal tucked a stray curl behind her ear, his fingers drifting across her cheek. “Come, the car is waiting. Are you ready?” Neal helped her into her coat, then picked up a small bouquet of roses and handed it to her.
“More than ready.” She took his arm and they went forth, as if to battle.
Elizabeth clung to Neal’s hand as the car made its way into Lower Manhattan. They were meeting Reese, and his best man – Peter, of course – at the courthouse. Her husband-to-be had asked her if she’d mind if an old friend who was a Federal judge did the honors. For a brief moment, she’d thought about asking Mozzie, an ordained minister in several “churches” to be the celebrant, but that seemed just a bit much. Reese had no problems with Neal, probably because Neal was so completely and utterly in love with Peter. But Mozzie was different – an unknown quantity to her fiancé – and it just felt too weird having her ex perform her marriage ceremony.
The car came to a stop and the driver opened the passenger door. They had pulled up in front of an old office building, not the Federal courthouse on Centre Street. Confused, Elizabeth asked the driver why they had stopped here. The man simply said that this was the address he’d been given.
Neal let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, there are judges’ chambers here. Believe me – I know that all too well.”
Elizabeth got out of the car and looked around, finally recognizing the street. “I think Mozzie would be quoting Einstein right about now.”
“I can even hear him saying, ‘Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous’.”
A bitter wind nearly yanked the bouquet from Elizabeth’s hand and she let Neal usher her into the building. “What’s the judge’s name?” Neal went to check the building directory.
“Bancroft. Kyle Bancroft – was he the judge who… ?” She was almost afraid to finish that sentence.
Neal shook his head, “No. And thank god, because of all the coincidences that have wrapped around us – you and Peter, Peter and June – that one would be the most inconceivable.”
She had to agree.
“Come on, he’s on the fourth floor.”
The elevator ride was slow and creaky and El didn’t think they’d make it to their destination. She gripped Neal’s hand and something occurred to her – a terrible thought. “You have the ring?”
Neal patted his chest with his free hand and said “Of course.” Then patted it again, extricating the hand she had a death grip on to check the other side. He opened his coat and then his jacket, pulling out a small ring box. “Got it.”
“I’m gonna kill you …”
The elevator came to a halt and the doors clattered open. Peter was pacing back and forth, clearly waiting for them to arrive. His face was wreathed in smiles. “Reese was getting worried, I came out here wait for you. It was either that, or strangle your husband-to-be.”
El smiled and felt a wondrous sense of peace descend over her. Whatever doubts she had – and there were a few – took flight. She loved Reese, she had knew he loved her, and that the coincidences in their lives existed to bring them to this point. The three of them walked down the hall to an office where a security guard was waiting. He opened the door, and there was Reese, despite his tailored suit, looking a little rumpled, a little frazzled, and absolutely the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“By the power vested in my by the State of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Neal watched, charmed, as Reese bent over, cupped his hand around Elizabeth’s cheek and kissed her.
Neal loved weddings. It was one the reasons he’d hooked up with Elizabeth so many years ago. He loved the hope and the promise, and maybe because his role as a baker was so limited – he didn’t get jaded by the bridezillas and their unreasonable demands. Watching Reese and Elizabeth exchange vows made his heart sing.
It also made him thing of everything he never thought he could have. And that thought alone was startling. It wasn’t like he couldn’t get married before the laws had changed, it was just that when he had been with Kate or with Sara, marriage never seemed part of a future with them. And truthfully, even the idea of getting married to Matthew turned his stomach. As for Gordon, well – they hadn’t gotten to the point where they were even in a real relationship.
But Peter … When they’d been together, Neal had never stopped thinking about them in a forever kind of way. Marriage, though, that seemed like reaching for the moon. Maybe because there was always that incomprehensible distance between them.
Throughout the brief ceremony, he couldn’t help but sneak sidelong glances at Peter, who looked incredible, and not just physically. Peter looked good, so much better than he had at Reese and Elizabeth’s that night, even better than he had at the Hudson. The strain that had been etched so deeply into his face was gone. He was relaxed, happy with himself, as if he’d finally found some peace.
And even though their eyes didn’t meet, Neal was certain that Peter was looking at him, too. He could feel the man’s gaze on him, like the gentle brush of fingers along his spine.
Neal snuck another look at Peter and this time, their eyes met. It wasn’t a bolt of lightning out of a clear sky; his heart wasn’t shocked by any revelation. No – the feeling now was one of inevitability, like the slow rise of the winter sun.
Of what, however, he wasn’t sure.
“Neal?” Elizabeth caught his wandering attention. “Come, you have to sign the marriage license.”
He went over to the desk, picked up the pen and scrawled “Neal George Caffrey” where the judge told him to. He handed the pen to Peter and their fingers touched. The contact was perfectly ordinary, a too-brief moment of warmth. Peter smiled at him and Neal was again struck by the peace he saw in the other man’s eyes.
Peter signed the license, and so did the judge, who handed it to his secretary to make a copy.
The four of them were like a litter of very well-dressed puppies, giddy with happiness, tumbling over each other as they left the judge’s chambers and when back down the hallway to the ancient, creaking elevator.
The limo was still waiting in front of the building, to take them back to Elizabeth and Reese’s apartment. Neal had refused to let either of them consider a celebratory lunch at a restaurant, and had spent most of yesterday and the morning preparing a meal for his friends. He’d enlisted Blake, was well Yvonne, who’d exploited her contacts on the event planning side of the business, to make sure that everything was ready for them when they got home.
El and Reese were canoodling a little – she was fussing with his coat, he was trying to kiss her, and Neal took the opportunity to send Blake a text, letting him know that they’d be at the apartment soon.
“Are you coming?” Peter was standing next to the waiting limo. Those were the first words that Peter had spoken to him directly, and Neal felt his cheeks go warm at the double-entendre.
“Why don’t we give the newlyweds a little privacy?”
Peter glanced over at Elizabeth and Reese, who stopped kissing long enough to get out of the cold and into the car. His lips twitched. “Yeah – not a bad idea.”
“We can catch a cab back.” Neal held his breath, trying not to think about the last time they shared a taxi.
“That sounds good.” Peter went over to the happy couple and explained what they were doing. El gave Neal a look that seemed to both encourage and warn him. But then she grinned and without any warning, she called out, “Guys, catch,” and tossed her bouquet at them. Peter might have been standing closer and had a longer reach, but Neal was quicker, and frankly, Elizabeth was clearly aiming her toss at him.
With his hands full of blush-pink rosebuds, he couldn’t help but laugh.
Reese and Elizabeth got into the limo; Neal stood shoulder to shoulder with Peter and watched as the car pulled into traffic and disappeared. Peter held out a hand to hail a cab, but Neal stopped him.
“Can I show you something?”
“Sure.” Peter shoved his hand back into his coat pocket; it was still freezing.
They weren’t going far – just to the building next door. It was a small eatery with a plate glass front façade that catered to the local lunch trade, a place not unlike hundreds of others in the city. There was nothing special about it.
Not anymore.
“Neal?” There was a sharp indent between Peter’s eyebrows as his face settled into one of amused puzzlement.
“Of course you wouldn’t recognize it, but this was once the site of – ”
“The Greatest Cake.” Peter finished his sentence.
“Yeah – my bakery. I once had a bakery in Lower Manhattan; I once had a bakery…”
“You still miss it?”
Neal shrugged. “No, not anymore. It comes to a point when you have to let go of the past.” He bit his lip – he hadn’t meant to sound so self-righteous.
But Peter didn’t notice. All he said was, “Yes, you do.”
The wind picked up, reminding them that this was December, courtesy of a not-so-polite, but very persistent Alberta Clipper. Neal held out a hand to flag a taxi. “Let’s see if I still have the magic touch.” Once upon a time, he had an almost inhuman ability to get a cab, and as a bright yellow vehicle cruised to the curb in front of them, he was pleased to see that he hadn’t lost that talent.
Midday traffic on a Friday between Christmas and New Year’s was light, but it still took almost a half-hour to get from Centre Street to the Upper West Side.
“Did you have a good Christmas?” Neal tried for a combination of off-hand politeness and genuine interest.
Peter’s reply seemed to have that same quality. “Yeah, it was nice, low key. Arthur and Elaine invited me to dinner.”
“Good.” Neal was pleased that Peter hadn’t been alone.
“You?”
“Spent most of the day at JFK, of all places?”
“Why?”
“Mozzie decided he’d had enough of California, and as he put it, the not-so-subtle threats from the BHA mafia.”
“Huh? BHA mafia? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of them. And do I really want to know how Mozzie got involved in organized crime?”
Neal had to laugh. “Sorry – that’s what Moz calls his former colleagues in astronomy and planetary science. ‘BHA’ is an old nickname for Carl Sagan, Moz’s nemesis.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“It goes back to the early ‘90s when Sagan sued Apple for using his name for a prototype. The company changed the codename to BHA, which stood for Butt-Head Astronomer.”
Peter chuckled. “Ah, but does Mozzie really believe that some mild-mannered scientists are really out to get him?”
“I’m not sure about that. He says that odd things kept happening while he was in San Francisco, and he swears that he was being followed whenever he went into the city. But I just think he got tired and needed some rest.”
“His ladies were wearing him out?”
“I suspect.” Neal didn’t tell him that Moz was back in New York to help El and keep an eye on the bakery operations while he was in London. “I got a call from him on Christmas eve, asking if I’d pick him up at one-thirty. Turns out that his flight was delayed because of fog and I spent four hours in the cell phone lot at JFK waiting for his plane to arrive.”
“Sorry to hear that. It’s not a nice way to spend the holiday.”
“It was all right, I didn’t have any other plans. Besides, Moz brought back a bottle of 2010 Screaming Eagle for me.”
“That’s a very nice present.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know if I’d actually consider it a gift, considering since he filched the ’82 Chateau Petrus from my collection last year.” Neal wanted to ask Peter if he had plans for New Year’s Eve. It seemed so easy, so right to take that final step. But was it really fair at this point? To start something that he wasn’t going to be around to follow through on? He was leaving for London in ten days.
And then there was the whole issue of Peter’s past – the past he’d refused to talk about. Neal had surprised himself when he’d made that a condition of any potential reconciliation.
The cab pulled up in front of Reese and Elizabeth’s building and whatever decision Neal was would make was going to be delayed, at least until after lunch. He paid the cabbie and retrieved Elizabeth’s bouquet.
Peter got out of the cab and held out a hand in an old-fashioned, courtly gesture. Neal took it without a second thought.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It all felt so normal this time around, to be having a meal with Elizabeth and Reese and Neal. So normal that Peter could almost fool himself into believing that the last four months hadn’t really happened; that he hadn’t wrecked everything.
But it did, and no matter how much he wished he could, he couldn’t turn back the clock, he couldn’t undo his mistakes.
But isn’t that for the best? Peter could actually hear his therapist’s voice in that question. And she was right, undoing the recent past meant undoing everything he had accomplished to overcome what had happened. No, the better path was to move forward, to accept the mistakes and try not to repeat them.
The pop of a champagne cork distracted him from his musings. “You will have a piece of my wedding cake?” Elizabeth was brooking no disagreement.
Neal interrupted, “Can’t we have the chance to admire it before you cut it?”
Of course Neal would have made the wedding cake.
“Oh, all right.” El gave in with a mock huff. “You always need to show off.”
Neal kissed her cheek. “Only because I saved my best work for you.” He disappeared into the kitchen, coming back with a small, exquisitely decorated cake covered in tiny pink icing roses and piped lines resembling silver lace.
Even Reese was impressed. “It’s gorgeous, Neal. It’s too pretty to eat.”
Neal pretended to be horrified, but Peter could see how pleased he was by the compliment.
He looked at the cake and then over to the sideboard, where the bouquet of roses trimmed with silver lace rested. “Huh, it looks like Elizabeth’s bouquet.” Elizabeth glared at him, and he felt like an idiot. He glanced over at Neal, who gave him a shy, but approving smile.
“Of course it does.” He laughed at his own stupidity, and they all joined in.
“Does someone want to take a picture before I kill it?” Elizabeth held a silver cake knife as if she was the villain in a slasher flick, making stabbing motions at the cake.
They all reached for their smartphones. Peter, who had rarely used the camera on his iPhone, had a moment of inspiration and turned on the video camera feature to capture all of these moments of joy: Elizabeth and Reese both holding the knife – this time in a civilized fashion – and slicing into the cake; the first slice falling onto a plate; Reese taking a finger full of frosting and painting in on his bride’s nose, then licking it off. He kept recording as that lick turned into a very passionate kiss and Elizabeth clung to her husband. Peter even captured the moment when Reese broke off the kiss and growled, “Burke, Caffrey – get out,” before pulling Elizabeth towards the bedroom.
Peter turned the camera on Neal, expecting to see laughter, a teasing look in the man’s eyes, but he was surprised by what he saw. It wasn’t jealousy (though he might have once believed it was), but envy for their happiness. Peter understood that.
He turned the camera off and pocketed his phone. “I guess we should leave.”
Neal nodded, but looked at the just-cut slice of cake. “Hmm – should do something about this.”
“A good pastry is a terrible thing to waste?”
He looked up and grinned. “Yeah, but you know what – it’s theirs, not mine. And if they’d rather – ” Neal’s voice dropped to a stage whisper, “Have sex than eat it, they’ll just have to live with stale wedding cake as the price for their orgasmic bliss.”
Peter retrieved their coats and they left the apartment.
It was a little after four o’clock and the sun had set dropped behind the canyons of New York, taking whatever warmth it managed to generate. Outside, on the street, the air was breath-stealing cold, but Peter stood there, wishing like hell he could just follow Neal back to his apartment, share a bottle of wine and pour out his heart.
“Peter?”
“Neal?”
“I’m going to – ” Neal pointed uptown. “Head back to my place – maybe you’d like to come, join me for a bit?”
He couldn’t believe that Neal was giving him the opening he needed. “Yeah – I’d like to.”
They walked quickly, their long strides quickly eating up the dozen or so blocks to the Ellington Mansion on Riverside Drive. Even still, Peter was frozen by the time he climbed up the still-familiar front steps.
Magda, June’s housekeeper, greeted him with a smile and took their coats. Peter followed Neal up the three flights, thinking about the miracle of forgiveness that brought him back here.
Not much had changed in Neal’s apartment since that last, terrible evening. It was warm and welcoming and even now felt more like home than his house in Cobble Hill. Neal set a pot of water on the stove.
Waiting for the water to come to a boil, Neal moved to the hearth, standing there with his hands in his pockets.
Peter commented, “A fire would be nice on a night like tonight. Does the fireplace work?”
Neal shook his head. “It might, but June warned me not to use it. Apparently Byron had a bad habit of burning unsuccessful canvasses in it. Not a good idea when you use oil paints and linseed oil. She said that the residue in the flue might kill me.”
Peter realized that Neal was nervous, and talking about nothing to cover it. At least the tea kettle began to whistle.
Neal asked, “Want a cup?”
“Sure.” He really wasn’t a tea drinker, but it was something to do, something to cover the aching distance that had sprung up between them.
Neal fussed with the tea, heating the pot, measuring the loose leaf into a tea ball, pouring the hot water as if his life depended on filling it to just the right point. Milk, sugar and lemon, plus two ancient chipped mugs made their way to the dining table, together with an equally ancient teapot.
Peter almost made a comment about the lack of cookies to go with the tea, but a plate of gingersnaps, undoubtedly made by Neal, found their way next to the pot.
“Shall I?” Neal filled both mugs and pushed one towards him. Peter took his time with the sugar and the lemon, looking on in vague distaste as Neal splashed a little cream into his. He supposed that he’d get used to seeing people put milk into their tea when he was living in London.
“Well?”
“Tea’s good, thanks.”
“That wasn’t what I was asking, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“How are you doing, really?”
Peter smiled, his eyes not leaving Neal’s. “I’m doing all right – really well.”
“I can tell – you look fantastic.”
“Thanks.” Peter took a deep breath and plunged into the deep end. “I’ve been seeing a therapist.”
Neal’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“You seem surprised, why?”
“I don’t know – you just don’t seem like the type who’d be able to open up like that.”
He nodded, agreeing with Neal. “I wasn’t – and honestly, it’s been hard as hell.”
“But it’s working?”
“Yeah – it is. I feel like a cliché sometimes…” He trailed off; this wasn’t how he wanted the conversation to go. “When I saw you in October, you said something. Something that gave me hope.”
“Oh?”
“You told me that until I could tell you about what happened, we couldn’t move forward. We didn’t have a chance for a future.”
“Ah – yeah.” Neal frowned. “I’m sorry about that – it was pretty cruel of me to put that on you. I can tell it’s terribly painful, and to make you revisit it is wrong.”
“No, it’s not wrong. It’s something I’ve needed to do for a very long time. I’ve needed to face the past, not avoid it, not hide from it, not pretend it didn’t happen.”
“And therapy’s helped you get there?”
“Yeah, unbelievably, it has.” Peter took a sip of his tea and tried not to make a face. It was awful. “If you want to hear, I’m ready to tell you.”
Neal’s eyes went wide, a warm pale blue like the early morning sky. “I don’t want you to do this if it’s going to hurt you, Peter.”
“It hurts, regardless. And I need to tell you this.” Peter backtracked, realizing that he was putting the burden on Neal. “If you do want to hear, I need you to listen. It’s not a pretty story, but you deserve the whole truth.”
Neal got up, took the mugs of tea away and replaced them with a pair of tumblers and a bottle of single malt Scotch, pouring doubles for both of them. “I think we need something a little stronger.”
Peter took a sip, grateful for the bite and the burn of the smoky liquor, and began – not from the end, where things had gone so terribly wrong, but from the beginning. He wanted Neal to understand everything. “It wasn’t easy being gay in the early 1990s, and it wasn’t easy being gay and an FBI agent. Like I told you, I’d been lucky that Reese was my supervising agent and he didn’t care about which sex I preferred to date, but I still had to prove myself to the other agents in the division. Hell, it seemed like I had to prove myself to the entire Bureau over and over again. The first year after I finished my probationary term, I got all the shit assignments. I was tagged for a lot of late shifts alone in the surveillance van.
“Anyway, one night, I was on duty by myself and I picked up some stray signal. It was coming from an NYPD radio. It sounded like a cop was in trouble, serious trouble, so I left the van and tried to help.”
“Without backup?”
“Yeah – stupid, I know – going out without backup, without calling it in. I was all by myself doing the delta shift, supposed to be listening in on a bunch of stockbrokers working a boiler room scam, and instead I was running down Bleeker Street, gun in one hand, scanner in the other, trying to figure out where the signal’s coming from.
“Eventually, I found the cop and he was getting beat up pretty badly – two guys with baseball bats. I did the whole, ‘FBI – FREEZE’ thing and the sons of bitches actually shot at me. They missed, I shot back, I missed and the next thing I knew, there was a half-dozen police cars streaming in. It seemed that I’d stepped into the middle of an active investigation – ”
“Really? One where a cop was getting the shit kicked out of him?”
“Actually, it was a lot more complicated than that. The cop who was getting the shit kicked out of him was an IAB officer investigating a squad of dirty narcotics detectives. The other cops were waiting for the guy to go terminal before rolling in.”
“So – you got to be a big hero?”
“In a way. The cop who was beaten up survived and identified his attackers as other cops – the ones he’d been investigating. The details were never released, but the bastards were arrested and convicted.” Peter took another sip of the whiskey. “I suppose you’re wondering what this has to do with anything.”
Neal nodded. “I figure you’ll get to it, eventually.”
“Anyway – I went to check on the cop.”
“The one you rescued.”
Peter nodded. “I’d gone through about six hours of interrogation by the NYPD – but they wouldn’t tell me if the guy was alive or dead. I pulled a few strings, flashed my badge a couple of times and finally found him under guard at Beth Israel Hospital.” Peter had to laugh at the memory. “There’s the guy, he’s got a cast on his arm, his head’s wrapped in bandages, his face is this mass of bruises, and he’s flirting with the male nurse.
“The cop sees me and says to the nurse, ‘You can go now, sweet cheeks. Maybe Mr. Big Bad FBI Agent will give me a sponge bath.’ He was being outrageously flamboyant – like he was trying to shock me.”
Peter couldn’t help but smile at the memory. He hadn’t shared these with his therapist and this was probably the first time he thought about those early days with Dan in fifteen years. “I wasn’t shocked.”
“This was the guy?”
“Yeah. The guy – Dan, Daniel Shattuck. He was a lieutenant in the NYPD.” Peter felt the decades drop away. “The youngest lieutenant in the whole damn department.”
“And he was out?” Neal seemed incredulous; Peter didn’t blame him.
“Dan was ambitious and he figured that he could claw his way up in a detective squad, but he’d have to stay deep in the closet, or he could join IAB and get to the top that much faster. If he was going to be hated for being on the ‘Rat Squad’, he said might as well be out and proud and be hated for that, too.”
“Makes sense, in a strange sort of way.” Neal then said, in a quiet voice, “You sound like you admired him.”
“I did, I guess. I was out, but I was a conformist. Regulation haircut, regulation suit and tie and shoes, regulation behavior. The FBI didn’t have room for eccentrics, despite what was on the X-Files. I never hid that I was gay, but I didn’t – I couldn’t – wear it like Dan did.” Peter paused, still a little caught up in the past.
“So – what happened? He asked you out while he was still in his hospital bed?” Neal’s tone was bland, almost diffident.
“No, actually. I spent about five minutes with him, told him I hoped he had a quick recovery and left. I admired his bravery, and sort of felt a little ashamed of myself, for my need to conform and pretty much tried to put the whole thing out of my mind. About a week later, I got a huge bouquet of flowers at the office.
“The guys ribbed me a little, but it wasn’t nasty. Then the box of candy came – two pounds of Godiva. I guess it helped that I shared it. Another bouquet of flowers. A basket of muffins, another one of cookies. Dan signed all the cards, ‘To the bravest FBI agent in the world’. It was like he was wooing me.”
Peter took another sip of the Scotch and realized his glass was empty. Before he could reach for the bottle, Neal refilled both of their glasses. He was probably going to get drunk tonight. Very drunk.
“About two weeks after that, I was in the office, at my desk, concentrating on some surveillance transcripts for the same damn boiler room case I’d been working on that night, and this guy showed up. He was just standing there, clearing his throat, trying to get my attention. There was cast on his arm and he had pair of spectacular shiners. I figured he must have flashed his badge to get in, because the FBI has pretty strict rules about letting civilians in unescorted.
“So I just sat there, my jaw practically on my chest and tried not to seem like an idiot. All I could think was to ask him why was he there.”
“I’d have thought the answer was obvious.” Neal’s tone was dry.
“Of course it was – like I said, I was trying not to seem like an idiot, but it was pretty clear I was failing miserably. Dan said he wanted to know if I liked the flowers and the candy and the muffins. I don’t remember what I said, but it must have been the right thing. Next thing I know, he’s asking me out for dinner. Right there, in front of everyone. And you know what? No one was paying any attention.”
“You accepted, of course.”
“I did. Dan played it smart – he was pretty low key. He took me to some burger joint on Union Square, and the place was filled with college kids. As unromantic as you could imagine. After we finished dinner, he made a joke about inviting me back to his place, but that if we tried to do anything, he’d probably render me unconscious with his cast. Then he said I was probably the type of guy who needed at least three dates before putting out.”
Neal laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. Peter asked, “What’s the matter.”
“Sorry – just thinking about how easy I was.” Neal lifted his glass and drained it in a single swallow.
“You weren’t easy, Neal. You were perfect.” Peter didn’t understand how the mood had changed. But when Neal reached for the whiskey bottle, he intercepted him. “You’ve had enough for now.”
Neal didn’t fight him, but the look on his face troubled Peter. “I don’t have to go on, you know, not if this is making you upset.”
Go to Part Eight - On LJ | On DW
Notes: See Master Post - On LJ | On DW
December
After a mild autumn, it looked to be a ridiculously cold winter. Thanksgiving Day had been an unseasonable seventy degrees, but by that Sunday, the temperature dropped to 35 and kept dropping. Now, a few days before Christmas, it just might end up being the coldest December in almost twenty years. Peter just hoped that the skies would stay clear and dry. It could snow for days, but only after the New Year, when he’d be out of New York.
London was a much more temperate city.
“Doctor Teller is ready for you, Mr. Burke.”
Peter followed Mandy, the receptionist, into the session room with its comfortable armchairs facing each other. Before he started therapy, he had a preconceived notion that he’d be made to lie back on a couch and tell his therapist all about his terrible childhood. When he’d told the doctor that, she just smiled at him and said that if he be more at ease with the stereotypical set up, something could be arranged.
He wasn’t – preferring the less intimidating armchairs arranged at an angle.
The sessions over the past two months had been productive. His doctor hadn’t been thrilled at he’d deliberately sought out Neal, but she was cautiously encouraged by his apology and his reasons for offering it.
Peter took a seat, feeling relaxed and confident.
“The big day’s coming up. How do you feel?”
“Excited, happy. Nervous.”
“Nervous? Why?”
“Because …”
“Peter – I thought we’d moved past the meaningful pauses.”
He let out a small laugh. “Okay – I’m nervous about seeing Neal.”
“Good.”
“It’s good that I’m nervous?”
“That – and it’s good that you’ve admitted it.”
“I’m ready to talk to him.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.” He’d made up his mind not long after that moment in the cold, poorly lit loading dock that he needed to be honest. Not just with Neal, but with himself. “I went to the cemetery.”
Doctor Teller wasn’t at all fazed by the apparent non sequitur. “Good. When?”
“Yesterday – I wasn’t planning on going, but I realized I had to. I just got into my car and went.” They’d talked about this step a few times and Peter had been extremely resistant to the idea.
“How did you feel?”
He thought for a moment, trying organize the catalog of emotions that hit him. “Sad. Still a little angry. But really, mostly just sad. I’d never been there, you know.” Of course she knew. That had been something that came out in one of their earliest sessions. “I think, maybe going gave me some closure.”
“Funerals are for the living, the act of witness gives us closure. When you refused to go to Daniel’s, you denied yourself that comfort, even if not going had seemed like the comfort you needed at that time.”
Peter nodded, overwhelmed by sadness, a sense of futility. “I never denied he was dead, but I guess – ” He took a deep, shuddering breath, “I guess not seeing his grave gave me some illogical, unreasonable hope that it really never happened.”
The therapist gently prodded him. “And now?”
“Now – ” Peter took a deep breath, “Dan’s dead. He’s been dead for fourteen years and nothing will change that. Seeing the dates on his headstone, hell – just seeing how worn the stone was –meant something. Fourteen years.” Peter shook his head in disbelief. “Dan died before 9/11. That seems so – so unreal. I can’t believe how much time has passed.” How long I’ve been stuck in this rut.
“Before, when I asked you what you felt at seeing Dan’s grave, you said you were a little angry. Who were you angry at?”
Peter knew the tricks Doctor Teller was playing on him, and today, they didn’t bother him. “I was angry at Dan.”
“Why?” The question was gentle, but still challenging.
Peter had an easy answer for that. “He lied to me. He cheated on me. He compromised my health.”
“But those are the old issues, Peter. Old ground. Have you learned anything new?” She was relentless.
Peter didn’t say anything for a minute, but finally admitted to something he’d been struggling against for years. “Okay, okay. I’m still angry that – ” The words clogged in his mouth, strangling him. “I’m angry that he took such stupid fucking – ” He laughed bitterly at the irony of his chosen invective. “Fucking risks. That he left me behind. That I didn’t make things right with him. That I didn’t forgive him.” He scrubbed at his face, wiping away the tears.
Doctor Teller didn’t say anything, but she pushed the ever-present box of tissues towards him.
He blew his nose and caught his breath. It felt like a storm had passed through him.
“I need to tell Neal this, don’t I?”
Of course, the therapist didn’t give him a direct answer. “It will be easier next time.”
“Yeah, I hope.”
“Your friends’ wedding…”
“Jeez, I’m not going to lay this on him then.”
“That’s not what I was going to say, Peter.”
“Ah.”
“I was going to tell you to try and keep it casual. Don’t get worked up and don’t rush things.”
“Not like I did last month?”
“Exactly. That could have been a disaster, you know.”
“Yeah – Neal could have punched me in the face and walked over my doubled up body.”
“In a way, that might have been better.”
“Huh?”
“In the long run, it would have been a disaster if Neal had agreed to take you back – right then and there.”
Peter finally understood. “And I would never have broken out of the cycle if he had.”
She cautioned him. “Peter – you’ve still got a ways to go. I think that even before we started, you were at a point where you were ready to begin healing. This is why you’ve made fantastic progress, but three months of therapy is just the beginning. We agreed, when you started, that therapy was going to be a long-term commitment.”
“I know. I know I’ve still got a lot of work to do.”
Doctor Teller wasn’t encouraging. “It might be better to wait.”
“Until I come back from London? That’s six months from now.”
“And you’re worried that Neal might have moved on by then?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“Your Neal sounds like he’s got a good head on his shoulders. If things do work out for you before you go, what are you going to do about your trip?”
That was something Peter had considered. “I’d ask him to come with me. Even if it’s just for a little while. I want to give us a chance to get to know each other again, in a less pressured environment.”
“Peter – I’d strongly think about waiting to have this conversation with Neal. Your breakthrough is too recent, too fragile.”
“I’ll take that under advisement, Doctor.” A clock softly chimed, signaling the end of their session. “So, this is it for a while. We won’t see each other until June.”
“You can call me if you need to talk. And if you want a referral, I do have some excellent colleagues in London.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Peter turned to leave, but the doctor had one more thing to say. “If it does work out for you and Neal, you both might benefit from a few sessions of couples therapy.”
Peter should his head, amused by her up-selling.
“I’m serious, Peter.”
“I know, and I’ll consider it.”
“You’ll ‘take it under advisement’?”
“Yeah, exactly.”
Standing in front of the full length mirror the bedroom in her old apartment, Elizabeth fussed with her hair, wondering if the up-do really worked with the suit. She reached for the pins to take it down, but Neal slapped her hands away.
“It’s perfect.”
“Are you sure?”
“El, I’m positive. Now, finished getting dressed.”
She probably should have felt a little weird about walking around in her slip with Neal in her bedroom, but then, Neal had seen her in a lot less. If Reese wasn’t bothered by his presence, then she wouldn’t be.
The suit was new, the barest blush pink, with an embroidered velvet and satin collar. Her shoes, five-inch pumps, would probably kill her feet before she finished reciting her vows. She’d kept her makeup to a minimum – mostly because her hands were shaking too much. She even had a hard time buttoning the suit jacket.
Neal did it for her. Smoothing and adjusting and making sure she looked perfect.
“You know, you could get a job as a valet, if you ever decide to give up baking.”
The smile he gave her was heartbreaking. “Peter said the same thing to me once.”
At the risk of ruining her makeup, El pressed a kiss against his cheek. “Give it time. Give him time.”
Neal didn’t say anything, but she could tell that Peter wasn’t far from his thoughts these days. She wondered if the two of them would ever find their way back to each other. And then she laughed to herself. Of course they would, if she had anything to say about it.
She rechecked herself in the mirror and had to admit that she’d never looked better. Love, she guessed, did that.
“Just one final touch.” Neal pulled a small bag out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Your ‘something borrowed,’ courtesy of June.”
Elizabeth opened the bag and tipped it over into her palm. She gasped. It was a strand of pearls, just a shade darker than her suit. Neal took them from her and fastened him around her neck.
“Even though you’re not going through all the rigmarole of a full-blown wedding celebration, you’ve got your bases covered.”
“Thank you.” El kissed his other cheek this time. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He touched the tip of her nose. “I can say the same thing.”
Over the last two months, when they hadn’t been talking about her wedding – a very private affair in a judge’s chambers that seemed to need as much planning as a gala society event – they were talking about Neal’s sojourn to London. Not so much the particulars and practicalities, but how much how different their lives would be. Even today, when she was bubbling over with happiness, El was just a little sad, knowing that everything was changing. “I’m going to miss you.”
“You’ll be too busy to think about me. And it’s not like I won’t be back.”
“Nothing will ever be the same.”
“No, but it’s going to be better.” Neal tucked a stray curl behind her ear, his fingers drifting across her cheek. “Come, the car is waiting. Are you ready?” Neal helped her into her coat, then picked up a small bouquet of roses and handed it to her.
“More than ready.” She took his arm and they went forth, as if to battle.
Elizabeth clung to Neal’s hand as the car made its way into Lower Manhattan. They were meeting Reese, and his best man – Peter, of course – at the courthouse. Her husband-to-be had asked her if she’d mind if an old friend who was a Federal judge did the honors. For a brief moment, she’d thought about asking Mozzie, an ordained minister in several “churches” to be the celebrant, but that seemed just a bit much. Reese had no problems with Neal, probably because Neal was so completely and utterly in love with Peter. But Mozzie was different – an unknown quantity to her fiancé – and it just felt too weird having her ex perform her marriage ceremony.
The car came to a stop and the driver opened the passenger door. They had pulled up in front of an old office building, not the Federal courthouse on Centre Street. Confused, Elizabeth asked the driver why they had stopped here. The man simply said that this was the address he’d been given.
Neal let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, there are judges’ chambers here. Believe me – I know that all too well.”
Elizabeth got out of the car and looked around, finally recognizing the street. “I think Mozzie would be quoting Einstein right about now.”
“I can even hear him saying, ‘Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous’.”
A bitter wind nearly yanked the bouquet from Elizabeth’s hand and she let Neal usher her into the building. “What’s the judge’s name?” Neal went to check the building directory.
“Bancroft. Kyle Bancroft – was he the judge who… ?” She was almost afraid to finish that sentence.
Neal shook his head, “No. And thank god, because of all the coincidences that have wrapped around us – you and Peter, Peter and June – that one would be the most inconceivable.”
She had to agree.
“Come on, he’s on the fourth floor.”
The elevator ride was slow and creaky and El didn’t think they’d make it to their destination. She gripped Neal’s hand and something occurred to her – a terrible thought. “You have the ring?”
Neal patted his chest with his free hand and said “Of course.” Then patted it again, extricating the hand she had a death grip on to check the other side. He opened his coat and then his jacket, pulling out a small ring box. “Got it.”
“I’m gonna kill you …”
The elevator came to a halt and the doors clattered open. Peter was pacing back and forth, clearly waiting for them to arrive. His face was wreathed in smiles. “Reese was getting worried, I came out here wait for you. It was either that, or strangle your husband-to-be.”
El smiled and felt a wondrous sense of peace descend over her. Whatever doubts she had – and there were a few – took flight. She loved Reese, she had knew he loved her, and that the coincidences in their lives existed to bring them to this point. The three of them walked down the hall to an office where a security guard was waiting. He opened the door, and there was Reese, despite his tailored suit, looking a little rumpled, a little frazzled, and absolutely the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.
“By the power vested in my by the State of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Neal watched, charmed, as Reese bent over, cupped his hand around Elizabeth’s cheek and kissed her.
Neal loved weddings. It was one the reasons he’d hooked up with Elizabeth so many years ago. He loved the hope and the promise, and maybe because his role as a baker was so limited – he didn’t get jaded by the bridezillas and their unreasonable demands. Watching Reese and Elizabeth exchange vows made his heart sing.
It also made him thing of everything he never thought he could have. And that thought alone was startling. It wasn’t like he couldn’t get married before the laws had changed, it was just that when he had been with Kate or with Sara, marriage never seemed part of a future with them. And truthfully, even the idea of getting married to Matthew turned his stomach. As for Gordon, well – they hadn’t gotten to the point where they were even in a real relationship.
But Peter … When they’d been together, Neal had never stopped thinking about them in a forever kind of way. Marriage, though, that seemed like reaching for the moon. Maybe because there was always that incomprehensible distance between them.
Throughout the brief ceremony, he couldn’t help but sneak sidelong glances at Peter, who looked incredible, and not just physically. Peter looked good, so much better than he had at Reese and Elizabeth’s that night, even better than he had at the Hudson. The strain that had been etched so deeply into his face was gone. He was relaxed, happy with himself, as if he’d finally found some peace.
And even though their eyes didn’t meet, Neal was certain that Peter was looking at him, too. He could feel the man’s gaze on him, like the gentle brush of fingers along his spine.
Neal snuck another look at Peter and this time, their eyes met. It wasn’t a bolt of lightning out of a clear sky; his heart wasn’t shocked by any revelation. No – the feeling now was one of inevitability, like the slow rise of the winter sun.
Of what, however, he wasn’t sure.
“Neal?” Elizabeth caught his wandering attention. “Come, you have to sign the marriage license.”
He went over to the desk, picked up the pen and scrawled “Neal George Caffrey” where the judge told him to. He handed the pen to Peter and their fingers touched. The contact was perfectly ordinary, a too-brief moment of warmth. Peter smiled at him and Neal was again struck by the peace he saw in the other man’s eyes.
Peter signed the license, and so did the judge, who handed it to his secretary to make a copy.
The four of them were like a litter of very well-dressed puppies, giddy with happiness, tumbling over each other as they left the judge’s chambers and when back down the hallway to the ancient, creaking elevator.
The limo was still waiting in front of the building, to take them back to Elizabeth and Reese’s apartment. Neal had refused to let either of them consider a celebratory lunch at a restaurant, and had spent most of yesterday and the morning preparing a meal for his friends. He’d enlisted Blake, was well Yvonne, who’d exploited her contacts on the event planning side of the business, to make sure that everything was ready for them when they got home.
El and Reese were canoodling a little – she was fussing with his coat, he was trying to kiss her, and Neal took the opportunity to send Blake a text, letting him know that they’d be at the apartment soon.
“Are you coming?” Peter was standing next to the waiting limo. Those were the first words that Peter had spoken to him directly, and Neal felt his cheeks go warm at the double-entendre.
“Why don’t we give the newlyweds a little privacy?”
Peter glanced over at Elizabeth and Reese, who stopped kissing long enough to get out of the cold and into the car. His lips twitched. “Yeah – not a bad idea.”
“We can catch a cab back.” Neal held his breath, trying not to think about the last time they shared a taxi.
“That sounds good.” Peter went over to the happy couple and explained what they were doing. El gave Neal a look that seemed to both encourage and warn him. But then she grinned and without any warning, she called out, “Guys, catch,” and tossed her bouquet at them. Peter might have been standing closer and had a longer reach, but Neal was quicker, and frankly, Elizabeth was clearly aiming her toss at him.
With his hands full of blush-pink rosebuds, he couldn’t help but laugh.
Reese and Elizabeth got into the limo; Neal stood shoulder to shoulder with Peter and watched as the car pulled into traffic and disappeared. Peter held out a hand to hail a cab, but Neal stopped him.
“Can I show you something?”
“Sure.” Peter shoved his hand back into his coat pocket; it was still freezing.
They weren’t going far – just to the building next door. It was a small eatery with a plate glass front façade that catered to the local lunch trade, a place not unlike hundreds of others in the city. There was nothing special about it.
Not anymore.
“Neal?” There was a sharp indent between Peter’s eyebrows as his face settled into one of amused puzzlement.
“Of course you wouldn’t recognize it, but this was once the site of – ”
“The Greatest Cake.” Peter finished his sentence.
“Yeah – my bakery. I once had a bakery in Lower Manhattan; I once had a bakery…”
“You still miss it?”
Neal shrugged. “No, not anymore. It comes to a point when you have to let go of the past.” He bit his lip – he hadn’t meant to sound so self-righteous.
But Peter didn’t notice. All he said was, “Yes, you do.”
The wind picked up, reminding them that this was December, courtesy of a not-so-polite, but very persistent Alberta Clipper. Neal held out a hand to flag a taxi. “Let’s see if I still have the magic touch.” Once upon a time, he had an almost inhuman ability to get a cab, and as a bright yellow vehicle cruised to the curb in front of them, he was pleased to see that he hadn’t lost that talent.
Midday traffic on a Friday between Christmas and New Year’s was light, but it still took almost a half-hour to get from Centre Street to the Upper West Side.
“Did you have a good Christmas?” Neal tried for a combination of off-hand politeness and genuine interest.
Peter’s reply seemed to have that same quality. “Yeah, it was nice, low key. Arthur and Elaine invited me to dinner.”
“Good.” Neal was pleased that Peter hadn’t been alone.
“You?”
“Spent most of the day at JFK, of all places?”
“Why?”
“Mozzie decided he’d had enough of California, and as he put it, the not-so-subtle threats from the BHA mafia.”
“Huh? BHA mafia? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of them. And do I really want to know how Mozzie got involved in organized crime?”
Neal had to laugh. “Sorry – that’s what Moz calls his former colleagues in astronomy and planetary science. ‘BHA’ is an old nickname for Carl Sagan, Moz’s nemesis.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“It goes back to the early ‘90s when Sagan sued Apple for using his name for a prototype. The company changed the codename to BHA, which stood for Butt-Head Astronomer.”
Peter chuckled. “Ah, but does Mozzie really believe that some mild-mannered scientists are really out to get him?”
“I’m not sure about that. He says that odd things kept happening while he was in San Francisco, and he swears that he was being followed whenever he went into the city. But I just think he got tired and needed some rest.”
“His ladies were wearing him out?”
“I suspect.” Neal didn’t tell him that Moz was back in New York to help El and keep an eye on the bakery operations while he was in London. “I got a call from him on Christmas eve, asking if I’d pick him up at one-thirty. Turns out that his flight was delayed because of fog and I spent four hours in the cell phone lot at JFK waiting for his plane to arrive.”
“Sorry to hear that. It’s not a nice way to spend the holiday.”
“It was all right, I didn’t have any other plans. Besides, Moz brought back a bottle of 2010 Screaming Eagle for me.”
“That’s a very nice present.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know if I’d actually consider it a gift, considering since he filched the ’82 Chateau Petrus from my collection last year.” Neal wanted to ask Peter if he had plans for New Year’s Eve. It seemed so easy, so right to take that final step. But was it really fair at this point? To start something that he wasn’t going to be around to follow through on? He was leaving for London in ten days.
And then there was the whole issue of Peter’s past – the past he’d refused to talk about. Neal had surprised himself when he’d made that a condition of any potential reconciliation.
The cab pulled up in front of Reese and Elizabeth’s building and whatever decision Neal was would make was going to be delayed, at least until after lunch. He paid the cabbie and retrieved Elizabeth’s bouquet.
Peter got out of the cab and held out a hand in an old-fashioned, courtly gesture. Neal took it without a second thought.
It all felt so normal this time around, to be having a meal with Elizabeth and Reese and Neal. So normal that Peter could almost fool himself into believing that the last four months hadn’t really happened; that he hadn’t wrecked everything.
But it did, and no matter how much he wished he could, he couldn’t turn back the clock, he couldn’t undo his mistakes.
But isn’t that for the best? Peter could actually hear his therapist’s voice in that question. And she was right, undoing the recent past meant undoing everything he had accomplished to overcome what had happened. No, the better path was to move forward, to accept the mistakes and try not to repeat them.
The pop of a champagne cork distracted him from his musings. “You will have a piece of my wedding cake?” Elizabeth was brooking no disagreement.
Neal interrupted, “Can’t we have the chance to admire it before you cut it?”
Of course Neal would have made the wedding cake.
“Oh, all right.” El gave in with a mock huff. “You always need to show off.”
Neal kissed her cheek. “Only because I saved my best work for you.” He disappeared into the kitchen, coming back with a small, exquisitely decorated cake covered in tiny pink icing roses and piped lines resembling silver lace.
Even Reese was impressed. “It’s gorgeous, Neal. It’s too pretty to eat.”
Neal pretended to be horrified, but Peter could see how pleased he was by the compliment.
He looked at the cake and then over to the sideboard, where the bouquet of roses trimmed with silver lace rested. “Huh, it looks like Elizabeth’s bouquet.” Elizabeth glared at him, and he felt like an idiot. He glanced over at Neal, who gave him a shy, but approving smile.
“Of course it does.” He laughed at his own stupidity, and they all joined in.
“Does someone want to take a picture before I kill it?” Elizabeth held a silver cake knife as if she was the villain in a slasher flick, making stabbing motions at the cake.
They all reached for their smartphones. Peter, who had rarely used the camera on his iPhone, had a moment of inspiration and turned on the video camera feature to capture all of these moments of joy: Elizabeth and Reese both holding the knife – this time in a civilized fashion – and slicing into the cake; the first slice falling onto a plate; Reese taking a finger full of frosting and painting in on his bride’s nose, then licking it off. He kept recording as that lick turned into a very passionate kiss and Elizabeth clung to her husband. Peter even captured the moment when Reese broke off the kiss and growled, “Burke, Caffrey – get out,” before pulling Elizabeth towards the bedroom.
Peter turned the camera on Neal, expecting to see laughter, a teasing look in the man’s eyes, but he was surprised by what he saw. It wasn’t jealousy (though he might have once believed it was), but envy for their happiness. Peter understood that.
He turned the camera off and pocketed his phone. “I guess we should leave.”
Neal nodded, but looked at the just-cut slice of cake. “Hmm – should do something about this.”
“A good pastry is a terrible thing to waste?”
He looked up and grinned. “Yeah, but you know what – it’s theirs, not mine. And if they’d rather – ” Neal’s voice dropped to a stage whisper, “Have sex than eat it, they’ll just have to live with stale wedding cake as the price for their orgasmic bliss.”
Peter retrieved their coats and they left the apartment.
It was a little after four o’clock and the sun had set dropped behind the canyons of New York, taking whatever warmth it managed to generate. Outside, on the street, the air was breath-stealing cold, but Peter stood there, wishing like hell he could just follow Neal back to his apartment, share a bottle of wine and pour out his heart.
“Peter?”
“Neal?”
“I’m going to – ” Neal pointed uptown. “Head back to my place – maybe you’d like to come, join me for a bit?”
He couldn’t believe that Neal was giving him the opening he needed. “Yeah – I’d like to.”
They walked quickly, their long strides quickly eating up the dozen or so blocks to the Ellington Mansion on Riverside Drive. Even still, Peter was frozen by the time he climbed up the still-familiar front steps.
Magda, June’s housekeeper, greeted him with a smile and took their coats. Peter followed Neal up the three flights, thinking about the miracle of forgiveness that brought him back here.
Not much had changed in Neal’s apartment since that last, terrible evening. It was warm and welcoming and even now felt more like home than his house in Cobble Hill. Neal set a pot of water on the stove.
Waiting for the water to come to a boil, Neal moved to the hearth, standing there with his hands in his pockets.
Peter commented, “A fire would be nice on a night like tonight. Does the fireplace work?”
Neal shook his head. “It might, but June warned me not to use it. Apparently Byron had a bad habit of burning unsuccessful canvasses in it. Not a good idea when you use oil paints and linseed oil. She said that the residue in the flue might kill me.”
Peter realized that Neal was nervous, and talking about nothing to cover it. At least the tea kettle began to whistle.
Neal asked, “Want a cup?”
“Sure.” He really wasn’t a tea drinker, but it was something to do, something to cover the aching distance that had sprung up between them.
Neal fussed with the tea, heating the pot, measuring the loose leaf into a tea ball, pouring the hot water as if his life depended on filling it to just the right point. Milk, sugar and lemon, plus two ancient chipped mugs made their way to the dining table, together with an equally ancient teapot.
Peter almost made a comment about the lack of cookies to go with the tea, but a plate of gingersnaps, undoubtedly made by Neal, found their way next to the pot.
“Shall I?” Neal filled both mugs and pushed one towards him. Peter took his time with the sugar and the lemon, looking on in vague distaste as Neal splashed a little cream into his. He supposed that he’d get used to seeing people put milk into their tea when he was living in London.
“Well?”
“Tea’s good, thanks.”
“That wasn’t what I was asking, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“How are you doing, really?”
Peter smiled, his eyes not leaving Neal’s. “I’m doing all right – really well.”
“I can tell – you look fantastic.”
“Thanks.” Peter took a deep breath and plunged into the deep end. “I’ve been seeing a therapist.”
Neal’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“You seem surprised, why?”
“I don’t know – you just don’t seem like the type who’d be able to open up like that.”
He nodded, agreeing with Neal. “I wasn’t – and honestly, it’s been hard as hell.”
“But it’s working?”
“Yeah – it is. I feel like a cliché sometimes…” He trailed off; this wasn’t how he wanted the conversation to go. “When I saw you in October, you said something. Something that gave me hope.”
“Oh?”
“You told me that until I could tell you about what happened, we couldn’t move forward. We didn’t have a chance for a future.”
“Ah – yeah.” Neal frowned. “I’m sorry about that – it was pretty cruel of me to put that on you. I can tell it’s terribly painful, and to make you revisit it is wrong.”
“No, it’s not wrong. It’s something I’ve needed to do for a very long time. I’ve needed to face the past, not avoid it, not hide from it, not pretend it didn’t happen.”
“And therapy’s helped you get there?”
“Yeah, unbelievably, it has.” Peter took a sip of his tea and tried not to make a face. It was awful. “If you want to hear, I’m ready to tell you.”
Neal’s eyes went wide, a warm pale blue like the early morning sky. “I don’t want you to do this if it’s going to hurt you, Peter.”
“It hurts, regardless. And I need to tell you this.” Peter backtracked, realizing that he was putting the burden on Neal. “If you do want to hear, I need you to listen. It’s not a pretty story, but you deserve the whole truth.”
Neal got up, took the mugs of tea away and replaced them with a pair of tumblers and a bottle of single malt Scotch, pouring doubles for both of them. “I think we need something a little stronger.”
Peter took a sip, grateful for the bite and the burn of the smoky liquor, and began – not from the end, where things had gone so terribly wrong, but from the beginning. He wanted Neal to understand everything. “It wasn’t easy being gay in the early 1990s, and it wasn’t easy being gay and an FBI agent. Like I told you, I’d been lucky that Reese was my supervising agent and he didn’t care about which sex I preferred to date, but I still had to prove myself to the other agents in the division. Hell, it seemed like I had to prove myself to the entire Bureau over and over again. The first year after I finished my probationary term, I got all the shit assignments. I was tagged for a lot of late shifts alone in the surveillance van.
“Anyway, one night, I was on duty by myself and I picked up some stray signal. It was coming from an NYPD radio. It sounded like a cop was in trouble, serious trouble, so I left the van and tried to help.”
“Without backup?”
“Yeah – stupid, I know – going out without backup, without calling it in. I was all by myself doing the delta shift, supposed to be listening in on a bunch of stockbrokers working a boiler room scam, and instead I was running down Bleeker Street, gun in one hand, scanner in the other, trying to figure out where the signal’s coming from.
“Eventually, I found the cop and he was getting beat up pretty badly – two guys with baseball bats. I did the whole, ‘FBI – FREEZE’ thing and the sons of bitches actually shot at me. They missed, I shot back, I missed and the next thing I knew, there was a half-dozen police cars streaming in. It seemed that I’d stepped into the middle of an active investigation – ”
“Really? One where a cop was getting the shit kicked out of him?”
“Actually, it was a lot more complicated than that. The cop who was getting the shit kicked out of him was an IAB officer investigating a squad of dirty narcotics detectives. The other cops were waiting for the guy to go terminal before rolling in.”
“So – you got to be a big hero?”
“In a way. The cop who was beaten up survived and identified his attackers as other cops – the ones he’d been investigating. The details were never released, but the bastards were arrested and convicted.” Peter took another sip of the whiskey. “I suppose you’re wondering what this has to do with anything.”
Neal nodded. “I figure you’ll get to it, eventually.”
“Anyway – I went to check on the cop.”
“The one you rescued.”
Peter nodded. “I’d gone through about six hours of interrogation by the NYPD – but they wouldn’t tell me if the guy was alive or dead. I pulled a few strings, flashed my badge a couple of times and finally found him under guard at Beth Israel Hospital.” Peter had to laugh at the memory. “There’s the guy, he’s got a cast on his arm, his head’s wrapped in bandages, his face is this mass of bruises, and he’s flirting with the male nurse.
“The cop sees me and says to the nurse, ‘You can go now, sweet cheeks. Maybe Mr. Big Bad FBI Agent will give me a sponge bath.’ He was being outrageously flamboyant – like he was trying to shock me.”
Peter couldn’t help but smile at the memory. He hadn’t shared these with his therapist and this was probably the first time he thought about those early days with Dan in fifteen years. “I wasn’t shocked.”
“This was the guy?”
“Yeah. The guy – Dan, Daniel Shattuck. He was a lieutenant in the NYPD.” Peter felt the decades drop away. “The youngest lieutenant in the whole damn department.”
“And he was out?” Neal seemed incredulous; Peter didn’t blame him.
“Dan was ambitious and he figured that he could claw his way up in a detective squad, but he’d have to stay deep in the closet, or he could join IAB and get to the top that much faster. If he was going to be hated for being on the ‘Rat Squad’, he said might as well be out and proud and be hated for that, too.”
“Makes sense, in a strange sort of way.” Neal then said, in a quiet voice, “You sound like you admired him.”
“I did, I guess. I was out, but I was a conformist. Regulation haircut, regulation suit and tie and shoes, regulation behavior. The FBI didn’t have room for eccentrics, despite what was on the X-Files. I never hid that I was gay, but I didn’t – I couldn’t – wear it like Dan did.” Peter paused, still a little caught up in the past.
“So – what happened? He asked you out while he was still in his hospital bed?” Neal’s tone was bland, almost diffident.
“No, actually. I spent about five minutes with him, told him I hoped he had a quick recovery and left. I admired his bravery, and sort of felt a little ashamed of myself, for my need to conform and pretty much tried to put the whole thing out of my mind. About a week later, I got a huge bouquet of flowers at the office.
“The guys ribbed me a little, but it wasn’t nasty. Then the box of candy came – two pounds of Godiva. I guess it helped that I shared it. Another bouquet of flowers. A basket of muffins, another one of cookies. Dan signed all the cards, ‘To the bravest FBI agent in the world’. It was like he was wooing me.”
Peter took another sip of the Scotch and realized his glass was empty. Before he could reach for the bottle, Neal refilled both of their glasses. He was probably going to get drunk tonight. Very drunk.
“About two weeks after that, I was in the office, at my desk, concentrating on some surveillance transcripts for the same damn boiler room case I’d been working on that night, and this guy showed up. He was just standing there, clearing his throat, trying to get my attention. There was cast on his arm and he had pair of spectacular shiners. I figured he must have flashed his badge to get in, because the FBI has pretty strict rules about letting civilians in unescorted.
“So I just sat there, my jaw practically on my chest and tried not to seem like an idiot. All I could think was to ask him why was he there.”
“I’d have thought the answer was obvious.” Neal’s tone was dry.
“Of course it was – like I said, I was trying not to seem like an idiot, but it was pretty clear I was failing miserably. Dan said he wanted to know if I liked the flowers and the candy and the muffins. I don’t remember what I said, but it must have been the right thing. Next thing I know, he’s asking me out for dinner. Right there, in front of everyone. And you know what? No one was paying any attention.”
“You accepted, of course.”
“I did. Dan played it smart – he was pretty low key. He took me to some burger joint on Union Square, and the place was filled with college kids. As unromantic as you could imagine. After we finished dinner, he made a joke about inviting me back to his place, but that if we tried to do anything, he’d probably render me unconscious with his cast. Then he said I was probably the type of guy who needed at least three dates before putting out.”
Neal laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. Peter asked, “What’s the matter.”
“Sorry – just thinking about how easy I was.” Neal lifted his glass and drained it in a single swallow.
“You weren’t easy, Neal. You were perfect.” Peter didn’t understand how the mood had changed. But when Neal reached for the whiskey bottle, he intercepted him. “You’ve had enough for now.”
Neal didn’t fight him, but the look on his face troubled Peter. “I don’t have to go on, you know, not if this is making you upset.”
Go to Part Eight - 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
