elrhiarhodan

Title: It’s Life That Just Sharpens the Blade – A Wonder(ful) Years Timestamp – Part 3 of 3
Author: elrhiarhodan
Art Credit: kanarek13
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey (Peter/Neal), OMC, OFC, Jack Franklin, Reese Hughes, AD Bancroft
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Violent expressions of homophobia (Parts 1 and 2 only)
Word Count: ~21,000 (~8000 this part)
Beta Credit: coffeethyme4me, jrosemary
Summary: Set immediately after Neal’s graduation from Quantico (the story told in For the Ends of Being and Ideal Grace). Neal’s first days on the job at the White Collar division in New York are difficult. Life at home isn’t easy either.

Part One: LiveJournal | Dreamwidth
Part Two: LiveJournal | Dreamwidth

__________________





The rest of the week lacked the excitement of the first two days, and Neal was grateful for that. By Friday, however, it was clear that he wasn’t going to be an office favorite with anyone other than Agent Hughes. Most of the older agents ignored him, even Jack Franklin. Agent Grainger, though…

She was a different story altogether. Neal knew lawyers like that – women who thought they had to act like the most chauvinistic of men to get ahead, to break through the glass ceiling. He’d feel a little sorry for her except that she seemed to delight in embarrassing him. If she was a guy, if he was a woman, they’d have the makings of a decent sexual harassment suit. But there was no way he’d file a complaint. They were the wrong sexes and hell, it was still his first week.

Neal figured she’d get bored with chasing him in a few days. Or weeks. He’d deal with it.

Right now, though, his biggest problem was how he was dealing with his peers. There were three other probationary agents in the office, Arthur, Andrew and Adam, the “Triple-A Club” as Neal thought of them. All of them spent their days fetching files and fetching coffee, making copies and being ignored or insulted by the agents they assisted. The most senior of the three, Arthur, thought that he was hot shit when he got an assignment to do some computerized research.

Then Neal arrived, and Hughes handed him a case file to review on his very first day.

They loathed him, and Neal understood completely. He wondered if he was in for an FBI-style beat-down when they cornered him in the back hallway.

“It’s not fair – you graduated just last fucking week.”

Neal lifted his shoulders helplessly. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Arthur crowded him into the corner. “But you’ve got it anyway – I should be the one reviewing the Sullivan S&L case, not you.” You little shit.

“I can talk to Agent Hughes …” Not that it would do any of them, himself included any good.

“Don’t bother – and don’t you dare ask any of us to do a damn thing for you.”

No one pushed him, no one threatened him. But the threat was there all the same. So much for the fraternity of agents.

Three days and everything was fucked up. Neal sighed, put on his brightest smile and went back to his desk.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter watched Neal, watched out for him that first week. He ached for Neal and the pattern that was quickly established. Hughes piled the work on him, not just the Sullivan S&L case, but some esoteric art forgery case involving half a dozen European galleries.

He liked Reese Hughes; he thought the agent was the best boss he ever had. He knew how to get the best out of his team, but he was doing a piss-poor job of handling Neal. It was wonderful that Hughes was treating him like a full-fledged agent. It would have been criminal to waste that intelligence and experience in the civilian side of white collar crime, but all of this special attention wasn’t going to win Neal any popularity contests at the office.

As an added complication, Grainger was stalking Neal, hanging around until he left the office for the day, asking him to lunch, flirting aggressively at every chance. When she wasn’t chasing Neal, she treated Peter to a litany of sexual speculation that would have made a sailor blush.

The older agents thought Neal was showboating, the junior agents and probies looked like they wanted to take Neal apart, piece by piece. It didn’t help that Neal sailed through it, deliberately oblivious, exquisitely competent, and as perfectly untouchable as a cover model on some glossy fashion magazine.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Friday night, relaxing in bed, Peter wanted to talk about what was going on at the office. Neal insisted he was handling everything just fine.

“Don't lie to me.”

“I'm not lying.”

“You most certainly are. When you lie, your eyes go wide; you stare and try not to blink, like you're Mr. Innocence.”

“I didn't realize I had such obvious tells.” Peter hauled him close, so his back was resting against his chest.

“It's not obvious, it’s just something I can see because I’ve known you for most of my life. I don't think anyone else would pick up on it. And stop trying to deflect the conversation.”

Neal sighed, giving into the inevitable. “I can handle myself.”

“I know you can, but you shouldn't have to. You should be …”

“What? Invisible unless I'm fetching coffee or files or making copies?” Peter didn't have a reply to that. “I’m not oblivious. I know what Hughes is doing is setting me apart and that people aren't happy about it.”

“Anyone harassing you over it?”

Neal debated against telling Peter about his encounter with the Triple-A Club. “If someone doesn't like it, they can complain to Hughes.”

“Who'll tell them that they can shove it, making it worse. You’re his probie, he can treat you however he wants. The problem is that probies don't get their own cold cases their very first week. They don't get treated like they're the second coming of J. Edgar.”

Neal tried for a little levity. “Hey - I resent that. I don't dress in pink chiffon.”

It didn’t work. “You know what I mean. He's singled you out for special treatment and that doesn't sit well with the rank and file.”

“Peter, I'll manage it. Have you ever known me not to make friends and influence people?” Neal tried not to think about Meeker, back at the old place. But Meeker was insane, and that meant he didn't count. And there was Walter O'Donnell, too. But Walter was a moron, and he didn't count, either. “I'll just be my own sweet self. I'll win them over in no time.”

“I just wish …” Peter sighed, he didn’t need to complete that thought.

“I know, I know.” Desperate to change the subject, Neal moved Peter’s hand from his midriff to a spot about six inches lower. He felt Peter’s heartbeat speed up.

“And you’re the one who called me a goat the other day?”

“Is this an objection?”

“No, counselor – certainly not.” Peter gently stroked him through his soft cotton shorts. It didn’t take much to get him hard.

“It’s agent, not counselor.” Neal grinned. He just had to get that reminder in. Regardless of the problems at the office, nothing and no one was going to take the shine off of his new badge.

“Yeah, yeah.” Peter kept up his slow, almost delicate stroking. Neal squirmed and pressed his hand against Peter’s, trying to increase the friction, the speed. Peter simply stopped; Neal whimpered.

He lifted his hips. “Come on, you bastard.”

“Nope.” So Neal took matters into his own hands. Or tried to. Peter clamped down on his wrist. “I’ll cuff you if you don’t stop.”

The thought of Peter taking away all of his control was so arousing, Neal almost passed out. His breath caught in his throat, his heart raced, his cock got impossibly hard. “Do it.”

Peter froze, as if he wasn’t sure he heard right.

“Cuff me,” Neal repeated.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Back in his probie days, when his supervisory agent handed him his first set of cuffs, Peter had a sudden and completely inappropriate thought. About using those cuffs to restrain Neal and then doing anything he wanted to him. Or maybe nothing at all.

He wasn’t naïve or innocent, he and Neal had experimented with stuff over the years. Peter had spanked Neal a few times (and enjoyed it); Neal had dripped candle wax on him (not so much). But they were the basic-vanilla type of guys. They sucked and fucked, humped and rubbed and enjoyed themselves as often as they could manage. The joy was in the mutuality of their pleasure.

But the idea of cuffing Neal – using the venerated tools of his trade to restrain Neal for his own use – never quite left him. Most days, he’d don his shoulder rig and holster his gun without a second thought. Sometimes, though, his fingers would brush the case holding the handcuffs and he’d get a jolt of desire. It could linger for hours, a sexual buzz that he couldn’t do anything about (which was a pleasure all its own).

For Neal to ask him for this – to command him to cuff him – was his wildest fantasies made real.

Peter got up, gently pushing Neal over to the pillows. “You mean it?”

Neal nodded, slowly. “You want to.” That wasn’t a question.

Peter took a deep breath. “Yeah, oh yeah.” He went into the closet and retrieved his cuffs. “Hands over your head.”

Neal’s eyes glowed as he slowly raised his arms, grasping the carved headboard. He lifted his hips, his arousal obvious from bulge in his shorts and the growing wet stain. Licking his lips, Neal growled, “Do it.”

He had cuffed his share of suspects, but he’d never done it with an erection the size of the Chrysler Building. He straddled Neal’s chest, and his cock jumped as it brushed against him. But his hands were steady, wrapping the cold steel around Neal’s wrists, looping the chain so it hooked over the headboard. Peter sat back on his haunches and met Neal’s eyes.

“You okay, comfortable?”

Neal shifted his wrists, the cuffs were loose enough. “You’ll have to be careful if you don’t want to bruise me.” Then he gave Peter that smile – the one that drove him crazy – “Or do you?”

Peter sucked in his breath, the very thought of hurting Neal hurt him, but the idea of Neal wearing his marks was completely different. It was like the other morning, when he didn’t want to cover the bite mark that Neal had left on him.

Neal stayed still, arms above his head, chest expanded. He looked like a captive slave, his to do with whatever he wanted. Peter wanted to do a lot.

He started by licking Neal from elbow to armpit. He nuzzled at the silky dark hair, breathing in the scent of skin and the day’s sweat, turned on by Neal’s apparent passivity as much as anything else. He breathed out and Neal twitched. “Love you, you know.”

“No more than I love you, you idiot.”

Peter laughed and Neal twitched again, he was ticklish. “Stop that.”

He blew across the sensitive skin and Neal tried to move away. But he couldn’t, he was locked in Peter’s handcuffs. And there was much more fun to be had.

He rose up off his haunches and started feeding Neal his cock; pushing the cloth-covered monstrosity against his mouth. “Come on, suck it.”

Neal tried, working his lips around his dick, but as much as Peter enjoyed watching him struggle, he really wanted to feel that contact against his skin. He dragged his junk out, his balls were resting on the waistband of his shorts. He felt filthy, dominate, that his power was endless but his control was a thread from breaking. The sensation was heady.

Peter let Neal set the pace, he kept his hands loose around his head, to steady him as he worked his mouth and tongue. It was hard not to thrust, to just shove his cock deep into Neal’s willing mouth, to fill him up.

An orgasm started to build, and while Peter would have enjoyed seeing ropes of his come all over Neal’s face, he wanted to come inside his ass even more. And he wasn’t done playing with his captive.

As Peter tried to pull free, Neal increased his suction, holding his lips tight against his cock head. But bound as Neal was, he didn’t have the leverage to cling, and he whimpered as Peter pulled out of his mouth.

Peter sank back on his haunches and contemplated his captive. Neal’s eyes glowed in the dim bedroom light, his face and his body was still. If not for the steady beat of his pulse, visible under his throat, he could be mistaken for a marble statue – perfect in his bound beauty.

“Tits next.”

He worked over those nipples, playing with them leisurely, just dusting the backs of his fingers over them until they peaked. He pinched them, enjoying how they became hard and swollen. Neal kept quiet and Peter took up the challenge.

“I’m going to make you come, just from this.”

Neal smirked and still said nothing, but he was clearly accepting the dare.

Peter got down to serious work, using his lips and tongue and teeth, and as Neal’s hips began to pump up and down, seeking friction against Peter’s torso, he used one hand to keep them still.

It became a matter of endurance, Peter’s will against Neal’s. He bit down on one luscious, diamond hard nipple, pinching the other one hard. Neal screamed and came, bucking against a very satisfied Peter.

By the time Peter caught his breath, Neal was laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“You really think you won?

Peter chuckled, understanding that the joke was on him. Neal came; he was the one left with the aching boner. “I said I wanted to have your ass.”

“And like, I’m not going to enjoy that, either?”

“Don’t suppose you remembered to stop at the drugstore?” They had used up the small supply that Neal had brought from the other apartment and Peter hadn’t gotten around to replenishing them.

“There’s a fresh bottle of lube and a new box of condoms in the night table drawer.”

“Such a boy scout.” Peter briefly thought about going in bare and quickly rejected the so-tempting thought. It wasn’t a matter of trust, but safety. Like unloading his gun before locking it away every night.

As enticing as Neal was with his arms raised and bound to the headboard, Peter recognized the strain the position was causing. He pulled off his shorts, retrieved his keys and unlocked the cuffs, massaging Neal’s wrists and hand and arms, carefully lowering them.

“Lock me up again.”

“What?” Neal was going to make his head explode, if his dick didn’t, first.

“Come on, put them back on.” This time, Neal held his hands out in front of him and Peter didn’t hesitate. Once the cuffs were loosely locked around Neal’s wrists, Peter turned him over and stripped off his come-soaked shorts.

God, that ass was magnificent. Peter never, ever failed to appreciate it - but tonight he just stared.

“Anything wrong?” Neal asked as he spread his knees, lifting the object of his awed contemplation a little higher.

“No, no. Absolutely not!” Peter trailed his fingers across Neal’s skin, smooth and perfect, silk velvet over marble, but infinitely warmer. “How did I make it through five months without this?”

“Without me, you mean?” Neal laughed, clearly not insulted at being reduced to a sex object.

Peter just sighed and kept stroking. This - Neal - was his. Call him a caveman, a kinky freak, a possessive throwback, but having Neal on his knees in front of him, hands bound and helpless (or as helpless as Neal Caffrey could be) filled him with a satisfaction that went beyond sexual.

“Peter?”

“Just admiring the view.”

Neal wriggled in response and he lightly slapped his ass. “Stay still.” Peter reached into the drawer for the condom and lube, suiting and slicking up before attending to Neal.

“Just - just take me. No prep.”

“Jeez, Neal - are you crazy?”

“Do it, Peter - take me. I’m good.”

Peter pressed his thumb, still coated with lube, against Neal’s hole. Neal was far from loose and he was too hard, too hungry to go slowly once he started.

“Come on, come on - do it. Fuck me, Peter. Fuck me hard.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

In response, Neal rocked his hips, lifting himself up higher, all but whining. “You can’t hurt me - not like this.”

Peter wasn’t that far gone that he couldn’t understand the subtext in Neal’s statement. It was too fucking true. He pulled his thumb away and started working his cock into Neal’s tight hole. He was careful with his thrusts, until Neal pushed back, forcing his cock in. Peter gasped at the hot tightness, the unexpected pressure. He tried to go slow, but it was impossible. His hips started to piston, his hand were vices as they gripped Neal’s hips. He almost didn’t care about anything but his own pleasure, and as the orgasm built, Peter held Neal and leaned over him, like a stallion covering a mare. In unintentional mimicry of Neal from the other night, Peter bit down on the apple of his shoulder as he came.

Even after a dozen years of monogamy, sex was always good. But sometimes, something happened to take them out of the familiar. It wasn’t just the big events - like their reunion after Neal’s graduation, or even the night they left Queens and desperately fucked in the entryway - that did it. It happened on ordinary nights, too - some new desire that renewed their attraction. It was more than hunger, it was their eagerness to find new avenues for pleasure.

It took more than a few minutes for Peter to come back to himself. He eased out of Neal’s body, discarded the spent condom and turned Neal over. He was smiling and glassy-eyed.

“We’ll have to do that again some time.” The little shit held up his wrists, still in handcuffs. Peter unlocked them and examined the skin. There was a little redness, but no bruising so far. The bite on his shoulder was another story. No broken skin, but the mark was going to linger for days.

“Wanna get cleaned up?”

“Nah, tomorrow’s soon enough.”

Peter got back into bed, and pulled the covers over both of them. Neal settled himself into his favorite position, using Peter as his pillow. He fell asleep quickly, unaware that Peter was watching him until he, too, drifted off.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

This time it was Neal who was woken by the scent of freshly brewed coffee. There was a mug on the night table, and next to it, a note folded in the shape of an origami crane. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, winced at his own stink and reached for the cup.

It was still warm enough that it couldn’t have been too long since Peter left the coffee. He sipped - it was good, really good. Awake enough now, he picked up the note and grinned. Years ago, when he first became interested in all things Japanese, Neal taught himself how to make origami animals. Peter was game for learning too, but the only shape he could ever master was the crane.

Neal carefully unfolded the note:



Neal refolded the paper back into the crane and set it down. He wondered if Peter realized just what he had written – “I’ve left my gun at home.”

What a lucky man he was.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Monday morning, Peter sipped his coffee and swallowed the Tylenol he copped off of one of the admins, hoping it would help with the muscle aches. He rolled his neck and winced at the popping sound. Hell, he just past thirty but right now he felt like forty-five. Ancient.

Moving out of the place on Ditmars took all day on Saturday. Even with most of the furniture going into the trash, there was still too much stuff. There were piles of books that had to be packed and carried down the three flights of stairs. Maybe this was really why he never wanted to move.

He supposed he could have blamed Neal, but half the books were his.

Neal, of course, had cringed when he saw how his suits were packed: in heavy-duty garbage bags, but he didn’t say anything. As he hung them up, Neal just fussed over them a little, like they were children home from a grand adventure.

There was plenty of pizza and wine and beer, and the best part of the evening was seeing his mother get tipsy.

They were both supposed to have spent Sunday unpacking, except that Neal wanted to finish the translations for him and get started on reviewing the Sullivan S&L fraud. So Peter unpacked carton after carton of books. It was a good thing this place had a dedicated library, he figured. Truthfully, it wasn’t as bad as packing. He had the radio on, thankfully the Yankees were winning. Neal was at the big desk in the center of the room, working. All in all, it was not a bad place to be. Every once and a while, he’d stop to look at Neal as he was reading over a file, double checking something, or staring out into space before rushing to jot something down. The pattern was as familiar as the back of his hand. He had been watching Neal concentrate for more than half his lifetime.

As he watched Neal, he wanted to tell him – Stop, don’t work so hard, you don’t need to impress anyone. But he knew that Neal wasn’t trying to score points, he was being the man he was – smart, dedicated, thorough, diligent. These were the qualities that made him such an effective lawyer, and put him at the top of his class at Quantico.

Neal had finally caught him looking. “Sorry – I’m leaving everything to you.” He got up to help, but Peter waved him off.

“Nah, I’ve got this. Besides, you’re doing work for me and making me look good for the bosses.”

“And that’s what really counts, right?” Neal sat on the edge of the desk, a bit of a challenge on his lips.

“Hmm, yeah.”

“Well, I’ve finished with the translations…”

“Find anything good?”

Neal gave him a look full of challenge. “You’ll just have to wait ‘til Monday. Besides, I’ve got other work to do.”

Peter refused to rise to the bait. “Okay, be like that.”

“I think I will. Anyway, I need a break.” Neal opened one the remaining boxes and started shelving books. “Good thing this place has a dedicated library.”

Peter grinned at the congruence of their thoughts. “Someone has a lot of books.”

Neal looked at the volumes in his hand. “Generally Accepted Accounting Principles Explained – Volumes 1 and 2, 1993 Edition.” He shelved them and pulled out two more books. “And the 1994 edition, too. Yes, Peter – someone certainly has a lot of books.”

“Says the man who owns every gallery companion and exhibit catalog that the Metropolitan Museum of Art has produced in the last fifteen years.”

“Huh.”

Between the two of them, they finished unpacking the books right after the Yankees lost the game when the Indians scored on a walk-off home run. Disgusted with his beloved ball team, Peter turned the conversation to dinner. “We’ve got pizza left over from last night.”

“How about trying that sushi place on the corner of 82nd and Broadway?”

Peter tried not to make a face. “What about Thai? There has to be a Thai place in the neighborhood.”

“I’m never going to get you to eat sushi, am I?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean you should stop trying.”

They ordered in Thai, with the assistance of the ever-helpful Alvin. Neal worked for a few more hours, Peter watched the Mets game (they won, to his disgust), and they made an early night of it.

True to his word, Neal didn’t give him any of the remaining Dihatsu translations until this morning. He sat next to Peter’s desk, pointing out additional patterns that supported the Government’s contention that the trading company was committing securities violations. Peter grilled him, challenging everything. It was an interesting exercise, trying to make Neal sweat. Difficult by not impossible. He didn’t tear into Neal; rather, he was testing the information and the methodology. Peter was only doing everything that an experience agent would do.

The cross-examination lasted for nearly two hours and at some point, the whole office started to watch them, even Hughes.

Finally, they were done. “Good work, Agent Caffrey, and thank you.”

Neal gave him a tight smile and a nod before going back to his desk.

The exercise served its real purpose; however: to recalibrate Neal’s status in the office. He was a probie. Talented, smarter than most, but still a probationary agent.

Peter caught Hughes’ eye and he thought he saw approval there. At least he hoped it was.

And for all that effort, there were external forces at work that rekindled the overall atmosphere of resentment. And naturally, Neal couldn’t help but be Neal.

Shortly before the morning meeting, two unfamiliar agents came into the office. Peter didn’t recognize either, but apparently Neal knew at least one of them. He smiled as they walked by. The older agent, who looked to be the same vintage as Agent Hughes, stopped.

“Ah, Agent Caffrey. Settling in at White Collar?”

Peter watched – hell, everyone watched – as Neal stood up and shook the man’s hand.

“Yes, and thank you for asking, Director Bancroft.”

“You know, it’s not too late to change your mind and come to work for me in Anti-Crime.”

Neal politely declined. “I’m enjoying White Collar too much.”

“Well, if you get bored, let me know – I’ll make room for you on my team.” Bancroft gave Neal a genial clap on the shoulder before heading up to Hughes’ office.

Fuck. Neal was conversing with an Assistant Director of the FBI – one who had tried to recruit him. If anyone had any doubts that the brass thought that Neal was hot shit, they were certainly erased by now.

The staff headed into the conference room and David Kyle, one of the senior agents, ran the meeting. Kyle liked to go alphabetically, so Peter presented his cases first. He was surprised, though, that he tagged Neal next.

“Agent Hughes requested a review of the Sullivan S&L case, Agent Caffrey. He said that he wanted it last week, yet we haven’t heard anything from you. Why is that?” Kyle was trying to put Neal on the spot, show him up. Peter thought that it would take a much better man than Kyle to make that happen, and he was right.

“Agent Hughes asked me to focus on completing the translations for Agent Burke, since the Dihatsu case has a Statute of Limitations deadline. Those were finished this weekend, and Agent Burke reviewed them with me this morning. I started my review …”

“Which you haven’t completed. Stop wasting our time.” Kyle was unnecessarily sharp with Neal, but before he could move onto the next agent, Neal continued.

“Sir, what I was about to say was –” Neal’s tone was borderline disrespectful, but he dialed it back. Peter hoped they weren’t going to get a repeat of what happened with Franklin last week. “That I recognized the names of several of the players in the case. Coincidentally, they were co-defendants in one of the cases I second-chaired for at Drake Morrissey.”

“Which means you’re conflicted out, Caffrey – return the file as soon as the meeting’s done.” Kyle was smug.

“Actually, sir, I’m not. You must have misheard me – I said they were co-defendants. They were not my clients, nor clients of my firm. They were tried and convicted, my clients were exonerated.”

“What’s your point, Caffrey?”

“My point is that I’ve reached out to the Assistant US Attorney’s office which tried the case; I went to law school with Melissa Grant, who was second chair at the trial. She’s sending over the case files. I figured …”

“You figured what, Probie? You’re overreaching in a big way. You were asked to provide a summary of a cold case, you weren’t told to run with it.”

Peter watched Neal; he knew that expression all too well. He wasn’t mad, he was determined and he wasn’t going to back down. A year from now, that determination would stand in in good stead, but now – the first day of his second week – this wasn’t a good thing.

“Tell me, Agent – ” No one had seen Director Bancroft join the meeting.

“Kyle – David Kyle, sir.”

“Agent Kyle – is it the policy of this office to disregard evidence and assistance because it comes from a probationary agent?”

Kyle flushed. “Director, sir – Mr. Caffrey …”

“Agent Caffrey, you mean.”

The flush deepened. “Agent Caffrey joined this office five days ago, he graduated from Quantico the week before that. The ink’s not dry on his diploma.”

Bancroft didn’t back down. “So, Agent Kyle, you’d simply ignore Agent Caffrey’s initiative because it doesn’t meet your personal experience criteria? You’d pass on the opportunity to break open a cold case because the agent who brings it to you isn’t part of your inner circle? That’s really quite a spectacular indictment of this entire office.”

Hughes, who’d been standing behind Director Bancroft, cleared his throat. “Agent Kyle is a recent transfer – his attitude does not reflect the policy of this office. Please continue, Agent Caffrey.”

This time it was Neal who flushed. But he gathered himself together and continued. “Sir, the case that I was on was similar to the Sullivan Savings and Loan matter; another internal bank fraud. Someone used the bank to launder dirty money. My firm had represented the bank’s principals; the co-defendants were the auditing firm, Heiker & Benden. They are listed in the Sullivan indictment as the bank’s auditors, too.”

Hughes asked, “And you think that they could have information about the fraud that brought down Sullivan?”

“Yeah – but that wasn’t where I was going. If Sullivan used the same auditors then maybe some of the other players are the same. Given the breadth of the failure at Sullivan and the number of people involved, I thought that we could set up a relationship database – see how the players are connected and where the connections overlap with other activities.”

Neal’s enthusiasm was not infectious, but it was impressive.

Finally, Hughes raised a hand and Neal stopped. “We’re not geeks here – and we don’t have the deep pockets that a litigation firm has to build this database.”

“But that’s the beauty of this – it only sounds difficult and expensive. We are the U.S. Government, we have access to the software already – it’s a variation of the program that runs ViCAP. Just need a blank module and someone to enter the data.”

Hughes nodded. “Good work, Caffrey. I’ll need a budget and manpower analysis before this can go forward. Burke, you’ll oversee that?”

Peter blinked and cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.” But he wasn’t quite sure what he just agreed to.

The rest of the meeting was anticlimactic. As the agents went back to their desks, it was clear that whatever problems that Neal’s special treatment had caused last week, they just became that much greater.


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter knew that Neal had made a serious tactical error with Kyle. He should have just kept his mouth shut, taken his lumps and given Hughes the report and his recommendations later in the week. But no, he had to open his mouth and get into a pissing contest with the other agent – a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal.

Bancroft’s intervention made the situation even worse.

He couldn’t see any way that Neal would be able to undo what just happened; he’d have to live with the consequences.

But the day wasn’t without its bright side. Hughes assigned him to oversee Neal’s case and they’d be able to legitimately spend time together at work. That just might make the rest of the problems worth it.

A little before one, Peter went over to Neal’s desk. “Come on, let’s get some lunch. Since I’ve got to help you out, you’re buying.”

They ended up at one of his favorite Chinese restaurants. The place was a hole in the wall off of the Bowery. Peter ordered Mu Shu Pork, Neal got Happy Family and they both declined the soup. He smiled as Neal, ever so meticulous with his clothes, tucked his tie into his shirt. He scarfed a few of the deliciously greasy noodles and said his peace. Finally. “You’re sunk. You know that.”

“Yeah. I could have handled Kyle better. All your good work this morning, undone.” Neal toyed with the chopsticks, drumming them on the table.

“You knew what I was doing?”

“Of course. I know you. You want to make things right. That’s the essence of Peter Burke.” Peter flushed with pleased embarrassment. “You’ve always been like that.”

“Once you started talking with Director Bancroft, it was over. An AD stops at your desk and tries to recruit you, and you’ve been here just a week? That was the kiss of death – what happened in the meeting was just about irrelevant.”

“I could take Bancroft up on his offer and make all of these problems go away.”

“You don’t run from your problems, Neal.”

“So, I’m destined to be the office pariah?”

“Looks that way.”

Neal looked down and then at Peter, meeting his eyes. “As long as I’ve got you, then it doesn’t matter.”

Peter gave a little huff of laughter. “Yeah, but it’s not going to be easy for you.”

Neal’s reply was a little too facile. “And since when did I ever take the easy road?”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal was working on the Sullivan files, putting together his proposal for the database he had pitched – it was a lot harder than he expected – when the sound of a tapping foot interrupted him.

“I have to say, Caffrey, your level of concentration is impressive. I’ve been standing here for five minutes and you haven’t looked up once.” Agent Grainger was standing next to his desk, holding a well-worn case file. She had a slightly annoyed expression on her face.

Forgetting for the moment about an earlier encounter with her outside of the men’s room, Neal smiled and asked what he could do for her.

“You speak Italian?”

"Si".

“And German?”

"Ja".

“Feel like getting out of the office and giving me a hand?”

“Sure – what’s the case?”

“Come on, I’ll tell you on the way.”

Neal didn’t look over at Peter; he just shrugged into his jacket and followed Grainger out of the office. She didn’t say anything until they were on the street, where she handed him the file. He read the summary page.

“Insurance claims by Holocaust survivors?”

“Do you know anything about this?”

“Just that one of my professors at law school has been working on a class action lawsuit by survivors against private companies who used slave labor in the concentration camps.”

“Ah, yes – the vaunted Harvard Law Professor, Arthur Miller.” She spoke the name in the same lofty tones that the famous lecturer used.

Neal chuckled. “Yeah, him.”

“This isn’t the same thing. As far back as the Fifties, Holocaust survivors were promised that the policies they had purchased would be honored, but the companies have been stonewalling for decades.”

“Is this a criminal matter?” Neal wondered why the FBI was involved.

“There a small budget allocated for investigation, and I’ve been working on it for a while. It’s very low priority.” The last sentence was said with such bitterness that Neal had to wonder.

“Why do you need me?”

“I’ve been trying to get a few answers from the management at Generali, but I’m getting nowhere. The representatives they’ve sent either don’t speak English, or spend most of the time conversing in Italian or German.”

“Ah.”

“It’s taken me months to get a follow up interview, and I figured you could sit there, keep your mouth shut and look pretty.”

“And tell you what they’ve said. Sneaky.” Neal had to admire Grainger’s ingenuity.

It worked exceedingly well. Signore Carvallo, the Director General, and Signore Corunna, who was introduced as a facilitator for the meeting, spent most of the time pretending they didn’t speak English, the rest of the time making lewd comments about Agent Grainger’s breasts. Neal worked hard to keep a blank expression on his face, even when the two old men speculated about Amy’s sexual proclivities.

Lured into carelessness, they did drop one very useful tidbit. There were ledgers recording life insurance and savings plan policies sold to Jewish families in Germany in the early years of the Third Reich. The ledgers were kept in a vault in New York and probably should be destroyed at the earliest opportunity.

They were out of the building and on the street before Neal said anything. “You’ve got to get a search warrant. They’ve got records...” He explained what the men revealed.

Grainger looked at him and shook her head in amused exasperation. “What is it with you, Caffrey? Is it going to be like this for your whole career? You touch a case file and it’s magically solved? Are you a goddamned superhero of justice or something?”

“It was your idea to bring me along. I was just being useful.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and gave her a little self-deprecating shrug.

“That’s right – you’re a tool in my belt, and I’m going to use you. Oh, boy – am I going to use you.”

Neal kept smiling, but he was pissed off. Grainger went from focused agent to lascivious man-eater in the blink of an eye. And then back again.

“Okay - come on, let’s get back and see about that warrant. You’re going to have to do the talking with the AUSA's office. I didn’t understand a word they said.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

By the end of the week, Neal was exhausted. Of course, Grainger didn’t keep it to herself how golden boy solved her case, calling him a "goddamned lucky rabbit’s foot." It didn’t help that she also kept suggesting that other agents try him out, as if he were a sexual convenience. He was actually grateful that no one seemed interested in doing that.

Five o’clock, Friday and all Neal could think about was getting home, having a quiet meal and not having to think about anything more strenuous than arguing with Peter about Thai or Chinese. He straightened out his desk, put on his jacket and was about to leave when Grainger blocked his path.

"We're going out for happy hour. You're coming, right?"

“Actually …” Neal looked around. Peter was no help, and the scant handful of other waiting agents wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Except for Jack Franklin, who’d been a few degrees less chilly to Neal than his teammates this week. “Ah, come on, kid – it’ll be fun.”

Neal figured it couldn’t really hurt, and getting to know his co-workers outside of the stress of the office might actually help. He grinned and asked, “And is it tradition for probies to buy the first round?”

Jack chuckled and slapped him on the shoulder. “If it wasn’t before, it is now.”

Peter; however, didn’t seem too happy about this development. As they headed for the elevators, he gave Neal a look – Just don’t oversell it.

The evening went well, at least at the start. Neal bought the first round, expecting to get stuck with orders for rare scotch or expensive cognac, but this wasn’t the cut-throat world of a white shoe law firm. Peter, Jack and the three other male agents were beer drinkers; Grainger preferred vodka martinis and even had the courtesy to ask him if he minded that she ordered it made with Stoli.

They settled in at a large round table and Neal spent much of the early evening nursing a mediocre glass of white wine and watching his co-workers interact. They didn’t include him in the conversation, but they weren’t excluding him either. Maybe this was the way it needed to be. It might have been easier if some of the other probies had been there, but given how much they despised him, maybe not.

By seven-thirty, Neal was on a second glass of wine, but Grainger was on her fourth martini and losing control fast. She had commandeered the seat next to him and was making drunken passes at him; her hands were on his thigh, his chest, his knee. He was polite as he evaded her. The last thing he wanted to do was make a scene.

Unfortunately, that was exactly what happened.

Neal had excused himself and headed for the men’s room; Grainger was waiting for him when he came out. She was a messy drunk and tried to press Neal against the wall. She stank of vermouth and cigarettes.

“Come on, baby – you know you want it.”

He tried to avoid her, but she was like an octopus, clinging to him. “Amy – Agent Grainger, this isn’t a good idea.” He ducked and dodged and almost made it back to the table when she grabbed his arm.

“Neal, sweetie …”

“Amy – please.” He couldn’t shake her off.

There, in front of a table full of coworkers, she tried to climb him. Her skirt was hiked up, displaying a black lace garter belt and nothing else. “I’ve got an itch to scratch, and you’re just the man to do it.”

The room went silent, or maybe it was just Neal’s temper. He pushed her away and watched as she stumbled back. He never thought of himself as someone with a particularly vicious tongue, but he'd had enough. “You’ve got an itch? Well, there are remedies for that in the feminine hygiene aisle at the drugstore. I suggest you get yourself some.”

Even in the dim light of the bar, Neal could see an angry red flush stain her cheeks. As he walked out, he could hear snickers from the men at the table, from other patrons who overheard what he said.

Neal cursed himself, cursed his temper. What a goddamned mess he’d made of his dreams.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter stayed behind, he wanted to gauge the fallout. It was just him, Jack Franklin, Peter Channing and Mark Powell. Amy had left right after Neal; he watched her get into a cab and head downtown.

Jack looked around the table and grinned. “You know, guys – we’ve just got to do it.”

“What?” Peter had no idea where Jack was going.

Channing snorted into his beer. “Get Grainger a carton of that stuff – leave it on her desk.”

“Better yet, a bottle a day. Gift-wrapped.” Powell giggled.

“Guys – come on. Amy was out of line, but this is only going to make it worse.”

“She has it coming,” Franklin muttered.

Peter disagreed. “No one deserves to be humiliated. It was bad judgment – ”

Channing, who was the soberest of the three other agents, shook his head. “And if she was a guy and Caffrey a skirt? She’d be out on her ass for sexual harassment.”

“Yeah – you’d know all about that,” Powell snickered. “Didn’t you have to go to ‘sensitivity training’ after that thing with that chick from Forensic Accounting?”

“Yup. Gotta watch what I say these days. Don’t want another black mark in my jacket. They’ll dump me into Evidence or Internal Bank Fraud.”

Peter made one last stand. “All the more reason to just forget about this.”

“You’re a stick in the mud, Burke. But you may be right.” Jack, ever the ringleader, quieted Channing and Powell’s disappointed groans. “We don’t leave the bottles on her desk, okay?”

“We stick ‘em in her purse!” Powell finished the thought with triumph. “Here’s to Neal Fucking Caffrey, who is as entertaining as he is …” The agent searched for an appropriate simile.

“Ridiculous?” Channing supplied.

“Yeah, yeah. Ridiculous.”

Peter so desperately wanted to defend Neal to his colleagues. “He does good work; he’s smart, he’s observant. Why does that make him ridiculous?”

Jack, ever a fan of baseball metaphors, replied, “Probies don’t get to hit for the cycle. Who ever heard of one finding a smoking gun on his first day on the job, bringing a cold case back to life in his first week, and solving an international conspiracy by the end of his second?”

“That’s not ridiculous – that’s fucking brilliant.” Peter dropped a twenty on the table. “I expect change. My money’s not contributing to any stupid prank, okay?”

The men waved him off and Peter left, knowing that as bad as he first thought Monday morning was going to be between Neal and Grainger, it was going to be ten times worse.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was raining by the time Peter made it home, a nasty, pelting drizzle that was inescapable. The subway was only three blocks from the apartment, but the rain had soaked through his hair, dripped down the back of his collar, seeped into his shoes. A fitting end to a lousy day.

The apartment was dark and quiet. Too dark, too quiet, and Peter worried.

He went up to the bedroom, and let out a sigh of relief. Neal was there, standing at the window, looking out into the darkness.

“You okay?” Such a banal question.

Neal didn’t answer. Even in the darkness, Peter could see the tension in his silhouette. He toed off his shoes and changed into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. He locked away his gun and badge and towel-dried his hair before joining Neal at the window.

“All I ever wanted to be was a cop. You know that. I wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps, to protect and to serve.”

“I know.”

“But you told me I could do better, I could be something more. I had potential.”

“You do – you are the smartest man I know. You’re leagues beyond everyone else.”

Neal wasn’t vain, but he wasn’t the type for false modesty, either. “I’ve never had a problem with that. It never mattered. Do you know why?”

He didn’t. Even when they were kids, even before they were friends, Peter had always admired Neal’s tremendous self-possession. Genius always stood apart, but Neal refused to make it an exile. “Tell me.”

Neal turned to him, there was such terrible grief there. “I’ve had you at my back. I could be strong, I could ignore the whispers and the snide remarks because you were always there, always my friend.”

He wrapped his arms around Neal. “We are much more than friends – you are everything to me.”

“Within these walls, yes. We’re all but strangers to the world now. No one can know what we are to each other – we’re not even friends. What an arrogant ass I was – so worried that people would think I was riding on your coattails. That I couldn’t stand on my own.”

“Hey, hey – it’s okay. We’ll make it through. Remember, ‘I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach’. ”

Neal gave a watery laugh, not so much amusement but relief. “Peter…”

“Yeah.” He rested his cheek on Neal’s head, willing peace into him. “I’m always here. I’ll always be here for you. I love you. Don’t ever doubt that.”



FIN

Masterpost: On DW | On LJ

Peter and Neal’s story continues in What Doesn’t Bend, Breaks