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elrhiarhodanTitle: How the Heart Approaches What It Yearns - Part One of Two
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Other Male Characters from Another Fandom; Peter/Elizabeth, Peter/Neal UST, Neal/Other (not original) Male Character, Eventual Peter/Neal
Spoilers: Minor reference to the end of Season 5
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~14,200
Beta Credit:theatregirl7299
Summary: Set about a year after the events at the end of White Collar Season 5, Neal tells Peter that he’s seeing someone – a guy. When Neal brings him over to the house, the Burkes get the shock of their lives.
A/N: This is a crossover, but I’m going to be coy and not tell you what the crossover is. Since this was written as a birthday fic for my dearest friendlumosed_quill, she’ll probably get what this is, because I wrote it for her. But for the rest of you White Collar fans, I’d rather let you discover the surprise at the heart of the story. But if you find you can’t bear not knowing before you read this, you can download the full header from my dropbox, here.
Title from the Paul Simon song of the same name.
__________________
It was a little after ten AM on Wednesday and Peter was working his way through the department’s quarterly budget analysis (and deeply wishing he could be working on any one of a dozen active cases that his team was handling) when his personal cell phone buzzed. Peter smiled. The ringtone told him everything he needed to know about the caller. It was Neal.
Peter answered, “Hey there. What’s up?”
“I have the report you wanted on that suspected Manet forgery.”
“And?”
“And what?”
Peter thought he could hear laughter in Neal’s reply. “What’s the verdict?”
“It’s complicated.”
“It always is, with you.”
“Now my feelings are hurt.” Neal was definitely laughing at him.
“How about stopping by the office and explaining why it’s complicated.” It had been about two weeks since he’d seen Neal, and while he’d finally adjusted to the lack of day-to-day contact, Peter missed his friend more than he could safely admit.
Neal didn’t answer right away and Peter thought they might have gotten disconnected.
Finally Neal answered. “How about we meet for lunch. I’ve got something I’d like to tell you.”
“Oh?” Peter was intrigued and a touch worried. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Everything’s fine. Just something I need to share and I’d rather not do it at the office.”
“Okay. And it just so happens that I’m free for lunch today.”
“And no deviled ham sandwich in the office fridge?”
“No, but there’s a new deli around the corner that makes …”
Perhaps in fear of the stinky lunchmeat, Neal cut him off. “Meet me at one at our usual place and it’ll be my treat.”
“Your treat, hmm? How can I pass that up?” Diana came in, file in hand and a troubled expression on her face. “Look, I’ve got to go. See you at one.”
“Perfect.”
Peter disconnected and turned his attention back to work. It didn’t take much to sort out Diana’s issue with an uncooperative witness – she wanted to arrest him and Peter suggested a softer approach. He continued to plow through the budget reports, alternately cursing his decision to take the promotion to ASAC and worrying about what Neal needed to tell him.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Pausing in front the restaurant, Neal straightened his tie, buttoned and unbuttoned his suit jacket, checked the line of his cuffs. He resisted the urge to duck into the men’s room and sniff his armpits. There was no reason to be so nervous. Peter was … Peter. Open-minded, tolerant, accepting.
What was it that he told him that first day, when he was flirting with Diana? Or trying to flirt with her.
We don’t ask, we don’t care.
All very true. But still, it’s one thing to know from the beginning of a relationship that your co-worker is gay. It’s another thing to find out that someone close to you, someone who’s been firmly on the heterosexual side of things isn’t so straight anymore.
In his own head, Neal clarified that thought. Apparently heterosexual, since he’d never told Peter about Matthew or Vincent or Wilkes or any of the men he’d had sex with to get what he wanted.
And of course, he’d never told Peter about his own feelings for him. Because Peter was married and straight and devoted to the most awesome woman in his world. And he’d never be attracted to a criminal. Or a CI. Or a former criminal-turned-CI-turned-art consultant. He’d never want him the way Neal wanted to be wanted.
Neal took a deep breath and headed into the bistro where he was meeting Peter. They’d had lunch here more times than he could remember, and the hostess smiled and pointed towards the back of the restaurant where Peter was waiting.
A wide smile pasted on his face to cover his nerves, Neal made his way through the maze of tables and found his friend, his pole star, the man around which his life revolved for so long, concentrating on the New York Times crossword puzzle. Looking at Peter, his head bend and lower lip caught between his teeth, the light catching the scant threads of silver at his temples, Neal tamped down the familiar feelings of love and desire, feelings that would never be returned. It was time to move on. Maybe he could finally believe that.
“Hey you.” Peter looked up and smiled.
Neal slid into the booth. “Thanks for meeting me. Appreciate it.”
Reassuringly predictable as the sunrise, Peter snarked, “Well, you’re paying, which might be a first.”
“That’s true.” There were times that he could barely afford a cup of bad coffee and Peter never let him go hungry.
“Are you sure you can afford me?”
“Art conservation and provenance consulting pays surprisingly well these days.”
Peter gave him a skeptical look.
Neal held his hands up in mock defense. “I’m an honest man. You know that.”
The look softened into fondness. “Yes, Neal. That I do.” Peter capped his pen and tucked it away. “And while we’re talking about business, what’s so complicated about the alleged Manet?”
Neal gave him the highlights. “It looks like it’s partially a Manet – possibly an unfinished or abandoned project from his atelier. The rest of the painting might have been completed by a member of his studio or someone who bought the canvas after Manet’s death. It’s all in my report – I’ll email it to you tonight. I don’t believe it is a deliberate forgery.”
Peter nodded, looking satisfied. And then curious. “With that out of the way, what did you really want to talk about?”
Before he could say a word, the waiter came by for their order. Once the waiter disappeared, Peter fixed him with a stare. “Spill. You’ve had me on tenterhooks all morning. This kind of stress isn’t good for my blood pressure.”
“It’s nothing bad, Peter. Nothing to worry about.”
“Neal.” Peter just breathed his name, one eyebrow raised.
Neal ground his teeth and did his best not to get annoyed at the obvious skepticism. Of course Peter had his reasons to be worried or suspicious. “I’m seeing someone.”
Peter’s face lit up. “That’s wonderful! She must be something special if you wanted to tell me like this.”
Neal took a deep breath and spoke before he could reconsider. “He, not she. And yes, he’s kind of special.”
Peter blinked and a dozen expressions crossed his face – most of them completely unreadable. Neal’s heart skipped at the last one, which looked too much like grief. He must have been mistaken. Then Peter smiled. “He. He must be. Tell me about him.”
“Harry’s …” Neal tried to find the right words and struggled. “Harry’s English.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? That’s all you can tell me about him? What does he do?”
“He’s between jobs at the moment.”
“Really?” Peter didn’t sound happy at all.
“Okay – Harry’s in law enforcement but he’s taking a break. He calls it a sabbatical and he’s thinking about going into teaching full time.”
“Ah.” Peter managed to convey a whole conversation in that single syllable. “I’d like to meet him.”
“Of course you would.” Neal smiled, still trying to find some solid ground between them. “Maybe you and El would like to come over for dinner on Saturday night? I know your weekends are sacrosanct, but …”
Peter counter-offered. “It’s okay. El’s taking a few days off this week. She’ll be home tomorrow, so how about if you two come over to the house?”
Neal relaxed, preferring this scenario. “As long as you don’t make your pot roast.” Realizing just how obnoxious that sounded, he fell back on an old stereotype. “Harry might be English, but he’s accustomed to good food. And your pot roast, well, isn’t.” He winced and felt a flush starting somewhere around his toes. Nothing like digging an even deeper hole.
But Peter didn’t take offense. “We’ll do those little hens you love so much.” And with that, the subject seemed closed.
The waiter came with their orders. A burger for Peter and a salad for him. The conversation moved onto less fraught areas. The Yankees’ prospects. Theo Berrigan’s ever-expanding linguistic skills. Clinton’s impending knee surgery. Nothing deep. Nothing important.
They finished and as promised, Neal paid. Peter insisted on leaving the tip. They walked a few blocks together and stopped in front of the FBI building. “So, Saturday at seven?”
“Yeah. Saturday. Seven o’clock. I’ll bring a wine and dessert, okay?”
“And Harry.”
Neal smiled. “And Harry.” Neal watched as Peter bounded up the stairs and disappeared into the crowd of government employees. He didn’t want to feel so bereft, but he did.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Thursday night after dinner, Peter told Elizabeth about Neal’s news. She just looked at him like he’d started speaking in tongues. “Neal’s dating a guy?”
“Yeah.” Peter tried his best not to sound utterly dejected.
“A guy.”
“A guy.”
Elizabeth just stared out across the room, equally dejected. “Okay. What did he tell you?”
“That his name is Harry, he’s former law enforcement, and he’s English. That’s all I know.”
“Hon…” Elizabeth leaned against him and Peter wasn’t sure if she was giving or taking comfort from him.
Peter sighed. He was really trying to be happy for Neal. Maybe this guy would be just what he needed – a steady, stable influence in his life.
“Are they in love?”
Peter shrugged. “He didn’t say that. He really didn’t say more than what I told you. I think Neal was mostly interested in letting me know he was seeing a guy. I think he wanted my approval. Or at least to know how I feel about that.”
Satchmo, sensing his master’s distress, forced his head under Peter’s hand. Peter stroked the soft fur on his ears, absently taking comfort from the action. “I just wish I’d known. Kate, Alex, Sara, Rachel – all the women he’d flirted with for years. I never got the sense that he was bisexual, but I’d always hoped… ”
El rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “I know. I’d hoped too. That maybe Neal would open his eyes and see what’s been in front of him all of these years. I’d have cast a love spell if I thought it would have worked.”
Peter pressed a kiss on the crown of his wife’s head. “My favorite witch, you cast an unbreakable love charm on me, though.”
“No, hon – you fell for my beauty and my vast intelligence.”
Peter chuckled, because that was the absolute truth.
“So, Saturday night is the big night. Dinner – and don’t think you’re making pot roast.”
“Don’t worry. Neal already asked me not to. I promised him those little hens he likes.”
“Wise choice.”
They sat there, man and wife and dog, mourning the lost chances.
El broke the silence. “You still have friends in England? Maybe they could look into this Harry character.”
“Check up on him? Somehow I don’t think Neal would appreciate that.” Peter shook his head at the suggestion.
“And look what happened with his last girlfriend. You took her at face value and she turned out to be a homicidal maniac.”
“True.” And it wasn’t as if Peter hadn’t thought about having his old connections looking into Neal’s new boyfriend. “I’ll need a last name. And maybe fingerprints.”
“I think both can be arranged. Maybe even some DNA.”
“Have I told you recently that you are the best wife ever?”
“I think last Saturday, but that might have been during your orgasm.”
Peter laughed, El’s words chasing the blues away. There was no point in longing for what he couldn’t have.
Friday turned out to be one of those days when someone had cast a spell on the clock. He continued to plow through reports – this time his staff’s semi-annual reviews. His entire staff, which meant all thirty White Collar agents, as well as the twenty some-odd support staff members, correlating their performance against the bonus budget. It was enough to make him wish he’d quit while he was a probie. Or that he’d become a professional Quidditch player instead. And then he had to laugh at the utter ridiculousness of that thought.
Five o’clock came and Peter was out of the office like a bat out of hell. Not that he and El had anything more exciting than grocery shopping at Fairway planned. It was just one of those days.
As slowly as Friday passed, Saturday whizzed by. He was unaccountably nervous, which was all sorts of ridiculous, just because Neal was bringing a date. He knew he shouldn’t attach any special meaning to the evening. It certainly wasn’t the first time he and El had shared a meal with Neal and his current amour. They’d entertained Neal and Sara quite a few times, and even Rebecca had come over for dinner before that spell had been so badly broken.
Peter wanted Neal to be happy. He knew that Neal’s best chance for a crime-free future rested would be if he was in a stable relationship with someone who was strong enough to counterbalance the temptations of the old life. He just wished …
“I wonder what Mozzie thinks.” El handed him a cup of coffee.
“Of what?” Peter generally avoided wondering what the little guy thought of anything.
“Of Neal’s new relationship. But he probably doesn’t know, he’s been in Detroit for more than two months, working with Mr. Jeffries on the new group home. I doubt this is something that Neal would share with him over the phone.”
Peter chuckled, “And if he did know, he’d probably be jealous as hell and checking his spell books for an appropriate hex.”
El smacked him. “Don’t be mean. Mozzie’s not that petty. ”
Peter wasn’t so sure about that. A few years ago, on an evening when he and Neal had spent a convivial evening drinking and sorting through the never ending stack of mortgage fraud, Neal confessed that Moz was just about the best birth control on the market. He had an uncanny knack for interrupting him and Sara at very critical moments. Peter had suggested a lock. Neal had just laughed. “Locks can’t hold out Moz – it’s like he just waves a wand and the door opens.”
El interrupted his musings. “It’s almost seven – are you going to change?”
Peter looked at himself – the LaMoyne t-shirt and ratty jeans weren’t going to make a good impression, especially when Elizabeth was so casually elegant in black slacks and a blue knit top that made her eyes glow. “Yeah, give me a few.”
He bounded upstairs and smiled when he saw a black cashmere sweater and dove-gray trousers laid out on the bed. Trust the best wife in the world to take care of him. Peter took a quick shower and by the time he’d finished grooming and getting dressed, it was close to seven. Elizabeth was at her dressing table, putting the finishing touches on her makeup. Dinner smelled delicious and Neal would be here soon. Neal and Harry.
Peter tried to build a picture of the man Neal was dating based on the very scant evidence he’d been given. Former law enforcement. English. Thinking about becoming a teacher. So maybe he’s a little older than Neal, in his forties. But he couldn’t imagine a face or a body type. Neal’s tastes in women were so varied, except that they were all uniformly beautiful. And on the taller side. The best Peter could come up with was a slightly older version of Laurence Fox from Masterpiece Mystery’s Inspector Lewis. He played the erudite, deep-thinking, highly educated and somewhat troubled Detective Sergeant Hathaway. El loved the program and while Peter enjoyed it too – mostly for the relationship between the characters – he thought the crime aspects were kind of ludicrous. In the show, the tiny city of Oxford was practically the murder capital of England.
Peter shook his head, dispelling the irrelevant thoughts, and headed downstairs. As he reached the bottom landing, the doorbell rang. Satchmo barked once for form’s sake before going back to sleep. Peter twitched aside the curtain that covered the inner door. It was Neal and he was holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a cake box in the other. It was too dark to see the person standing behind him. The only thing that Peter could see was that he wasn’t tall.
Before he opened the door, Peter called out quite unnecessarily, “Hon, Neal’s here.”
El called back, “I’ll be down in a few.”
Peter appreciated El’s strategic delay. He wanted to see the man Neal was bringing first. He wanted to size him up and make sure his gut wasn’t distracted by the need to make a good first impression. That was El’s job.
He took a deep breath and opened the door.
Neal’s smile lit up the foyer. “Thought you were going to leave us standing there all night.”
“I’m just surprised you bothered with the doorbell.” Peter retorted.
“I’m on my best behavior.” Neal put the wine and the cake box on the hall table and gestured for the man behind him to come in. “Harry, this is my friend Peter. Peter, this is Harry. Harry Potter.”
Peter held out his hand, but he couldn’t move. Once, a very long time ago, he’d been struck with a body-bind curse that had taken hours to unspell. The feeling of helplessness had given him nightmares for months. He felt a similar sense of unreasoning terror now.
Neal Caffrey was dating The Boy Who Lived.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Harry hadn’t intended to start any kind of relationship with anyone when he came to New York. This trip was supposed to be a break. It was supposed to be a chance to figure out what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. A time to heal from wounds old and new. To discover who Harry Potter was without the weight of expectation and fame crushing the life out of him.
But he’d done just that. He’d fallen into a relationship with a muggle. And yet, that was the least defining characteristic of the man. For the first time in his life, he could be nothing more than Harry Potter, a bloke from England, who had a little money and some time on his hands. A man who was between careers, who was as ordinary as the next guy. And he was having fun. The sex was exceptional, if just for the fact that he didn’t have to worry about what people might say when they found out that Harry Potter was a flaming poofter.
He wasn’t in love, but he had a serious case of like, and that was perfectly fine. It wasn’t as if his life was anything to write home about.
The public Harry Potter was the epitome of success. Just before his twentieth birthday, he had married into one of the oldest wizarding families in England, his sweetheart from his Hogwarts years. He’d been promoted to Chief Auror before he turned twenty-five. His name was whispered in certain circles as the next Minister of Magic.
The private Harry Potter was a sinkhole of misery. His days and nights were spent fighting the practitioners of the dark arts, a battle he’d been committed to since before he’d been old enough to shave. And he was exhausted. His marriage to Ginny was long over. They had almost nothing in common except for those desperate times at Hogwarts. What he had thought was love was little more than affection and a desperate need for family, which wasn’t enough to support a marriage. The rags – Quibbler mostly – had made much of the end of his marriage, mostly because anything scandalous about him sold copies. So they fabricated scandal after scandal, almost all about his supposed infidelities with every woman in England. The lies couldn’t obviate the private truth of their amicable divorce, but they did end up destroying one of his oldest and deepest friendships. Ron had refused to believe him, was convinced that Ginny was lying about their separation, and hadn’t spoken to him years.
After a particularly vicious battle against a group calling themselves Novus Ordo Mortiorum, the New Order of Death, a fight that nearly cost him his life, Harry handed in his papers. Of course, the Ministry did everything they could to persuade him to change his mind. He was so desperately needed. After all, who would stand against the torrent of dark magic if not The Boy Who Lived? Harry hadn’t precisely caved the face of this emotional blackmail, but he gave in just a little, promising to rethink his resignation on the condition that he would be left alone for at least three months. He wasn't going to change his mind, but he needed a little peace from their demands.
Harry knew the Ministry. He knew that as long as he remained in England, he’d be at their mercy and it would be near-impossible to refuse their requests for help. No matter how tired, how worn out and worn down he was, he be back and leading the fight.
But these were all lies he told himself so he didn’t have to face the truth. The exhaustion, the broken marriage, the lost friendships, just excuses to avoid dealing with what he really wanted, what he could never have. He could have stayed in England and told the Ministry to shove it. Harry could have taken up a post at Hogwarts and done what he really loved – teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. But if he did, it would have meant seeing him every day. Sharing meals at High Table. Being friendly in the way that you have to be with colleagues – that meaningless distant way. Looking at him but not looking at him. Staring at a point just over his right shoulder because Merlin forbid he catch you staring at him and make some snarky remark that would set everyone laughing.
Him.
Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater and now Potions Master at Hogwarts. Him, who he lusted after (and maybe loved) just as much as he hated. It was all so fucked up and that made everything else he wanted impossible.
Laid up in St. Mungo’s after the battle and healing from his wounds, Harry had begun making plans. He had enough money and more than enough influence to set the wheels in motion. Muggle paperwork was essential if he wanted to leave England without the wizarding world being any the wiser. A copy of his birth certificate led to a shiny new British passport. Galleons were changed for muggle pounds and lots of those pounds meant he could travel in comfort. He had obtained a few credit cards – one silver and one black – and he’d made arrangements to have the bills paid on time.
Harry had spent too many years under the stairs, hearing Vernon and Petunia arguing about finances, not to understand how things worked in the mundane, muggle world.
Hermione, who was still Harry’s friend, despite Ron’s pigheaded insistence that she cut ties with him, told him he was nuts. To go to New York where he knew no one? Where he had no plans? And worse, to leave his magic behind? To blend in and pretend to be a muggle? That seemed to be the height of insanity. He had smiled and kissed her cheek, promising that no harm would come to him. After all, he was not only the Boy Who Lived. He was the Man Who Died, too.
New York was both a revelation and a disaster. Magic was everywhere, the streets were thick with it. But no one seemed to be aware of what was right before them. Whores of all sexes whispered to him in Parseltongue, half the pigeon population were animagi. The foul odor that rose out of the subway vents was not generated by a hundred years of continuously operated machinery, but the collective flatulence from a nest of basilisks that fed off the garbage so casually tossed onto the train tracks.
Harry had never felt anything quite like it. The closest experience was his very first trip to Diagon Alley. But New York was as different from that hidden part of London as chalk was from cheese. New York was a massive and modern city with magic pulsing from every street corner and subway vent. A city with millions of people moving about, people freighted with magic they had no clue they had.
Harry had been in New York for a week when disaster struck. Bored with his own company, he’d left his hotel without any particular destination in mind, thinking about heading to Central Park for no other reason than to check out the rumors that there were merpeople in the lake. It was a pleasant jaunt, heading up the length of Manhattan with its wide sidewalks and inviting shops. And when it happened, he didn’t even realize it. Maybe it was his own fault. Despite years of trauma and drama, decades of fighting for his survival, he’d lived a sheltered life – rarely venturing out into the wider, mundane world. At some point in his journey, his pocket was picked.
Harry hadn’t even realized it until he’d gotten to the park and went to purchase a bottle of cold water. He’d patted his hips, fumbled with his jacket and probably sounded like an idiot when he tried to figure out what had happened.
The man at the cart looked at him suspiciously but suspicion was replaced by a simple act of kindness as Harry pushed the bottle of water back and mumbled his apologies. “Ah, boy – you’re not from around here, are ye?”
Harry nodded.
“New York’s a better, kinder place dese days, but dere’s always someone looking to take ye.” The man pushed the bottle back at him. “Take it and pay it forward someday.”
That wasn’t an expression he’d heard before. “Pay it forward?”
“Yah, do somethin’ nice for someone just because.”
Harry nodded in understanding. The water was cold and had tasted a lot sweeter for the stranger’s kindness.
Instead of exploring the lake, Harry walked back to his hotel. The credit cards had to be cancelled and replaced and he was going to need more American money. And new ID. Being a muggle – or at least pretending to be one – was a pain in the arse. At least he hadn’t had to worry about his passport – that he’d stored in the hotel room safe.
Foot-weary like he hadn’t been since his days wandering the length and breadth of England, looking for the horcruxes, he stumbled into his hotel and uttered a short, vicious expletive. He’d put his room key in his wallet, and while alohomora would work on the electronic muggle locks, the incantation might fry their circuitry. And given just how much magic there was floating around the city, Harry had been concerned about the effects of a randomly uttered spell on the rest of the building.
So he’d stopped at the reception desk to ask for a replacement key card and hoping that he wouldn’t have to produce some kind of identification.
Just about to explain that he’d lost his wallet, the young woman at the deck smiled at him. “Mr. Potter, this just might be your lucky day. There’s a man waiting in the lounge, he says he’s found your wallet.
Harry had been sure he’d heard correctly. “My wallet? Someone’s come to return my wallet?”
“Yes. Sometimes people do nice things.” The woman pointed towards the lounge. “Hope he’s still waiting. Been here about an hour.”
He had gone into the lounge, not sure what he’d expected to find. What type of person returned a stranger’s wallet?
The lounge was dark, the blinds dropped against the late afternoon sun. There was only one person there and the deep shadows made it difficult to see what he looked like. The hat hadn’t helped either.
He must have made a sound, because the man looked up and Harry almost stopped breathing. Impossible, there are no full-blooded male veelas
Harry let out a sigh of relief when the man removed his hat and the illusion of perfect siren-like beauty was shattered by the shaft of sunlight cutting through the blinds. The hot light betrayed the subtle flaws of age – silver-gray in his late-day scruff, very fine lines at the edges of his eyes, in the corner of his mouth. Whoever – whatever – he was, he was one of the most beautiful men Harry had ever seen.
“You are Harry James Potter?”
Harry nodded, still a little stunned.
“Then I have something of yours.” He took a wallet – his wallet – out of an inner pocket in his suit jacket.
“Where did you find it? I didn’t even realize I dropped it. Not until I got to Central Park and wanted to buy a bottle of water. How did you find me?” Harry had babbled, wondering if he’d need to put a silencio charm on himself to shut up.
The man just held out the wallet and Harry took it, this time shoving it in his front pants pocket. “You didn’t lose it. Your pocket was picked when you’d stopped to admire the display at Schribner’s. And I found you because you put your room key in it – there’s only one Aurora Hotel in Manhattan.”
Harry vaguely remembered that he’d stopped in front of a bookstore for a moment. There had been a display of best-selling novels, including a saga about a boy wizard’s triumph over evil. He’d been tempted to buy it and send it to Hermione as a lark. “Are you a policeman? Did you arrest him and get it back?”
The man laughed, the sound strangely self-mocking. “No, not a policeman. Not a member of law enforcement at all. I just picked his pocket.”
Harry blinked, not sure he’d heard correctly. “Excuse me?”
“I know the pickpocket, he’s not a friend of mine.”
“So you thought you’d just take what wasn’t his and give it back to me?”
The man stood there, hands shoved in his pockets. “Truthfully, once upon a time, I might have kept the cash and ditched the rest.”
“But you decided to do a good deed today?”
“More like I’d remembered that there were people who’d be disappointed in me if didn’t return it. That maybe I’d be disappointed in myself, too.” The man was nothing if not enigmatic.
“I’m not really following.” Harry hadn’t felt quite this at sea since he’d first boarded the Hogwarts Express. “But maybe I can buy you a drink and you can explain.” What the hell was he doing?
His blue eyes lit up, as bright as the sunlight still streaming between the blinds. “Sure.”
Harry gestured towards the bar. “I don’t know your name.”
The man had laughed, and again, Harry wasn’t quite sure what was so funny. “Neal. My name’s Neal Caffrey.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal kept fussing with his clothes.
“Why are you so nervous?” Harry was stretched out on the bed, dressed except for his shoes.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s not like we’re meeting your parents, right?”
“God, no. Peter and Elizabeth are not my parents.” Thank god.
“Then you have nothing to worry about.”
Neal sighed. There were times – like now – when Harry was the wisest, most level-headed man he’d ever met. Nothing seemed to faze him. And there were other times, when he seemed far too world-weary and cynical for someone only in his mid-thirties. “You’re right. There’s no reason to be nervous. I’m just introducing you to my best friends.” He tried to convince himself that this was all that it was. It was just that he’d been dating – okay fucking – Harry for two months, and until this past Wednesday, he hadn’t even mentioned him to Peter.
“Is it because I’m a guy?” Harry got off the bed and stood next to him. “Or because I’m short?”
Neal burst out laughing. “Maybe.” The humor dispelled the vague anxiety that had been dogging him all day. “Let’s go. The car will be here soon.”
Harry found his shoes, Neal picked up the wine bottles and cake box and they went downstairs. June was out of town, and frankly he was relieved. His friend and landlady had a very odd reaction to Harry. Every time she saw Harry, she stared at him. It seemed, to Neal, like she wanted to say something, but was afraid to. Or that she knew him. Harry, for his part, ignored June’s behavior and was as pleasant and distantly friendly to her as he was to anyone. Neal just told himself that Harry was entitled to his secrets.
He’d made it clear, up front, that he was on leave from a dangerous job. All he’d say about it was that it had to do with law enforcement and he couldn’t talk about it. Neal drew his own conclusions, figuring Harry was in the intelligence business or worked undercover. It didn’t help that Harry was some kind of cop, which was a fatal weakness for him. Mozzie would undoubtedly accuse him of Stockholm Syndrome or something more crude and cutting, except that Mozzie wasn’t in New York at the moment.
Which was for the best.
For his own part, Neal hadn’t kept his past a secret. In fact, he’d pretty much spilled everything to Harry over a bottle of single malt the day he’d returned his wallet. He couldn’t say what propelled him to do that. Maybe it was the world-weariness in those green eyes; they were far too old for such a young man that made the idea of secrets irrelevant. Besides, Harry was a stranger and that made it way too easy to tell him about all the disasters that made up his life.
He hadn’t judged or seemed shocked when Neal told him about his life as a con artist and a thief. All he’d wanted to know was if he’d ever really hurt anyone.
“Not intentionally – except for the time I shot a former lover in the leg to keep him from murdering my best friend. Peter.” At least Neal some sense of discretion and didn’t tell Harry about his complicity in Elizabeth’s kidnapping, or how he’d disappointed Peter so many times he’d lost count. He hadn’t figured that “hurt” meant “emotional pain.”
A feeling of impending disaster creeped into the car and it was so thick that by the time they’d crossed the Manhattan Bridge, Neal was nauseous from it.
“You all right?” Harry squeezed his thigh.
Neal took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“You want to cancel? I’m sure your friends will understand if you tell them you’re not feeling well.”
“Nah.” Neal shook his head. “Peter and El are expecting us and if I cancelled now, they’ll really want to know why and ‘panic attack’ isn’t an excuse I’d ever want to give them.” He didn’t tell Harry that he never lied to Peter, except when Elizabeth asked him too. That was too difficult to explain.
Harry’s eyes glowed sympathetically behind his glasses. “I’ve been there – with the panic. I know just how you feel.”
Neal wanted to ask for details, but the car turned onto DeKalb and there was no time. He just leaned over and brushed his lips against Harry’s, enjoying the taste of spearmint and coffee. “We’ll be fine. Peter and El will like you, and you’ll like them.”
“Your friends sound wonderful.”
Neal stifled a sigh. He knew he’d talked way too much about Peter and El, and probably more about Peter than anyone. But how could he not, when Peter was so central to the life he was trying to make for himself?
The car pulled up in front of Peter and Elizabeth’s, and it was definitely too late to turn back. He bounded up the steps like he’d done a thousand times before and rang the bell. He usually didn’t stand on ceremony, but with Harry, it would be kind of strange to use his lock picks to let himself it.
Neal pasted his brightest smile on his lips and waited for Peter or Elizabeth to answer the door.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter stared at Neal’s date. At Harry Potter. At Harry-Who-Saved-The-World-Potter.
“Peter?” Neal’s tone suddenly had an edge to it, hard and unpleasant. And thank god, because that broke the spell.
“Sorry.” He held out his hand and said with forced cheer, “Pleasure to meet you, Harry.”
Harry, for his part, didn’t seem the least bit fazed. “Pleasure to meet you, too. Neal’s told me a lot about you.”
Peter could hear himself making some stupid joke about not being there to defend himself and they laughed, but it all sounded wrong, though. How in the world did Neal Caffrey hook up with Harry Potter?
“Are we going to stand in your foyer all night, or can we go into the living room?” There was still an edge to Neal’s voice, and it was getting sharper with every word.
Peter apologized again. “Come in, relax. Do you want a drink or something?”
Harry look at Neal, who shrugged. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”
“Neal?”
“A glass of wine, provided it doesn’t come out of a screw-top bottle. Or a box.”
Peter tried for a chuckle, except it sounded like he was coughing up a hairball. “I think I can manage that.” He pulled out a bottle at random from the wine rack; a Pinot Noir that El picked up a few months ago. He showed it to Neal, who nodded his approval a little tersely.
He poured the wine and handed Harry a glass first, and the one to Neal. He didn’t pour one for himself. Drinking anything alcoholic right now would be a bad idea.
The awkwardness was painful and he could feel Neal’s disappointment and anger like an impending storm. He knew what Neal was thinking, that he was uncomfortable with Harry because Harry was a man. If only he knew the truth.
At least Harry Potter (and Peter had a hard time thinking of him as simply Harry), who had probably spent the better part of the last sixteen years ignoring the stares of the curious, didn’t seem at all bothered by his behavior.
Peter wished that El would hurry up and help him get his bearings. Then he remembered and wished that he had a way to warn her.
“So – how’s the wine?” It seemed the least innocuous thing he could say.
“It’s fine. You’re not having any?”
“Maybe in a bit, when El joins us.”
The three of them moved around the room, and it seemed as if they were unwilling actors in the third act of some performance right out of the theater of the absurd. It only got worse when Harry bent to pet Satchmo. Peter cringed as his beloved familiar drew back his teeth and growled.
Harry, realizing a little too late, just what Satch was, drew his hand back and apologized.
Neal stared at the dog and then at Peter. “What’s gotten into him?”
Peter shrugged, of course he really couldn’t tell Neal that familiars were very particular about letting other wizards or witches touch them. He – as a muggle – was perfectly safe, but Harry Potter was definitely not.
This was not going well at all.
Finally, they heard Elizabeth coming downstairs. He thought about waylaying her, telling her who “Harry,” give her a chance to prepare herself. But it was too late.
Neal went over to her at the bottom of the staircase, cutting off her view of the other occupants. Peter watched as he whispered something to El – probably something about his vile behavior – and his wife gave him a reassuring smile. Peter stayed frozen, leaning against the fireplace mantle. Harry had put his glass down and was looking at Elizabeth, a curious expression on his face.
Damn, he recognizes her.
Peter watched as Neal took El’s hand and brought her into the living room to make the introductions. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion.
Neal hadn’t gotten the chance to say his boyfriend’s name when Elizabeth blurted out, “Holy shit, you’re dating Harry Potter.”
Go to Part Two
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Other Male Characters from Another Fandom; Peter/Elizabeth, Peter/Neal UST, Neal/Other (not original) Male Character, Eventual Peter/Neal
Spoilers: Minor reference to the end of Season 5
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~14,200
Beta Credit:
theatregirl7299 Summary: Set about a year after the events at the end of White Collar Season 5, Neal tells Peter that he’s seeing someone – a guy. When Neal brings him over to the house, the Burkes get the shock of their lives.
A/N: This is a crossover, but I’m going to be coy and not tell you what the crossover is. Since this was written as a birthday fic for my dearest friend
lumosed_quill, she’ll probably get what this is, because I wrote it for her. But for the rest of you White Collar fans, I’d rather let you discover the surprise at the heart of the story. But if you find you can’t bear not knowing before you read this, you can download the full header from my dropbox, here.Title from the Paul Simon song of the same name.
It was a little after ten AM on Wednesday and Peter was working his way through the department’s quarterly budget analysis (and deeply wishing he could be working on any one of a dozen active cases that his team was handling) when his personal cell phone buzzed. Peter smiled. The ringtone told him everything he needed to know about the caller. It was Neal.
Peter answered, “Hey there. What’s up?”
“I have the report you wanted on that suspected Manet forgery.”
“And?”
“And what?”
Peter thought he could hear laughter in Neal’s reply. “What’s the verdict?”
“It’s complicated.”
“It always is, with you.”
“Now my feelings are hurt.” Neal was definitely laughing at him.
“How about stopping by the office and explaining why it’s complicated.” It had been about two weeks since he’d seen Neal, and while he’d finally adjusted to the lack of day-to-day contact, Peter missed his friend more than he could safely admit.
Neal didn’t answer right away and Peter thought they might have gotten disconnected.
Finally Neal answered. “How about we meet for lunch. I’ve got something I’d like to tell you.”
“Oh?” Peter was intrigued and a touch worried. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Everything’s fine. Just something I need to share and I’d rather not do it at the office.”
“Okay. And it just so happens that I’m free for lunch today.”
“And no deviled ham sandwich in the office fridge?”
“No, but there’s a new deli around the corner that makes …”
Perhaps in fear of the stinky lunchmeat, Neal cut him off. “Meet me at one at our usual place and it’ll be my treat.”
“Your treat, hmm? How can I pass that up?” Diana came in, file in hand and a troubled expression on her face. “Look, I’ve got to go. See you at one.”
“Perfect.”
Peter disconnected and turned his attention back to work. It didn’t take much to sort out Diana’s issue with an uncooperative witness – she wanted to arrest him and Peter suggested a softer approach. He continued to plow through the budget reports, alternately cursing his decision to take the promotion to ASAC and worrying about what Neal needed to tell him.
Pausing in front the restaurant, Neal straightened his tie, buttoned and unbuttoned his suit jacket, checked the line of his cuffs. He resisted the urge to duck into the men’s room and sniff his armpits. There was no reason to be so nervous. Peter was … Peter. Open-minded, tolerant, accepting.
What was it that he told him that first day, when he was flirting with Diana? Or trying to flirt with her.
We don’t ask, we don’t care.
All very true. But still, it’s one thing to know from the beginning of a relationship that your co-worker is gay. It’s another thing to find out that someone close to you, someone who’s been firmly on the heterosexual side of things isn’t so straight anymore.
In his own head, Neal clarified that thought. Apparently heterosexual, since he’d never told Peter about Matthew or Vincent or Wilkes or any of the men he’d had sex with to get what he wanted.
And of course, he’d never told Peter about his own feelings for him. Because Peter was married and straight and devoted to the most awesome woman in his world. And he’d never be attracted to a criminal. Or a CI. Or a former criminal-turned-CI-turned-art consultant. He’d never want him the way Neal wanted to be wanted.
Neal took a deep breath and headed into the bistro where he was meeting Peter. They’d had lunch here more times than he could remember, and the hostess smiled and pointed towards the back of the restaurant where Peter was waiting.
A wide smile pasted on his face to cover his nerves, Neal made his way through the maze of tables and found his friend, his pole star, the man around which his life revolved for so long, concentrating on the New York Times crossword puzzle. Looking at Peter, his head bend and lower lip caught between his teeth, the light catching the scant threads of silver at his temples, Neal tamped down the familiar feelings of love and desire, feelings that would never be returned. It was time to move on. Maybe he could finally believe that.
“Hey you.” Peter looked up and smiled.
Neal slid into the booth. “Thanks for meeting me. Appreciate it.”
Reassuringly predictable as the sunrise, Peter snarked, “Well, you’re paying, which might be a first.”
“That’s true.” There were times that he could barely afford a cup of bad coffee and Peter never let him go hungry.
“Are you sure you can afford me?”
“Art conservation and provenance consulting pays surprisingly well these days.”
Peter gave him a skeptical look.
Neal held his hands up in mock defense. “I’m an honest man. You know that.”
The look softened into fondness. “Yes, Neal. That I do.” Peter capped his pen and tucked it away. “And while we’re talking about business, what’s so complicated about the alleged Manet?”
Neal gave him the highlights. “It looks like it’s partially a Manet – possibly an unfinished or abandoned project from his atelier. The rest of the painting might have been completed by a member of his studio or someone who bought the canvas after Manet’s death. It’s all in my report – I’ll email it to you tonight. I don’t believe it is a deliberate forgery.”
Peter nodded, looking satisfied. And then curious. “With that out of the way, what did you really want to talk about?”
Before he could say a word, the waiter came by for their order. Once the waiter disappeared, Peter fixed him with a stare. “Spill. You’ve had me on tenterhooks all morning. This kind of stress isn’t good for my blood pressure.”
“It’s nothing bad, Peter. Nothing to worry about.”
“Neal.” Peter just breathed his name, one eyebrow raised.
Neal ground his teeth and did his best not to get annoyed at the obvious skepticism. Of course Peter had his reasons to be worried or suspicious. “I’m seeing someone.”
Peter’s face lit up. “That’s wonderful! She must be something special if you wanted to tell me like this.”
Neal took a deep breath and spoke before he could reconsider. “He, not she. And yes, he’s kind of special.”
Peter blinked and a dozen expressions crossed his face – most of them completely unreadable. Neal’s heart skipped at the last one, which looked too much like grief. He must have been mistaken. Then Peter smiled. “He. He must be. Tell me about him.”
“Harry’s …” Neal tried to find the right words and struggled. “Harry’s English.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? That’s all you can tell me about him? What does he do?”
“He’s between jobs at the moment.”
“Really?” Peter didn’t sound happy at all.
“Okay – Harry’s in law enforcement but he’s taking a break. He calls it a sabbatical and he’s thinking about going into teaching full time.”
“Ah.” Peter managed to convey a whole conversation in that single syllable. “I’d like to meet him.”
“Of course you would.” Neal smiled, still trying to find some solid ground between them. “Maybe you and El would like to come over for dinner on Saturday night? I know your weekends are sacrosanct, but …”
Peter counter-offered. “It’s okay. El’s taking a few days off this week. She’ll be home tomorrow, so how about if you two come over to the house?”
Neal relaxed, preferring this scenario. “As long as you don’t make your pot roast.” Realizing just how obnoxious that sounded, he fell back on an old stereotype. “Harry might be English, but he’s accustomed to good food. And your pot roast, well, isn’t.” He winced and felt a flush starting somewhere around his toes. Nothing like digging an even deeper hole.
But Peter didn’t take offense. “We’ll do those little hens you love so much.” And with that, the subject seemed closed.
The waiter came with their orders. A burger for Peter and a salad for him. The conversation moved onto less fraught areas. The Yankees’ prospects. Theo Berrigan’s ever-expanding linguistic skills. Clinton’s impending knee surgery. Nothing deep. Nothing important.
They finished and as promised, Neal paid. Peter insisted on leaving the tip. They walked a few blocks together and stopped in front of the FBI building. “So, Saturday at seven?”
“Yeah. Saturday. Seven o’clock. I’ll bring a wine and dessert, okay?”
“And Harry.”
Neal smiled. “And Harry.” Neal watched as Peter bounded up the stairs and disappeared into the crowd of government employees. He didn’t want to feel so bereft, but he did.
Thursday night after dinner, Peter told Elizabeth about Neal’s news. She just looked at him like he’d started speaking in tongues. “Neal’s dating a guy?”
“Yeah.” Peter tried his best not to sound utterly dejected.
“A guy.”
“A guy.”
Elizabeth just stared out across the room, equally dejected. “Okay. What did he tell you?”
“That his name is Harry, he’s former law enforcement, and he’s English. That’s all I know.”
“Hon…” Elizabeth leaned against him and Peter wasn’t sure if she was giving or taking comfort from him.
Peter sighed. He was really trying to be happy for Neal. Maybe this guy would be just what he needed – a steady, stable influence in his life.
“Are they in love?”
Peter shrugged. “He didn’t say that. He really didn’t say more than what I told you. I think Neal was mostly interested in letting me know he was seeing a guy. I think he wanted my approval. Or at least to know how I feel about that.”
Satchmo, sensing his master’s distress, forced his head under Peter’s hand. Peter stroked the soft fur on his ears, absently taking comfort from the action. “I just wish I’d known. Kate, Alex, Sara, Rachel – all the women he’d flirted with for years. I never got the sense that he was bisexual, but I’d always hoped… ”
El rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “I know. I’d hoped too. That maybe Neal would open his eyes and see what’s been in front of him all of these years. I’d have cast a love spell if I thought it would have worked.”
Peter pressed a kiss on the crown of his wife’s head. “My favorite witch, you cast an unbreakable love charm on me, though.”
“No, hon – you fell for my beauty and my vast intelligence.”
Peter chuckled, because that was the absolute truth.
“So, Saturday night is the big night. Dinner – and don’t think you’re making pot roast.”
“Don’t worry. Neal already asked me not to. I promised him those little hens he likes.”
“Wise choice.”
They sat there, man and wife and dog, mourning the lost chances.
El broke the silence. “You still have friends in England? Maybe they could look into this Harry character.”
“Check up on him? Somehow I don’t think Neal would appreciate that.” Peter shook his head at the suggestion.
“And look what happened with his last girlfriend. You took her at face value and she turned out to be a homicidal maniac.”
“True.” And it wasn’t as if Peter hadn’t thought about having his old connections looking into Neal’s new boyfriend. “I’ll need a last name. And maybe fingerprints.”
“I think both can be arranged. Maybe even some DNA.”
“Have I told you recently that you are the best wife ever?”
“I think last Saturday, but that might have been during your orgasm.”
Peter laughed, El’s words chasing the blues away. There was no point in longing for what he couldn’t have.
Friday turned out to be one of those days when someone had cast a spell on the clock. He continued to plow through reports – this time his staff’s semi-annual reviews. His entire staff, which meant all thirty White Collar agents, as well as the twenty some-odd support staff members, correlating their performance against the bonus budget. It was enough to make him wish he’d quit while he was a probie. Or that he’d become a professional Quidditch player instead. And then he had to laugh at the utter ridiculousness of that thought.
Five o’clock came and Peter was out of the office like a bat out of hell. Not that he and El had anything more exciting than grocery shopping at Fairway planned. It was just one of those days.
As slowly as Friday passed, Saturday whizzed by. He was unaccountably nervous, which was all sorts of ridiculous, just because Neal was bringing a date. He knew he shouldn’t attach any special meaning to the evening. It certainly wasn’t the first time he and El had shared a meal with Neal and his current amour. They’d entertained Neal and Sara quite a few times, and even Rebecca had come over for dinner before that spell had been so badly broken.
Peter wanted Neal to be happy. He knew that Neal’s best chance for a crime-free future rested would be if he was in a stable relationship with someone who was strong enough to counterbalance the temptations of the old life. He just wished …
“I wonder what Mozzie thinks.” El handed him a cup of coffee.
“Of what?” Peter generally avoided wondering what the little guy thought of anything.
“Of Neal’s new relationship. But he probably doesn’t know, he’s been in Detroit for more than two months, working with Mr. Jeffries on the new group home. I doubt this is something that Neal would share with him over the phone.”
Peter chuckled, “And if he did know, he’d probably be jealous as hell and checking his spell books for an appropriate hex.”
El smacked him. “Don’t be mean. Mozzie’s not that petty. ”
Peter wasn’t so sure about that. A few years ago, on an evening when he and Neal had spent a convivial evening drinking and sorting through the never ending stack of mortgage fraud, Neal confessed that Moz was just about the best birth control on the market. He had an uncanny knack for interrupting him and Sara at very critical moments. Peter had suggested a lock. Neal had just laughed. “Locks can’t hold out Moz – it’s like he just waves a wand and the door opens.”
El interrupted his musings. “It’s almost seven – are you going to change?”
Peter looked at himself – the LaMoyne t-shirt and ratty jeans weren’t going to make a good impression, especially when Elizabeth was so casually elegant in black slacks and a blue knit top that made her eyes glow. “Yeah, give me a few.”
He bounded upstairs and smiled when he saw a black cashmere sweater and dove-gray trousers laid out on the bed. Trust the best wife in the world to take care of him. Peter took a quick shower and by the time he’d finished grooming and getting dressed, it was close to seven. Elizabeth was at her dressing table, putting the finishing touches on her makeup. Dinner smelled delicious and Neal would be here soon. Neal and Harry.
Peter tried to build a picture of the man Neal was dating based on the very scant evidence he’d been given. Former law enforcement. English. Thinking about becoming a teacher. So maybe he’s a little older than Neal, in his forties. But he couldn’t imagine a face or a body type. Neal’s tastes in women were so varied, except that they were all uniformly beautiful. And on the taller side. The best Peter could come up with was a slightly older version of Laurence Fox from Masterpiece Mystery’s Inspector Lewis. He played the erudite, deep-thinking, highly educated and somewhat troubled Detective Sergeant Hathaway. El loved the program and while Peter enjoyed it too – mostly for the relationship between the characters – he thought the crime aspects were kind of ludicrous. In the show, the tiny city of Oxford was practically the murder capital of England.
Peter shook his head, dispelling the irrelevant thoughts, and headed downstairs. As he reached the bottom landing, the doorbell rang. Satchmo barked once for form’s sake before going back to sleep. Peter twitched aside the curtain that covered the inner door. It was Neal and he was holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a cake box in the other. It was too dark to see the person standing behind him. The only thing that Peter could see was that he wasn’t tall.
Before he opened the door, Peter called out quite unnecessarily, “Hon, Neal’s here.”
El called back, “I’ll be down in a few.”
Peter appreciated El’s strategic delay. He wanted to see the man Neal was bringing first. He wanted to size him up and make sure his gut wasn’t distracted by the need to make a good first impression. That was El’s job.
He took a deep breath and opened the door.
Neal’s smile lit up the foyer. “Thought you were going to leave us standing there all night.”
“I’m just surprised you bothered with the doorbell.” Peter retorted.
“I’m on my best behavior.” Neal put the wine and the cake box on the hall table and gestured for the man behind him to come in. “Harry, this is my friend Peter. Peter, this is Harry. Harry Potter.”
Peter held out his hand, but he couldn’t move. Once, a very long time ago, he’d been struck with a body-bind curse that had taken hours to unspell. The feeling of helplessness had given him nightmares for months. He felt a similar sense of unreasoning terror now.
Neal Caffrey was dating The Boy Who Lived.
Harry hadn’t intended to start any kind of relationship with anyone when he came to New York. This trip was supposed to be a break. It was supposed to be a chance to figure out what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. A time to heal from wounds old and new. To discover who Harry Potter was without the weight of expectation and fame crushing the life out of him.
But he’d done just that. He’d fallen into a relationship with a muggle. And yet, that was the least defining characteristic of the man. For the first time in his life, he could be nothing more than Harry Potter, a bloke from England, who had a little money and some time on his hands. A man who was between careers, who was as ordinary as the next guy. And he was having fun. The sex was exceptional, if just for the fact that he didn’t have to worry about what people might say when they found out that Harry Potter was a flaming poofter.
He wasn’t in love, but he had a serious case of like, and that was perfectly fine. It wasn’t as if his life was anything to write home about.
The public Harry Potter was the epitome of success. Just before his twentieth birthday, he had married into one of the oldest wizarding families in England, his sweetheart from his Hogwarts years. He’d been promoted to Chief Auror before he turned twenty-five. His name was whispered in certain circles as the next Minister of Magic.
The private Harry Potter was a sinkhole of misery. His days and nights were spent fighting the practitioners of the dark arts, a battle he’d been committed to since before he’d been old enough to shave. And he was exhausted. His marriage to Ginny was long over. They had almost nothing in common except for those desperate times at Hogwarts. What he had thought was love was little more than affection and a desperate need for family, which wasn’t enough to support a marriage. The rags – Quibbler mostly – had made much of the end of his marriage, mostly because anything scandalous about him sold copies. So they fabricated scandal after scandal, almost all about his supposed infidelities with every woman in England. The lies couldn’t obviate the private truth of their amicable divorce, but they did end up destroying one of his oldest and deepest friendships. Ron had refused to believe him, was convinced that Ginny was lying about their separation, and hadn’t spoken to him years.
After a particularly vicious battle against a group calling themselves Novus Ordo Mortiorum, the New Order of Death, a fight that nearly cost him his life, Harry handed in his papers. Of course, the Ministry did everything they could to persuade him to change his mind. He was so desperately needed. After all, who would stand against the torrent of dark magic if not The Boy Who Lived? Harry hadn’t precisely caved the face of this emotional blackmail, but he gave in just a little, promising to rethink his resignation on the condition that he would be left alone for at least three months. He wasn't going to change his mind, but he needed a little peace from their demands.
Harry knew the Ministry. He knew that as long as he remained in England, he’d be at their mercy and it would be near-impossible to refuse their requests for help. No matter how tired, how worn out and worn down he was, he be back and leading the fight.
But these were all lies he told himself so he didn’t have to face the truth. The exhaustion, the broken marriage, the lost friendships, just excuses to avoid dealing with what he really wanted, what he could never have. He could have stayed in England and told the Ministry to shove it. Harry could have taken up a post at Hogwarts and done what he really loved – teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. But if he did, it would have meant seeing him every day. Sharing meals at High Table. Being friendly in the way that you have to be with colleagues – that meaningless distant way. Looking at him but not looking at him. Staring at a point just over his right shoulder because Merlin forbid he catch you staring at him and make some snarky remark that would set everyone laughing.
Him.
Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater and now Potions Master at Hogwarts. Him, who he lusted after (and maybe loved) just as much as he hated. It was all so fucked up and that made everything else he wanted impossible.
Laid up in St. Mungo’s after the battle and healing from his wounds, Harry had begun making plans. He had enough money and more than enough influence to set the wheels in motion. Muggle paperwork was essential if he wanted to leave England without the wizarding world being any the wiser. A copy of his birth certificate led to a shiny new British passport. Galleons were changed for muggle pounds and lots of those pounds meant he could travel in comfort. He had obtained a few credit cards – one silver and one black – and he’d made arrangements to have the bills paid on time.
Harry had spent too many years under the stairs, hearing Vernon and Petunia arguing about finances, not to understand how things worked in the mundane, muggle world.
Hermione, who was still Harry’s friend, despite Ron’s pigheaded insistence that she cut ties with him, told him he was nuts. To go to New York where he knew no one? Where he had no plans? And worse, to leave his magic behind? To blend in and pretend to be a muggle? That seemed to be the height of insanity. He had smiled and kissed her cheek, promising that no harm would come to him. After all, he was not only the Boy Who Lived. He was the Man Who Died, too.
New York was both a revelation and a disaster. Magic was everywhere, the streets were thick with it. But no one seemed to be aware of what was right before them. Whores of all sexes whispered to him in Parseltongue, half the pigeon population were animagi. The foul odor that rose out of the subway vents was not generated by a hundred years of continuously operated machinery, but the collective flatulence from a nest of basilisks that fed off the garbage so casually tossed onto the train tracks.
Harry had never felt anything quite like it. The closest experience was his very first trip to Diagon Alley. But New York was as different from that hidden part of London as chalk was from cheese. New York was a massive and modern city with magic pulsing from every street corner and subway vent. A city with millions of people moving about, people freighted with magic they had no clue they had.
Harry had been in New York for a week when disaster struck. Bored with his own company, he’d left his hotel without any particular destination in mind, thinking about heading to Central Park for no other reason than to check out the rumors that there were merpeople in the lake. It was a pleasant jaunt, heading up the length of Manhattan with its wide sidewalks and inviting shops. And when it happened, he didn’t even realize it. Maybe it was his own fault. Despite years of trauma and drama, decades of fighting for his survival, he’d lived a sheltered life – rarely venturing out into the wider, mundane world. At some point in his journey, his pocket was picked.
Harry hadn’t even realized it until he’d gotten to the park and went to purchase a bottle of cold water. He’d patted his hips, fumbled with his jacket and probably sounded like an idiot when he tried to figure out what had happened.
The man at the cart looked at him suspiciously but suspicion was replaced by a simple act of kindness as Harry pushed the bottle of water back and mumbled his apologies. “Ah, boy – you’re not from around here, are ye?”
Harry nodded.
“New York’s a better, kinder place dese days, but dere’s always someone looking to take ye.” The man pushed the bottle back at him. “Take it and pay it forward someday.”
That wasn’t an expression he’d heard before. “Pay it forward?”
“Yah, do somethin’ nice for someone just because.”
Harry nodded in understanding. The water was cold and had tasted a lot sweeter for the stranger’s kindness.
Instead of exploring the lake, Harry walked back to his hotel. The credit cards had to be cancelled and replaced and he was going to need more American money. And new ID. Being a muggle – or at least pretending to be one – was a pain in the arse. At least he hadn’t had to worry about his passport – that he’d stored in the hotel room safe.
Foot-weary like he hadn’t been since his days wandering the length and breadth of England, looking for the horcruxes, he stumbled into his hotel and uttered a short, vicious expletive. He’d put his room key in his wallet, and while alohomora would work on the electronic muggle locks, the incantation might fry their circuitry. And given just how much magic there was floating around the city, Harry had been concerned about the effects of a randomly uttered spell on the rest of the building.
So he’d stopped at the reception desk to ask for a replacement key card and hoping that he wouldn’t have to produce some kind of identification.
Just about to explain that he’d lost his wallet, the young woman at the deck smiled at him. “Mr. Potter, this just might be your lucky day. There’s a man waiting in the lounge, he says he’s found your wallet.
Harry had been sure he’d heard correctly. “My wallet? Someone’s come to return my wallet?”
“Yes. Sometimes people do nice things.” The woman pointed towards the lounge. “Hope he’s still waiting. Been here about an hour.”
He had gone into the lounge, not sure what he’d expected to find. What type of person returned a stranger’s wallet?
The lounge was dark, the blinds dropped against the late afternoon sun. There was only one person there and the deep shadows made it difficult to see what he looked like. The hat hadn’t helped either.
He must have made a sound, because the man looked up and Harry almost stopped breathing. Impossible, there are no full-blooded male veelas
Harry let out a sigh of relief when the man removed his hat and the illusion of perfect siren-like beauty was shattered by the shaft of sunlight cutting through the blinds. The hot light betrayed the subtle flaws of age – silver-gray in his late-day scruff, very fine lines at the edges of his eyes, in the corner of his mouth. Whoever – whatever – he was, he was one of the most beautiful men Harry had ever seen.
“You are Harry James Potter?”
Harry nodded, still a little stunned.
“Then I have something of yours.” He took a wallet – his wallet – out of an inner pocket in his suit jacket.
“Where did you find it? I didn’t even realize I dropped it. Not until I got to Central Park and wanted to buy a bottle of water. How did you find me?” Harry had babbled, wondering if he’d need to put a silencio charm on himself to shut up.
The man just held out the wallet and Harry took it, this time shoving it in his front pants pocket. “You didn’t lose it. Your pocket was picked when you’d stopped to admire the display at Schribner’s. And I found you because you put your room key in it – there’s only one Aurora Hotel in Manhattan.”
Harry vaguely remembered that he’d stopped in front of a bookstore for a moment. There had been a display of best-selling novels, including a saga about a boy wizard’s triumph over evil. He’d been tempted to buy it and send it to Hermione as a lark. “Are you a policeman? Did you arrest him and get it back?”
The man laughed, the sound strangely self-mocking. “No, not a policeman. Not a member of law enforcement at all. I just picked his pocket.”
Harry blinked, not sure he’d heard correctly. “Excuse me?”
“I know the pickpocket, he’s not a friend of mine.”
“So you thought you’d just take what wasn’t his and give it back to me?”
The man stood there, hands shoved in his pockets. “Truthfully, once upon a time, I might have kept the cash and ditched the rest.”
“But you decided to do a good deed today?”
“More like I’d remembered that there were people who’d be disappointed in me if didn’t return it. That maybe I’d be disappointed in myself, too.” The man was nothing if not enigmatic.
“I’m not really following.” Harry hadn’t felt quite this at sea since he’d first boarded the Hogwarts Express. “But maybe I can buy you a drink and you can explain.” What the hell was he doing?
His blue eyes lit up, as bright as the sunlight still streaming between the blinds. “Sure.”
Harry gestured towards the bar. “I don’t know your name.”
The man had laughed, and again, Harry wasn’t quite sure what was so funny. “Neal. My name’s Neal Caffrey.”
Neal kept fussing with his clothes.
“Why are you so nervous?” Harry was stretched out on the bed, dressed except for his shoes.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s not like we’re meeting your parents, right?”
“God, no. Peter and Elizabeth are not my parents.” Thank god.
“Then you have nothing to worry about.”
Neal sighed. There were times – like now – when Harry was the wisest, most level-headed man he’d ever met. Nothing seemed to faze him. And there were other times, when he seemed far too world-weary and cynical for someone only in his mid-thirties. “You’re right. There’s no reason to be nervous. I’m just introducing you to my best friends.” He tried to convince himself that this was all that it was. It was just that he’d been dating – okay fucking – Harry for two months, and until this past Wednesday, he hadn’t even mentioned him to Peter.
“Is it because I’m a guy?” Harry got off the bed and stood next to him. “Or because I’m short?”
Neal burst out laughing. “Maybe.” The humor dispelled the vague anxiety that had been dogging him all day. “Let’s go. The car will be here soon.”
Harry found his shoes, Neal picked up the wine bottles and cake box and they went downstairs. June was out of town, and frankly he was relieved. His friend and landlady had a very odd reaction to Harry. Every time she saw Harry, she stared at him. It seemed, to Neal, like she wanted to say something, but was afraid to. Or that she knew him. Harry, for his part, ignored June’s behavior and was as pleasant and distantly friendly to her as he was to anyone. Neal just told himself that Harry was entitled to his secrets.
He’d made it clear, up front, that he was on leave from a dangerous job. All he’d say about it was that it had to do with law enforcement and he couldn’t talk about it. Neal drew his own conclusions, figuring Harry was in the intelligence business or worked undercover. It didn’t help that Harry was some kind of cop, which was a fatal weakness for him. Mozzie would undoubtedly accuse him of Stockholm Syndrome or something more crude and cutting, except that Mozzie wasn’t in New York at the moment.
Which was for the best.
For his own part, Neal hadn’t kept his past a secret. In fact, he’d pretty much spilled everything to Harry over a bottle of single malt the day he’d returned his wallet. He couldn’t say what propelled him to do that. Maybe it was the world-weariness in those green eyes; they were far too old for such a young man that made the idea of secrets irrelevant. Besides, Harry was a stranger and that made it way too easy to tell him about all the disasters that made up his life.
He hadn’t judged or seemed shocked when Neal told him about his life as a con artist and a thief. All he’d wanted to know was if he’d ever really hurt anyone.
“Not intentionally – except for the time I shot a former lover in the leg to keep him from murdering my best friend. Peter.” At least Neal some sense of discretion and didn’t tell Harry about his complicity in Elizabeth’s kidnapping, or how he’d disappointed Peter so many times he’d lost count. He hadn’t figured that “hurt” meant “emotional pain.”
A feeling of impending disaster creeped into the car and it was so thick that by the time they’d crossed the Manhattan Bridge, Neal was nauseous from it.
“You all right?” Harry squeezed his thigh.
Neal took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“You want to cancel? I’m sure your friends will understand if you tell them you’re not feeling well.”
“Nah.” Neal shook his head. “Peter and El are expecting us and if I cancelled now, they’ll really want to know why and ‘panic attack’ isn’t an excuse I’d ever want to give them.” He didn’t tell Harry that he never lied to Peter, except when Elizabeth asked him too. That was too difficult to explain.
Harry’s eyes glowed sympathetically behind his glasses. “I’ve been there – with the panic. I know just how you feel.”
Neal wanted to ask for details, but the car turned onto DeKalb and there was no time. He just leaned over and brushed his lips against Harry’s, enjoying the taste of spearmint and coffee. “We’ll be fine. Peter and El will like you, and you’ll like them.”
“Your friends sound wonderful.”
Neal stifled a sigh. He knew he’d talked way too much about Peter and El, and probably more about Peter than anyone. But how could he not, when Peter was so central to the life he was trying to make for himself?
The car pulled up in front of Peter and Elizabeth’s, and it was definitely too late to turn back. He bounded up the steps like he’d done a thousand times before and rang the bell. He usually didn’t stand on ceremony, but with Harry, it would be kind of strange to use his lock picks to let himself it.
Neal pasted his brightest smile on his lips and waited for Peter or Elizabeth to answer the door.
Peter stared at Neal’s date. At Harry Potter. At Harry-Who-Saved-The-World-Potter.
“Peter?” Neal’s tone suddenly had an edge to it, hard and unpleasant. And thank god, because that broke the spell.
“Sorry.” He held out his hand and said with forced cheer, “Pleasure to meet you, Harry.”
Harry, for his part, didn’t seem the least bit fazed. “Pleasure to meet you, too. Neal’s told me a lot about you.”
Peter could hear himself making some stupid joke about not being there to defend himself and they laughed, but it all sounded wrong, though. How in the world did Neal Caffrey hook up with Harry Potter?
“Are we going to stand in your foyer all night, or can we go into the living room?” There was still an edge to Neal’s voice, and it was getting sharper with every word.
Peter apologized again. “Come in, relax. Do you want a drink or something?”
Harry look at Neal, who shrugged. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”
“Neal?”
“A glass of wine, provided it doesn’t come out of a screw-top bottle. Or a box.”
Peter tried for a chuckle, except it sounded like he was coughing up a hairball. “I think I can manage that.” He pulled out a bottle at random from the wine rack; a Pinot Noir that El picked up a few months ago. He showed it to Neal, who nodded his approval a little tersely.
He poured the wine and handed Harry a glass first, and the one to Neal. He didn’t pour one for himself. Drinking anything alcoholic right now would be a bad idea.
The awkwardness was painful and he could feel Neal’s disappointment and anger like an impending storm. He knew what Neal was thinking, that he was uncomfortable with Harry because Harry was a man. If only he knew the truth.
At least Harry Potter (and Peter had a hard time thinking of him as simply Harry), who had probably spent the better part of the last sixteen years ignoring the stares of the curious, didn’t seem at all bothered by his behavior.
Peter wished that El would hurry up and help him get his bearings. Then he remembered and wished that he had a way to warn her.
“So – how’s the wine?” It seemed the least innocuous thing he could say.
“It’s fine. You’re not having any?”
“Maybe in a bit, when El joins us.”
The three of them moved around the room, and it seemed as if they were unwilling actors in the third act of some performance right out of the theater of the absurd. It only got worse when Harry bent to pet Satchmo. Peter cringed as his beloved familiar drew back his teeth and growled.
Harry, realizing a little too late, just what Satch was, drew his hand back and apologized.
Neal stared at the dog and then at Peter. “What’s gotten into him?”
Peter shrugged, of course he really couldn’t tell Neal that familiars were very particular about letting other wizards or witches touch them. He – as a muggle – was perfectly safe, but Harry Potter was definitely not.
This was not going well at all.
Finally, they heard Elizabeth coming downstairs. He thought about waylaying her, telling her who “Harry,” give her a chance to prepare herself. But it was too late.
Neal went over to her at the bottom of the staircase, cutting off her view of the other occupants. Peter watched as he whispered something to El – probably something about his vile behavior – and his wife gave him a reassuring smile. Peter stayed frozen, leaning against the fireplace mantle. Harry had put his glass down and was looking at Elizabeth, a curious expression on his face.
Damn, he recognizes her.
Peter watched as Neal took El’s hand and brought her into the living room to make the introductions. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion.
Neal hadn’t gotten the chance to say his boyfriend’s name when Elizabeth blurted out, “Holy shit, you’re dating Harry Potter.”
Tags:
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: omc,
- character: peter burke,
- crossover: harry potter/white collar,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: coming out,
- genre: crossover,
- genre: friendship,
- genre: romance,
- genre: slash,
- pairing: neal/omc,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: birthday fic,
- type: crossover,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- white collar,
- year: 2014
