elrhiarhodan

Title: Marching to the Beat of a Heart Within Me
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Moz, mention of other canon characters, eventual Peter/Neal
Word Count: ~9200
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Beta Credit: theatregirl7299, pooh_collector, sinfulslasher
Summary: An A/U where Peter is the Chief Technology Officer for Winters Industries (otherwise known as MozCorp), Neal is Moz's stepson and is the company's best (and only) salesman. In a fit of inspiration (or madness), Moz makes Peter Neal's supervisor. Things don't really go well.

Author’s Note: Written for my dearest miri_thompson, who'd picked "What's Locked Behind the Glass" as her prompt for the ninth night of Fic-Can-Ukah. She asked me to write more of the "Unfireable Neal 'verse" – which I'd started in Performance Review a ficlet I'd written for her for my Trick or Treat meme.

Title from the song "The Happy Worker" from the soundtrack to the movie Toys

__________________



Peter scrubbed his face and almost wished he had an appointment for a colonoscopy. Without anesthesia. Scratch that, not almost.

Anything – dental surgery, taking his dog for a de-worming, getting audited by the IRS – was going to be better than what was coming up on his calendar in the next ten minutes.

Neal Caffrey’s annual performance review. Even though he reported to Peter, the company's Chief Technology Officer, Caffrey wasn't an engineer, although he could have been if he tried. He was the company's sole salesman and an agent of chaos that would either take the company into the stratosphere or drag it down into the Marianas Trench.

A knock on his door interrupted Peter’s increasingly morose train of thought. It was Neal, and the man didn’t look happy.

Peter gestured for Neal to take a seat. He didn’t say a word, but he noticed how Neal’s hands were shaking. Oh, Neal Caffrey wasn’t happy at all. He pulled Peter’s written review out of his jacket and tossed it on the desk. “What the hell is this? You gave me an overall “Meets Expectations” rating! That’s so unfair.”

“Neal – “

“No one’s ever rated me that low. I thought we worked well together. None of my other managers ever gave me less than an Outstanding. I’m going to complain to Moz about this.”

Neal kept babbling, getting more and more worked up, attacking every aspect of the review. But Peter was going to stand his ground. When Neal finally paused to take a breath, he jumped in.

“I don’t think complaining to Mr. Winters will do any good. He’s seen the review and he’s signed off on it.” Peter didn’t tell Neal that Moz "suggested" he change the “Needs Improvement” rating to at least an “Exceeds Expectations”. They’d finally compromised the “Meets Expectations”.

Neal didn’t say anything; his truculent expression spoke volumes, though.

Peter sighed. “We’re stuck with each other, Neal. And face it – you’ve worn out your welcome in every other department.”

Neal still didn’t respond. Peter wondered if the man knew that when he pouted, he looked like he was twelve.

They sat there, staring at each other. Neal broke first, his frown slowly transforming into one of his patented ‘I’m so wonderful’ smiles. “You’re a real hard ass, Peter Burke. I like that.” Neal picked a pen up and signed the review. “I’d say I’d promise to improve, but we both know that’s not going to happen. And besides, it’s not like you can fire me, right?”

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

Neal signed the performance review and gave Burke a smile he didn't feel at all.

He knew his work ethic had become marginal, he knew he was drawing a big salary without really deserving it. Okay – maybe he did deserve it, as the company's only dedicated salesman. But he treated his job like a hobby, one that he really didn't enjoy so much anymore.

And there were reasons, too. Reasons that had nothing to do with the job and everything to do with not being able to have what he really wanted. And he'd be damned if he admitted that to anyone – especially his so-called boss.

Peter Burke was a good man and despite his assertion that he hated managing people, he was actually quite good at it. He seemed to want Neal to be happy, to be fulfilled, to enjoy what he did and do it to the best of his abilities.

All worthy goals. And if Neal were any other employee, he'd aspire to them. But he wasn't. He was the boss' stepson – the only person, other than Moz, who couldn't be fired. Which made his motivation to achieve those goals almost non-existent.

In fact, it made him want to tear his hair out and run naked through the streets of Manhattan. It made him take risks – stupid ones, like he did last year. Hughes, who ran the company's finance department, had told his stepfather that he'd been abusing his corporate credit card account. He even called him a thief.

And that was kind of-sort of true. He hadn't gotten authorization for that trip to Hawaii, but he'd gotten a lead on a new client and wanted to make a good impression – so showing up at the Four Seasons and taking the presidential suite as the base of operations seemed like a good idea at the time. And so what if he didn't actually get clearance to take a dozen new units of the company's soon-to-be-launched new flagship product out of stock and use them as demos? He returned them in almost good-as-new condition.

Well, except for the two that broke.

And the one that he accidentally spilled half a bottle of Opus on.

But he'd closed the deal and that little trip off the reservation meant that everyone was getting double bonuses that year.

He even paid the company back for the extra week he'd spent in Maui, surfing.

But Hughes still thought he was a thief and hadn't hesitated to share that opinion with anyone who wanted to listen. Which meant his stepfather, Mozzie.

Neal loved Moz – father, brother, best friend.

When he'd been nine and angry at the world, Moz saved him. He didn't try to be a pal. He didn't try to be his dad either. He was just there. Even when things didn't work out so well between him and his mother, Moz was there for him. His mother never stopped wanting to get back with Neal's father, who'd walked out on them when Neal with three. When that didn't happen, she found someone who was the polar opposite. Someone steady, someone who could give her what she needed, instead of promising her the moon and the stars and running away when the demands of parenthood became too much.

By rights, Moz could have walked away from him when the man who'd contributed half of his DNA did come back into their lives, could have dumped him into foster care and never given him another thought. His mother hadn't even waited for the ink to dry on her "Dear Mozzie" letter before taking off with James the Jerkwad, leaving her son behind to pick up the pieces.

But Mozzie hadn't dumped him. Mozzie had stuck to him like glue. He'd made sure that Neal had a real home life, an education, that he didn't want for anything, not even love.

And maybe somewhere along the line, Neal had become a little spoiled. He couldn't seem to help but take a little advantage of Mozzie's too-generous soul. When he'd graduated Harvard, he said he wanted to see the world, so Moz offered to take a six-month sabbatical from the company and they'd travel together. But Neal had rubbed the back of his neck and given his stepfather a sheepish look, telling him he really wanted to travel alone. To spread his wings, he'd said.

Moz had just taken off his glasses, wiped them and put them back on. By the end of the day, Neal had been given an open-return first class ticket for London, a credit card with a five-figure limit, and a single instruction – stay out of trouble.

Neal did try to stay out of trouble, but trouble seemed to find him almost as soon as he'd gotten off the airplane. A week after he'd arrived in Europe, Neal started breaking into little-known museums in smaller, less visited cities, replacing masterpieces with his own copies, then returning the original to the local Interpol office. For six months he chased the dragon. The high from that first theft was a pure rush and Neal wanted to experience it again and again.

He kept watching the news, taking too much delight in the reports of the mysterious art thief who was taunting local authorities all across Europe. He might have continued indefinitely, making a career of sorts out of it, except that he came back from his last heist to find Mozzie in his hotel room. His stepfather had a glass of Neal's best Barolo in one hand, a pair of handcuffs in the other, and a terribly disappointed expression in his eyes.

Neal tried to bluff his way out of whatever hell was about to rain down on him. "Hey Moz. What brings you all the way to Troyes?" He licked his lips, pretending that there wasn't a Matisse rolled up and hidden under his jacket. "Is there a conference or a trade show in town?"

"Neal, stop the bullshitting." Moz was rarely this blunt.

He donned a broad grin. "I don't know what you mean."

Moz tossed the handcuffs on the floor in front of him. "You've got two choices, Neal. You can come back to America with me or you can rot in some horrible French jail for the next four years. Or more."

Neal opened his mouth but Moz held up a hand, silencing him. "I know what you've been doing. I can even understand why – but it stops right now."

And it had. The Matisse he'd taken from the Museum of Modern Art in Troyes was returned anonymously, like all of the other artwork he'd taken. On the flight back to New York – via private plane – Moz didn't say a word to him. At first, Neal talked about all the places he'd been, the people he'd met, but Moz didn't once look up from his paperwork.

Neal felt like shit. His stepfather's disappointment was like another passenger on the jet – one who hadn't bathed in months.

For six hours, Moz said nothing. It wasn't until the captain announced their imminent arrival at Teterboro that he spoke.

"This is the first and the last time I'm riding to the rescue. I don't know what possessed you to do what you did, but it's over. Come Monday morning, you'll be working for me."

Neal sat up, visions of a corner office, an admin with a pretty ass and a nice package to fetch coffee for him, taking meetings and bossing people around, danced in his head.

Moz was quick to burst that fantasy. "And by working for me, I mean that I'll be signing your paycheck. You're starting at the bottom – in the warehouse."

Neal was appalled. "The Cave? Really?"

"Yes, The Cave. You'll be sweeping the floors until I decide that you can be trusted to do inventory entry. No one will care that you're a Harvard grad."

And that was that. Neal spent a year sweeping floors and unloading freight. No one cared that he was the boss' stepson. Or maybe no one knew. He didn't complain, though. Despite his shenanigans in Europe, Neal had never believed he was entitled to anything of Mozzie's. At any point after his mother had left, Moz could have cut him off. But he didn't, not then and not now. He might have made minimum wage, but he lived in a penthouse apartment in a Riverside Drive mansion. He wanted for nothing.

On Neal's twenty-second birthday, Moz gave him a choice: Graduate school or a promotion to stock clerk. Neal considered the options. "I think I'll take the promotion. I've already started an MBA program at Columbia."

Moz grinned, his eyes glowing behind his thick glasses. "Good choice."

It went on like that for a decade. Annual promotions that were earned because of Neal's hard work, dedication, attention to detail. Until he reached a plateau and got bored.

By that time, Winters Industries was technically no longer a "small business" but Mozzie had no desire to take the company public or sell out to a big firm. He liked what he had built and planned on keeping it. He had no intention of retiring to some private island and letting the next generation - that was to say, Neal - take over.

Not that Neal wanted to. The thought of replacing Moz was repugnant, but he'd worked in every department he was qualified for and it seemed like there were no new worlds to conquer. He probably should have left Winters Industries, struck out on his own, but the one time he'd mentioned it, Moz looked like he'd been shot in the heart, so Neal never brought it up again.

But he was still bored, and when Neal was bored, he got into trouble. Not only was there the "Maui Incident," as Moz had taken to calling it, there was the time Neal decided it would be a good idea to BASE jump off of the balcony outside of his stepfather's forty-ninth floor office. He made it safely to the ground before anyone inside knew what he'd done, but there were a dozen people on the ground who whipped out their cell phones and recorded his landing. The NYPD came calling and Neal was arrested.

He got away without any jail time, but the City was still demanding its pound of flesh. Moz made him pay the fine out of his own pocket, not that the money mattered, but the disappointed look in the man's eyes cut Neal to the quick. He knew he was fucking up, but he couldn't seem to help himself.

At dinner that night, Moz laid down the law. "What am I going to do with you, Neal?"

Neal shrugged, feeling more like sixteen years old than thirty-six. "I promise it won't happen again."

Moz peered at him over his wine glass. "I know that, but you'll just find something else to do."

"I'm bored." Neal hadn't intended to blurt that out.

"I gathered that." Moz refilled his glass. "What do you want to do? Go back to school?"

Neal laughed. "What for? I have three masters degrees." And I'm not using a single one of them.

"Three?" Moz seemed surprised.

"Yeah – the MBA from Columbia, a masters in Renaissance intellectual history from Harvard, and another one in network engineering from the University of Phoenix."

His stepfather frowned. "An engineering degree? From the University of Phoenix?"

"It was online. Don't know if it's any good, but it seemed like something to do."

"You are bored. And I'm sorry."

"Sorry, what for?"

"For not paying attention."

Neal frowned. "Moz, I'm well on my way to middle age. I'm not a child who needs to be entertained." At that, Neal flushed. That was such an untrue statement, he was surprised his nose didn't grow the length of the room.

Moz put his glass down and Neal realized he had made a decision. The expression on his face was uncomfortably familiar – it was the same look Moz had worn fourteen years ago when he'd dragged him out of the cesspit of crime and daredevilry that he'd fallen into.

"Starting tomorrow, you're reporting to Peter Burke."

Neal was well-familiar with that name. Burke was the Chief Technology Officer of Winters Industries – the big brain that Moz had brought on about four years ago. He was the man who was responsible for most of the company's breakthrough products these days, the ones that Neal had taken such delight in selling.

But Neal had rarely crossed paths with the man, who was something of a recluse – working in his lab, paling around with the other big brains, Moz included. He'd first met Burke at the company Christmas party. He'd shown up with a gorgeous brunette on his arm, and Neal thought she was his wife. But someone from the engineering department was quick to enlighten him. The brunette – Elizabeth – wasn't his wife, but his best friend. It seemed that Burke was gay.

Which earned him a second, a third, and then a fourth look. Beneath the ugly, ill-fitting suit – which might have been Brooks Brothers, and probably not cheap, but only looked that way because of the lack of tailoring – Burke had a good body. When he and his gal-pal had gone onto the dance floor, Neal was really able to appreciate that body. Long, endlessly long legs. A tight ass. Wide shoulders, arms like cannons. A chest that was meant to rest your head on.

And maybe the sweetest smile he'd ever seen on a grown man.

Neal fell into his first serious crush since he had laid eyes on Brad the Bombshell in eleventh grade. And Peter Burke was as off-limits now as the high school quarterback had been back then.

Moz would kill him if he did anything to fuck up or fuck over Peter Burke. And that would be inevitable. Neal had a terrible track record with relationships and his last breakup had been so messy, so ugly and acrimonious, that there were still clubs in Manhattan where he dared not show his face.

So he'd kept his distance, but he watched Burke and he listened to the gossip and if he jerked off at night to the fantasy of the man, naked (he had one spectacularly memorable encounter at the office gym, where he'd seen Burke working the free weights in a sleeveless shirt that clung to his sweaty torso like a jealous lover), who would know?

But at that moment, his stepfather was determined to mess everything up. To make his life, to make Peter Burke's life, miserable. "Why?"

Moz sighed. "You're, well, not easy to manage."

"I know – and I promise I'll do better. But isn't there anyone else I can report to?"

Moz just shook his head. "Frankly, no. Last year, you reported to Hughes in Finance, and he threatened to quit after six weeks. So I took you back. You can't work for Diana, either – she promised to kneecap me if that happened. You can't report to anyone junior and Peter's the only other member of executive management I'd trust to handle you."

"What about Clinton, in HR?"

Moz's eyebrows nearly reached the back of his neck at that suggestion. "That's a recipe for disaster, if there ever was one. And I believe you and Clinton dated for a while."

Neal grimaced. He and Clinton had gone out a few times – but Clinton was more comfortable with women and Neal didn't like the feeling that he was lacking … something. They'd parted amicably and remained "office friends".

Moz explained his thinking, which was a rarity these days. "You have an engineering degree. Peter's an engineer. You'll speak the same language."

"I speak eight languages fluently, Moz, but not engineering. The degree was a way to pass the time. It's worthless."

Moz peered at him over his glasses. "If it's worthless, why mention it?"

"Dunno." With that one word, Neal felt like he was sixteen again and explaining why he wanted a lock on his bedroom door. "Why can't I just report to you?"

"Because I'm your stepfather."

"Since when has nepotism mattered to you?"

Moz grimaced. "Frankly, Neal – I've run out of ways to challenge you. And you're a headache I don't need or want at this time."

That hurt, so Neal retorted, "I could always leave Winters Industries. I don't want to make your life any more difficult than I already have."

Moz's refusal was swift and emphatic. "No. You work for me or you don't work at all. We've gone over this, Neal. Unless you want to pursue an academic career."

"I wouldn't work for a competitor."

"Everyone's a competitor, Neal." Moz actually banged his fist on the table. "I won't have it, understand?"

Neal sighed. As his stepfather grew older, his paranoia became more pronounced.

"Besides, you'll like working for Peter. I think you'll find you have a lot in common."

Like how we both love cock? Neal kept that thought to himself.

The day that Moz formally introduced him to Peter as his new manager, Neal didn't bother with making a good first impression. Nor did Moz – he simply walked into Burke's office without even the courtesy of knocking, announced that Neal was reporting to him and left.

Neal was certain that Burke must have heard all about him. From Diana and Hughes. Probably Clinton, too, although Neal hoped that Clinton was a little more discreet. And then there was that asswad, Garrett Fowler, Moz's so-called Director of Operations, who wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire, but had relished telling the senior staff about each and every one of Neal's "indiscretions".

But Burke didn't seem to have any preconceived notions about him. Nor did he comment on Neal's vaguely sulky attitude. He just gestured for him to take a seat. "Give me a sec, I just need to finish this."

Neal waited as Burke tapped away at his keyboard, then toyed with some highly expensive piece of technology on his desk, turned back to his keyboard, then made a few handwritten notes. After about ten minutes, he looked up and smiled.

Once again, Neal was struck by the sweetness of that expression.

"Sorry about that."

"No need to apologize." Neal felt like he was the one who should be sorry. "You have work to do, Moz decided to just dump me on you."

Burke shrugged. "I wouldn't say 'dumped' – he told me about this change the other day. We talked at length."

"Ah."

"I will tell you up front – I'm a terrible manager. I'm not really a people-person."

Neal chuckled. "You're an engineer – I think those two qualities are mutually exclusive."

Burke kept smiling. "Maybe." He looked through some papers on his desk, which was almost obsessively neat, before pulling out the page he was looking for. "Your job description." He handed it to Neal. "Is this accurate?"

Neal glanced over it. The title, Vice President of Business Development and Marketing, was correct. The rest – which Clinton had written up a few years back when Moz decided he wanted a more 'formal' structure to the business – was mostly bullshit. "It's current."

"But not accurate?" Burke asked.

"I guess it is." Neal handed the page back. The last thing he wanted was to start retooling this.

"You've reported to almost every department in the company."

"Yeah. Moz keeps moving me around. The only department I haven't worked in is Security."

"I thought you worked for Diana once."

"For three days. Diana Berrigan and I are not really compatible."

"Ah, okay."

This meeting became more and more awkward. Burke put on a pair of reading glasses and started to fiddle with the sidepiece. Neal felt himself getting hard. He had to get out of Burke's office before he embarrassed himself.

That meeting set the tone for his relationship with Peter Burke. He did his best to spend as little time as possible with the man, and never alone. At the end of Neal's first year as Burke's employee, Moz took all the executives away for a team building exercise. Neal was given a choice – team with Peter, Diana and Clinton, or with Moz, Fowler, and Hughes.

And then it really wasn't a choice. Fowler, the idiot, said that it wouldn't be fair for Neal and Moz to be on the same team, so Moz made an executive decision and put him on Burke's team.

Diana gave him the stink-eye, Clinton awkwardly looked around the room like he'd want to switch teams, but Burke – or Peter, as he insisted Neal call him – was warm and welcoming. Which made Neal feel like ten kinds of shit when he did everything he could to tank them.

The trip back to Manhattan was awkward. Fowler kept crowing on about "his victory" until Hughes told him to shut the fuck up. Diana and Clinton made it a point to sit as far away from him as possible. And Peter just kept looking at him like he was an equation that went wrong somewhere.

The week after that debacle, Peter gave him his performance review. Neal read it, noted the "Exceeds Expectations" rating, spent twenty minutes staring at a point over Peter's shoulder and signed the document. As he got up, Peter held out his hand, but Neal just left.

Everything sort of slid downhill after that. Neal did his job, but he didn't really participate. He showed up when he had to, closed the deals he needed to, and went home. He painted, recreating masterpiece after masterpiece, fantasizing about heists he'd commit – no longer restricting himself to small, out of the way museums. No, these were spectacular crimes – the Metropolitan, the Hermitage, the Prado, the Louvre. He'd substitute his own works for the Great Masters and no one would be the wiser. At least until they looked at them. Neal knew that his artistic talents were mediocre. He was a decent technician, a peerless replicator, but his paintings lacked soul.

Late at night, when the stink of linseed oil and expensive wine filled his nostrils and he escaped to his balcony, Neal would admit – to the moon and the scant handful of stars brave enough to compete with the city lights – that he wasn't just bored. He was lonely and wished he could share his life with someone – even if that someone didn’t know he existed.

During the day, Neal could pretend that his life was perfect, but at night, the truth came out and the truth was, his life sucked.

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My life sucks. Peter lifted the glass of Jameson's to his lips and swallowed it with little regard for the quality of the scotch. He signaled the bartender for another.

Six weeks ago, his best friend, confidant and keeper of his sanity, Elizabeth, had just accepted a dream job in Washington – at the National Gallery, of all places. They still talked most nights, but it wasn't the same. They couldn't just meet up in some quiet, out of the way nightspot and share the day's triumphs and disasters.

And frankly, Peter was hesitant to dump his problems on her shoulders. Elizabeth was starting a new life – her dream career. She didn't need to carry the weight of his failures, too.

The bartender, Avery, pushed the fresh glass of whiskey over to him and said, "You look like you could use a friend."

Peter smiled. That was the opening line of bartenders around the world. Except that this particular bartender had been using it on him for the best part of three years – as a pickup line. Sidney's was one of the few remaining old-school gay bars in New York, a place where men could meet and talk and maybe hook up without an accompanying soundtrack, complete with backbeat and laser light show. Peter liked it because he could think here. He could be alone without being alone.

"You sure you don't want to talk about it?"

Peter gave the guy a quick grin – or maybe a grimace. "Nah, it's all right."

"Well, I'm here if you want to talk." When Peter didn't answer, Avery moved down to the next customer.

Peter took his time with this glass of scotch. No point in getting drunk. Although Neal Caffrey could turn even a Mormon into an alcoholic.

He wasn't sure why he was letting the guy get to him like this. Two years ago, when Moz had asked him to take Neal on, he'd warned him. His stepson was brilliant, but he had "issues".

"What kind of issues?" Peter had asked.

Moz had just sighed and wiped his glasses. "Trust, mostly. His birth father walked out when he was three. His mother worked for me back then, and I guess I just felt sorry for her. She needed help and I was willing to give it. Mostly, I think I married her to make sure that Neal had some stability in his life."

Peter hadn't known this. "That was good of you."

Moz had brushed off the compliment. "Fat lot of good that did. Neal's father turned up when Neal was ten. Mary – Neal's mother – ran off with him, left Neal behind, and never came back. I've tried to be a good parent, and I think I've succeeded for the most part, but there's a hole in Neal I can't fill. I think he's always worrying that the rug's about to be pulled out from under him. With some people, they might hunker down, try to build a fortress. Not my stepson. No, Neal keeps pushing at the walls, trying to break them down, trying to prove that he's not really deserving of my trust."

Peter had to ask, "And is he?"

Moz answer had been very simple. "I would trust him with my life."

During the first year after Moz handed him the task of managing Neal, they'd talked about his progress. Peter wanted to bring the man deeper into the engineering side of the house – he saw a lot of potential there, but Moz refused.

"Neal's the best salesman the company has."

Peter just raised an eyebrow at that. "He's the only salesman the company has. You need to put some backup into place. He's getting restless."

"Oh, I know that. But Neal's not going anywhere. A light hand will work best with him."

Peter had heard the stories about Moz's light hand, Hughes' attempt to lay down the law, the three days Neal had reported to Diana. Fowler was the only senior executive who hadn't had the pleasure of supervising Neal Caffrey. Peter figured that there were some things you just didn't inflict on someone you loved.

Now, thinking back on that conversation, Peter realized that he should have bolted. No job was worth this amount of heartache.

And it didn't help that Neal Caffrey was just the type of man to press all of his buttons. Hard.

In fact, that first holiday party, when he'd brought El as his guest, she had teased him unmercifully about how he couldn't keep his eyes off the man.



For a year, El asked him about Neal and each time he shot her down with a glare. But she was irrepressible. At least until Peter told her about the change in reporting structure.



El had been right. Even if she was right about Caffrey's orientation, there was no way he'd be able to approach him now.

But he could fantasize. And he had, for the best part of a year. He'd seen Neal in the company gym, running on the treadmill, working with the Nautilus machines. He was built like a young god – a Greek statue – smooth and flawless and very much Peter's personal ideal. But the fantasies stopped after the team building event that Moz had thought would be such a good idea.

Something had happened between them, and even a year later, Peter wasn't sure what it was. Like the engineer that he was, Peter had analyzed that day moment by moment and he still couldn't figure out what had happened, where things had gone wrong.

Neal Caffrey had behaved like a spoiled brat, like he was trying to show everyone just how terrible a person he really was. Or maybe he was trying to show Peter.

And it had worked. After that, Peter had mentally washed his hands of Neal and did his best to separate his feelings from his responsibilities, but couldn't shake the feeling that he'd failed miserably. They were civil to each other at work, but the civility seemed to mask something cold and dark and messy. He hadn't ever told Elizabeth about it – she'd probably say it was just unresolved sexual tension.

Today had been maybe the worst day of his professional life. He'd spent the best part of a week working on Neal's annual review. He was trying to be fair, but he couldn't stop the anger that had been building throughout the year from leeching into his comments. Like the critical work that didn’t get finished because Neal had an “unbreakable” appointment with his tailor, or the voicemail he'd left for the head buyer of their biggest client, where he almost pornographically praised her taste in wine, art and couture underwear. Except that Neal had accidentally dialed that company’s Human Resources VP. Moz had had to do a lot of feather-smoothing to fix that relationship.

In a fit of frustration, he'd asked Diana to read through what he had written, and her reply had been short and to the point – he was going too easy on Neal.

And in a way, he was. Peter's comments might have been pointed, might have focused too much on the negative aspects of Neal's performance during the year, but the ratings he'd given were too high. In a fit of aggravation, he'd changed everything to what he really felt – which was "Needs Improvement" almost completely across the board – and then had given it to Moz to sign off on.

Moz had asked him to lighten up a little – which had surprised Peter. His boss had made it clear that he was to manage Neal as he saw fit. But Peter guessed that that went only so far.

Neal had protested the rating for the entire thirty minutes allotted to the face-to-face review session. Peter had listened with half an ear, but he couldn't help but note that Neal didn't argue about the actual content of the review.

And in the end, it really didn't matter. As Neal pointed out, it wasn't as if he could fire him.

"Another?" The bartender interrupted his musings.

Peter pushed the glass across the bar. "Sure." It wasn't like he had anything better to do on a Friday night than get shit-faced.

He couldn't remember the last time he had a date, or even a hookup. At forty-seven, he was well past the age when random fucks in a toilet stall held any appeal. El had pushed him to sign up with OKCupid, but he hadn't. She'd even downloaded Grindr onto his phone, but he'd never set up a profile. He liked the life he had. Most of the time, it worked for him. So what if he was the only person who had touched his dick in the last three months? That didn't make him a freak, did it?

The bartender set the third glass of scotch in front of him without a word. Peter had to laugh as he rushed over to greet a new customer. The barroom was dimly lit – just enough light to tell if your glass was empty and maybe to check out the guy on the next barstool. Peter couldn't see the face of the guy who'd taken a seat at the far end of the bar. But he could tell what he looked like – tall, slim, good suit. When he took his hat off, his dark hair shone like a raven's wing in the half-light – just his type. Peter smiled into his drink and thought if the stranger had blue eyes, he'd be in heaven.

Then the stranger opened his mouth and Peter went straight to hell. The man at the end of the bar was none other than Neal Caffrey, his bête noire.

The acoustics at the bar were as good as the lighting was bad. It was possible to hear a hushed conversation from six feet away. Peter was about to toss a fifty on the bar to cover his tab when Neal started talking.

"Avery – Chivas, neat."

"Hey, Neal – what brings you all the way downtown?"

Peter didn't even have to strain to hear the answer.

"Just a fucking awful day in a fucking awful year. Had dinner with my stepdad and couldn't bear the thought of going home."

"And how is the little guy?"

"Same as always. He loves me, but I'm a constant disappointment."

Peter had to wonder how Avery the Bartender knew Moz.

"Aw, come on. You know that's not true. He's always been so proud of you. I remember at our graduation, he was – like the biggest goofball – telling everyone that his kid had graduated summa cum laude from Harvard."

"Those days are long gone, Avery. He's not so proud of me anymore. And frankly, I've stopped trying."

Another patron stepped up to the bar, breaking the flow of sound, and Peter couldn't hear the rest of the conversation. If he was a smart man, he'd leave now, before Neal saw him. But he couldn't leave.

The conversation was put on hold while Avery served the man who'd come between Peter and Neal. The guy took his beer and went back to his table, and Avery went back to Neal. Peter turned so that if Neal casually glanced over, he wouldn't see his profile. But he could still hear the two men.

"You can't mean that – you've always said you love working at MozCorp."

Peter bit his lip to stifle a laugh, because he'd often called Winters Industries "MozCorp" when talking to El. He should have figured that other people would pick up on that name.

"I have and I do. I guess. But things are difficult. You ever see a racehorse at the starting gate?"

Avery didn't reply, so Peter figured he must have nodded, because Neal continued. "How it's so eager to go-go-go? That's what I used to feel like. Not anymore."

"Why? Is it the new boss?"

Peter held his breath and damned himself for not leaving when he could.

"He's not so new – been working for him for two years now."

"That's a record for you, right?"

"Yeah. Except for the early days, when I was sweeping floors and checking stock into the warehouse."

"So, is it your boss?"

"Yes, and no."

"Well, that makes sense." Avery's sarcasm was a little thick. "I thought you said he was hot."

Peter's first thought was, Yeah, El was right. His second thought was, Neal thinks I’m hot?, which was quickly followed by I really need to leave now. But he didn't act upon that.

"He is hot. And he's smart and he's funny. He's dedicated and he really seems to care."

"So what's the problem?"

"I think I've fallen in love with him."

One of the bar's regular patrons and an occasional hook-up chose that moment to blow his cover. Tall, blond and a little vapid (but with a mouth that could suck-start a leaf blower), David Siegel announced his presence to the world in a booming voice, "Peter Burke, how the fuck are you?"

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

These days, Neal didn't normally find himself in the downtown bar scene. It smacked of desperation. But Sidney's was different, it was the antithesis of a hip club populated by hot young things wanting to see and be seen. And there was the added benefit of Avery, the bar's Harvard-educated mixologist and a former college roommate. Although Avery would soon as comp you a drink as call himself a "mixologist" – which was never. He was a bartender, plain and simple. Nothing fancy was served at Sidney's – beer on tap, good scotch, decent vodka and passable gin.

Avery liked to listen and he was a hell of a lot more insightful than Neal's last therapist. So every few months, when things got too difficult to keep buried, Neal went to Sidney's and poured his heart out.

Tonight was no exception. Peter had given him a shellacking in his performance review. Neal knew that everything Peter had written was true and that the ratings he'd been given were justified, and maybe even a little higher than he deserved. Neal had gone into the meeting hot, protesting – but it was all show. If he hadn't, he might have started to cry.

And wouldn't that be humiliating?

It was bad enough that Peter was his boss, but somewhere along the line, he'd fallen in love with the man. Fallen hard. It wasn’t a crush anymore, but something genuine, something deep and something so dangerously wrong that Neal constantly felt like he was running out of options.

It had hit him during that damn team building exercise, watching as Peter carefully took control, seeking consensus, making sure that everyone was working on something they were good at, something that they genuinely enjoyed. Mid-morning, when Neal was coming up with a sales plan for whatever product they were creating, Peter came over and sat with him to discuss strategy. Neal felt warm and happy and he very nearly leaned over and planted a kiss on Peter’s lips.

Humiliating himself was not an option, so he spent the rest of the day working against his teammates. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care.

After that day, Neal did his best to avoid Peter, and when he couldn’t, he did his best to make Peter think of him as spoiled, silly and incompetent. He worked when he wanted – if just because Moz was depending on him – and pretended that nothing really mattered (and if Bohemian Rhapsody was a persistent ear worm, there was no one else inside his head to complain).

Talking to Avery should have been a relief, and for a few seconds, it actually was. Telling someone that he was in love felt good. But everything crashed two seconds later, when some drunken idiot approached the stranger at the other end of the bar and shouted, "Peter Burke, how the fuck are you?"

Neal looked over and yes, it was Peter – his Peter Burke. The man of his dreams and his nightmares. Peter looked, maybe the only word for it was, devastated. Neal sucked in his breath, remembering the bar's weird acoustics. The blond idiot who announced Peter's presence wasn't really shouting. His loud voice was simply carrying and amplified.

Like Neal's own voice probably had been when he'd been spilling out his heartache to Avery.

He picked up his hat and jammed it on his head, tossed a twenty on the bar and bolted for the door. He might even have escaped if it wasn't for the pair of twinks that were trying to get in at the same time.

And Peter Burke's deliciously long legs.

He fought his way out, but Peter grabbed his arm before he could run. "Stop. Neal – just stop."

"Let go of me." Neal tried to pull his arm free, but Peter's grip was too strong.

"Not until you promise not to run."

Neal wasn't making any such promises.

"If you run, I'll catch you. And you won't be happy when that happens."

Under the street lamps and the glow from the headlights of the approaching traffic, Neal could read Peter's expression. There was something dark and dangerous in his eyes. Neal tried not to shiver. He stopped resisting.

But Peter didn't let go. He tugged him and while Neal didn't drag his feet, he wasn't meekly following along. "Where are we going?" Neal wondered if Peter was going to drag him back to his place in Brooklyn.

"There's a decent hotel around the corner. We'll get a room and talk."

"And you know this because you've taken your hook-ups there?"

"Yeah. Exactly."

Neal sucked in his breath. He hadn't expected that answer.

"Don't worry, your virtue's safe with me."

"Oh, that I know." Neal couldn't keep the bitterness out of his tone.

Peter stopped and looked at him, but this time, his expression was soft and curious, and there was just the hint of that sweet smile in the curve of his lips. "Come on, we really do need to talk."

They turned the corner of Varick and Charlton Streets, and sure enough, midway up the block was a Sheraton Four Points. The clerk didn't smirk at them when Peter asked for a room. Neal supposed that in this neighborhood, there was nothing unusual about two men checking into a hotel without any luggage.

Peter said nothing until they got to their room, a generically modern one-bedroom suite, complete with minibar, seating area and a view of the lower Manhattan skyline. Neal stood in the middle of the space, hands in his pockets, wondering what he should – or could – say to make this situation any less humiliating.

But before he could speak, Peter said, "I heard what you told Avery."

"I figured. Look, it doesn't mean anything."

"Why not?"

He shrugged. "Really – come on. I have a bit of a boy crush on you, so what? I'll get over it."

Peter was still wearing that same sweet and curious expression. "You told Avery you were in love with your boss. With me. You didn't use the word 'crush', Neal."

Neal clenched his fists. "Trust an engineer to fixate on a single term."

"I didn't know you were gay."

"What?"

Peter shook his head and laughed. "I didn't. I had no clue." He paused and laughed again; this time the sound was self-deprecating. "Although my friend Elizabeth swore that you were. Maybe I didn't want to see."

Neal was truly confused. "Why not?"

Peter dropped a bombshell. "Because if you were, I don't think I would have been able to not do something, say something, cross the line."

Neal wasn't sure he heard right.

And Peter continued dropping those bombshells. "You're just my type. Smart, loyal, creative, funny. And beautiful."

Neal flushed. "I'm sorry."

"What the hell for?"

"Dunno." He started pacing the room, finally settling in front of the window. Clouds were building, turning the skyline a murky orange from the reflected lights.

"Neal, look at me."

He didn't and just kept staring out of the window.

"Neal, please."

Peter was standing behind him, too close. He couldn't move, though. Instead, he watched Peter's face as it reflected in the glass.

"If I was smart, I'd let you go and we'd pretend that this never happened."

Neal whispered, "Maybe we should."

"But you're making yourself miserable. And now that I understand why, I can't let you keep doing that."

"So, what do you recommend?" Neal felt like he was lost in the woods without even moonlight to guide his way.

"How about this?" Peter turned him around and Neal thought he'd melt as the other man's warm palm cupped his cheek. He was so tender, so gentle, and when he brushed his lips against Neal's, it was as if he was being kissed by a swan's wing.

Peter tasted like good scotch and his dreams. Like a man who knew what he wanted, but never took anything that wasn't freely given. Neal couldn't help but give Peter everything. He opened his mouth under Peter's and let all of the love and longing he'd tried to deny, to erase for so long, spill out.

Neal clutched at Peter's shoulders before threading his fingers through the rough silk of his hair. Whatever self-defeating notions he'd had about Peter kissing him out of pity were like leaves blown away in an autumn windstorm.

There was nothing less than pure desire, absolute honesty in this kiss. It shook Neal to the foundation of his soul. Peter wanted him.

Peter finally broke the kiss, but it wasn't so much a breaking as a momentary separation. He kissed him again, this time a little more dominant, but certainly not rough. Neal hummed his pleasure into Peter's mouth and Peter's hips bucked against him, further evidence of his desire hot and heavy against his groin.

Neal suddenly wanted skin – he wanted to touch Peter's body everywhere, he wanted to explore the reality of so many nights of fantasy. He pulled at Peter's jacket, trying to thrust his hand under his shirt. But Peter wouldn't let him. He stepped back and the cool air between them was like a slap.

Neal didn't know what to think – maybe he had misread the situation, although the massive bulge in the front of Peter's trousers belied that.

"Slow down." Peter's voice was warm, but his words were clearly a command. "Let's not move so quickly."

Neal felt himself flushing from embarrassment. "Sorry. I – "

"Nothing to be sorry about, but you're not some random hook-up. I didn't bring you here for that."

"But I want that." He sounded like a petulant brat.

Peter laughed. "I do, too. But not just yet. We can't do this while you're still my direct report."

"Does it really matter?" Neal didn't know why he even asked that.

"Of course it does. You might be Moz's stepson, you might be 'unfireable', but it's still wrong."

"So, what are you going to do?" At an intellectual level, Neal appreciated Peter's ethics. But intellectual appreciation did nothing for his blue balls. Then a terrible thought crossed his mind. "You're not going to quit?"

"Not as the first option, no. Despite one rather difficult employee I have been supervising, I like working at MozCorp." Peter smiled when he used Neal's nickname for the company.

Neal couldn't help but smile back, warmed to the depths of his soul. "Then what?"

"I tell Moz that you can't report to me anymore."

"And when he asks why?"

"I – no, we – tell him the truth."

"That we're what – involved?"

"That we're dating and it's serious."

"It is? We're serious?" How did this happen? How did he go from miserably longing for the one man he never thought he could have, to actually having him in the space of a single evening?"

"I would think so." Peter ducked his head, and Neal actually thought the man was blushing.

Neal couldn't help himself. "There's the old joke about lesbians and u-hauls and first dates …"

"Except we haven't had a first date yet."

"This doesn't count?" Neal gestured around the room.

"No – this doesn't."

"What if Moz doesn't agree to your request? Will you quit, then?" Neal hated the thought that he'd be responsible for Peter losing a job he loved so much.

"I don't think it will come to that, but I will if I have to."

"I could always leave." Saying those words felt extraordinarily freeing. Yes, he'd toyed with the idea before, but it had been more of a defense mechanism. A threat that he'd never follow through on.

"Moz would be very unhappy."

"Maybe – but I wouldn't go work for a competitor."

"What would you do?"

"Maybe something I really love."

"Which is?"

"Art."

"You're an artist?"

"Kind of. I'm a good copyist." And occasionally, a better forger. "But I really love art history. I think I'd like to go back to school and get my teaching credentials."

"You don't want to be another Wallace Stevens, then."

"Huh?" Neal was puzzled by Peter's non sequitur.

Peter elaborated, "Wallace Stevens was one of America's greatest poets. Worked almost his entire life as an executive for The Hartford Insurance Company. He even turned down a faculty position at Harvard because he didn't want to quit his job."

"Why am I not surprised you know that?"

"Oh, you'll find that I'm a fountain of useless information."

"Maybe not so useless. The comparison is apt, except that I'm nowhere near as talented as Stevens. I'm all technique, no originality."

"But that doesn't mean you can't pursue what you love."

Neal looked at Peter, who must have realized what he'd just said – his face had gotten all serious and tender again. He reached out and touched Peter's cheek, then his lips. Peter kissed his fingers and Neal shivered. "Yeah, no reason at all."

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

Moz always liked to say that life at Winters Industries was never dull.

Twenty minutes ago, Peter and Neal had come into his office. Peter told him in no uncertain terms that he was no longer able to supervise Neal in any capacity. Neal didn't say a word while Peter explained why, but he did blush.

When Peter finished, Neal handed him an envelope. "My letter of resignation, effective six months from today. You have that long to find a replacement. I suggest you have Clinton start working on a full staffing plan for a real business development, sales and marketing team. The company is too big for everything to be handled by one person.."

For formality's sake, Moz made his usual threats. "You're not going to work for anyone else."

"No – I'm going back to school. I've got a plan and I'm going to see it through."

"Good." Moz didn't have to ask what that plan was.

"That's it?" Neal seemed a little surprised at his lack of curiosity.

"That's it. And for the next six months, you'll work for me. And I'm going to work your ass off."

Neal didn't even have the grace to seem cowed. He looked at Peter and smiled. Peter looked at Neal and smiled.

"Get out – you're making me sick."

The two men left. As they shut the door behind them, Moz did a little dance. He couldn't be happier – except for the fact that it took those idiots nearly two years to get to this point. He just hoped that they wouldn't take that long to get married.

Moz was very much looking forward to being a grandfather.

FIN