Fic: Remain Faithful, part five, [White Collar]

Sep 18, 2012 17:50

Part 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 /



Sometime after eating enough Chinese to encourage both a letting out of a belt hole and renewed visits to the Bureau gym, Peter glances over to the couch from watching the baseball game and is entranced. Knees bent, sketchbook propped against them, Neal strokes a piece of charcoal over the paper. There's a smear of it on one cheekbone, dark as a bruise but innocent, and he needs a shave. He flicks a wave of hair out of his eyes absently, intent enough on his drawing he hasn't registered Peter's regard.

Peter watches him instead of the rest of the game, only half registering the announcers, his attention tunneling so that he hears the soft scrape of the charcoal over the paper, and the creaky springs in the couch when Neal shifts. An absent frown goes with the stretch of one leg, as if Neal has a cramp, but he never looks up.

He can't escape the comparison. How many evenings did he watch El sit on the couch - a different one - working at her laptop, while he pretended fascination with baseball?

It's easy to trace the elegant lines of Neal's body with his gaze, as easy as it was to look at Elizabeth. If he cups his palm to Neal's cheek, stubble will prickle his skin instead of El's velvet skin, but Neal might still turn his face into a caress the same way. Neal is bone and taut muscle, long lean lines, almost adolescently angular, where El is plush curves, matured into the strength of femininity; Peter appreciates the beauty of both. He wants to test himself against Neal's body the way he sank into Elizabeth's embraces. He wants to wrap himself around Neal until Neal gives way to him.

Oh, God damn it to hell, he wants Neal.

"Do I have something on my face?" Neal asks.

It startles Peter badly. Neal doesn't even look up, still working, and Peter hopes that means he hasn't seen any of what Peter's just been thinking reflected in his expression. He quickly schools his face into something less open. "You've got a smear."

"Oh. Yeah, I forget and get charcoal everywhere," Neal comments, still more focused on his sketch than Peter, amusement at himself lightening his face though. "Where?"

"Cheekbone. Your left."

Neal rubs his cheek but doesn't manage to get the smear. Peter's fingers tingle with the desire to smudge it away himself. He looks away and winces as the TV shows him his team committing an unforced error.

"Am I bugging you?" Neal asks. The sound of the charcoal stops.

"You're aren't even talking," Peter points out.

"Well, I am now."

He likes that wry humor. Something occurs to him and he turns back to Neal, asking without thinking, "Did you do this with Kate?"

Someone should kick him, Peter realizes immediately when Neal's eyes darken and his calm tightens into a polite mask. "Yeah, we did. She'd read a book or a magazine while I worked. She liked that we could just be in the same room and not need to talk."

Neal sets the charcoal aside and folds the sketchbook closed. He looks fine as he does it, but even Peter knows charcoal will smear like that without fixative. The blast of lust that hit him subsides into regret. Neal's mourning; reminding him of another facet of the life he lost falls into the category of unnecessary cruelty.

"Sorry," he offers.

"Not a problem," Neal replies with a small, strained smile. "Actually, do you mind if I get a shower now?"

"No, go ahead. The game's - " Peter glances at the TV again and sighs, " - over. I'll set up the couch. Unless you want the bed tonight? I can take the couch."

"Couch is fine. Better than Mo - than some. Anyway, it's too short for you. You'd be a pretzel in the morning."
Probably true. Peter chose the couch at random when he moved; it isn't made for sleeping. Neal isn't that much shorter than him, though. It's probably torturing him too, but he hasn't complained.

Neal leaves the sketchbook on the side table and retrieves the bag with his clothes from where he stashed it in a corner. Neal's a neat house guest; he leaves nothing out, doesn't move anything of Peter's, and when he goes, there will be no trace of him except fingerprints. It wouldn't surprise Peter if he wiped those down too. Neal learned a lot from Kate and some things become habit.

Kate's fingerprints are all over Neal; nothing will ever wipe them all away and nothing will ever make Neal as careless and mercenary as she was either.

It takes more willpower than it should to rein in the impulse to open Neal's sketchbook and find out what he'd been drawing.

He likes Neal, that's the part that makes this harder than it has to be. It's not right to want to tumble him into bed when he's grieving and Peter still longs for Elizabeth. He needs to keep this thing he has to himself, for the good of all the parties involved. Once Kate's killer is found and Neal is out of his apartment, it'll go away. It's just proximity. Well, proximity and an easy, inexplicable connection, in addition to Neal's undeniable attractiveness.

Neal's smart too, and Peter has always liked smart.

He levers himself out of his recliner and begins fixing the couch for Neal. The best thing he can do is get himself back to the bedroom and leave Neal to try and sleep.

Peter pauses with the sheets in his hands. Neal sleeps a lot and he wonders if he should worry about it. Maybe not. The kid's still recovering from a beating, exhausted and stressed, hurting over Kate. Sleep's likely the only escape he has and if he sleeps a lot around Peter, it probably just means he feels safe enough to do so. Thinking that makes Peter feel a little better.

He's getting rid of his empty beer can and making sure no food's been left out when Neal pads back into the living room.

The empty aluminum can in Peter's hand crumples.

Neal is bare foot and bare chested, a pair of loose, dark blue sleep pants riding low on his narrow hips. His hair is still damp and curling and a trickle of water is running from the nape of his neck down the line of his spine. He shaved in the shower. The reading lamp next to the couch colors his smooth skin into something warm and touchable.

Peter's pulse jumps at the thought. Jesus, Jesus, he needs to get a grip. He needs to get laid and not with this vulnerable man, because even if Neal feels an attraction in return, he isn't in a place to return Peter's interest. He closes his eyes for a moment to marshal some damned control. He's not going to act like some kind of sexual predator. Neal doesn't need this from him. He needs a friend and, some day, he'll need someone to care about him the way he deserves, not just to get his rocks off. That won't be Peter, because he is still in love with El.

Thankfully, that calms his body down enough so he won't embarrass himself or Neal before Neal notices him looking again.

He sees Neal check the sketchbook and breathes out a silent sigh of relief he didn't touch it. Even if it wasn't a test, Neal notices things. If Peter had touched it, Neal would see.

"Thanks, Peter," Neal murmurs.

"Not a problem," Peter tells him. His throat's so dry he sounds hoarse and Neal glances at him, curious and bright. Peter holds up the can and crumples it a little more before dropping it into the garbage. "If you need something, I'll probably be awake a while longer."

"I'm chasing you out of your own living room."

"Reading case files in bed is a bad habit that predates you by a decade."

"Elizabeth didn't mind?"

"Nah." Did she? Peter thinks now maybe she did, but she never complained. The only time she ever spoke up was over Kate's case. Shit. He should punch himself. He corrects himself. "She never said so, anyway."

Neal's observing him with slightly raised brows.

Peter gives him a weak smile in return. "Yeah. No one ever said I was emotionally aware." Frankly, he wishes he was a little more oblivious right now.

~*~

Neal doesn't sleep. It isn't Peter's horrible couch or excitement over visiting one of Kate's caches and maybe finding the mysterious item she was killed to recover. It's Peter.

If Peter had opened Neal's sketchbook he would have found drawing after drawing of him. Sketching him, whether in charcoal or pencil or even a ball-point doodle on a lined yellow legal pad is becoming a habit. Habit sounds better than obsession, though Neal thinks that would be the word Mozzie would use.

Mozzie's not getting a chance to look in his sketchbook.

He doesn't sleep because he's betraying Kate. He's giving everything she left to him back to the FBI. To Peter, but it amounts to the same thing in the end. He knows Kate never meant for Neal to do that, whatever she did mean when she sent him the coded list.

Mozzie may not be speaking to him, so the sketchbook thing is moot, because Mozzie disapproves of giving anything back and made it loudly clear before Neal left to go back to the Federal Building.

He pulls his knees up and wraps his arms around them. He's hyper aware of the blanket tangled around his shins, the coarse weave of the upholstery on the cushions under him, even the catch and slide of the loose pants he's wearing. His broken finger aches in time with his pulse. The Chinese food from earlier lies uneasily in his stomach. Maybe it's guilt. He imagines Kate's disappointed look. You're dead, you don't get a vote, he tells her shade sulkily. He regrets it immediately. He doesn't want to let go of any connection he still has to her.

"I'm sorry," he whispers in the quiet darkness of Peter's living room, "I'm sorry, I miss you. I miss you."

He wishes he'd just jerked off in the shower earlier. He hasn't since Kate died, hasn't wanted to until he found himself watching Peter sidelong, and doesn't want to think about what that means. He meant to when he stepped into the shower, meant to pretend the hot water running over his skin was Kate's hands, but hadn't been able to think of her without remembering she's dead. It felt too weird, anyway, in Peter's bathroom, in Peter's shower. Now his skin's too tight, he's still restless, and it feels like sticking his hands down his pants would be even more awkward. Like if he did, he'd start thinking about Peter, and he's not going to let himself do that to Kate's memory.

He likes Peter too much. Maybe it's missing Kate. Peter's the first - the only - person who seems to understand how much Neal loved her. Even Mozzie told him to write her off more than once, though not after she went to Danbury. No one else even knew Kate, not the real Kate. So maybe he's just transferring something to Peter. Maybe it's gratitude because Peter is helping him or because Peter wants to find Kate's killer too.

His head is a whirlpool of confused feelings. He really needs to get into the studio where he can paint again. Nothing else helps him get his thoughts straight.

Neal's still awake and exhausted when Peter comes out of the bedroom hours later. He nods when Peter looks at him sharply and asks, "Bad night?"

Neal shrugs and Peter makes a face that's sympathy and acceptance before making his way to the bathroom. They trade off wordlessly and when Neal exits, showered and shaved, Peter's on the phone, leaving a message about a lunch meeting for Elizabeth, ending with a quiet, "Love you, hon," that makes Neal look away with a wince.

"You still feel that way about her?" Neal hears himself ask, though he knows he shouldn't. Peter will probably tell him it's none of his business.

"I haven't given up on getting her back," Peter answers. "I never will."

"You love her that much." It's not a question because Neal can read it from Peter's face and hear it in his voice. There isn't a picture of Elizabeth in Peter's office, but there is one taped to the apartment refrigerator, and Peter's still wearing his wedding ring.

Peter scrubs his hand over his face and sighs. "I do. I miss her every day. I screwed up, but I'm going to make it right."

Neal closes his eyes and doesn't say how much he misses Kate or that at least Elizabeth is alive. He'd trade never spending another day with Kate if it would buy her life. For just a second, he hates Peter for wasting what he'd had with his wife, though Neal never resented him for chasing Kate and him both for so long. He doesn't ask what Peter will do if Elizabeth won't ever have him back. That's treading ground too dangerous for him right now.

Peter doesn't push Neal to talk anymore through his breakfast preparations or after they're both on the way back to the Federal Building. He's distracted too, only paying attention when Neal starts playing with the GPS, batting Neal's hand away.

Neal sits back in his seat and calls himself an idiot. He doesn't give a damn about the GPS; that was all about getting Peter's attention by irritating him. If Peter had pigtails, Neal would be pulling them.

He resists the urge to beat his forehead against the dashboard and puts on a smiling front by the time they step out of the elevator onto the twenty-first floor.

"Hughes needs to see you," Diana tells Peter the minute they come through the doors, so Neal sticks with her while Peter heads upstairs. He watches Peter go until he disappears into Hughes' office before turning his attention back to Diana.

Who is watching Neal with more sympathy in her gaze than he's comfortable seeing. "What?"

"I hope you know what you're doing."

Neal wants to protest he isn't doing anything, but settles for wiping his hand over his face. "Do you - what's going on?" The bullpen is quieter than it's been before, an uneasy vibe coming off the agents at their desks.

"Garrett Fowler was found dead in his cell this morning."

Neal grabs the back of a chair and holds on.

"It looks like suicide," Diana adds.

"Looks?" Neal repeats in a shaking voice.

"Fowler didn't strike me as the type to slit his wrists under a blanket."

"No," Neal agrees, Fowler didn't seem like the suicide type to him either.

"Lucky you've got a great alibi," Diana tells him.

"Yeah, good for me." Neal rubs at the ache forming between his eyes. "Lucky."

~*~

In spite of Peter's avowal to bring along back-up and witnesses to check out the addresses Kate sent Neal, Hughes vetoes the plan. They don't know that they'll find anything there, but Hughes wants to keep the possibility quiet. Peter almost objects, he doesn't care if some other agency muscles in on the credit, but then Hughes punctures his balloon of self-righteousness with just one sentence.

"You want every cop and agent out there crawling all over Caffrey?"

Peter damned well doesn't. Not even with Fowler dead, because where there's one corrupt agent, there could easily be more.

"Go on," Hughes says. "I know you've got him stashed in your office. Go out, get some lunch, take your time, take a drive. Come back when you know something."

"Yes sir," Peter agrees.

He gestures to Neal through the glass walls of the office to join him and they end up eating in the park, watching people and enjoying the sun. Neal amuses them both by making up stories about anyone interesting they see. Peter's impressed by just how observant Neal is; he sees things most people would miss, even cops or agents. Neal's romantic, though, despite his experiences, and imagines happy endings for each of his subjects. It makes Peter feel old and cynical.

"We should do this again," Neal says after they've finished, then flicks a glance at Peter, giving away that he hadn't planned to say that.

"As long as it's not raining or snowing or sleeting," Peter agrees easily. He crumples the wrapper to his gyro into a ball and lofts it into a garbage can one handed. He grins in triumph. "Three points."

"Basketball?" Neal asks. He's as curious as a cat sometimes, quizzing Peter about things in the apartment without a hint of self-consciousness. His interest feeds Peter's ego more than a little. With Neal's attention zeroed in on him, the sense he's had the last few years of being worn out and just another boring fed dissolves. Neal's company fills him with the same fizzing excitement chasing Kate did, except Neal's almost his partner in this and not an opponent, which makes it better. He's always preferred team play to solitary pursuits.

"Baseball was my game," Peter says. "You?"

Neal pauses long enough Peter thinks he won't answer at all. He tosses his trash in the bin as accurately as Peter did, without remarking on it, his brows draw together a little. "Gymnastics." The look he angles Peter's way tells an unspoken story. Artistic kid, pretty face, gymnastics as a sport... Neal probably doesn't look back on his high school years with anything like the fondness Peter has for his memories of that age.

When Peter doesn't make a comment, Neal nods once. "So, neither snow nor sleet nor rain - "

"That is the postal service," Peter snaps in mock irritation. He's busy hiding just how pleased he is over the small piece of personal history Neal just showed him. It seems important; Peter doesn't bother examining why. "Do I look like a mailman?"

Neal grins at him. "Do you want me to answer that?" He cocks his head. "You'd probably rock the summer uniform shorts - "

Peter grabs Neal's arm and hustles him out of the park, ignoring the peal of laughter that gets away from Neal and trying mightily to frown.

"Come on. With any luck, we can check out that Staten Island address and get back in time to watch the game tonight."

Neal makes a face that he must not think Peter sees. "There's always a game," he mutters.

"Yup. I bet I can find one on the radio in the car too."

"You suck."

"I'll explain all the fine points - "

"I know how baseball's played," Neal objects, "I just don't like it."

"Heathen. It's the national past time."

"It's grown men scratching and chewing tobacco like cud," Neal fires back.

Oh, now he's done it. Peter lectures Neal on baseball through the whole drive to Staten Island. Neal complains the entire way, but never once loses focus the way he does when he's reminded of Kate somehow, so Peter counts it as a win. He doesn't reach over and pat Neal's knee or his shoulder those times, but the impulse is there, to touch and comfort, the same way he would if it were El hurting.

It's the reminder of El, of everything he still wants to try to salvage with her, that stops Peter from reaching out for Neal.

~*~

Neal grins every time Peter makes a remark about Kate hiding a goodly portion of her ill-gotten gains on Staten Island.

"Half the cops in Manhattan live out here!"

"So it should be extra safe," Neal agrees.

Peter throws up his hands before succumbing to laughter. "I can't believe this," he mutters, looking around the extra large space Kate paid to have for ten years. Climate controlled, but with vehicle access, and Neal got to show off the lock-picking skills Mozzie taught him while Peter stood by with his badge on display hooked to his belt.

"You're too good at that."

"It's fun."

"Fun like that will get you in jail."

"Not if I'm doing it for the Feds," Neal teases.

They lift open the door far enough to let some light in and a battery light on a motion sensor comes on. Kate paid for one of the extra large spaces. Peter sucks in a shocked breath. "Son of a - "

Neal looks around and says, "Well, everything is in order. It shouldn't be too hard to do an inventory." The space is filled from back to front, top to bottom, but it's all organized.

Peter eyes him sardonically. "You realize I can see three different stolen items from here already?"

Neal can only shrug. "Kate didn't send a list of the contents."

"No idea she had all this here?"

"I met her for dinner at a diner a couple of miles away back in... " Neal frowns, trying to pin down the date of the memory, "2005. March. But I never came here with her. I didn't know about any of her caches before." Sorrow settles over him. "She knew they were going to kill her." She wouldn't have sent him the list otherwise.

Peter laughs, making Neal flinch. "The International Traveling Art Nouveau Exhibit. A Frances MacDonald-McNair, two Moreaus, and a Klinger disappeared over night between New York and DC."

Kate ran more than one con claiming to be a descendent of an artist, but never Gustave Moreau, even though, "She loved Moreau's work." She loved Art Nouveau in all its incarnations, dragged a happy Neal through Barcelona to admire Gaudi's architecture, even kept an apartment there in one of his buildings, though it sweltered in summer and froze all winter. He wonders if the apartment is empty now or if someone else is as happy there as they were. Or maybe Keller took it over. Neal hates that thought and pushes it deep, along with every other Keller memory.

"So they're probably here? That theft nearly caused an international incident."

Neal shrugs one shoulder. He doesn't care. Grief is a knife twisting in his heart again. Keller ripped away Neal's last illusions, the ones he held onto even after Adler. He wants to turn around and leave behind all these reminders of the things Kate considered more important than being with him, especially anything that reminds him of Barcelona. "I guess we'll find out."

Maybe his voice gives him away. Peter gives Neal a sympathetic look and kindly pushes him forward with a big hand placed right at the small of Neal's back. That touch makes Neal shudder with abrupt awareness. He almost trips, then half turns to look at Peter in shock. Peter's hand is still there, still steadying him and throwing all of Neal's reactions off at the same time.

He blurts without thinking, "This is a bad idea."

"What do you mean?" Peter asks quietly.

Neal makes himself breath in and out slowly, briefly covers his eyes with one hand, before straightening his shoulders. The words trip out, undesigned and only half true, because he doesn't want Peter to know how his body is reacting to Peter's nearness. "Me, here, this, I can't - Kate."

Peter brings his hand up and squeezes Neal's shoulder gently. "You can do this."

"I don't know," Neal murmurs honestly.

The Past Cannot Sustain Us

He's been watching Caffrey for three months, so maybe it isn't that strange that instead of following Kate out to booking and interview and all the inevitable paperwork that will accompany his triumph, Peter lingers in the apartment. Caffrey doesn't move; his eyes are cast down again, his hands cupping his elbows.

Peter expects yelling and anger at most busts. Caffrey just looks weary to death.

He shuffles his feet. They'll have to search the apartment; it's standard protocol, but he needs to remind his people not to trash the place. Kate didn't have time to hide much of anything here and no sane prosecutor would try to sell that Caffrey was harboring a fugitive. The Bureau's own surveillance tapes show he hasn't been in contact with her and that she broke into his apartment. Of course, Peter figures if they hadn't busted in, Caffrey would have let her stay. But things that didn't happen don't count and Caffrey has a clean record.

The noise draws Caffrey's attention out again and he looks at Peter for the first time. Those eyes put Kate's to shame, fringed in black lashes, extraordinarily beautiful and intense.

"You made sure she found out I was here," he states, "didn't you?"

Peter nods, a little ashamed for using Caffrey that way when it had been clear the guy was trying to not be found. Despite Peter's suspicions about certain forgeries, the Bureau can't prove Caffrey has done anything illegal. It isn't a crime to fall for the wrong woman, though it has certainly led to the commission of more than one.

He braces himself for yelling at least. Caffrey doesn't seem like the kind to get violent, but there's always a chance. People aren't entries in an account book. They don't always add up.

Caffrey surprises him again, shrugging stiffly, and walking over to where the bug is hidden. Peter can only watch, appalled, as he pries it out of its hiding place and holds it between thumb and forefinger.

"How?" Peter asks.

"It screws up the radio. I had to move it." The radio sat on the mantle of a bricked-up fireplace. Now it sits on a table by the door. Whoever placed the bug should have realized it would fritz reception and give itself away. Peter's going to chew someone out. Caffrey's known they were listening the whole time. No wonder he's been so quiet.

Caffrey drops it into Peter's hand.

"If you know it was there...?"

He walks over the windows and looks down, maybe watching the anthill boil of official vehicles, agents and cops cleaning up after the bust on the street below, maybe not seeing anything at all. The sky flares orange and gaudy pink and the sun reflects painfully off city glass as if to show off before the glitter of human light takes over for the night. There are no lights on in the apartment yet and the corners have dimmed into shadow. Caffrey's profile is gilt, though, and Peter notices absently that his blue shirt has been pulled loose from his pants. Kate's doing. He has a startling image of her small hand on Caffrey's skin and clears his throat.

"I didn't think she'd come." Implicit is the admission Caffrey would have run or warned Kate if he had. It's nothing Peter didn't guess.

"You were wrong." It's pathetically inadequate under any circumstances, but Peter's not a guy who is comfortable with expressed emotions. He has them, sure, and he sympathizes. He just thinks displays should be kept to a bedroom or locked in a bathroom. Some place where they won't make him feel uncomfortable and guilty.

Not that Caffrey's making a scene. Peter just worries he's going to explode.

"If you aren't arresting me too... ?"

"No." They've got nothing on Caffrey. No one does. He's smart and Kate kept him clean. Maybe that means she loves him. Or she just doesn't trust him. Kate's the only one who knows. There's no evidence to warrant arresting him, in any case. "No. Sorry about the door."

"The door? Oh. Doesn't matter. It needed a better lock anyway."

Like any lock would keep Kate Moreau out.

Caffrey keeps his back to Peter. "Could you go?"

Caffrey leans his forehead against the glass. His eyes are closed and he's hugging himself again like he's about to fly apart. Peter could explain about the search, but instead he just does as he's asked, and leaves. He tells Berilli to make sure a locksmith is sent to fix the door on the way out.

Now Is a Cold Reminder

"Did you know about any of this?" Peter asks despite himself. The latest storage facility doesn't have lights or electricity in the smaller spaces, so he's standing to the side of the open door and holding up the heavy duty flashlight. Kate put in metal shelving. It's impossible to tell what some of the things on the gray-painted shelves are: the protective packaging obscures the contents in most cases. He can pick out a Thai Horse swathed in plastic bubble wrap along with several other sculptures. It's nothing he ever knew she stole.

Neal's kneeling next to the bottom shelf, shuffling several small boxes to one side. He turns his head just enough to cut his gaze to the side and look at Peter, only to wince away from the glare of the flashlight's beam, blinking hard. "What?"

"You heard me."

"I guess I just don't understand why you're asking that," Neal snaps.

He pulls one of the boxes closer and flips it open, revealing a nest of deep blue velvet holding ivory carvings. Peter can't make out what they portray from his vantage. Neal stares at them for a moment, before laughing softly and saying, "Mammoth ivory netsuke." His head comes up and he surveys the dim expanse of the storage space. "I guess this was Kate's oriental room."

"Answer the question."

"No."

"No, you didn't know or, no, you won't answer the question?"

"Take your pick." Neal shrugs fluidly. "These are very old and very good. Even the least of them is worth over a thousand dollars."

"And you know this... ?"

"I worked at an art auction house, Peter, and I went to art school. We did more than dab paint."

"Oh, so sorry."

Neal rises to his feet and picks his way down the line of shelves, studying the objects on them without touching. "I don't think that whatever it is, that it's here. None of this is worth murder."

"You saying anything is?" Peter asks out of genuine curiosity.

He gets another shrug and Neal doesn't turn to face him. "It's art." Maybe for Neal that's enough of an answer; he breathes and bleeds art. It makes Peter itch.

"The Bureau has to confiscate it all, you know," he says as if that's news. They've already taken in and begun inventorying the contents of the first three caches Neal's shown them.

"Oh, no, really?" Neal drawls. "I never guessed."

"Neal... "

Neal turns and faces him, before closing the distance between them to arm's reach. His smile isn't quite brilliant, it's a little too unsteady for that, but it's genuine. "It's okay, Peter. You'll get it back to the owners and at least some of it will be on display again. Art's not meant to be hidden in a vault unseen, any more than a Stradivarius should be sitting sealed up and silent."

Peter feels a little breathless. Neal smells like Peter's own soap and shampoo, since he helped himself to it when he used Peter's shower. Neal naked and wet in the shower of his apartment is a line of thought Peter needs to shut down right now if he doesn't want Neal to guess what's going on with him.

Assuming Neal hasn't figured it out already. Peter can't decide if Neal is simply comfortable in his space because he trusts Peter or if he's teasing.

Neal holds up his hand and opens it, revealing one of the netsuke on his palm. The ivory is only a shade paler than Neal's skin. "Sure I can't keep this one?" he asks, a hint of mischief coloring his words and his expression.

"Completely," Peter rasps. So close, he can follow the sinuous lines of the carving and pick out the lines of two naked men twined around each other. That's his answer, though, isn't it? Neal's all too aware and having fun with it, teasing Peter, inviting Peter to laugh with him.

Which is a better reaction than Peter has any right to hope Neal would have.

"Erotic carvings," Neal says. "The entire collection. Every variation possible and some I don't want to see anyone try." He cocks his head and studies the netsuke. "This one's pretty vanilla."

"I think we might have different definitions of a lot of things." Like everything from vanilla to legal.

"Too bad." But Neal returns the netsuke to the box it came from without proffering any kind of invitation or protesting. Peter thinks he does anyway. The ill-lit space and the thunder of his pulse in his ears mean Neal could palm and pocket half the contents of the box it came from and Peter would miss it. He chooses to believe that little piece of ivory will end up in the FBI's evidence lockers at the end of the day.

"I'm going to call Diana and get a team here to take an inventory and handle transporting everything to evidence," Peter says.

~*~

Peter can't pin down exactly when they developed a routine, but it's already verging on domestic. After a morning spent going through one of Kate's caches, Neal and he eat lunch in the park, before Peter goes back to his office and Neal returns to the studio to paint.

He suspects the apartment this morning - little more than a single room in a rundown rowhouse that hid more security than a National Guard Armory - disappointed Neal even more than it did him. Aside from a bed, a microwave, a cheap TV and a closet full of clothes, including uniforms and other disguises, they found nothing beyond a collection of false IDs, credit cards, and ten thousand dollars cash. Running money. If Kate ever had anything else there, she moved it on before her arrest.

The paperwork on consigning the apartment's contents to the Bureau's evidence warehouse bores Peter to a near coma. He leaves the office on time for once, stops at an Indian restaurant for curry and heads for June Ellington's Riverside mansion. Eating take-out with Neal on that amazing terrace will be much nicer than going straight home and they can pick out another address from Kate's list to visit in the morning.

~*~

A car horn carelessly blasts on the street below and snaps Neal awake, aching hard and rocking his hips into the mattress. He rolls onto his back and hisses to himself as the smooth sheets drag over his erection. The horn blares again and Neal blinks and tries to catch the edges of his dream before it dissolves. He watches dim light from outside chase over the loft's ceiling.

His breath catches.

Oh.

Not a Kate dream.

Peter.

He's still drowsy and aroused and the guilt he may feel in the morning isn't materializing yet.

Whatever his head says, Neal's body has its own strong opinion, which is that Peter's hands would feel good on his bare skin. They'd wrap around his cock and pull an orgasm right out of him.

Thoughtlessly, he reaches for himself, sliding his loose pajama pants down to his thighs. It's easy to wrap his hand around himself and replay the pieces of the dream still with him. Neal hesitates for a second, but he's done this so many times, alone in his bed and aching for Kate, it's a habit, even if this time he's imagining someone else.

The idea of Peter Burke pressing him into the bed, his mouth on Neal's chest and then lower, has Neal panting and writhing under his own hand, hotter than he's been in years. When he imagines returning that touch, going down on Peter, Neal comes with a groan.

"Fuck," he whispers to the darkness when he has his breath back, and then, harsher, "Kate." Now the guilt's hitting him. He hitches his pants back up, rolls onto his side and stares at nothing, but he can't lie to himself. He just got off fantasizing about Peter Burke. Neal wishes his plan of getting away from Peter and his inconvenient, inappropriate, growing feelings for him by sleeping at the loft had worked a little better.

It's no use trying to sleep. The chaos in his head won't stop long enough to drop off even while his body is still humming in satisfaction.

There's only one way he knows to pull his thoughts into some kind of order.

Neal flips the sheets back, grimaces at the mess he left and strips them off, before abandoning the bedroom in favor of cleaning himself up. The studio welcomes him afterward with the scents of linseed and turpentine and oils. He sketches and paints until dawn overtakes the studio's lighting. It's always worked before.

When he stops, he sways in place, bare feet sweating against the floor, and considers what he's painted: Peter Burke at his desk, case file open before him, head propped on on hand, wedding ring still gleaming on one finger.

"Well, fuck."

Neal shoves paint-flecked fingers through his hair. It's not like he paints in a fugue, he knows what he's doing and in this case meant it to exorcise whatever hold Peter's got on him, but that's not what the painting shows now he's done.

The work on his easel is easily as good as anything he's done in years. It's better than any portrait he's ever done of Kate.

He's in trouble.

He wants Peter and Peter's still in love with his ex-wife.

~*~

Neal insists on eating from plates even though the food is take-out Peter brought to the loft as an excuse to see him. Afterward, he rolls the sleeves of his dress shirt up neatly and starts rinsing everything off. Peter automatically begins helping clear the table.

Neal is at the sink, up to his wrists in hot soapy water when Peter reaches around him to hand him the last plate. They're so close Peter feels the shudder run down Neal's back. Neal's breathing quickens and he leans back fractionally. Peter manages to set his plate down without dropping it, the action brushing the inside of his arm against Neal's bare forearm.

A small sound catches at the back of Neal's throat, the click of a hard swallow, and for Peter it's all the excuse he needs to push closer.

Looking down at the sink has Neal's neck bent. A strip of vulnerable skin is on display, between the crisp collar of his shirt and the ends of his hair, curling in the humidity of the kitchen. If he doesn't want Peter, he'll slide away now, make a deflecting remark, maybe even shove an elbow in Peter's gut. This won't go any further.

Neal doesn't do any of those things. He's still but trembling. His voice is hoarse and uncertain enough to give Peter pause. "What does this mean?"

"It doesn't have to mean anything," Peter assures him. Peter still loves El; Neal still aches for Kate. They can keep this just physical. He cuffs Neal's wrist with his hand, warm, skin slick with soap and water, bone and muscle a fascinating dichotomy of fragility and strength. His other hand comes to rest on Neal's hip, the jut of bone sharp and right under his palm, as he presses himself against Neal's strong back. "It'll be okay. We're not hurting anyone."

The minute Neal gives in to what he seems to want too, Peter wraps his arms around him. Neal's wet hands go to his and they thread their fingers together as Neal leans back into the embrace, pliant as green grass. The moment can only stretch so long before one of them has to move.

It's Neal, otter-sleek, twisting to face Peter without Peter ever letting go. His arms twine around Peter's neck and his face angles up. Late day stubble rasps against Peter's as Neal touches his lips to the corner of Peter's mouth. It's a tease of a kiss, as chaste as a kiss between two men can be while their bodies clamor for more. The sweetness of it makes Peter ashamed. He ignores the twist of emotion and chases after Neal's mouth, catching him in another, much less than chaste kiss that has Neal rocked back against the sink counter, something splashing and water sloshed onto the floor.

A thigh between Neal's legs has him rocking urgently into Peter, already hard, making a low, wild sound in his throat that wipes away every doubt Peter still harbors.

He strips Neal out of the vest and dress shirt with ruthless efficiency while Neal's hands pluck at his belt and then his shirt distractedly.

"Neal," he murmurs, "Neal. Tell me you want this as much as I do."

Pupils blown wide, a sheen of sweat on his upper lip, Neal stares at Peter. "Want," he repeats, licks his lip and nods decisively, confirming with words, "Yeah, I want it."

It's a blur of stripped clothes and bared skin after that, caresses that nearly burn, hands that hold almost too tight, bodies straining together as if they're racing each other. They end on Neal's high bed, rocking together urgently. Peter knows he's hurting Neal a couple of times, even using the lotion he finds on the bedside table, but Neal clutches him closer, harder, when he starts to hesitate. He tastes blood when he kisses Neal too hard and the split in his lip opens again. He tries to gentle what he's doing, but Neal writhes against him and Peter forgets, urged on by Neal's need along with his own desire. Neal's entire body arches toward Peter when Peter braces both hands on the headboard and sinks inside him. One fine-boned hand fists the white sheets underneath them and Neal reaches for his cock with the other.

Too fast, Peter comes hard inside Neal, losing track of anything outside himself, and only notices Neal finishing himself off when he spills against Peter's belly.

When the endorphin rush and the haze of orgasm are fading, Peter rolls off Neal and throws his arm over his eyes. Neal doesn't move beside him, just breathes, and guilt gnaws at Peter's gut. Neal got off too, no thanks to him, and, Christ, Peter knows he's just made a mistake. Even if they're divorced, it still feels like cheating on Elizabeth and, to make it worse, he's managing to do that and betray his fragile friendship with Neal too. Could he be any more of a bastard?

"I'm sorry," he mutters, still hiding his eyes. "You know I still love El."

"Yeah, I get that," Neal says. His voice gives away nothing, but he rolls out of the bed in the next instant. He has his pants on and his shirt in his hands by the time Peter lowers his arm and looks. He left marks on Neal's back, red marks that will take at least a day to heal. Neal shrugs on his wrinkled dress shirt and then glances back over his shoulder. Peter can't read Neal's expression, it's too closed off, even as he smiles. "Forget it. You didn't do anything I didn't want."

"Neal - "

"Please don't apologize again," Neal tells him. "I know the score."

If only it were that easy. A sinking feeling tells Peter he did everything Neal wanted and nothing Neal needed.

~*~

El almost stumbles when she walks in the restaurant. She nearly cancelled the lunch date, but curiosity got the better of her. She wants to know what's happened to Neal, who thoroughly and completely charmed her the day he showed up at Premier Events' steps.

That doesn't mean she expects to see him, dressed in another ridiculously attractive vintage suit, sitting at the table with Peter.

There is a moment as she watches them and they don't know she's there that Elizabeth lets herself judge. They sit opposite each other at the table but there's a connection she recognizes. Of course, there's the fact Peter has never brought a colleague to one of their lunches. More telling is Peter's relaxed posture, the curl of a smile at one corner of his mouth, and the absent, yet possessive way he touches Neal's arm.

She knows Peter's behavior with someone he's sleeping with, but she doesn't know Neal's. She doesn't need to, because Neal's gaze keeps coming back to Peter. He's the moon and Peter's the planet that has captured him.

Peter usually spots El as soon as she enters a restaurant if he beats her to lunch. This time he doesn't notice her until Neal's attention leaves him.

A beautiful smile spreads over Neal's face as he sees Elizabeth. He's on his feet before Peter, pulling back her seat, and genuinely delighted to see her. She lets him skim her cheek with a kiss and accepts his murmured, "That is a great perfume on you," as the platonic compliment it's meant to be.

Peter looks so conflicted as she's seated that El almost laughs. She can tell: he's slept with both of them and now doesn't know who to be jealous of. She smiles at him fondly, because it's wonderful to realize she doesn't mind at all that Peter has moved on. Her basic reaction is finally.

Now they can become real friends

"So, tell me," she says as she looks back and forth between them, "tell me everything." Yes, it's a little wicked, but the panicky color on Peter's face as he misintreprets her question delights her.

"What? El, it's not - I - "

She takes pity before he starts excavating that hole to China. "Have you cracked the case?"

Peter's attempt at a silent sigh is funny too. Neal's flinch, not so much, and Elizabeth regrets playing games. Whatever is between Peter and Neal, it's new and probably fragile, and he's still raw with grief. In fact, this may not be a good thing for Neal at all. His gaze drops and he begins fiddling with the linen napkin, folding it into a swan shape deftly.

"Yes and no," Peter says. Neal's gaze snaps to him, uncertain and intent. "We made an arrest. Neal's been helping us recover some of the things Kate stole too."

"His star is on the rise," Neal murmurs.

"Hughes may have actually smiled yesterday," Peter agrees, "though it wasn't documented."

Elizabeth laughs, remembering Peter's boss's patrician scowl. She catches one of Neal's hands before he can start dismantling the napkin swan. She wonders if she could persuade him to teach her that one. It's far more elegant than the version Premier Events is currently offering. There's a fleck of blue under his middle finger's cuticle. She finds it adorable. "Then I can hire Neal?"

Peter scowls at her hand holding Neal's and Neal gentling disengages. "She's joking," Neal says. He gives El a sidelong, pleading glance before turning his gaze back to Peter again. "Aren't you?"

"Well, a little," she agrees, though she really wasn't.

Peter laughs, the sound rusty, and Neal relaxes a fraction. Elizabeth's pleasure in the meeting fades a little. She isn't as sure as she was of what's going on between the two of them.

"Neal belongs to me a little longer," Peter tells her. "At least until all the art and valuables Kate took are recovered and catalogued."

"He's worried there's still someone else out there," Neal explains.

Elizabeth raises her eyebrows at Peter. He nods back seriously. "Fowler was working for someone."

"And you can't get him to tell you - "

"He died in his cell the night after his arraignment," Peter explains.

"That's awful," Elizabeth whispers and steers the conversation away.

They order after that and talk about other things, Shakespeare and road work that upsets the city traffic patterns, the language of flowers and insect allergies, Central American vacation spots and nude beaches. Elizabeth likes them, Peter doesn't, and Neal sides with him.

"Bad experience?" Elizabeth teases him.

Neal laughs with her and admits, "Once."

He must have made a pretty picture, Elizabeth thinks to herself, and smiles into her wine glass. "Sunburn?"

It's sweet the way Neal's cheeks flush and she knows she guessed right.

Peter pays more attention to Elizabeth than Neal and just grows more and more tense and obviously uncomfortable through the meal, though Neal exerts himself to be charming and entertaining to the point El begins to hurt when Peter eventually cuts Neal off after checking his watch visibly. "We need to get back. The Bureau isn't paying me to wine and dine you, Neal," he says at last.

"Okay," Neal says immediately. He digs a fingernail into the fresh tape supporting the splinted finger.

"Abandoning me, both of you?" Elizabeth jokes to lighten the atmosphere Peter just blasted. The other option is kicking Peter and Neal already looks like someone kicked him.

"Never!" Peter blurts. "El, I'd spend the rest of the day with you if I could. But we're still working on identifying where some of the items from Kate's caches originated."

"Go on then," she tells him. She catches the fine fabric of Neal's coatsleeve as he starts to rise. "Come back with him next week."

Neal agrees with a nod, but he's gone cool and withdrawn as he asks, "Are you sure?"

"El," Peter protests.

"One of my clients insists I use his table at - " Elizabeth whispers the name of a very exclusive restaurant just to watch Neal's eyes light up, " - and I'd enjoy a meal there more if I share it with someone with a palate."

"I like good food," Peter objects.

"You like deviled ham," Elizabeth points out. Neal gives him a look of horror.

"Fine, but I'm coming too, if that won't ruin the experience." Peter's grumbling, but not insulted, and Elizabeth is satisfied he won't 'forget' to bring Neal now that's she's offered a specific reason she wants Neal to eat with them.

She hopes that next week Peter will pay more attention to Neal than her.

~*~

Peter has his arms full of take-out bags - Italian from the place Neal and he both like - a six pack of his favorite beer, and a bottle of wine. He's also juggling a briefcase full of files, his laptop case, and his dry-cleaning. The idea is he'll have something fresh to change into in the morning. Neal's made it clear he's welcome and Peter likes having someone sleeping beside him, so it makes sense to stay the night.

He meets June on the second floor stairs and flushes a little at the knowing little smile on her face. "I picked up dinner," he blurts.

She nods and tells him, "He's up stairs."

He knows, but it's more that she's telling Peter it's okay with her if he goes upstairs and joins Neal.

"Thanks."

"He won't thank you for that wine."

Peter cranes his head and eyes the bottle he has gripped at the neck between his index and middle finger. It's a precarious hold but he can see the label. "The guy at the store said - "

June's laughter tells him he got taken.

"That bad?" Peter asks, feeling sheepish.

"My dear Agent Burke," she advises, "next time call Neal and have him tell you what to buy." She checks the name on the take-out bags. "What have you brought?"

"Spaghetti and meatballs for me and swordfish capanota for Neal," Peter answers dutifully.

"Ah. Stay here a moment and I'll bring you something that will compliment your meal."

"You don't have to do that - "

"It all turns to vinegar eventually if you don't drink it when it's right," June assures him. "I haven't had three such handsome men in and out of the house in years. All the neighbors are talking behind their hands. It's well worth a few bottles of wine to set them a-twitter."

"Three?" Peter asks, because he can't not, he and Neal are alike in that, they both always want to know.

"You've met Mozzie?"

Neal's buddy, the one who was partners with Kate, the one who Peter has not met. He hasn't even caught a glimpse of him. The temptation to set up a little surveillance outside the mansion and get some pictures of 'Mozzie' rears up.

"No," he admits.

Neal would never forgive him. It's a surprisingly strong argument against acting, realizing that there are things Peter can do that would cost him Neal. His actions have consequences. Putting the job ahead once already cost him Elizabeth. If he repeats himself, it could cost him Neal's friendship.

"You will," June says with another mysterious smile. "Now stay here." She plucks the offending bottle from Peter's fingers and starts on down the stairs. "I'll dispose of this and be right back."

Peter juggles his burdens into a better order and tries to wait patiently. The scent of garlic bread and red sauce teases at his nose and his stomach is grinding against itself, a reminder that coffee and a vending machine candy bar snagged between meetings with Hughes and half a dozen higher ups looking to add a little reflected glory to their own resumes were too many hours ago. It amazes him, how suddenly Counter-terrorism, Counter-intelligence, and Organized Crime feel they contributed to the recovery of so many famous pieces of art. He's shaking his head over it when June returns.

She places the bottle safely in his grip and smiles at him again. "Thank you, Mrs. Elling - "

"June, please."

"June," Peter repeats.

She tips her head toward the next floor up. "Don't let your food go cold."

"Right. Thanks, again, for the wine, and giving Neal a place here, and I'll try to be quiet when I leave - "

The look in her eyes reminds him of Elizabeth. He's amusing her. Peter fumbles into silence.

"Don't worry about disturbing me, Agent Burke," Junes says. "My bedroom is two floors down from the loft and on the other side the house."

"Okay." He thinks he missed something just now, but starts up the stairs anyway.

"Oh, Agent Burke," June calls up to him when he's two steps short of the landing. "I'll have Britta bring up coffee and pastries for you and Neal in the morning."

He nearly trips on the last step, rushes the rest of the way up and tells Neal, "She knows," as soon as Neal opens the door.

"Who knows what?" Neal asks, amusement in his tone at Peter's choked exclamation. He plucks away the bottle of wine and the take-out, leaving Peter to divest himself of his briefcase, the laptop and the dry-cleaners' bag.

"Ju - your landlady," Peter answers. He turns in time to see Neal set the bottle and bags on his kitchen table, take in that Neal's wearing a thin dark t-shirt, untucked, and paint-stained, faded jeans that hug his long legs. His feet are bare. Peter's breath whistles out soundlessly, another sort of hunger kindling low in his belly. He crosses the room, takes Neal's face in his hands and kisses him. When he draws back and sees Neal's pupils blown dark and dazed, he adds, "That we're doing this."

Neal glances at the table and then back to Peter. "Well, if she gave you that bottle, she must approve." His hands go to Peter's tie, unknot it swiftly, and toss it. "You're getting rid of that tie."

"I like that tie."

"I'll forgive that." Neal closes his hand on Peter's wrist and pulls him away from the kitchen toward the bed. "C'mon."

"The food - " He doesn't care about the tie or the food, not when Neal's like this, and his half-hearted, unfinished protest is strictly pro forma.

"We can eat it later."

~*~

Part 6

white collar big bang, white collar, big bang, fic, character: peter burke, alternate universe, character: neal caffrey, char

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