The Starry Night - part one
//back to prologue//
//part one//
-- 1//1 --
The conversation in the car has slipped Peter's mind completely two months later. He's closing the door to the conference room, the team sitting around the desk sipping their first or second or fifth coffees, and he's holding the thin new file already in his hand. His eyes travel to Neal, who's looking more alert than the rest of them, eager and excited.
Oh, he's gonna love this one. Too bad he won't be able to do anything but sit here.
"Last night," he starts and waits for all eyes to settle on him. "One of Van Gogh's famous paintings got stolen from the Museum of Modern Art."
There is a gasp traveling through the room, raised eyebrows and open mouths directed at him - not many people are bold enough to mess with New York's most famous art museum -, but Peter's gaze fixes on Neal, who just seems to freeze.
"Which one?"
Peter sits down, puts the file in front of him, but he doesn't need to look to tell Neal. "It's The Starry Night. It got stolen around two a.m. this morning and so far we have zero leads."
"The Starry Night? Are you sure?" Neal asks and the look on his face makes the hairs on Peter's neck stand up. There's something ... off about it.
"Yes, I am sure. It's one painting from the steady collection of the museum. There has been another attempt to steal it in ..." Peter looks it up. "In 2002. Back then the thief was disturbed early enough, this time it really is gone."
"So it could be the same person finishing what he started?" Diana cuts right to the point.
Peter nods. "Could be. Could be someone trying to beat his former competitor, trying to make it better. Could be an entirely different reason. As of now, we're looking into every motive and every angle."
His eyes travel back to Neal. The other man is staring ahead, obviously deep in thoughts, and the bad feeling in Peter's stomach rises.
"Jones," he addresses his fellow agent. "I want you to see if the painting is showing up on the black market already. Go see if there's rumor, word on the streets, even a whisper about the painting showing up - I wanna know."
Clinton nods. "Sure, Peter."
"Diana. You and I go visit the crime scene. Let's see if we can find something the local cops couldn't."
She nods too. "You got it."
"What about me?" Neal speaks up. "What am I gonna do?"
Peter sighs as he faces Neal, the others already halfway out of the room.
"You stay here."
"What?" Neal's face shows the exact signs of betrayal Peter was expecting.
It still stings.
"Look, Neal. I can't have you in on this."
Neal rises from his chair as Peter walks up to leave the room. Peter feels the other man's eyes burn into his back.
"Why not?"
"Because." Their eyes meet. "It's too close to home for you Neal. Just ... stay here. Or go out and use your contacts to see if you can find out who the first thief was."
Peter stops at that thought. "You don't know who it was, do you?"
Neal just shakes his head, but the angry frown doesn't leave his face.
Peter sighs and walks through the door, makes a point. "We'll see you later."
-- 1//2 --
Neal shuts the door to his apartments, deep in thoughts and carelessly locked in his own mind.
He startles, when Mozzie stands up to greet him.
"Hey ... Neal," Mozzie starts, excited and literally gleeful at first and then he slows down, obviously reading the expression on Neal's face.
"Rough day at work?"
Neal glances up. "You could say so."
"So you did hear about the stolen Van Gogh?"
Neal's head shoots up. "Where did you hear about it?"
"Words travel fast, my friend." Mozzie shrugs. Then he frowns. "Did you do it?" He asks and he doesn't do a good job hiding the excitement in his voice.
Neal just shoots his friend a look.
"Well, a man can dream." Mozzie sighs and turns away again, back to whatever he was doing before Neal entered. "It would have been a great addition to our little... collection."
"Uhm, Mozzie?" Neal nods to the table when his friend looks up.
The table has three very ... interesting things on it. To Mozzie's left, there's an average sized bottle with a tiny ship in it; to his right, there's a remote - not one of Neal's as far as he can see - and right in front of Mozzie lies a shoe. A left one. It's a man's sneaker - again not one of Neal's, thank god.
"Do I even want to know?"
"I, my friend," Mozzie starts, while he's carefully packing the three items in his bag, "have a meeting."
Neal raises an eyebrow. Mozzie this agitated could only mean trouble.
Mozzie snorts, then sighs, as if he's giving up with Neal. "I intend to find out who stole the painting last night."
Something icy runs down Neal's back. "And then what?"
"Neal, it's The Starry Night! A true work of art! I need to take a look at it. Just once." He's practically daydreaming now. "I need to feel that paint under my fingertips, I need to smell that..."
"Okay, alright." Neal stops him in his tracks. He's rarely seen Mozzie this excited over something and he should have known it, but he didn't. Neal didn't know back then and he sees his mistake now. Sees, how this is gonna come back to him now.
"Be well, my friend," Mozzie announces, nods his head and turns for the door. "May you have a delightful evening. I will tell you all about it once I have witnessed that piece of perfection with my own two eyes."
Neal smiles at his friend, although it hurt just a little. "Yeah, good luck, Moz."
Neal draws in a deep breath as soon as Mozzie has left. He breathes out like he's been running a marathon, he drives his hands through his hair, rubs his face.
He's never thought it would come to this. He's pushed it so far back in his own mind that he almost didn't remember anymore.
And now it's back. Threatening everything that Neal has worked for, threatening his precious life here, his friends. Everything.
Neal feels dizzy, one hand grabbing the chair before him to steady himself.
His mind is running off, running through the options he has, but it's too fast, too much, too unbearable all at once.
The only thing that's ringing clear over and over, is that he has to find that painting. Before Mozzie does. Before Peter does.
Neal's pulse slows down a bit, his breathing almost back to normal, and his eyes fall on the spot on the floor, the one he has never even glanced at since he moved in here.
He's not walking over to it now either, doesn't touch it yet.
But the knowledge of what's beneath it, calms and crushes him all at once.
-- 1//3 --
The bureau feels different with nobody there. Only the assistants and the agents working on other cases are in - people Neal knows by sight and some few words exchanged on the go, but without the others, he's still the outcast.
Still the thief.
Neal finds it at least a little bit comforting and a lot more troubling that Peter didn't let Jones stay to watch him.
Neal is still benched today, nothing for him to do but sitting at his desk and twirl his thumps and push some papers.
He isn't able to concentrate on anything else though.
He knows what he has to do, needs to do, to prevent any more damage.
Neal knows where the Van Gogh file is, knows that Peter is leaving most of his notes in there instead of carrying them around with him. He knows that Peter likes to come back after a long day and bring them all together.
Neal glances around.
He has to move fast and he has to move now.
Amanda from the left corner and Bill from the desk opposite to Neal are gossiping in the coffee room and Neal has exactly as long as it takes them to finish their small cups to get into Peter's office unnoticed and take a quick look at the file.
With his eyes on the coffee room, Neal makes his way upstairs, quickly and without making a sound, and he slips into Peter's office, ducks down behind the desk. It's not hiding him completely but it will do the trick as long as somebody is just glancing up here.
With his right hand, he opens Peter's locked drawer easily. He uses a small needle, doesn't even need to look to pick the lock.
The Van Gogh file is lying on the top.
Neal opens it and doesn't find much. Just a few descriptions of the crime scene and the witness report from the guard who did in fact see nothing.
Neal frowns and puts the file back.
He had hoped for just a bit more to go on, but nothing in there sounds familiar, no little detail that would do what it can't for everybody else working here: pointing out to a fellow con-artist.
Neal presses his lips into a thin line, thinking about his next step. There are a few options, some that involve Mozzie and some that would need a lot more money and more risks, but Neal could do them alone.
The decision is easy.
Neal closes the drawer, lets it click back into the lock, and stands up.
He co-workers are already by the door of the coffee room, but still absorbed in their little chat.
Neal slips out of the room and is back at his desk even before the two turn around.
-- 1//4 --
"Peter," Neal announces, smile firmly in place, and the few suspicious papers lying carefully hidden on his table.
"Neal." Peter nods, his smile mirroring Neal's own. Neal doesn't even try to fool himself that Peter is not seeing right through him. At least he knows that something is going on.
Neal lets his friend in, closing the door behind him, and he watches Peter and how his eyes travel subtlety through the room.
If Neal wasn't looking for it, he might even have missed it.
"So how was your day?"
"Unproductive.” Peter turns to face Neal. “We got literally zero leads. Whoever that guy is, he is good. Left no traces. A few cameras caught him, but only from behind. He was wearing a hat, he was wearing gloves, he made no mistakes.”
Neal snorts and only when he meets Peter's eyes he realizes that he slipped.
"I know what you're up to, Neal," Peter states, and for a second, Neal's heart stops beating, before he realizes that Peter is talking about something else. He's wearing the half angry, half amused and vaguely curious look of his.
His face would be entirely different, if Peter was talking about something else.
"Neal, I know you, I've been tracking your anklet and I know you've been in the bureau for a few hours before you left. You didn't go home, you didn't meet Mozzie. You kept inside your radius but you went to a place you rarely have been before."
Neal's grin turns brighter as his insides grow cold. "You really got a tight leash on me."
Peter makes a face. "You wanna tell me what you found out?"
Neal hesitates another moment, then grabs for the file hidden underneath some magazines on the table. He opens it, turns it, presenting it to Peter.
"Jeffrey Eindhoven," he explains, gives a name to the blurry picture Peter is studying. "He's from Amsterdam, been in New York for roughly ten years."
"He's not an art thief. He steals because he suddenly decides he needs to have something. He's not what we'd call smart, but he's lucky most of the time. Stole a few things here and there over the last years, always gave them back when he got bored."
"Sounds like an art thief to me."
"He gives them back," Neal repeats.
"And besides, he doesn't do it for the right reasons."
Peter raises an eyebrow at him. "There are right reasons?" There's a smile tugging at the corner of Peter's lips.
Neal doesn't answer. He's pretty sure Peter knows what he means anyway.
"So, how do you know it was him?"
Neal lowers his eyes. "Can't tell you," he tells Peter, doesn't mention why. Doesn't mention the money and the names that have been traded.
"Neal, how are we supposed to get this guy, when you can't tell me anything?"
"I'm working on it," Neal assures him. "His apartment is inside my radius, I can- "
Peter raises a finger.
"-watch him, see if he's making a mistake."
Peter's lips form a thin line, but eventually he looks back up at Neal and nods. "Just watching," he orders.
Neal nods sincerely.
He's learned to lie before he learned to ride a bike.
-- 1//5 --
Jeffrey Eindhoven's "apartment" couldn't look more clichéd if he tried. It is big, of course, way too big for an apartment in Manhattan for only one person, and filled to the brim with art, carelessly displayed or even used as simple decoration.
Neal shudders, feels dirty only walking the floor in this building. His eyes catch a few pieces he would have loved to own himself, but he keeps himself in check, keeps his focus on the task at hand.
Nothing is more important than The Starry Night.
The security system though is surprisingly shallow.
Nothing Neal hasn't seen before. Nothing he hasn't broken in before.
He's in the main hallway not even five minutes later, carefully placing each step.
Jeffrey is probably asleep, in the bedroom on the other side of this hall, which makes a surprisingly large distance.
Neal didn't come to get the painting now.
What he needs is to see this place. To look at the life of Jeffrey Eindhoven to find out where he would hide such a treasure.
Neal snorts as he realizes that he wouldn't be surprised to find it hanging on a wall in the kitchen.
Neal has a small flashlight, one that casts only enough light to see his surroundings, but not too much to be suspicious. He walks through the living room first, soundless, only letting his eyes travel through the room and taking everything in.
He doesn't find much.
At least not something that tells him where the painting is hidden. Eindhoven's place is cluttered in stuff. Trash and expansive art and furniture all mixed together and although Neal can see that this guy has a lot of money, he's certainly not using it for a maid.
He makes his way into what looks like a dining room.
It's not better in here, it's actually worse. Neal's heart clenches in pain as he finds a Picasso standing in the corner, covered in a thin layer of dust. He swears to himself to come back and get it.
Neal turns away, points the flashlight at the opposite corner.
He startles, biting down on his tongue, as the light reaches another man.
Jeffrey Eindhoven has a gun.
And the weird glint in his eyes tells Neal that he's not afraid to use it.
"You're really trying to rob me?" Jeffrey laughs and Neal despises him even more than he did entering the apartment. This guy is clearly insane.
"Dude," the other man starts," there's a reason why I don't have a good security system." He spreads his arms. "It's an invitation for you guys! So who are you, huh? Do I know you? Your name?"
A shiver's running down Neal's spine as he realizes two things. One, that guy is like a grown-up version of a highschool kid that never belonged to the cool clubs and two, he's probably gonna shoot Neal any second now.
"You're not talking, eh?" Jeffrey makes a face-
-and Neal jumps to the side the exact moment the gun fires. The flash of light blinds him for a second, and the a sharp, hot pain bites into his side.
He crashes against the dining table, but he's back on his feet when another shot falls, and Neal is out of the room and around a corner before it can hit him this time.
He clenches his teeth and presses a hand to his side where he can already feel something warm and sticky seep against his fingers.
He can still hear Jeffrey's footsteps behind him, but there's no alarm yet, so Neal is pretty sure that their won't be.
Jeffrey is a lunatic but not stupid. Waking up the whole block now would mean a lot of people, a lot of cops investigating his apartment.
Neal runs down two floors before he pushes the buttons of three elevators, lets them run to various floors, before he gets into a fourth.
He hates taking this risk. But Neal's on the thirty-seventh floor and the pulsing against his hand tells him that he can't take the stairs all the way down.
He sits down on the floor, resting against the cold elevator wall, when the doors close.
He fumbles for the cell phone in his pocket, flipping it open and scrolling down to a Jonathan St. James.
"Hey, Mozzie," he says into the phone. "I think I screwed up."
-- 1//6 --
"Honey, you look distracted." Elizabeth is touching his hand, pulling him right back into reality with her warm skin and her worried smile.
Peter looks down at his coffee, takes another sip, but it's already lukewarm. "Yes, I ... It's just Neal." He makes a gesture with his hand, wiping the issue away as if it was just that easy.
Elizabeth smiles at him, tilting her head in the way she does when she's making fun of him. "When has it ever been "just Neal"?"
Peter nods. He should feel guilty but his wife is right. There's no hiding it.
"Oh, who's that?" Elizabeth grabs for her phone as it starts ringing, her forehead wrinkling as she looks down on the display. She shrugs at Peter.
"Elizabeth Burke?"
Peter watches her face change. She knows the caller, but she doesn’t look less concerned.
"Mozzie. Where ... where are you? It's so loud around you."
Peter and Elizabeth share a worried glance, Peter’s heart doubling it’s pace.
Something happened.
Something serious enough for Mozzie to actually call them. On a phone. Without secret code words and a voice-changer.
Peter has to stop his hands from ripping the phone from his wife's hands and he's relieved as she looks at him, shrugging again, and handing him the phone.
"He's calling from a phone booth," she whispers and Peter can see that she's worried too, that she too understands that something is not right.
"Mozzie?" Peter speaks into the phone. At the same time, his own phone starts buzzing and Peter takes a quick look, barely registers the bureau calling him.
"Look, can we make this quick?" Mozzie says on the other end and he sounds stressed, reminding Peter of a little kid whining when he had to do something he didn't want.
"What happened?" Peter wastes no time.
"Neal got shot."
For a second, Peter's world comes to a screeching halt. Everything stops, everything. There's only blood rushing in his ear, nothing else.
Nothing but the three words ringing inside his head.
"What?" he croaks.
-- 1//7 --
"It's too bad that you're not trapped in a hospital bed, hanging on machines to keep you alive, because then I would at least feel some pity for you," Peter rages the second Neal opens the door of his apartment to him.
"It's just a flesh wound, Peter," Neal sighs, steps back to let him inside the illuminated room. "I was released not even an hour later. But thank you for your concern."
"Breaking into the guys apartment?" Peter asks incredulously. "Neal, are you out of your mind? You're lucky that Mozzie called before the bureau got a hold of me, so I could make up a vague story about the reason why you would be out of your radius."
"I should arrest you, right here and now. I should finally put an end to this." Peter storms past him, even angrier now that he's face to face with Neal.
"You could have died, Neal." His tone is low now, almost clinical. "A few inches, and we wouldn't have this conversation right now."
Neal turns away from him and Peter can see his jaw clench, knowing that Neal tries to keep himself under control. "I didn't," is what he finally says.
"You're out."
That makes Neal's head turn again, big eyes looking at Peter.
"You're sitting this one out. And I mean completely. You stay away from the office until we got this guy and if your tracking anklet is even hinting at you going to do something about this case, I will personally bring you back to jail. Are we clear?"
Neal is furious. It's obvious in the line of his jaw, his tense posture, the clenching of his fists. "You cannot do this."
"I can and I will."
"Peter," Neal steps closer, right into his personal space," We both know that without me, you barely have a shot at getting this guy. I know him. I know how his mind works."
Peter doesn't even blink. "That's exactly what's worrying me."
Neal looks hit, takes a few steps back. "What are scared of more, Peter? That I get myself killed? Or that I might find a job I can't refuse to take?"
Peter's ready to slap Neal in the face. And not just a nice, gentle hit, meant to clear the other guy's head, no, he wants to make his head turn and wants to see his red fingerprints on the cheek for the next few days. He's not a violent person, not by any means, but Neal's too naive for his own good; the most intelligent person he knows, yes, but he runs blue eyed into every disaster he can find.
And Peter's done with watching and caring and worrying and spending his nights saving the other guy's ass when he could spend them at home with his lovely wife.
"Peter," Neal whines, literally whines, switching from being angry to pleading again, and Peter gets it, he does. He knows how important this is to Neal, can see it in the other man's eyes every time they even come close to the subject. He knows Neal good enough to see how hard it is for him, how it's eating him away that he's so close to what he does best and still can't do anything.
And that's what worries Peter the most.
So he can't let him. He won't.
"No. Neal, it's my last word." He actually slams his hand flat on the table before him, feels like his own father doing this but Neal just won't listen, doesn't understand how this is only for his own good.
"You can't shut me out." Neal shakes his head, speaks with a lump in his throat like a little kid. And Peter is dying to know what this really is about.
"I can and I will," Peter makes his point.
They're only a few feet away from each other, the light from the desk illuminating their distance. The distinct sound of New York is falling through the open window, quieter now that it is almost eleven and the rush hours long over.
"I'm not a baby, Peter and I don't need protection!" Neal raises his voice, raises his hands too, and Peter wants to slap the back of the other guy's head just to show him how much of a child he is behaving right now.
"I'm done discussing this with you, Neal," Peter goes on, pulls out the tone he's learned to use as an FBI agent and Neal knows this tone, hates it when Peter uses it on him.
"So you don't trust me, after everything?"
"No!" The word is out before Peter can think about what he's saying and Neal is taken aback, literally. He takes another step away from Peter, his eyes wide. He looks hurt.
"Neal," Peter starts, although he doesn't know what he wants to say, because the truth is, he doesn't trust Neal. Can't. Neal is not letting him.
They're staring at each for a moment, Peter feels trapped in revelations and all these things hanging between them, but there's nothing he can do. He just watches Neal's posture change, watches his face close off and his body turning stiff.
"Alright. I guess I understand now." His words are ice cold, biting with every syllable.
"No, I think you don't, Neal."
Neal cocks his head, an empty look on his face, and he's widening his stance, raising his arms. "Then tell me. Tell me why you can't trust me. Why you won't let me help you with a case you know I could do with eyes closed and hands cuffed behind my back. Tell me why you keep parading me around like a shiny toy, holding me on a tight leash and then letting me do nothing."
Peter clenches his teeth at Neal's words, can't believe what he's hearing. It's Neal and his words are meant to hurt, meant to cut deep, but it's Neal. He doesn't seem to know how good he is at this.
"I am trying to protect you," Peter says for what feels like the thousandths time, slowly and punctuated. "You don't take an ex-alcoholic into a bar, you don't let an ex-druggie work in a pharmacy."
Neal swallows, nods, and the grin he's wearing is nothing but pain. Peter tries to remember how they got here, how they can so easily hurt each other, but then again this has always been there, right underneath the surface, and it's not the first time it's showing it's ugly face.
It's only the worst.
"I can't work and wonder what you will do next, Neal. I can't sleep at night and wonder what you're planning next. You have a life here, a good life, and damn it if I'm not trying my best to protect it. I'm not letting you make another mistake that brings you back to jail. Forever this time."
Silence vibrates between them after Peter's words, their eyes are locked in a never-ending stare. It's an old argument, but Peter sees in Neal's face that there is a new meaning to it. If he only knew what.
"Where are you going?"
Neal shakes his head, walks by Peter and grabs his jacket.
"Neal!"
"Going for a walk," Neal answers and he doesn't meet Peter's eyes. "Please lock the door when you leave."
"Neal." Peter feels stupid repeating his name but he stands there, unable to think of something to do.
Neal is already by the door, the hand on the doorknob, when he turns back around. "And you know what, Peter?" He pauses, the blue of his eyes stabbing. "I've never been a guy who just wonders."
It stings immediately, conjuring up a long forgotten conversation. Peter feels his cheeks flame, feels his breath stutter.
It's a low blow and never something Peter ever thought Neal would be capable of, but it hits right where it counts, builds up images in Peters head like a flash, pictures of Neal kissing another guy, Neal on his knees, Neel writhing in sweat under another male body and suddenly Peter feels sick.
And very turned on.
The air in the room flips, suddenly and inevitably, and Peter feels like he can't breathe.
Neal's hand is still at the door but he's not moving, not leaving.
"Neal, don't do this. Don't leave," Peter says and it's like a déjà-vu, a never ending game he and Neal are playing, and Peter wonders how many times he can win before Neal finally leaves for good.
"You made your point, Peter," Neal says, straightens. "Goodbye."
"God, Neal." Something snaps inside Peter, something that lets anger flare inside him, something that makes his leg move towards the other man, makes him pull Neal away from the door. "You don't understand anything, do you?"
He reaches him, catches Neal on his arm, but then he doesn't know further, doesn't know what needs to be done to stop Neal from leaving.
"Let me go, Peter," Neal spits out and there it is, the anger: raw, untamed anger not longer hidden underneath the stony face. Peter almost feels good seeing it.
"I'm gonna arrest you right here, right now, if you leave now," Peter threatens, takes another step closer to Neal, and their arms are brushing, their breaths mingling. It's a stupid threat, childish and unprofessional, and yet Peter is ready to grab for the handcuffs, ready to do anything not to let him walk through this door.
"Do it." Neal's face is a challenge, his eyes blazing. He's right up into Peter's space, meets his eyes without blinking and Peter's heart is jack hammering in his chest.
And Peter just ... crashes, bursts, breaks.
He launches forward and presses his lips against Neal's, holds the other man's face in his hands and captures his mouth, and the sensation explodes on his skin.
It's better, it's so much worse than he ever thought possible.
It's not the same, it's not just another set of lips, it's a man he's kissing, it's Neal.
Peter stumbles back in shock, panting, eyes wide, and he can't believe what he just did.
Neal doesn't look much different, staring at him the same way.
"Neal, I'm...," Peter croaks, deeply appalled by himself, and panic is starting to creep up his neck, clawing around his heart.
Until Neal dives forward and crashes against him, sealing his mouth with his own and Peter can't do nothing more than take a last desperate breath before he jumps headfirst into the abyss.
Neal's anger is still there, is in every bite of his lips, in every touch of his tongue and God, it's so good, so deliciously good, when Peter open his mouth and lets him in, let's him get closer still.
They're moving. Away from the door - God, finally - and back into the room.
They stop, as Neal winces and moans into Peter’s mouth, and it takes a second until he realizes that they hit the table, that the hard edges are pressing into Neal’s back.
Peter wants to pull back, wants to clear his head, but Neal chases right after him, claims his mouth like he can’t get enough of it, and Peter’s going crazy.
Any thought of stopping is leaving Peter's mind completely. He only wants closer, wants more.
His hands push right under Neal's shirt, ripping it out of his pants, over his head.
The shirt still in his hands, soft and skin-soft, Peter swallows heavily at the sight of Neal.
They're staring at each other, wide-eyed and panting, and Peter can't get enough of Neal leaning against the table, miles and miles of beautiful tanned skin on display, and with his eyes shadowed, his hair disheveled, his lips full and pink.
Peter's gaze falls on the white bandage, sitting high across Neal's slim waist and Peter reaches out, let's his fingertips slide over the cotton.
His hands are shaking.
Neal freezes before him, holding his breath, and when Peter looks up, Neal is biting down on his lip, looking up at him too, and Peter's never seen something more erotic in his life.
He gasps involuntarily, and the next second he's down on his knees, out of his mind crazy, and he does it: his hands around Neal's hips, he buries his nose in the soft fabric, presses his face against Neal's belly, before he moves further down and lips graze that alluring skin.
Neal groans low somewhere above him, but Peter doesn't get distracted, placing open mouthed kisses on every spot he can find, licking it with his tongue, tasting it, tasting Neal.
It's a rush.
Neal's warm and pliant under his hands, but so distinctly male, all hard planes and strong muscle, and Peter loves it, is addicted to it, can't get enough.
It's when Peter gently bites down on the flesh right underneath the navel and Neal moans loudly, openly, groans out Peter's name, that he gets kicked right back into reality.
Peter lets go as if he's been burned, stumbles back on his knees and stares up at Neal, shocked at what he's done, shocked at what he's feeling, what he's wanting.
Awkwardly, he gets back on shaky legs, and he turns to the door, takes one step after another without a word, without looking back, just needing to get out.
Neal's eyes follow him all the way, even haunt him when Peter's is long out of the building.
//next//