The Starry Night - part two
//back to part one//
//part two//
-- 2//1 --
It’s starting to get ridiculous.
Peter's never felt more out of place than he is feeling right now, here, in the middle of the meeting room, the usual place, the usual ungodly hour, the usual faces looking up at him.
But everything is different today.
Neal is not looking at him.
And Neal and he ... they are different today.
"Boss?" Diana pulls Peter back out of his own mind.
She doesn't say anything else, only slightly turns her head and looks at him questioningly.
"Yes, right. So." Peter fumbles with the pen in his hand, feels the eyes of the whole room focused on him.
"Neal," he starts and is shocked by the way his voice quivers, just slightly, but enough that at least Neal would notice. "He found us our thief."
Several heads turn to Neal, but Neal is still looking down at the desk.
Peter turns his gaze away, looks at the file instead.
"His name is Jeffrey Eindhoven," he starts and tells his team what they have.
Neal keeps quiet the whole time.
"So we know who he is and where he is and yet we still can't do anything?" Diana's raspy voice silences the murmurs that started with Peter's story.
Peter nods. "Pretty much."
"But we're sure that he's our guy?" Jones asks.
"I think we can ... trust Neal's contacts with this." Peter risks a short glance, finding Neal looking at him for the first time today. Peter swallows thickly. "Now, what we have to do is find a way to prove that he stole the painting. And - more importantly - we have to find it."
"Neal, can I have a word with you?" Peter asks when the meeting is over. He looks down at his files, feels his face heating up. He can't remember ever feeling this embarrassed in his entire life.
The door to his office shuts, the sound of it echoing in Peter's belly.
He looks up.
He and Neal are alone.
Neal is still standing behind the desk, half the room away, and he's not making any attempts to walk closer.
"Peter." Neal nods friendly, looking directly at him now, his face giving nothing away.
"Neal, I..." Peter stands up straight, clears his throat. He's a little bit proud of himself when he manages to meet the other man's eyes.
"Listen, I am sorry. There is no ... I was out of line, extremely out of line yesterday, and I ..." Peter stops, helplessly. "I just hope you can forgive me."
He coughs, nestling on his tie, when Neal doesn't answer. "I can understand if you don't."
"Peter, no, I'm ..." Neal whispers and Peter looks up, being surprised but the hesitant words.
Neal meets Peter's eyes. "I'm incredibly sorry. I shouldn't have ... let it get so far. You were clearly ..."
"Upset," Peter helps, and immediately his heart is beating faster in his chest and his throat gets dry.
"I shouldn't have taken advantage like that," Neal apologizes.
Peter shakes his head. "No, it's my fault, I shouldn't have ..."
"And Elizabeth," Neal goes on, throws just another punch to Peter's gut," I know how much you love her and you know I love her and I would never do something like that to her and ..."
Peter draws in a deep breath.
They're acting like schoolgirls, tumbling over their words.
"Obviously, it didn't mean anything," Peter says, looking down at the carpet when the words start to ache inside his chest.
"Obviously," Neal repeats and Peter is sure he only imagines the hollow sound to his words.
"So, we're good?"
He watches Neal nod. Peter wishes he would feel relieved now.
He doesn't.
"Neal, there's something else." Peter stops the other man at the door.
Neal waits, turning back to him.
"I know Mozzie is getting involved with the painting." He's had the report on his desk this morning. Another team had found surveillance photos and heard a few whispered words. Peter isn't quite sure why he didn't say anything to anyone when he recognized the little man.
But he's convinced himself that maybe Mozzie could lead them to the painting and it's thief.
Bigger fish and all that.
Neal raises an eyebrow at Peter's revelation, tries and fails not to show how surprised he is.
Peter has been too.
Normally, Mozzie is better than that.
Normally, Neal would have at least known what Mozzie was up to.
"I won't hesitate to arrest him if he gives me reason to," Peter warns but he's sure that Neal understands it like the friendly advice it's supposed to be.
-- 2//2 --
Neal leaves the bureau like he always does.
He smiles at Becky at the front desk, tips his head at Gregor at the door. His steps are normal, his pace not rushed. He calls down a cab, is friendly to the driver, tips generously like he always does.
Inside, Neal tries to remember how to breathe.
He doesn't know if he did take even one breath since Peter left his apartment the last night.
Neal closes his eyes against the images assaulting his mind.
Peter, his eyes dark and his lips kissed-bruised. Peter's hands shaking against Neal's pale skin.
Peter down on his knees.
Neal shudders lightly, the memory still making his head spin and his skin itch for more.
He closes the door to his apartment, resting against it with his eyes pressed shut.
When he opens them again, his gaze falls on the spot on the floor.
This time he crossed the distance and kneels down. He uses the letter opener he's grabbed from the table and pushes it between the floor panels.
He only knows where the spot is because he chose it. Nothing gives it away, no mark, not traces.
He's opened this very hiding place just once before.
His brows draw together angrily when he notices his hands shaking.
The wooden panel opens easily under Neal's efficient hands. His hands find the items in the dark corners of the whole, and he puts one away instantly, knows this one inside and out by now, since he has a few just like this hidden in various other places.
But the other thing.
Neal has never taken a closer look before.
He does now.
The passport looks old, worn, used. Like it had been part of a live lived, like it belonged to a real person, carrying it with him along all the short and long journeys in life. Not like it had been lying months and months under Neal's floor, just waiting for the day Neal would need it.
Neal had always hoped this day would never come.
He opens the passport, studies the picture of him for a moment. It's one of many, resembling him enough but not too much to be raising any flags.
It's the name that Neal's eyes fall on now.
He hasn't read it before, on purpose, didn't want the name already saved in the back of his mind.
It's a name he hasn't read before now.
It's a name not even Mozzie knows about.
Neal draws in a deep breath and lets himself fall back, sits with his arms around one of his legs, staring down on the little document that could change his world forever.
"Plan B," he whispers to himself, trying to believe it.
But with Mozzie's sudden obsession of finding that painting and Peter's reluctance to let a case get to rest without knowing the full and complete story, Neal knows that deep down, his chances of sticking to plan A, of just finding the painting and hiding his secret once again, is getting pretty slim.
-- 2//3 --
"Neal." Mozzie's voice finally cuts through and Neal startles, sits up and blinks like he just woke up.
The look he earns is half annoyance, half pity.
"Neal?" Mozzie says again and this time it's a question.
"Hm?"
Mozzie sighs, lets his hands fall on the table. "Okay, what is wrong with you?"
"What do you mean?" Neal gets up from his chair, walks over the board to get another glass of vine.
Mozzie studies him for a moment, even tilts his head, as if he's seeing something disturbing and yet very interesting.
"You know for a con-man, you are a very bad liar. It's a tragedy."
"Well, you can not succeed in everything."
"True. Even Achilles had his ... Achilles' heel."
Neal sighs. "Nothing is wrong with me, Moz."
Now Mozzie stands up, too. "Au contraire." He raises a finger. "There is one of the most beautiful paintings somewhere hidden in New York - and don't tell me you're not interested in The Starry Night, I've seen your notes about it a few years ago - , your FBI friend is looking for it which means you're even investigating said case and still."
He raises his hands. "Nothing. You're acting like you couldn't care less."
"That's not true," Neal rushes in.
Mozzie looks up at him, frowning. "Why are you lying to me?"
Neal doesn't answer. He turns away from his friend, feeling caught, trapped. Mozzie is already too close to the truth.
"Is it Peter?"
Neals spins back around, feeling incredibly shocked and incredibly relieved at the same time.
"What? Why would you say that?"
Mozzie sighs. "I have seen you like this before, Neal. Obsessing, brooding."
Neal clenches his jaw. "When?"
"With Kate."
Neal is saved by the ringing of his phone.
He startles, but reaches for it immediately, grateful not to have to answer.
He wouldn't know what to say.
Neal glances down at the caller-ID. "It's Peter," he says and his voice sounds weird even to his own ears.
"Of course," is Mozzies answer, and then his friend turns around, gathers his things and leaves the apartment.
Neal answers the phone.
"Neal, look." There's a pause at the other end of the line. "This is ridiculous. You should be here. You should be working on this case with me and we should catch that guy before he disappears forever and I should trust you more, because you earned it, Neal. You earned my trust now."
Neal swallows thickly, feels bile rising in his throat.
"What can I do?" he answers, keeping his voice as straight as he can.
"We got an anonymous tip," Peter explains. "Eindhoven might sell the painting tonight."
Neal frowns. "Are you sure? I don't think he would sell it. Not so soon anyway."
He can practically see Peter shrug wherever he is right now. "It's worth a shot. We're sending two teams for surveillance. You wanna come with, partner?"
Something inside Neal shifts, something sweet and big and surprising. He feels himself smile. "Absolutely."
-- 2//4 --
Peter glances over to Neal, surprised to see the content half smile on the other man's face. "I can't believe you actually like this."
Neal grins openly now. He shifts in his seat, turns his whole body to Peter. "Why not? It's interesting, we're hiding, no one knows what might happen."
Peter feels something ease inside him. This is good. This is normal. They are normal.
Peter matches Neal's grin. "You hate the van."
"Of course I hate the van. The van is small and smelly and ... not elegant."
Peter raises an eyebrow. "Not elegant?"
"It's filled with half a dozen people, everyone staring at a screen or listening into their headphones," Neal waves his hand. "There's no style to it and it's boring."
"And sitting in my old car has style?"
Neal shrugs his shoulder, turns his gaze back out over across the street, where they're spying on their person of interest. "I like your car."
Peter snorts, shakes his head, but he doesn't say anything else.
In fact, he feels content the way it is now. He has his coffee right next to him, a bag of bagels in the back of the car, and Neal and him.
They're okay.
"Do you really think he's in there?" Neal leans towards him, suddenly and hours later where neither of them said a word, and Peter startles, can't hide the goose bumps running over his skin as Neal's hair tickles Peter's skin for a moment.
"We hope so. It's the most likely place."
"If he really did make the trade, he would have shown up by now. Any one of us would have seen him." Peter looks at his friend, finds Neal chewing on his lips and brows drawn together in thought.
"But why would he want to keep it? Half the city is looking for him. Don't you think that even he realizes now that the risk is way too high. Plus," Peter points out. "He knows at least someone knows he has it."
Neal turns and grins at him, proudly, and Peter doesn't have it in him right now to tell him again what a stupid and reckless and illegal idea it was, to break into that guys' apartment.
Neal shakes his head shortly. "I still think he's not going to sell it."
Peter watches Neal openly, the other man looking out of the window. There's something ... tingling in his fingertips, his heartbeat quickening a little.
"If you're sure that he's not gonna show," Peter starts, his voice surprisingly even," why did you come then?"
Peter clears his throat, keeps his eyes on Neal, and it takes a moment until he turns around, meets Peter's eyes.
"Told you. I said I like the car."
If Peter was anybody else, anyone, he would have believed that. But he isn't, he's Peter Burke, and he knows Neal better than anyone else, so he can see right through, see that lie right behind the clear - beautiful, breathtaking - eyes.
Peter can think of two options why Neal would lie about this to him. One would bring Neal right back into jail and the other ... the other makes Peter's mouth go dry and his heart beat painfully against his chest.
The space of the car feels suddenly too tight, the air too thin, and Peter is aware of every move Neal makes, of every twist and turn of his head, of every time he raises his hands to brush a hair out of his face, of every goddamn breath he takes.
Peter glances to his watch. He's thinking about how soon would be too soon to call this whole stake out off.
-- 2//5 --
The car stops eventually at Neal's place and Neal startles, wasn't paying attention, too wrapped up in his own mind. The atmosphere has calmed down between them, almost feels comfortable again, but it's Neal's skin that's itching, feeling too thin and too tight, like it's not fitting him anymore and his heart is beating rapidly in his chest as if it knows something Neal doesn't yet.
"We're there," Peter says and his low voice rumbles through the intimate confines of the car. "You don't want to leave?"
No, it screams inside Neal's head, the right answer to a different question and it hurts, hurts knowing that he has to go still, has to pack up and leave. It hurts that there is no other choice for him, now more than ever. He loves these people too much, enough not wanting to hurt them, dangerously close to enough not to care about that anymore.
"Yeah." Neal nods, his hand grabbing for the door. "Yeah, sure."
"Okay, see you in the morning," Peter says warily, shows him a small smile and Neal forces one of his own.
He has one feet on the sidewalk when his blood runs too hot, his lungs get too tight, and he turns back around. He reaches for Peter, grabs his collar with one hand and the back of the other man's head with the other, and he pulls, captures Peter's lips in a heartbeat.
It feels like heaven, like sin, better than anything else he's tasted, and Neal needs more, already, pushes in and opens Peter's mouth with his tongue.
He groans, matching the noises Peter's making, when the other man lets him.
It's over as fast as it started. Neal pulls away, his body screaming at him as he turns away, rips himself of the other man and he can't look, can't watch Peter, as he climbs out of the car into the cool morning air and slams the door shut.
He still waits at the side. His feet are frozen to the ground, his lungs burning, and he's made a mistake, again, and all he can think of right now is how he wants to get back into this car and do it all over again.
He thinks of Elizabeth and his heart is bursting with guilt, but he's already too deep in, already learned the taste of her husband, the feel of his lips against Neal's own, and there's nothing he can do to erase that. To un-want that.
Peter doesn't drive off, not at first.
Neal can't really see his face, can only see Peter's hands on the wheel, trembling.
I did this, he thinks with a mixture of guilt and arousal.
The start of the engine makes Neal jerk, makes him draw in a sharp breath and when Peter finally drives off, Neal can imagine how a real goodbye will feel.
-- 2//6 --
Peter parks the car, kills the engine, and when he catches sight of his hands, he finds that he is still trembling.
With wobbly legs, he gets out of his car and manages to shut the door quietly enough, makes his way to the house and unlocks the front door, the keys jingling in his hands.
He's tired. Dead on his feet tired, but he feels also more awake than ever, the adrenaline still spiking high, and he doesn't know what to do with this, doesn't know what to do with the knowledge of the last few hours.
This is worse than the first time, when he could still blame it on a spur of the moment, a lapse of judgment. This is worse. Because this is twice.
Peter knows he has to tell Elizabeth, knows that he can't hide this from her another day. But he's dreading that talk, would do anything to spare his wife the pain it will cause.
Peter pauses in the living room, leans his head against the wall. He can't do it anymore. Can't bare it alone another second. What he feels ... what he wants, it scares him, hurts him and deep down, it excites him more than he would ever be able to admit.
However, it doesn't change a single thing about how much he loves his wife, how much he respects her and how much he cares about her.
"Honey." The voice comes from the stairs and the light is switched on, blinds Peter for a second.
Elizabeth is standing at the foot of the stairs, beautiful in her nightdress, her lovely eyes set worriedly on her husband.
Peter's heart breaks seeing her like this, knowing, that he caused it.
"You know what I'm most afraid of?" she asks and her voice barely trembles. "This. You. Not talking me to me."
//next//