[WC Fic] "Cake or Death", rated PG-13 (Part 1 of 1)
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Title: Cake or Death
Author: Ivorysilk
Rating: PG
Characters: Elizabeth, Neal, Peter, and a bit of Mozzie and June
Word Count: About 4500
Spoilers: None, and everything up to season three, really.
Summary:
As soon as Elizabeth Burke left the shop, Mozzie turned to him and hissed, "You are way out of your league."
Neal smiled. "Oh, harmless flirting. It’s like a dance."
“No,” snapped Mozzie. “Her husband is an FBI agent. There is no dance. You better not even be on her dance card. No dancing for you.”
Pairing(s): Pre- P/E/N.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, or this universe. I am writing this for my own self-indulgent fun, and because, like Neal, I clearly covet other people's things, even if they will never be my own.
Thanks:To jrosemary and Elrhiarhodan for the beta; as well as to rabidchild67 for helping me to picture Mozzie as a baker. Title from the Eddie Izzard vid.
Author’s Notes:: Written for hoosierbitch for the wcpairings for the prompt: Neal and Mozzie run a bakery, and Elizabeth orders from them all the time for her catering business--and brings her husband in one day to try the sandwiches (or something that involves a flour-dusted Neal). OT3 or gen or whatever is fine. :)
B, I loved your prompts and was really excited to write for you, and then I picked this prompt, got stuck; started another one, got stuck; and then just whined at everyone that would listen for days. This is the one that eventually got done, and I am so sorry this is so late, but I hope you like it (because of how I adore you, as you know), and eventually, eventually I will write you the other one, too.
Comments, positive or negative, are treasured. Thanks for reading.
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Elizabeth was busy.
The small gallery opening in Jersey--more trouble than it was worth, but she loved the quirky little place, with its eccentric owner and regular stream of intense local artists--was tomorrow, the Muller wedding was the day after, and the bride had just called to change the reception menu.
Again.
So when her caterer called to say that they would not be able to provide the pre-reception hors d’oeuvres, Elizabeth did not panic. She did not have time to panic.
“What’s the best way to get to the Greatest Cake?” she asked Yvonne, who usually went every day.
“Oh, I’ll go,” said Yvonne. “Don’t worry. I don’t--”
“No,” said Elizabeth, grabbing her purse, “I need you to stay and finish dealing with these accounts.”
“Oh, but--” said Yvonne, looking distressed.
“Don’t worry,” said Elizabeth firmly. “I might as well meet the owner anyway, you know I like to meet our suppliers, it’s good for business. I’ll be back in about an hour. You said they did quiche?”
“Yes,” said Yvonne, still looking upset. “They’re very good. Elizabeth, are you sure--”
“The best way you could help is by finishing up those accounts, Yvonne, and if you could start on the inventory--” Elizabeth didn’t understand--Yvonne hated anyone else messing up her accounts, and they needed to be done by the end of the day.
“Really, I could--” Yvonne began again.
“I’ll be back in an hour. The accounts. By the time I get back.” And with a stern look she left the office, Yvonne looking forlornly at her back.
*****************
The directions to the bakery were unnecessarily complicated, but when Elizabeth typed the address into her iPhone, it appeared to be no more than a ten minute walk from her office. She frowned. From what Yvonne had said, it had seemed like it would take an age.
But she found the place, a few blocks from the courthouses, with no trouble, and entered to the sound of a small tinkling bell announcing her entrance. The scents of baking chocolate and cinnamon and rising bread filled the air, and counter staff bustled around, trying to fill the orders of the people packed into the small shop. Elizabeth’s heart sank--she should have called ahead, made an appointment. But she was in a jam, and she didn’t have the time to second guess and so, marching up to the front counter, she caught the eye of one of the counter-staff.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, you’ll have to--”
“I need to speak to your manager, or your owner. Is he around?”
“Uh, well, Mr. Haversham’s not in, but--”
“Well, then, is Mr. Caffrey around?”
“Uh, Mr. Caffrey is--”
“Mr. Caffrey is not available.” An older woman came up behind the younger one, her voice disapproving. “Can I help you?”
“My name is Elizabeth Burke. I’m the owner of Burke Premier Events, and I really need to--”
“June, do you have--”
A dark haired man came through the door to the back room. And he was beautiful.
His hair was in spiked disarray, and dusted with white flecks. He had a streak of flour across one cheek, and a dark brown stain--probably chocolate--on his pale green t-shirt. He was head to toe gorgeous, but the mussed up quality of him, the energy in his movements, and then, the smile as he turned to her--he was irrresistable.
Elizabeth had to remind herself to breathe.
“Neal!” exclaimed the older woman. “You really shouldn’t--”
“Hello!” asked Neal, turning right to Elizabeth and focussing all his attention--and the kilowatt smile--directly on her. “Do I know you?”
“We’ve spoken,” said Elizabeth, collecting herself with effort. “I’m Elizabeth Burke, of Burke Premiere Events, we have--”
“Oh, of course, Mrs. Burke! I’m surprised.”
“Oh, I know, I should have made an appointment, I’m--”
“No, I’m surprised that none of your employees told me how amazing you are.” He moved forward, snatching up her hand in one fluid moment, bending forward and kissing her palm. “Enchante, madame. I have been waiting to meet the lady with such exquisite taste.”
Elizabeth snatched her hand back, feeling oddly guilty. No one had told her Neal Caffrey was so charming.
Or so good looking.
No wonder her girls--and boy--had no trouble giving the orders in person; daily selection my foot.
“Neal,” said June, “perhaps you’d like to continue your conversation with Mrs. Burke in the back room? The customers are waiting.”
“Oh, of course,” said Neal. “I am--”
“Go on, dear,” said June kindly, smiling at him, while still looking less than approving of Elizabeth, and he leaned forward to kiss June’s cheek, before fluttering his hand at Elizabeth and gesturing for her to precede him through the doorway.
And Elizabeth went.
The back room was a picture of chaos, with a small balding man screaming at a young, pimple-faced boy about bowls.
“Oh,” said Neal, glancing at the scene distracting Elizabeth. “Mozzie’s in a white phase right now, and Victor keeps bringing out the red bowls. He’s June’s nephew, but she might fire him--she’s not convinced he’s going to last.”
“A white phase?” asked Elizabeth, curiously.
“Yes, the specials this week involve a lot of custards and creams. Moz is -- he’s got his own method, but he always wanted to own a bakery. I’m more of the cake guy.”
“Cake guy?”
“He bakes shirtless,” called Mozzie.
“I don’t,” protested Neal. “I only do the decorating anyway.”
“Vanity!” cried Mozzie, “sheer vanity!”
“I forgot my apron! That one time!” objected Neal, clearly affronted.
Mozzie snorted, while Neal steered Elizabeth towards a tiny cramped back office.
“I decorate, and do the menus and the business operations. Which brings me to this--if I do this for you,” he said, “would it be worth a meeting, in a week?”
“Can you do it?” she countered. “Four types, two hundred people, by tomorrow?”
“One week,” he replied, his blue eyes intense.
And Elizabeth nodded, feeling oddly like her life was about to change.
**********************
The Connor Gallery opening was a smashing success. The wine sparkled, the cheese selection--a creamy camembert, a robust smoky blue, and a sharp cheddar--was delicious. The hors d’oeuvres, prepared by the Greatest Cake, were divine. There were sweet onion tarts, and mini quiches filled with smoked salmon and asparagus; cheese bites on airy brioche, and puff pastry with some kind of chicken cream, which Elizabeth didn’t quite follow when Mozzie explained but was delicious.
Best of all, Elizabeth had a new supplier, one for more than just desserts and baked treats. He was reliable, he was creative, and, well, he looked damned fine in a suit. She looked across the room where he was chatting up some older lady dripping in far too many jewels that did not enough to make up for her drab and somewhat ill-fitting dress. He smiled at her, a hint of mischief in his blue blue eyes, and tipped his glass at her.
And she was lost.
Wrap up was quick and efficient, she avoided talking to him except as necessary, and rushed home. Sleeping next to Peter that evening--his back broad and strong, his breathing deep and even, their room safe and secure--she vowed to put the devastatingly handsome bakery owner out of her mind.
She didn’t go to the bakery for the next few days--sending Brittany, Yvonne, Cody, and then Yvonne again--until one Wednesday, mid-month. The late afternoon sunlight was glinting through the half-closed blinds and Elizabeth was preparing to go home. She’d had a string of late nights due to weekday events but the evening was free, and she intended to take full advantage--until she got a text from Peter.
Sorry, El, but I have to cancel date night. We’re close to catching this guy, and I can’t leave the office just yet. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.
I don’t know, she texted back teasingly, I might get a better offer by then.
I would be heartbroken and crushed, came the reply, followed by, I love you, hon. I’ll be home as soon as I can.
And then Neal Caffrey appeared. He was wearing a simple linen shirt and jeans, and it was like a beam of sunshine enveloped him as he walked into her tasteful storefront office. “Elizabeth?” he said, “I have a proposition for you.”
She looked at him, and blurted. “I’m married.”
He smiled. “It’s not that kind of proposition.”
***********************
Elizabeth was, first and foremost, a businesswoman. Neal Caffrey, she discovered, was nothing if not ready and willing to capitalize on a good business opportunity, so long as his friend Mozzie pushed him in the right direction. Expanding a business took time, and effort, and many long, long hours. It was good, and Elizabeth thrived on the challenge--but it was also exhausting, and tedious, and kept her away from home.
And Peter.
Peter was remarkably understanding about it all, when she called late to say that she and Neal had to go over the business plan once again, when she called to say that she and Neal needed to sort out the details of the Carrisford’s garden party because there had been a last minute venue change, when she called to say that the Gupta wedding was running two hours late and she wouldn’t be home and he should go on to bed without her.
“Is Neal with you?” he asked.
“Yes, he’s going to try to get them back on track; he hates having his schedule re-arranged.”
“Out with Caffrey all night again--should I be jealous?” he asked. His tone was teasing, although Elizabeth thought she detected a trace of insecurity behind it.
“Never, hon,” she said. “And I’ll show you. Tomorrow night, when you get home--you’ll know just how jealous who ought to be of whom.”
Peter chuckled. “I’m going to hold you to that, Mrs. Burke.”
“I’m good for it,” she said, teasing back. “You know I always fulfill my obligations.”
“Am I just an obligation, then?” he asked, and she wondered if she were only imagining the hint of hurt in his voice.
“No, Peter,” she replied. “You’re -- oh, Neal, I’m sorry. Yes, I’ll talk to you later, hon. Bye.”
And so the late nights and long hours continued. It was nothing that Peter hadn’t done for years, stakeouts and cases often keeping him away from home at all hours, but Elizabeth felt strangely guilty about spending all her evenings with one man, and doing it willingly, while her husband made his own dinner and put himself to bed.
Not that Peter ever seemed he minded. He’d always been exceedingly supportive of her and her career. But Elizabeth was not a stupid woman--neglecting her marriage was not something she intended to do, and she never wanted to make a choice between her marriage and her career. And as she and Neal worked together, and grew closer, ignoring the attraction between them became more difficult.
Four months later, Neal was standing next to her at a charity ball for the pediatric wing at Beth Israel, and she turned to him and said, “How do you feel about the new martini bar on 9th for afterwards? I feel like its been a really long week.”
“Your husband not home again?” Neal murmured, smiling graciously at one of the guests as they passed by.
“No, Peter’s working late,” she said, distracted by one of the servers, whose gait was beginning to look rather like she’d had a glass of wine. Or four. “He’s got another stakeout. He’s--”
“Elizabeth,” Neal said, his head turned away, following her line of sight. “It’s not a good idea. You should go home.”
There was a strange note in his voice. “Neal?” she asked. “Is something wrong?” She looked up at him, concerned, but he was still staring at the server.
“No,” he said. “I just--I can’t. Not tonight.”
“Another time, then,” she said, strangely disappointed.
“Yes,” he replied. “Another time.”
And when Elizabeth drove home that evening, to a dark and empty house, she felt strangely bereft, as if she’d lost something she hadn’t even been sure she had.
******************
“I haven’t heard you mention your handsome young man lately,” Peter said, as they washed up from dinner.
She hadn’t seen Neal in over a week. She’d asked him to check out the new exhibit at the Channing, to drop by for lunch, to accompany her to an evening lecture at the Met--but he’d turned her down, each time. Their conversations over the last week or two had consisted of just the bare bones of what they’d needed to discuss for the sake of business, and nothing more, not even friendly chit chat. Elizabeth was a little hurt by it--and given Peter’s long hours this last week, as he chased someone called the Architect--a little lonely. She’d taken Mozzie to the lecture instead, and it had been fun--she genuinely enjoyed the company of the strange little man--but it was not quite the same as going with Neal.
And then she realized Peter’s choice of descriptor. “What makes you call him handsome?” she asked, startled.
“I don’t know,” Peter shrugged, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her. “Just the way you talk about him, I guess. Is he?”
“Yes,” she said, admitting it while turning in Peter’s arms. She leaned up to kiss him, leaning into it, loving the feeling of familiar, of safety and security and Peter in the feel of him, the smell of him, relaxing into his arms, “I guess he is.”
“I knew it," exclaimed Peter, a hint of triumph along with teasing in his voice. "You working late with him again tonight?” Elizabeth turned back to the dishes.
“No, there’s nothing on this evening, I haven’t heard from him in days, and everything seems under control.” She scrubbed a pot with vigor.
“So ... does that mean you’re coming to bed early tonight?” Peter’s voice was hopeful, but when she replied, Elizabeth sounded sad without meaning to.
“Yeah.”
“What’s wrong, hon?” Peter kissed her hair, his voice concerned.
“Nothing.” She turned slightly, pressing a kiss to the corner of Peter’s mouth, her hands covered in soap suds.
“Oh, don’t tell me it’s Neal Caffrey!” Peter said into her ear. “I’ve been competing with him for three months!” He tightened his hold a minute, before asking, “He reneging on his deal or something?”
“No, he’s left clear instructions, and between Mozzie and June, all the orders are being filled. It’s just--I guess I liked dealing with him directly.”
Peter chuckled. “Huh, it’s worse than I thought. I guess I better get a head start on the competition, then, huh? Want me to strut my stuff upstairs?”
Elizabeth giggled, rinsing off her hands, wiping them with a tea towel. “You’re still terrible at flirting, hon,” she said, “but you don’t have to. I can’t wait to have you all to myself. Turn off your cell phone, will you?”
“I’m leaving it downstairs,” Peter muttered, tugging on her blouse. “I haven’t had a night off in two weeks, and Jones and Diana can manage anything short of Federal Plaza being blown up.”
“I’m not sure, Mr. Burke,” said Elizabeth, peppering her words with kisses as she tugged Peter up the stairs, “I’d let you go even then.”
Later, when they lay in bed, sleepy and sated, Elizabeth’s hair spread out over Peter’s chest, and Peter’s hand idly playing with the strands of it, Peter said, “Your business venture has been keeping you busy. It’s going well, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. I didn’t think it would, actually, Neal seemed, I don’t know, a little flaky, but he’s actually got a really great mind for the business. It works, Peter.”
“I’d like to meet him,” said Peter.
“I’d like that,” said Elizabeth, and somehow, as she said the words, it felt right. Like a relief.
Like something was finally working the way it should be, and Elizabeth fell asleep that night with a smile.
**************************
“He’s not here, dear,” said June, as Elizabeth dropped by the bakery the next morning.
“What do you mean,” asked Elizabeth, slightly shocked. Neal hadn’t told her he was going away. “He didn’t tell me--”
“Perhaps I could have a word with you in private,” said June, gesturing towards the back room.
“Of course,” said Elizabeth. “Of course. I--did he say when he’d be back?” June gestured her into a tiny back office, crammed with papers and cookbooks, pulling the door shut. The room was tiny and Elizabeth couldn’t help feeling she was trapped within. She glanced at the door even as she sat down in the extra chair.
“No,” said June, sitting down herself behind the small desk. “He didn’t. I should tell you, Elizabeth, that Neal speaks very highly of you.” Despite her words, June did not look pleased. Elizabeth did not know what to say.
“He does?” she asked, at a loss.
“Yes. He does. And I have known him a long time. There aren’t many people he speaks of in such terms.” June’s voice was chilly.
“Oh. Well, I think very highly of him as well,” replied Elizabeth, flustered.
“His last girlfriend, Kate, did not treat him well.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. He hasn’t mentioned her to me.”
“She died, about a year ago. Six months before she left him, which he wouldn’t accept. He was devastated at the time.” June’s voice was like ice.
“I--you know, I would really like to speak to Neal--” There was something in June’s manner that was extremely unnerving, and Elizabeth was growing rapidly uncomfortable.
“I am his friend. In fact, Neal is like a son to me. His welfare is extremely important to me. And to Mr. Haversham. We have discussed Neal at length. And you.”
“Well, we are in a business arrangement, and so I can understand that, we should probably have explained--”
“No, Neal has explained all of that to us. That’s not the part that concerns us. Did you know that Neal has no surviving family?”
“Yes, he’d mentioned that. He is very close to both you and Mozzie, I know--”
“Whereas you, Mrs. Burke,” and June very delicately stressed the honorific, “have a husband, a family, a network of friends. None of whom have ever met Neal. And Neal looks a lot stronger and more confident than he might actually be.”
“I would never hurt him, Mrs. Ellington. Believe me,” said Elizabeth quietly. “It’s not like that. We’re business partners.” She stressed the word business, suddenly near tears. That’s all they were. That’s all--
“Mrs. Burke,” said June, and then suddenly, leaning forward, she put her hand over Elizabeth’s. “Oh, my dear. You should be very careful about what you do, but you should also not deny yourself. Or him.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Elizabeth, gathering her purse, and blinking rapidly. “I don’t--”
“Life,” said June, “is too short to wear blinders, my dear. Far too short, and you’re hurting him too.” Elizabeth stood, her hand on the door, not looking back, but she paused when June spoke again. “He’ll be back the day after tomorrow,” June added, “and I suggest you speak with him at that time. Good day, Mrs. Burke.”
And Elizabeth fled into the warm afternoon sunshine.
*******************
“Elizabeth!” said Neal brightly through the telephone, “I haven’t spoken to you in ages!”
“You went away,” accused Elizabeth. “You left and didn’t tell me." She didn't bother to hide her hurt, or to pretend, as Neal clearly was.
“I know, but I had, you know, things to attend to," said Neal, still in that overly-bright tone. "I’m back now, and I have a fantastic idea for the Cho anniversary party!” As if it didn't matter.
Because maybe it didn't. Maybe, maybe it couldn't.
Elizabeth took a deep breath, letting it go.
“That’s great,” she said slowly, re-focusing on the work again, “but what about the Anderson’s baby shower?”
“That’s on Saturday,” said Neal, sounding confused.
“I know. I was thinking--”
“I wasn’t planning to go to it,” said Neal, “and I know you weren’t, so why don’t you leave it with Yvonne, you know you’ve been saying that she needs more responsibility--”
“No, Yvonne’s taking care of the Sanchez’s sweet sixteen--”
“Elizabeth!” said Neal admonishingly, cutting her off. “You weren’t going to deal with the baby shower yourself, were you?”
“Sure, why not?” asked Elizabeth, surprised. “It’s not that big an affair, Peter’ll be caught up with work this weekend anyway--”
“Won’t you be too rushed? And doesn’t Peter want to spend the day with you?”
“Uh, I guess, but he already told me he has to be at the office most of the day and--”
“Even on his birthday?” asked Neal, and Elizabeth gasped audibly.
“I planned this all out six months ago," she ranted, "promised I’d take the day off, and then--”
“Elizabeth, relax, you still have a few days,” said Neal, trying to placate her.
“No, this is what happened last year. I told myself I had to focus on the business, and I’d make up for it next year with more than just dinner and lingerie, and--”
Neal chuckled. “Skip the dinner.”
“No, no, it’s his 45th! I need something special.” There was a note of hysteria in her voice.
“Okay, okay, calm down. What’s he into?”
“Sexually?”
“Ew, no! I mean cake-wise. What flavor does he like?”
“Well, you know Peter.”
“Actually, I don’t. I have never met him.”
“You know, I don’t know.”
“You deal with fancy food all the time, and you don’t know what flavor of cake your husband likes?”
“Well, he’s a traditional guy. I don’t know, he--”
“You know what, Elizabeth. Leave it to me.”
“You’ll make him a cake?”
“For you? Of course. You’ve told me so much about him, I feel like I know him almost as well as you, and I’ll figure it out. Can you loan me a key?”
“What for? Listen, Neal, I appreciate it, but you really don’t have --”
“I insist. And I’ll need access to your kitchen for the day.”
And of course, even though Elizabeth was not quite sure why Neal would want to do such a thing, even though she was half convinced this was a bad idea, Neal was so charming that Elizabeth found herself giving Neal her spare key and her security access code anyway.
*********************************
Peter frowned as he came up the front step. The front door was slightly ajar, although the screen door was secured. He dialed Elizabeth.
“Elizabeth?”
“Peter? What’s wrong? I’m--Yvonne, no, that’s for the, no, don’t put that--Peter, what’s wrong?”
“It sounds like you’re busy.”
“Just a little. Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine, hon. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
“I love you, birthday boy. I’ll be done soon. When do you think you’ll be home?”
“In a bit. I’ll see you soon. Love you back.”
He drew his gun as he ended the call. Someone was in his house.
He crept round the back, and entered quietly through the side door, opened it and--
The dark haired man in the kitchen swung around. “Agent Burke!”
The man was shirtless, with streaks of red and blue paint on his face and body. He was holding a paint brush. His hair was dusted with a white powder. His smile was wide and blinding--until he noticed the gun.
“Neal Caffrey? Never mind. You are under arrest.”
“Oh, am I? Why?” He blinked in bemusement at Peter.
“You’re in my house. You’re in my kitchen. You’re not wearing a shirt.” Peter wondered when his life had gotten this absurd.
“I realize. Elizabeth gave me a key. Can I get you a drink? Oh, here.” Neal handed Peter a stick with a green ball at the end. Peter looked at it suspiciously, not lowering the gun. “What’s this?”
“A cake pop. I’ll let Elizabeth know you’re home.”
“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” Peter kept the gun trained on Neal.
“Because he’s vain. He says it helps him create, but it’s because he’s vain.” A short, balding man wearing a toque wandered through the doorway, sipping from a glass of wine. “He doesn’t like guns, by the way.”
“Mozzie!” cried Neal.
“If you’d buy shirts that cost less than a hundred dollars," postulated Mozzie, "maybe you would not feel compelled to remove your shirt every time--”
Peter holstered his weapon, thoroughly confused. “Who are you? Why are you dressed as a pastry chef and wearing one of those floppy chef’s hats?”
“It’s called a toque,” offered Neal.
“I know what it’s called,” Peter snapped. “Why is he here? Why are you here?”
“I’m leaving, actually,” replied Moz. “Suit, Happy Birthday. Neal, I’ll see you at home.”
“You have your own home,” said Neal pointedly.
“That hurts,” said Mozzie, draining his glass and promptly walking out the door behind Peter.
“Happy Birthday, Peter,” Neal said, “I was--” He waved to the left, where Peter saw . . .
A three tier cake. A tiny figure, dark haired, dressed in a dark suit, wearing a tiny hat, and holding a cardboard roll was rappelling down one side of the second tier. At the top, an easel was set up, with a perfect miniature replica of Monet’s water lilies. And on the bottom tier of the cake stood a figure in a brown suit, holding a pair of handcuffs. Part of the bottom tier looked unfinished, but the rest of the cake--the rest was a work of art.
“Happy Birthday, Peter. I hope you--”
“It’s a cake.”
“Do you like it?” There was a note of shyness in Neal’s voice, a hint of vulnerability, and Peter looked up, and caught his breath.
Neal was looking at him. There was flour in his hair, and one bicep had a dollop of green something--probably icing--smeared across flawless, tanned skin. He looked uncertain and young.
Peter took a tentative bite of the cake pop. A layer of vanilla fondue over sweet chocolate buttercream over a delicately flavored orange cake filled his mouth, flowed over his tongue. He licked a bit of buttercream off his lips, and noticed that Neal was watching him. Intently.
“You have flour in your hair,” said Peter blandly, staring right back at him.
Neal scrubbed a hand across his hair, causing it to spike into disarray. “I think that’s icing sugar.”
“So,” said Peter casually, “you’re who my wife has been chasing for the past few months.”
Neal winced. “I--Peter, I didn’t--I wouldn’t--”
Peter took a step forward and Neal froze.
And then Peter smiled and took another bite of his delicious cake pop.
*********************
Title: Cake or Death
Author: Ivorysilk
Rating: PG
Characters: Elizabeth, Neal, Peter, and a bit of Mozzie and June
Word Count: About 4500
Spoilers: None, and everything up to season three, really.
Summary:
As soon as Elizabeth Burke left the shop, Mozzie turned to him and hissed, "You are way out of your league."
Neal smiled. "Oh, harmless flirting. It’s like a dance."
“No,” snapped Mozzie. “Her husband is an FBI agent. There is no dance. You better not even be on her dance card. No dancing for you.”
Pairing(s): Pre- P/E/N.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, or this universe. I am writing this for my own self-indulgent fun, and because, like Neal, I clearly covet other people's things, even if they will never be my own.
Thanks:To jrosemary and Elrhiarhodan for the beta; as well as to rabidchild67 for helping me to picture Mozzie as a baker. Title from the Eddie Izzard vid.
Author’s Notes:: Written for hoosierbitch for the wcpairings for the prompt: Neal and Mozzie run a bakery, and Elizabeth orders from them all the time for her catering business--and brings her husband in one day to try the sandwiches (or something that involves a flour-dusted Neal). OT3 or gen or whatever is fine. :)
B, I loved your prompts and was really excited to write for you, and then I picked this prompt, got stuck; started another one, got stuck; and then just whined at everyone that would listen for days. This is the one that eventually got done, and I am so sorry this is so late, but I hope you like it (because of how I adore you, as you know), and eventually, eventually I will write you the other one, too.
Comments, positive or negative, are treasured. Thanks for reading.
*********************************
Elizabeth was busy.
The small gallery opening in Jersey--more trouble than it was worth, but she loved the quirky little place, with its eccentric owner and regular stream of intense local artists--was tomorrow, the Muller wedding was the day after, and the bride had just called to change the reception menu.
Again.
So when her caterer called to say that they would not be able to provide the pre-reception hors d’oeuvres, Elizabeth did not panic. She did not have time to panic.
“What’s the best way to get to the Greatest Cake?” she asked Yvonne, who usually went every day.
“Oh, I’ll go,” said Yvonne. “Don’t worry. I don’t--”
“No,” said Elizabeth, grabbing her purse, “I need you to stay and finish dealing with these accounts.”
“Oh, but--” said Yvonne, looking distressed.
“Don’t worry,” said Elizabeth firmly. “I might as well meet the owner anyway, you know I like to meet our suppliers, it’s good for business. I’ll be back in about an hour. You said they did quiche?”
“Yes,” said Yvonne, still looking upset. “They’re very good. Elizabeth, are you sure--”
“The best way you could help is by finishing up those accounts, Yvonne, and if you could start on the inventory--” Elizabeth didn’t understand--Yvonne hated anyone else messing up her accounts, and they needed to be done by the end of the day.
“Really, I could--” Yvonne began again.
“I’ll be back in an hour. The accounts. By the time I get back.” And with a stern look she left the office, Yvonne looking forlornly at her back.
*****************
The directions to the bakery were unnecessarily complicated, but when Elizabeth typed the address into her iPhone, it appeared to be no more than a ten minute walk from her office. She frowned. From what Yvonne had said, it had seemed like it would take an age.
But she found the place, a few blocks from the courthouses, with no trouble, and entered to the sound of a small tinkling bell announcing her entrance. The scents of baking chocolate and cinnamon and rising bread filled the air, and counter staff bustled around, trying to fill the orders of the people packed into the small shop. Elizabeth’s heart sank--she should have called ahead, made an appointment. But she was in a jam, and she didn’t have the time to second guess and so, marching up to the front counter, she caught the eye of one of the counter-staff.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, you’ll have to--”
“I need to speak to your manager, or your owner. Is he around?”
“Uh, well, Mr. Haversham’s not in, but--”
“Well, then, is Mr. Caffrey around?”
“Uh, Mr. Caffrey is--”
“Mr. Caffrey is not available.” An older woman came up behind the younger one, her voice disapproving. “Can I help you?”
“My name is Elizabeth Burke. I’m the owner of Burke Premier Events, and I really need to--”
“June, do you have--”
A dark haired man came through the door to the back room. And he was beautiful.
His hair was in spiked disarray, and dusted with white flecks. He had a streak of flour across one cheek, and a dark brown stain--probably chocolate--on his pale green t-shirt. He was head to toe gorgeous, but the mussed up quality of him, the energy in his movements, and then, the smile as he turned to her--he was irrresistable.
Elizabeth had to remind herself to breathe.
“Neal!” exclaimed the older woman. “You really shouldn’t--”
“Hello!” asked Neal, turning right to Elizabeth and focussing all his attention--and the kilowatt smile--directly on her. “Do I know you?”
“We’ve spoken,” said Elizabeth, collecting herself with effort. “I’m Elizabeth Burke, of Burke Premiere Events, we have--”
“Oh, of course, Mrs. Burke! I’m surprised.”
“Oh, I know, I should have made an appointment, I’m--”
“No, I’m surprised that none of your employees told me how amazing you are.” He moved forward, snatching up her hand in one fluid moment, bending forward and kissing her palm. “Enchante, madame. I have been waiting to meet the lady with such exquisite taste.”
Elizabeth snatched her hand back, feeling oddly guilty. No one had told her Neal Caffrey was so charming.
Or so good looking.
No wonder her girls--and boy--had no trouble giving the orders in person; daily selection my foot.
“Neal,” said June, “perhaps you’d like to continue your conversation with Mrs. Burke in the back room? The customers are waiting.”
“Oh, of course,” said Neal. “I am--”
“Go on, dear,” said June kindly, smiling at him, while still looking less than approving of Elizabeth, and he leaned forward to kiss June’s cheek, before fluttering his hand at Elizabeth and gesturing for her to precede him through the doorway.
And Elizabeth went.
The back room was a picture of chaos, with a small balding man screaming at a young, pimple-faced boy about bowls.
“Oh,” said Neal, glancing at the scene distracting Elizabeth. “Mozzie’s in a white phase right now, and Victor keeps bringing out the red bowls. He’s June’s nephew, but she might fire him--she’s not convinced he’s going to last.”
“A white phase?” asked Elizabeth, curiously.
“Yes, the specials this week involve a lot of custards and creams. Moz is -- he’s got his own method, but he always wanted to own a bakery. I’m more of the cake guy.”
“Cake guy?”
“He bakes shirtless,” called Mozzie.
“I don’t,” protested Neal. “I only do the decorating anyway.”
“Vanity!” cried Mozzie, “sheer vanity!”
“I forgot my apron! That one time!” objected Neal, clearly affronted.
Mozzie snorted, while Neal steered Elizabeth towards a tiny cramped back office.
“I decorate, and do the menus and the business operations. Which brings me to this--if I do this for you,” he said, “would it be worth a meeting, in a week?”
“Can you do it?” she countered. “Four types, two hundred people, by tomorrow?”
“One week,” he replied, his blue eyes intense.
And Elizabeth nodded, feeling oddly like her life was about to change.
**********************
The Connor Gallery opening was a smashing success. The wine sparkled, the cheese selection--a creamy camembert, a robust smoky blue, and a sharp cheddar--was delicious. The hors d’oeuvres, prepared by the Greatest Cake, were divine. There were sweet onion tarts, and mini quiches filled with smoked salmon and asparagus; cheese bites on airy brioche, and puff pastry with some kind of chicken cream, which Elizabeth didn’t quite follow when Mozzie explained but was delicious.
Best of all, Elizabeth had a new supplier, one for more than just desserts and baked treats. He was reliable, he was creative, and, well, he looked damned fine in a suit. She looked across the room where he was chatting up some older lady dripping in far too many jewels that did not enough to make up for her drab and somewhat ill-fitting dress. He smiled at her, a hint of mischief in his blue blue eyes, and tipped his glass at her.
And she was lost.
Wrap up was quick and efficient, she avoided talking to him except as necessary, and rushed home. Sleeping next to Peter that evening--his back broad and strong, his breathing deep and even, their room safe and secure--she vowed to put the devastatingly handsome bakery owner out of her mind.
She didn’t go to the bakery for the next few days--sending Brittany, Yvonne, Cody, and then Yvonne again--until one Wednesday, mid-month. The late afternoon sunlight was glinting through the half-closed blinds and Elizabeth was preparing to go home. She’d had a string of late nights due to weekday events but the evening was free, and she intended to take full advantage--until she got a text from Peter.
Sorry, El, but I have to cancel date night. We’re close to catching this guy, and I can’t leave the office just yet. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.
I don’t know, she texted back teasingly, I might get a better offer by then.
I would be heartbroken and crushed, came the reply, followed by, I love you, hon. I’ll be home as soon as I can.
And then Neal Caffrey appeared. He was wearing a simple linen shirt and jeans, and it was like a beam of sunshine enveloped him as he walked into her tasteful storefront office. “Elizabeth?” he said, “I have a proposition for you.”
She looked at him, and blurted. “I’m married.”
He smiled. “It’s not that kind of proposition.”
***********************
Elizabeth was, first and foremost, a businesswoman. Neal Caffrey, she discovered, was nothing if not ready and willing to capitalize on a good business opportunity, so long as his friend Mozzie pushed him in the right direction. Expanding a business took time, and effort, and many long, long hours. It was good, and Elizabeth thrived on the challenge--but it was also exhausting, and tedious, and kept her away from home.
And Peter.
Peter was remarkably understanding about it all, when she called late to say that she and Neal had to go over the business plan once again, when she called to say that she and Neal needed to sort out the details of the Carrisford’s garden party because there had been a last minute venue change, when she called to say that the Gupta wedding was running two hours late and she wouldn’t be home and he should go on to bed without her.
“Is Neal with you?” he asked.
“Yes, he’s going to try to get them back on track; he hates having his schedule re-arranged.”
“Out with Caffrey all night again--should I be jealous?” he asked. His tone was teasing, although Elizabeth thought she detected a trace of insecurity behind it.
“Never, hon,” she said. “And I’ll show you. Tomorrow night, when you get home--you’ll know just how jealous who ought to be of whom.”
Peter chuckled. “I’m going to hold you to that, Mrs. Burke.”
“I’m good for it,” she said, teasing back. “You know I always fulfill my obligations.”
“Am I just an obligation, then?” he asked, and she wondered if she were only imagining the hint of hurt in his voice.
“No, Peter,” she replied. “You’re -- oh, Neal, I’m sorry. Yes, I’ll talk to you later, hon. Bye.”
And so the late nights and long hours continued. It was nothing that Peter hadn’t done for years, stakeouts and cases often keeping him away from home at all hours, but Elizabeth felt strangely guilty about spending all her evenings with one man, and doing it willingly, while her husband made his own dinner and put himself to bed.
Not that Peter ever seemed he minded. He’d always been exceedingly supportive of her and her career. But Elizabeth was not a stupid woman--neglecting her marriage was not something she intended to do, and she never wanted to make a choice between her marriage and her career. And as she and Neal worked together, and grew closer, ignoring the attraction between them became more difficult.
Four months later, Neal was standing next to her at a charity ball for the pediatric wing at Beth Israel, and she turned to him and said, “How do you feel about the new martini bar on 9th for afterwards? I feel like its been a really long week.”
“Your husband not home again?” Neal murmured, smiling graciously at one of the guests as they passed by.
“No, Peter’s working late,” she said, distracted by one of the servers, whose gait was beginning to look rather like she’d had a glass of wine. Or four. “He’s got another stakeout. He’s--”
“Elizabeth,” Neal said, his head turned away, following her line of sight. “It’s not a good idea. You should go home.”
There was a strange note in his voice. “Neal?” she asked. “Is something wrong?” She looked up at him, concerned, but he was still staring at the server.
“No,” he said. “I just--I can’t. Not tonight.”
“Another time, then,” she said, strangely disappointed.
“Yes,” he replied. “Another time.”
And when Elizabeth drove home that evening, to a dark and empty house, she felt strangely bereft, as if she’d lost something she hadn’t even been sure she had.
******************
“I haven’t heard you mention your handsome young man lately,” Peter said, as they washed up from dinner.
She hadn’t seen Neal in over a week. She’d asked him to check out the new exhibit at the Channing, to drop by for lunch, to accompany her to an evening lecture at the Met--but he’d turned her down, each time. Their conversations over the last week or two had consisted of just the bare bones of what they’d needed to discuss for the sake of business, and nothing more, not even friendly chit chat. Elizabeth was a little hurt by it--and given Peter’s long hours this last week, as he chased someone called the Architect--a little lonely. She’d taken Mozzie to the lecture instead, and it had been fun--she genuinely enjoyed the company of the strange little man--but it was not quite the same as going with Neal.
And then she realized Peter’s choice of descriptor. “What makes you call him handsome?” she asked, startled.
“I don’t know,” Peter shrugged, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her. “Just the way you talk about him, I guess. Is he?”
“Yes,” she said, admitting it while turning in Peter’s arms. She leaned up to kiss him, leaning into it, loving the feeling of familiar, of safety and security and Peter in the feel of him, the smell of him, relaxing into his arms, “I guess he is.”
“I knew it," exclaimed Peter, a hint of triumph along with teasing in his voice. "You working late with him again tonight?” Elizabeth turned back to the dishes.
“No, there’s nothing on this evening, I haven’t heard from him in days, and everything seems under control.” She scrubbed a pot with vigor.
“So ... does that mean you’re coming to bed early tonight?” Peter’s voice was hopeful, but when she replied, Elizabeth sounded sad without meaning to.
“Yeah.”
“What’s wrong, hon?” Peter kissed her hair, his voice concerned.
“Nothing.” She turned slightly, pressing a kiss to the corner of Peter’s mouth, her hands covered in soap suds.
“Oh, don’t tell me it’s Neal Caffrey!” Peter said into her ear. “I’ve been competing with him for three months!” He tightened his hold a minute, before asking, “He reneging on his deal or something?”
“No, he’s left clear instructions, and between Mozzie and June, all the orders are being filled. It’s just--I guess I liked dealing with him directly.”
Peter chuckled. “Huh, it’s worse than I thought. I guess I better get a head start on the competition, then, huh? Want me to strut my stuff upstairs?”
Elizabeth giggled, rinsing off her hands, wiping them with a tea towel. “You’re still terrible at flirting, hon,” she said, “but you don’t have to. I can’t wait to have you all to myself. Turn off your cell phone, will you?”
“I’m leaving it downstairs,” Peter muttered, tugging on her blouse. “I haven’t had a night off in two weeks, and Jones and Diana can manage anything short of Federal Plaza being blown up.”
“I’m not sure, Mr. Burke,” said Elizabeth, peppering her words with kisses as she tugged Peter up the stairs, “I’d let you go even then.”
Later, when they lay in bed, sleepy and sated, Elizabeth’s hair spread out over Peter’s chest, and Peter’s hand idly playing with the strands of it, Peter said, “Your business venture has been keeping you busy. It’s going well, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. I didn’t think it would, actually, Neal seemed, I don’t know, a little flaky, but he’s actually got a really great mind for the business. It works, Peter.”
“I’d like to meet him,” said Peter.
“I’d like that,” said Elizabeth, and somehow, as she said the words, it felt right. Like a relief.
Like something was finally working the way it should be, and Elizabeth fell asleep that night with a smile.
**************************
“He’s not here, dear,” said June, as Elizabeth dropped by the bakery the next morning.
“What do you mean,” asked Elizabeth, slightly shocked. Neal hadn’t told her he was going away. “He didn’t tell me--”
“Perhaps I could have a word with you in private,” said June, gesturing towards the back room.
“Of course,” said Elizabeth. “Of course. I--did he say when he’d be back?” June gestured her into a tiny back office, crammed with papers and cookbooks, pulling the door shut. The room was tiny and Elizabeth couldn’t help feeling she was trapped within. She glanced at the door even as she sat down in the extra chair.
“No,” said June, sitting down herself behind the small desk. “He didn’t. I should tell you, Elizabeth, that Neal speaks very highly of you.” Despite her words, June did not look pleased. Elizabeth did not know what to say.
“He does?” she asked, at a loss.
“Yes. He does. And I have known him a long time. There aren’t many people he speaks of in such terms.” June’s voice was chilly.
“Oh. Well, I think very highly of him as well,” replied Elizabeth, flustered.
“His last girlfriend, Kate, did not treat him well.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. He hasn’t mentioned her to me.”
“She died, about a year ago. Six months before she left him, which he wouldn’t accept. He was devastated at the time.” June’s voice was like ice.
“I--you know, I would really like to speak to Neal--” There was something in June’s manner that was extremely unnerving, and Elizabeth was growing rapidly uncomfortable.
“I am his friend. In fact, Neal is like a son to me. His welfare is extremely important to me. And to Mr. Haversham. We have discussed Neal at length. And you.”
“Well, we are in a business arrangement, and so I can understand that, we should probably have explained--”
“No, Neal has explained all of that to us. That’s not the part that concerns us. Did you know that Neal has no surviving family?”
“Yes, he’d mentioned that. He is very close to both you and Mozzie, I know--”
“Whereas you, Mrs. Burke,” and June very delicately stressed the honorific, “have a husband, a family, a network of friends. None of whom have ever met Neal. And Neal looks a lot stronger and more confident than he might actually be.”
“I would never hurt him, Mrs. Ellington. Believe me,” said Elizabeth quietly. “It’s not like that. We’re business partners.” She stressed the word business, suddenly near tears. That’s all they were. That’s all--
“Mrs. Burke,” said June, and then suddenly, leaning forward, she put her hand over Elizabeth’s. “Oh, my dear. You should be very careful about what you do, but you should also not deny yourself. Or him.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Elizabeth, gathering her purse, and blinking rapidly. “I don’t--”
“Life,” said June, “is too short to wear blinders, my dear. Far too short, and you’re hurting him too.” Elizabeth stood, her hand on the door, not looking back, but she paused when June spoke again. “He’ll be back the day after tomorrow,” June added, “and I suggest you speak with him at that time. Good day, Mrs. Burke.”
And Elizabeth fled into the warm afternoon sunshine.
*******************
“Elizabeth!” said Neal brightly through the telephone, “I haven’t spoken to you in ages!”
“You went away,” accused Elizabeth. “You left and didn’t tell me." She didn't bother to hide her hurt, or to pretend, as Neal clearly was.
“I know, but I had, you know, things to attend to," said Neal, still in that overly-bright tone. "I’m back now, and I have a fantastic idea for the Cho anniversary party!” As if it didn't matter.
Because maybe it didn't. Maybe, maybe it couldn't.
Elizabeth took a deep breath, letting it go.
“That’s great,” she said slowly, re-focusing on the work again, “but what about the Anderson’s baby shower?”
“That’s on Saturday,” said Neal, sounding confused.
“I know. I was thinking--”
“I wasn’t planning to go to it,” said Neal, “and I know you weren’t, so why don’t you leave it with Yvonne, you know you’ve been saying that she needs more responsibility--”
“No, Yvonne’s taking care of the Sanchez’s sweet sixteen--”
“Elizabeth!” said Neal admonishingly, cutting her off. “You weren’t going to deal with the baby shower yourself, were you?”
“Sure, why not?” asked Elizabeth, surprised. “It’s not that big an affair, Peter’ll be caught up with work this weekend anyway--”
“Won’t you be too rushed? And doesn’t Peter want to spend the day with you?”
“Uh, I guess, but he already told me he has to be at the office most of the day and--”
“Even on his birthday?” asked Neal, and Elizabeth gasped audibly.
“I planned this all out six months ago," she ranted, "promised I’d take the day off, and then--”
“Elizabeth, relax, you still have a few days,” said Neal, trying to placate her.
“No, this is what happened last year. I told myself I had to focus on the business, and I’d make up for it next year with more than just dinner and lingerie, and--”
Neal chuckled. “Skip the dinner.”
“No, no, it’s his 45th! I need something special.” There was a note of hysteria in her voice.
“Okay, okay, calm down. What’s he into?”
“Sexually?”
“Ew, no! I mean cake-wise. What flavor does he like?”
“Well, you know Peter.”
“Actually, I don’t. I have never met him.”
“You know, I don’t know.”
“You deal with fancy food all the time, and you don’t know what flavor of cake your husband likes?”
“Well, he’s a traditional guy. I don’t know, he--”
“You know what, Elizabeth. Leave it to me.”
“You’ll make him a cake?”
“For you? Of course. You’ve told me so much about him, I feel like I know him almost as well as you, and I’ll figure it out. Can you loan me a key?”
“What for? Listen, Neal, I appreciate it, but you really don’t have --”
“I insist. And I’ll need access to your kitchen for the day.”
And of course, even though Elizabeth was not quite sure why Neal would want to do such a thing, even though she was half convinced this was a bad idea, Neal was so charming that Elizabeth found herself giving Neal her spare key and her security access code anyway.
*********************************
Peter frowned as he came up the front step. The front door was slightly ajar, although the screen door was secured. He dialed Elizabeth.
“Elizabeth?”
“Peter? What’s wrong? I’m--Yvonne, no, that’s for the, no, don’t put that--Peter, what’s wrong?”
“It sounds like you’re busy.”
“Just a little. Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine, hon. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
“I love you, birthday boy. I’ll be done soon. When do you think you’ll be home?”
“In a bit. I’ll see you soon. Love you back.”
He drew his gun as he ended the call. Someone was in his house.
He crept round the back, and entered quietly through the side door, opened it and--
The dark haired man in the kitchen swung around. “Agent Burke!”
The man was shirtless, with streaks of red and blue paint on his face and body. He was holding a paint brush. His hair was dusted with a white powder. His smile was wide and blinding--until he noticed the gun.
“Neal Caffrey? Never mind. You are under arrest.”
“Oh, am I? Why?” He blinked in bemusement at Peter.
“You’re in my house. You’re in my kitchen. You’re not wearing a shirt.” Peter wondered when his life had gotten this absurd.
“I realize. Elizabeth gave me a key. Can I get you a drink? Oh, here.” Neal handed Peter a stick with a green ball at the end. Peter looked at it suspiciously, not lowering the gun. “What’s this?”
“A cake pop. I’ll let Elizabeth know you’re home.”
“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” Peter kept the gun trained on Neal.
“Because he’s vain. He says it helps him create, but it’s because he’s vain.” A short, balding man wearing a toque wandered through the doorway, sipping from a glass of wine. “He doesn’t like guns, by the way.”
“Mozzie!” cried Neal.
“If you’d buy shirts that cost less than a hundred dollars," postulated Mozzie, "maybe you would not feel compelled to remove your shirt every time--”
Peter holstered his weapon, thoroughly confused. “Who are you? Why are you dressed as a pastry chef and wearing one of those floppy chef’s hats?”
“It’s called a toque,” offered Neal.
“I know what it’s called,” Peter snapped. “Why is he here? Why are you here?”
“I’m leaving, actually,” replied Moz. “Suit, Happy Birthday. Neal, I’ll see you at home.”
“You have your own home,” said Neal pointedly.
“That hurts,” said Mozzie, draining his glass and promptly walking out the door behind Peter.
“Happy Birthday, Peter,” Neal said, “I was--” He waved to the left, where Peter saw . . .
A three tier cake. A tiny figure, dark haired, dressed in a dark suit, wearing a tiny hat, and holding a cardboard roll was rappelling down one side of the second tier. At the top, an easel was set up, with a perfect miniature replica of Monet’s water lilies. And on the bottom tier of the cake stood a figure in a brown suit, holding a pair of handcuffs. Part of the bottom tier looked unfinished, but the rest of the cake--the rest was a work of art.
“Happy Birthday, Peter. I hope you--”
“It’s a cake.”
“Do you like it?” There was a note of shyness in Neal’s voice, a hint of vulnerability, and Peter looked up, and caught his breath.
Neal was looking at him. There was flour in his hair, and one bicep had a dollop of green something--probably icing--smeared across flawless, tanned skin. He looked uncertain and young.
Peter took a tentative bite of the cake pop. A layer of vanilla fondue over sweet chocolate buttercream over a delicately flavored orange cake filled his mouth, flowed over his tongue. He licked a bit of buttercream off his lips, and noticed that Neal was watching him. Intently.
“You have flour in your hair,” said Peter blandly, staring right back at him.
Neal scrubbed a hand across his hair, causing it to spike into disarray. “I think that’s icing sugar.”
“So,” said Peter casually, “you’re who my wife has been chasing for the past few months.”
Neal winced. “I--Peter, I didn’t--I wouldn’t--”
Peter took a step forward and Neal froze.
And then Peter smiled and took another bite of his delicious cake pop.
*********************