FIC: Tribulation; Fandom: White Collar
Title: Tribulation (1 of 3)
Author: Esmeralda (laesmeralda)
Fandom: White Collar
Dramatis Personae: Neal Caffrey/Peter Burke
Warnings: Season 1 Finale spoiler
Rating: R to NC-17
Disclaimer: This is a work of impure fiction.
Feedback: Responses, including constructive criticism, are welcome.
Original Date: Written March 2012
*******
There had been lots of daily time for grieving in prison. Blissfully, no one on the inside expected him to chat. He could quietly grieve during the useful tasks he performed for his fellow inmates; "Mr. C's" particular brand of intelligence saved him from rendering far less pleasant services.
Being out was better in all respects but one-less time to cry. June with her kindness and her apartment, the wide outside world, his research stashed all around, Mozzie, the anklet marking his fruitless bargain-all of it set off fresh waves of pain that he couldn’t indulge. He studiously avoided any contact with Peter’s Elizabeth in the beginning. The softness in her eyes gave him nowhere to hide.
And out here, he had to be charming and breezy, put on a brave face, please the suits. It was good to have distraction, to let his mind out to play. But Neal understood that part of healing is putting the time in to examine, in great detail, exactly the parts of death-and your part in it-that you don’t want to see. Neal had been controlling his relationships with people to survive since he was eight. The downside was that he could never really be close. Even with Kate. But she had been closest.
He had chosen, without knowing it, to let her die alone while he danced on the edge of a different cliff. He had shed tears in front of Peter, standing between this world and Kate. Wanting so badly for Peter to say something else than to tell him to do the right thing. He thought he had seen that something, but no. Still, it had saved his own life. Guilt and more guilt.
So the only time for her now was instead of sleep and on the weekends. He would exhaust himself crying, not allow himself drink to mask or distort his feelings. Icing his face during first morning coffee had become part of his routine.
They were so busy with cases that it took Peter three whole days to notice that part of Neal had gone missing. The next day, Peter and Mozzie started meeting in the park. They didn’t tell Neal.
*******
It was a Saturday afternoon, the second weekend of “freedom.” Neal had forced himself to sit for coffee and breakfast with June and Moz, to pretend to look at the paper, and to take a shower, but that was as far as he could go. He was back lying on the bed, and the tears just wouldn’t stop. Well past the point of sobbing, he found that they just ran freely if he didn’t fight them.
The knock was unmistakably Peter’s. He hesitated. June’s staff might not have said he was home. And then the obvious occurred to him; Peter always knew where he was. He wiped his face and went to the door. Peter’s eyes took him in and flashed sympathy faster than the man could cover it.
Neal realized he was body-blocking the door and stepped away, letting it swing open. He shrugged at his personal disarray, which contrasted with the OCD neatness of the apartment. “Come on in-sorry, wasn’t expecting company.”
“I’m sorry to intrude,” Peter’s voice was extra gentle. He clearly wasn’t the suit today, not playing the boss role. He wore khakis and a T-shirt, scuffed sneakers, a gym bag which he set by the door as it closed, but he hadn’t been sweating. “Listen…” Peter began, searching Neal’s face. “It isn’t my place to be here. You have friends who know you a lot better than I do. But it just felt wrong not to. I’m not blind. I feel like I should have come sooner.” His voice caught a little, and that did it.
Neal felt the sharp pain of tears rushing to respond to kindness and bit his lip to stop it trembling. He stepped back, not at all what he wanted to do. But Peter matched the step. Neal swiped at the fresh drops on his face. “Don’t…” he whispered because his voice would crack if he used it.
Peter had his hand out, as though he’d just asked a frightened teenager to put down the gun. “Just because I wanted you to stay didn’t mean I failed to understand your love for Kate. People tell you that you have to let her go. That’s totally wrong. You don’t let go, you make different space for her inside yourself and go on. It’s a bitch of a process. Stop trying to hide it from me. Let me help.”
“I can’t talk about it,” Neal finally managed. “The words just stick.”
Peter smiled, trademark rueful. “I said let me help, I didn’t say let me be your therapist, God forbid.” He put his hands on his hips and surveyed Neal more carefully. “For starters, you’re ashamed of crying. Don’t be. Grown men do cry when it’s called for.”
“I don’t remember you breaking down on the tarmac,” Neal shot back. It stung that he had felt the imbalance of that moment, Peter caring but maybe also there to preserve an asset, Neal feeling searing pain at the loss to come with either choice, and being unable to hide it.
Peter’s expression tightened for an instant. “Don’t fall back on anger. I think you’re past that stage.” He stepped in and put his arms around Neal.
Neal certainly couldn’t hide the trembling then. It took a moment of conscious effort to allow himself to lean in, and then Peter enfolded him in a firm embrace. If Neal had thought he was done sobbing, he stood corrected. Peter didn’t try to shush him, he held him, took on some of his weight, and slowly rocked, just a little.
The stifled sounds got to him more than anything else, Neal still trying to maintain dignity. Peter didn’t push him or scold him to let go, just held him until he stopped fighting. It was probably good that Neal couldn’t see that his own eyes were wet. Somebody else had to be strong just now so that Neal didn’t have to be.
*******
Neal woke up on the bed, sunlight dancing high on the wall. His eyelashes were still sticky but he felt refreshed, a feeling he hadn’t had in months. He allowed himself to lie there a few minutes and luxuriate in what Peter had given him. Safety. Care for his pride. Comfort that he felt to his bones. And quiet, for a brief time, in that part of his mind that felt too guilty to move on in life without Kate.
That quiet allowed for some other recollections to sneak in. After he couldn’t cry anymore, the feel of Peter’s neck against his lips, the worn t-shirt wet and soft under Neal’s cheek, the strength of that big body sheltering him had started to sing a different note. So he had gently, reluctantly, eased away.
He had wobbled a little as they disengaged and Peter caught his upper arm. “How about you lie down. It might help to sleep.”
“Feels like I’ve been doing nothing else.”
“That’s an illusion of your driven perspective, my friend, believe me. I’m doing those 70-hour weeks right alongside you. They kicked my ass even long ago when I was your age.”
Neal had snorted. “You always talk like you’re over the hill. You gotta stop that.” But he had obeyed and once lying down, couldn’t even mumble his appreciation he was asleep so fast.
He was pretty sure Peter had pulled the blanket over him, maybe even ruffled his hair. Now, he stretched himself more awake, trying to ignore the feeling in his belly that could so easily lead to a session with his hand. And in his head, that would go nowhere helpful.
Instead, he rolled to his feet and padded to the kitchen for a glass of water, taking it down in four gulps. And froze at a small noise. Slowly, he turned, as though that somehow would be quieter.
Peter was flung back on the couch, asleep, headphones in, perhaps a baseball announcer droning quietly in the background. An open case file had slid to the floor next to him.
Neal had a moment of deep relief that he had followed his thirst instead of his gut in his choice of post-nap activities. Then, he went to stand next to the couch. Now he could hear that Peter had music on, not a game. He took his time, and looked.
He had tried to understand for himself why this man. He still didn’t have a worthy answer. This enforcer, fiercely faithful to his wife, conventional on the outside, even a bit frumpy. An intentional philistine who knew exactly how to taste a great wine and avoided knowing how to flirt with a woman. Fixated on ethics, not just proper procedure. But duplicitous or he couldn’t do his job. Able to lie to Neal even while Neal refused to lie to him. Smart… so canny. Neal could perhaps out-IQ him but not outwit him or outrun him. But it wasn’t that, or not only that, the siren of the adversarial thrill like it had been with Alex in their early years of social engineering. Neal had also thought long and hard about the elder-brother archetype, the longed-for champion he never had. Peter as mentor, protector, reluctant disciplinarian. Definitely a factor. But he couldn’t reduce it to that either. None of it explained why he trusted this man and no one else.
People called Neal a chameleon, not understanding that his ability to slide into different characters reflected his internal metamorphic ability, not just a change of surface. It wasn’t that he didn’t have a personality, a strong self, but it could be authentically expressed in many different ways. That’s what made him such a convincing con.
Neal shook his head at his folly, but allowed himself to keep studying anyway, feeling the attraction and still trying to analyze it. Peter stirred in his sleep, eyelids flickering in dream, shifting his legs. Neal sucked in a breath-Peter was hard and the khakis were so unforgiving. He willed himself to walk away. It didn’t work. It so didn’t work that he found himself on his knees, contemplating a far greater folly. If only Peter would just wake up, Neal wouldn’t have to decide, he could just hand back the case file and smile.
Neal was a careful planner, but impulse control had always been a challenge.
An able and nimble pickpocket, Neal had Peter in his mouth and well on toward a happy ending before the man awoke. The natural tendency to incorporate real-world sensations into one’s dreams favored Neal, and he wasn’t at all surprised or hurt by the chuckling utterance of Elizabeth’s name at the beginning or its rougher repetition toward the end.
Apparently, there were stylistic differences, or maybe the feel of Neal’s hair was wrong to Peter’s fingertips, or it could be that Peter hadn’t had a wet dream in a very long time, because he didn’t stay dreaming through the finale.
Neal was clear that the sharp utterance of his name arose from horrified surprise, not ecstasy, but he stayed for the straining and shuddering-certainly wasn’t going to run at the worst possible moment-and he felt his face heat in genuine shame. As soon as he could swallow, he scrambled away and bolted, grabbing the jacket and sneakers he always kept by the door and tearing down the stairs and out without a backwards look.
*******
“El, a little before Kate died, Neal said I’m the only one in his life he trusts. Sure, it was flattering, but he was drugged out of his right mind. Now, I think I didn’t take it seriously enough. I didn’t realize how underwater he was.”
“What aren’t you telling me? No, wait, too hard to process this by phone with clients nagging at me. Just tell me, is Neal okay? Are you okay?”
“I went over to see him today. I think it helped at first. And maybe I made everything worse.”
“Tell me all about it tomorrow night. I promise you’ll have my full attention. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Peter drove the rest of the way home without knowing how he got there.
*******
Neal ignored Peter’s first three calls and two voicemails. He couldn’t bear to go home and risk running into Peter until he was sure he was gone. Finally, freezing his ass off in pajama bottoms, a t-shirt, blazer, and shoes with no socks, he picked up. “I don’t know what to say to you, I couldn’t even listen to your messages. Don’t worry, Diana or Jones can take me back, you won’t have to see…”
“Would you shut up, Caffrey? That’s an order.”
That stopped him. There came an extended silence. Then, Peter sighed. “That wasn’t consensual.”
It didn’t feel possible for Neal’s face to heat any hotter. “Please forgive me… I didn’t mean-”
“Stop. Just stop. I don’t want a misunderstanding between us.”
Neal almost laughed out loud. His intellect couldn’t resist responding. “You were asleep. Unconscious. How could there be a misunderstanding, exactly?”
“For God’s sake, could you be quiet for sixty seconds? I need you to listen.” Peter’s frustration made his voice sharp. “Before today, here and there, I thought I sensed some… attachment on your part. So help me, I shared and I welcomed it, sentimental wretch that I am. For that, my wife will not stop teasing me, even though she is your single biggest fan herself. But I never guessed you were… attracted to me.” Peter paused. “You have to admit that your ladykiller persona is a little confusing in this context. I knew it was a character, I thought I knew it because of Kate. I just didn’t know how much of an act it was.”
“It’s not an act. -That was sixty seconds by the way.” Neal took a deep breath. “Let’s just say I work both sides of the aisle. Nonpartisan. Only I don’t usually have to speak of it. And it is proving really, really hard to talk about. The upshot is that I should never have done that. We could, maybe, pretend that it didn’t happen? Consider it a bizarre grief-glitch?”
Another extended silence. “I have to tell El. I just spoke to her on the phone and didn’t say anything. I feel like a total liar.”
Neal groaned. “But you didn’t do anything.”
Peter didn’t answer.
“You’re going to tell her anyway.”
“Luckily, she’s out of town until tomorrow night. I have a little time to figure out how to explain.”
Neal took a moment to man up. “It’s simple. After you pick her up and get her settled in at home, run an errand. Call in the extension on my leash. I’ll come over and tell her myself.”
“I don’t see that going well.”
“Elizabeth always responds to the absolute truth. She knows who you are. So I’ll tell her the truth. That you let me cry on your shoulder. You fell asleep on my couch because you were afraid to leave me alone like that.” He flinched a little to get the next part out. “I… did what I did, and you thought I was her. You said her name. Twice.”
“I did?”
In his haste to get through the next part, Neal didn’t register Peter’s surprise. “Monday, have Diana come take me back. I’ll be ready to go.” He almost hung up right then.
“Wait, dammit. I don’t want you back in prison. I want you out here, working with me. What part of that have I made unclear?”
Neal was taken aback, then closed his eyes in relief. He didn’t speak.
“I’m a grown man, fully capable of seeing you face-to-face without freaking out. I’ll prove it. Meet me for coffee tomorrow morning. We’ll go over some leads.”
“I’m too much myself right now. You let me be that today, without any filters. I felt almost whole when I woke up. That’s apparently a little dangerous. I’ll get a handle on it by Monday.”
“Listen, you aren’t letting me own any of this.”
“Really. So tell me.”
The silence stretched. Finally, Peter said, “What’s to own is… is… complicated.”
“What isn’t?” Neal parried, and then he hung up.
All the shame didn’t stop him, that night, from thinking about Peter when he finally gave in and got himself off. It took a long time for the sweat to dry.
*******
Tribulation: Part 2
Author's Silly Postscript: Immediately after I had finished writing and posting this three part series, my husband coincidentally rented In Time which happens to feature a small Matt Bomer part as Henry Hamilton, a time-wealthy man tired of his long life. The protagonist, Will, has just saved him from a gangster (even though Henry doesn't want saving) and they are holed up in an almost abandoned warehouse overnight. In the morning, while Will is still sleeping in an arm chair, Henry approaches him, studies him for a bit, and then kneels down (at which point I almost leaped up off the couch). Ultimately, it didn't go where I did--Henry rolls up his sleeve, wraps their bare arms together (but was the sensuality all in my head?!), and transfers his time to Will before slipping away--but for a few moments I got to watch Andrew Niccol actually film Matt Bomer following my blocking. I got a chill!
Author: Esmeralda (laesmeralda)
Fandom: White Collar
Dramatis Personae: Neal Caffrey/Peter Burke
Warnings: Season 1 Finale spoiler
Rating: R to NC-17
Disclaimer: This is a work of impure fiction.
Feedback: Responses, including constructive criticism, are welcome.
Original Date: Written March 2012
*******
There had been lots of daily time for grieving in prison. Blissfully, no one on the inside expected him to chat. He could quietly grieve during the useful tasks he performed for his fellow inmates; "Mr. C's" particular brand of intelligence saved him from rendering far less pleasant services.
Being out was better in all respects but one-less time to cry. June with her kindness and her apartment, the wide outside world, his research stashed all around, Mozzie, the anklet marking his fruitless bargain-all of it set off fresh waves of pain that he couldn’t indulge. He studiously avoided any contact with Peter’s Elizabeth in the beginning. The softness in her eyes gave him nowhere to hide.
And out here, he had to be charming and breezy, put on a brave face, please the suits. It was good to have distraction, to let his mind out to play. But Neal understood that part of healing is putting the time in to examine, in great detail, exactly the parts of death-and your part in it-that you don’t want to see. Neal had been controlling his relationships with people to survive since he was eight. The downside was that he could never really be close. Even with Kate. But she had been closest.
He had chosen, without knowing it, to let her die alone while he danced on the edge of a different cliff. He had shed tears in front of Peter, standing between this world and Kate. Wanting so badly for Peter to say something else than to tell him to do the right thing. He thought he had seen that something, but no. Still, it had saved his own life. Guilt and more guilt.
So the only time for her now was instead of sleep and on the weekends. He would exhaust himself crying, not allow himself drink to mask or distort his feelings. Icing his face during first morning coffee had become part of his routine.
They were so busy with cases that it took Peter three whole days to notice that part of Neal had gone missing. The next day, Peter and Mozzie started meeting in the park. They didn’t tell Neal.
*******
It was a Saturday afternoon, the second weekend of “freedom.” Neal had forced himself to sit for coffee and breakfast with June and Moz, to pretend to look at the paper, and to take a shower, but that was as far as he could go. He was back lying on the bed, and the tears just wouldn’t stop. Well past the point of sobbing, he found that they just ran freely if he didn’t fight them.
The knock was unmistakably Peter’s. He hesitated. June’s staff might not have said he was home. And then the obvious occurred to him; Peter always knew where he was. He wiped his face and went to the door. Peter’s eyes took him in and flashed sympathy faster than the man could cover it.
Neal realized he was body-blocking the door and stepped away, letting it swing open. He shrugged at his personal disarray, which contrasted with the OCD neatness of the apartment. “Come on in-sorry, wasn’t expecting company.”
“I’m sorry to intrude,” Peter’s voice was extra gentle. He clearly wasn’t the suit today, not playing the boss role. He wore khakis and a T-shirt, scuffed sneakers, a gym bag which he set by the door as it closed, but he hadn’t been sweating. “Listen…” Peter began, searching Neal’s face. “It isn’t my place to be here. You have friends who know you a lot better than I do. But it just felt wrong not to. I’m not blind. I feel like I should have come sooner.” His voice caught a little, and that did it.
Neal felt the sharp pain of tears rushing to respond to kindness and bit his lip to stop it trembling. He stepped back, not at all what he wanted to do. But Peter matched the step. Neal swiped at the fresh drops on his face. “Don’t…” he whispered because his voice would crack if he used it.
Peter had his hand out, as though he’d just asked a frightened teenager to put down the gun. “Just because I wanted you to stay didn’t mean I failed to understand your love for Kate. People tell you that you have to let her go. That’s totally wrong. You don’t let go, you make different space for her inside yourself and go on. It’s a bitch of a process. Stop trying to hide it from me. Let me help.”
“I can’t talk about it,” Neal finally managed. “The words just stick.”
Peter smiled, trademark rueful. “I said let me help, I didn’t say let me be your therapist, God forbid.” He put his hands on his hips and surveyed Neal more carefully. “For starters, you’re ashamed of crying. Don’t be. Grown men do cry when it’s called for.”
“I don’t remember you breaking down on the tarmac,” Neal shot back. It stung that he had felt the imbalance of that moment, Peter caring but maybe also there to preserve an asset, Neal feeling searing pain at the loss to come with either choice, and being unable to hide it.
Peter’s expression tightened for an instant. “Don’t fall back on anger. I think you’re past that stage.” He stepped in and put his arms around Neal.
Neal certainly couldn’t hide the trembling then. It took a moment of conscious effort to allow himself to lean in, and then Peter enfolded him in a firm embrace. If Neal had thought he was done sobbing, he stood corrected. Peter didn’t try to shush him, he held him, took on some of his weight, and slowly rocked, just a little.
The stifled sounds got to him more than anything else, Neal still trying to maintain dignity. Peter didn’t push him or scold him to let go, just held him until he stopped fighting. It was probably good that Neal couldn’t see that his own eyes were wet. Somebody else had to be strong just now so that Neal didn’t have to be.
*******
Neal woke up on the bed, sunlight dancing high on the wall. His eyelashes were still sticky but he felt refreshed, a feeling he hadn’t had in months. He allowed himself to lie there a few minutes and luxuriate in what Peter had given him. Safety. Care for his pride. Comfort that he felt to his bones. And quiet, for a brief time, in that part of his mind that felt too guilty to move on in life without Kate.
That quiet allowed for some other recollections to sneak in. After he couldn’t cry anymore, the feel of Peter’s neck against his lips, the worn t-shirt wet and soft under Neal’s cheek, the strength of that big body sheltering him had started to sing a different note. So he had gently, reluctantly, eased away.
He had wobbled a little as they disengaged and Peter caught his upper arm. “How about you lie down. It might help to sleep.”
“Feels like I’ve been doing nothing else.”
“That’s an illusion of your driven perspective, my friend, believe me. I’m doing those 70-hour weeks right alongside you. They kicked my ass even long ago when I was your age.”
Neal had snorted. “You always talk like you’re over the hill. You gotta stop that.” But he had obeyed and once lying down, couldn’t even mumble his appreciation he was asleep so fast.
He was pretty sure Peter had pulled the blanket over him, maybe even ruffled his hair. Now, he stretched himself more awake, trying to ignore the feeling in his belly that could so easily lead to a session with his hand. And in his head, that would go nowhere helpful.
Instead, he rolled to his feet and padded to the kitchen for a glass of water, taking it down in four gulps. And froze at a small noise. Slowly, he turned, as though that somehow would be quieter.
Peter was flung back on the couch, asleep, headphones in, perhaps a baseball announcer droning quietly in the background. An open case file had slid to the floor next to him.
Neal had a moment of deep relief that he had followed his thirst instead of his gut in his choice of post-nap activities. Then, he went to stand next to the couch. Now he could hear that Peter had music on, not a game. He took his time, and looked.
He had tried to understand for himself why this man. He still didn’t have a worthy answer. This enforcer, fiercely faithful to his wife, conventional on the outside, even a bit frumpy. An intentional philistine who knew exactly how to taste a great wine and avoided knowing how to flirt with a woman. Fixated on ethics, not just proper procedure. But duplicitous or he couldn’t do his job. Able to lie to Neal even while Neal refused to lie to him. Smart… so canny. Neal could perhaps out-IQ him but not outwit him or outrun him. But it wasn’t that, or not only that, the siren of the adversarial thrill like it had been with Alex in their early years of social engineering. Neal had also thought long and hard about the elder-brother archetype, the longed-for champion he never had. Peter as mentor, protector, reluctant disciplinarian. Definitely a factor. But he couldn’t reduce it to that either. None of it explained why he trusted this man and no one else.
People called Neal a chameleon, not understanding that his ability to slide into different characters reflected his internal metamorphic ability, not just a change of surface. It wasn’t that he didn’t have a personality, a strong self, but it could be authentically expressed in many different ways. That’s what made him such a convincing con.
Neal shook his head at his folly, but allowed himself to keep studying anyway, feeling the attraction and still trying to analyze it. Peter stirred in his sleep, eyelids flickering in dream, shifting his legs. Neal sucked in a breath-Peter was hard and the khakis were so unforgiving. He willed himself to walk away. It didn’t work. It so didn’t work that he found himself on his knees, contemplating a far greater folly. If only Peter would just wake up, Neal wouldn’t have to decide, he could just hand back the case file and smile.
Neal was a careful planner, but impulse control had always been a challenge.
An able and nimble pickpocket, Neal had Peter in his mouth and well on toward a happy ending before the man awoke. The natural tendency to incorporate real-world sensations into one’s dreams favored Neal, and he wasn’t at all surprised or hurt by the chuckling utterance of Elizabeth’s name at the beginning or its rougher repetition toward the end.
Apparently, there were stylistic differences, or maybe the feel of Neal’s hair was wrong to Peter’s fingertips, or it could be that Peter hadn’t had a wet dream in a very long time, because he didn’t stay dreaming through the finale.
Neal was clear that the sharp utterance of his name arose from horrified surprise, not ecstasy, but he stayed for the straining and shuddering-certainly wasn’t going to run at the worst possible moment-and he felt his face heat in genuine shame. As soon as he could swallow, he scrambled away and bolted, grabbing the jacket and sneakers he always kept by the door and tearing down the stairs and out without a backwards look.
*******
“El, a little before Kate died, Neal said I’m the only one in his life he trusts. Sure, it was flattering, but he was drugged out of his right mind. Now, I think I didn’t take it seriously enough. I didn’t realize how underwater he was.”
“What aren’t you telling me? No, wait, too hard to process this by phone with clients nagging at me. Just tell me, is Neal okay? Are you okay?”
“I went over to see him today. I think it helped at first. And maybe I made everything worse.”
“Tell me all about it tomorrow night. I promise you’ll have my full attention. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Peter drove the rest of the way home without knowing how he got there.
*******
Neal ignored Peter’s first three calls and two voicemails. He couldn’t bear to go home and risk running into Peter until he was sure he was gone. Finally, freezing his ass off in pajama bottoms, a t-shirt, blazer, and shoes with no socks, he picked up. “I don’t know what to say to you, I couldn’t even listen to your messages. Don’t worry, Diana or Jones can take me back, you won’t have to see…”
“Would you shut up, Caffrey? That’s an order.”
That stopped him. There came an extended silence. Then, Peter sighed. “That wasn’t consensual.”
It didn’t feel possible for Neal’s face to heat any hotter. “Please forgive me… I didn’t mean-”
“Stop. Just stop. I don’t want a misunderstanding between us.”
Neal almost laughed out loud. His intellect couldn’t resist responding. “You were asleep. Unconscious. How could there be a misunderstanding, exactly?”
“For God’s sake, could you be quiet for sixty seconds? I need you to listen.” Peter’s frustration made his voice sharp. “Before today, here and there, I thought I sensed some… attachment on your part. So help me, I shared and I welcomed it, sentimental wretch that I am. For that, my wife will not stop teasing me, even though she is your single biggest fan herself. But I never guessed you were… attracted to me.” Peter paused. “You have to admit that your ladykiller persona is a little confusing in this context. I knew it was a character, I thought I knew it because of Kate. I just didn’t know how much of an act it was.”
“It’s not an act. -That was sixty seconds by the way.” Neal took a deep breath. “Let’s just say I work both sides of the aisle. Nonpartisan. Only I don’t usually have to speak of it. And it is proving really, really hard to talk about. The upshot is that I should never have done that. We could, maybe, pretend that it didn’t happen? Consider it a bizarre grief-glitch?”
Another extended silence. “I have to tell El. I just spoke to her on the phone and didn’t say anything. I feel like a total liar.”
Neal groaned. “But you didn’t do anything.”
Peter didn’t answer.
“You’re going to tell her anyway.”
“Luckily, she’s out of town until tomorrow night. I have a little time to figure out how to explain.”
Neal took a moment to man up. “It’s simple. After you pick her up and get her settled in at home, run an errand. Call in the extension on my leash. I’ll come over and tell her myself.”
“I don’t see that going well.”
“Elizabeth always responds to the absolute truth. She knows who you are. So I’ll tell her the truth. That you let me cry on your shoulder. You fell asleep on my couch because you were afraid to leave me alone like that.” He flinched a little to get the next part out. “I… did what I did, and you thought I was her. You said her name. Twice.”
“I did?”
In his haste to get through the next part, Neal didn’t register Peter’s surprise. “Monday, have Diana come take me back. I’ll be ready to go.” He almost hung up right then.
“Wait, dammit. I don’t want you back in prison. I want you out here, working with me. What part of that have I made unclear?”
Neal was taken aback, then closed his eyes in relief. He didn’t speak.
“I’m a grown man, fully capable of seeing you face-to-face without freaking out. I’ll prove it. Meet me for coffee tomorrow morning. We’ll go over some leads.”
“I’m too much myself right now. You let me be that today, without any filters. I felt almost whole when I woke up. That’s apparently a little dangerous. I’ll get a handle on it by Monday.”
“Listen, you aren’t letting me own any of this.”
“Really. So tell me.”
The silence stretched. Finally, Peter said, “What’s to own is… is… complicated.”
“What isn’t?” Neal parried, and then he hung up.
All the shame didn’t stop him, that night, from thinking about Peter when he finally gave in and got himself off. It took a long time for the sweat to dry.
*******
Tribulation: Part 2
Author's Silly Postscript: Immediately after I had finished writing and posting this three part series, my husband coincidentally rented In Time which happens to feature a small Matt Bomer part as Henry Hamilton, a time-wealthy man tired of his long life. The protagonist, Will, has just saved him from a gangster (even though Henry doesn't want saving) and they are holed up in an almost abandoned warehouse overnight. In the morning, while Will is still sleeping in an arm chair, Henry approaches him, studies him for a bit, and then kneels down (at which point I almost leaped up off the couch). Ultimately, it didn't go where I did--Henry rolls up his sleeve, wraps their bare arms together (but was the sensuality all in my head?!), and transfers his time to Will before slipping away--but for a few moments I got to watch Andrew Niccol actually film Matt Bomer following my blocking. I got a chill!