Fic: You would wish long and long to be with him
Title: You would wish long and long to be with him
Author: thosewerepearls
Pairing: Neal/Peter
Rating: PG-13/R
Disclaimer: None, really. General spoilers for earlier episodes
Summary: A study of dynamics.
"You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to sit
by him in the boat that you and he might touch each other."
(Walt Whitman)
In a restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen, Peter raised his coffee cup to his lips. He didn’t smile, but it wasn’t far off. It was a characteristic look of his, this strained, unsmiling face. It was like looking at a snap shot of a person caught in the moment before a smile. It was like looking at a flower about to bloom, but not there, not yet. He is younger than people give him credit for. The years have hurt him. His obsessions, his neuroses have aged him. Chasing con-men for years has aged him.
“He’s a scholar,” Neal declared.
“How did you get to that conclusion,” Peter asked, amused.
“He knows too much about the artist and the artist is too rare. He’d have to know what he was looking for.”
“So a scholar?”
“Almost definitely.”
“You know about the artist,” Peter points out. There is a soft, pink blush that spreads up Neal’s face.
“Or he’s me.”
Neal drew maps of Europe, explaining the upwards movement of the Renaissance, on napkins. He drew trade routes, mainly by ocean, adding in sea monsters as though it were an ancient map. Peter laughed, watching his partner bite his bottom lip, crossing out a mistake. He finally crumpled the paper and threw it to the ground.
“Now, what did you do that for,” asked Peter with a smile, disguising something harder, something more masculine underneath.
“What?” replied the other man, standing and shrugging his way into a coat. Peter gestured to the ground. “You wanted to frame it or something?”
But the way Neal blushed, looking down at shoes, always betrayed his bravado. He covered it up by flipping his hat onto his head, with a grin. Peter wasn’t shocked by this. This act of boldness and charm, he was used to. It was the moments in between that could scare him to death.
“We’re late,” Peter said. A point Neal made an hour ago, that Peter had ignored.
--
He lied to himself. He said that this game didn’t matter. That the adrenaline of the job, the rush of endorphins later, the inconsistent heart beats could all be blamed for this attachment. It was the gritty sort of obsession, devoid of any romantic tone. It ripped its way into his stomach. It felt like it could kill him.
When he woke during the night, he reached for his gun, frightened for unrealized reasons. He was covered in a cold sweat and the fan was on. He welcomed every discomfort.
Sometimes, while running down the street, gun in hand again, shouting at the top of his lungs, he changed the face of the perp. Sometimes, the perp became his partner, sometimes himself. At the end, with his guns tucked between the man’s ribcage, he could almost breathe easy again.
Then the night came and he was transported back to hell.
-
At midnight one night, Peter was not willing to leave and Neal was not willing to stay. They were in the office where a light threw parallel shadows across the floor. There were papers littered everywhere, all over Peter’s desk. He was reading. Neal was slouched back in his chair, one foot hooked over the other knee, a fedora hiding his closed eyes. Peter pretended not to notice, and then spoke up.
“It’s the lawyer,” Peter announced.
Neal groaned, “It’s the accountant.”
“You don’t know that,” Peter replied, looking over his sheets frowning.
“Neither do you,” Neal said, sitting up, putting his elbows on his knees. He liked how Peter looks these nights. The suspenders and gun holster spread from his back like wings. The light buried itself deep into the crevices of his face.
“I’m your boss,” Peter argued, further. He spread his hands out across the desk. They were large and weathered. His age marked by their use.
Neal liked these reminders of the limitations of their relationship. He liked this masochistic feel to their friendship. He liked being conquered. It was safe this way. It was like being dunked under water. His senses were dull, he could not speak or scream or beg, he felt the hand of the man who could save him. Who was currently holding him under. Neal dreamt of Peter holding his wrist above his head, drawing blood with his bitten nails. So close, that he could smell his breath. So close that they made one body.
“That,” Neal said, flipping his hat back on his head with a smile, “Is a fallacy.”
“Don’t do that,” Peter muttered, like he were scolding a child. “It doesn’t matter, we’re arresting him tomorrow.”
Neal imagined Peter’s wife, sleeping alone in their bed. He imagined the pillow she must use as a stand-in, the dog curled at his feet. He thought of all the delicate things that must hold them together, the promises and future, the plan for something better. He watched Peter turn to the window, tracing his reflection. He walked up behind him, stared at himself, stared at the two faces held in the strange abyss of the reflected glass.
“You eager?” asked Peter, hunching his shoulders, turning into himself. “To get home?”
“Yeah,” Neal said, waits a beat, “Babysitting.”
“The granddaughter?” Peter asked, a laugh in his throat. That amazed, disgruntled laugh spread into his throat.
“The granddaughter.” Neal said with a laugh, turning away, shrugging into his coat.
“Is this your way of announcing you’re over-” Peter began, turning too. Placing the chair and desk between them.
“No, it’s my way of announcing I’m male.”
Peter chuckled; it was a rough sound. It was rough in that way that suggested even with all the polishing in the world it would still be rough. Neal was okay with that.
“Well, then” another chuckle, one that suggested tiredness “Have fun.”
“I plan to.” Neal turned to the door to leave, “Night, partner.”
“Don’t call me that.”
Neal spends the night alone.
--
For the sake of the mission, Peter must arrest him and Neal did not mind. He remembered the first time Peter had done that, the handcuffs biting deep into his wrists. He remembered the anger, the catharsis of the act, he remembers how that complete and utter loss of power, had not been entirely devastating. He remembered the rhythm pulsing through Peter’s fingers, into his forearm. He remembered, smiling. He remembered thinking at least this a handsome, good man. Any other way, would have been disappointing. He remembered his soul howling when he realized his entire life was going to be reduced to a cold, dark room for years. He remembered the heat of Peter’s hands.
Now, Neal felt Peter hands on the back of his neck. A finger was curled in his hair, pressed against the base of his skull. There was a jazz rhythm to Peter’s pulse, which Neal felt against his neck. He smiled. He often dreamt of this.
“You’re hurting me,” Neal hissed.
“You’re smiling,” Peter muttered, close to his ear. Neal could feel the words, which were echoed by actual sound.
“Maybe I like it,” Neal teased. He tried to remember what women do, how they look up to men with their long, full eyelashes. How their voices turn light as silver bells. He tried to do that. He wanted Peter recognize the thinness of his body.
“Get in the car,” Peter said, shoving him under, harder than necessary. This was for show. Neal tried to look disgruntled, not raving. He tried to straighten his clothes but the cuffs got in the way.
When they got back to the headquarters, Neal waited for someone to undo his handcuffs. His wrists had become a violent red. He imagined the way the bruises would look the next day. How the cuff were like Peter’s hands on him.
“Well,” Neal said, when Peter finally returned to him.
“Well, what?” Peter asked. There was a hard, smile on his face. It did not suggest a smile shared between friends; it was the smile of the tormenter. Neal shifted uncomfortably in his clothes.
“These,” Neal said, raising his hands. “Can you do something with them?”
“I sort of like you like that,” Peter replied. His tone was lighter, but he could not completely mask that cruel thing that lived beneath his skin.
“Peter, I never knew you were such a sadist!” Neal knew how to make his voice soft and even charming, but Peter only thins out his lips at this. Everything in the room was suddenly too hot and Neal wanted to leave.
“I should have left you in jail,” but he pulled out a key and undid the cuffs. Neal shook out his hands, allowing the cuffs to fall with a metallic sound; he straightened out his tie.
Peter bent to pick up the cuffs; he put them on a nearby table. When he looked up at Neal, a question already on his tongue, Neal was watching him intently. When their eyes met, the world slipped off its axis for a moment.
--
Peter knows better than to drink too much, especially with Neal nearby. Neal has been matching his every drink. His eyes are closing now, he looks happy, content. The cat who got the canary. In an hour reality becomes disjointed. In two, it becomes nonexistent. The next morning, when Peter stumbles to work, bruised down his back, his memories come back in shards. He remembers hand, large, warm hands and a large, warm mouth. He remembers clothing on the floor, a body in a bed. He remembers crying and begging for Neal to open up his skin to him, to allow him to crawl underneath his skin. To be him.
He stops; he puts his head against a wall. He tries to forget everything. He tries to decide which step to take next.