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elrhiarhodanTitle: Something We Never Dreamt We Could Have – A Wonder(ful) Years Timestamp – Part 1 of 3
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R (with the occasional NC-17 moment)
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Peter/Neal, many Original Characters, including Joe Burke.
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Expressions of Homophobia
Word Count: ~7,100 (~23,000 total)
Beta Credit:coffeethyme4me
Art Credit:kanarek13
Summary: In July, 2012, the Marriage Equality Act has been law in New York State for about a year, but there are forces arrayed throughout the United States to deny some citizens the civil right that most enjoy. Neal’s outrage over comments against gay marriage spark a sea change in him, and little does he know that his life-partner of nearly thirty years has been thinking along those very same lines. Neither man realizes that there’s a couple of wanna-be cupids working to make things happen.
A/N: I started this story back in August, 2012, shortly after the Chick-fil-A debacle hit the newspapers, for my dear friend,coffeethyme4me. I got stalled, distracted and diverted with Real Life things, and finally made my way back to this a few weeks ago (when I should have been working on my Poly Big Bang). For those of you who like the Wonder(ful) Years ‘verse, you’ll be happy to know that this story sets up at least two case-fic sequels.
__________________
Monday
His hair sleep-mussed and still wearing his bathrobe, Neal tossed down the day’s edition of the New York Times in obvious agitation. Peter had, as was his habit, snagged the section with the crossword puzzle, and was hard at work filling in the answers. It was Monday, and the puzzle was barely a challenge. He looked up at Neal’s sound of disgust.
“What’s the matter?”
“This – this – this –” Neal sputtered in outrage.
His partner of nearly thirty years pointed to a headline: “Chick-fil-A Thrust Back Into Spotlight on Gay Rights”. “I still don’t get it – how does one marriage threaten anyone else’s? Why can’t people just live and let live?”
Peter sighed. They had had this argument – discussion – whatever – dozens of times. Every time that some politician made a negative comment about same-sex marriage, his partner went a little crazy. “Do you really want an answer to that?”
“No.” Neal shook his head, exasperated. “There are no good answers to crap like this.” He got up, kissed Peter on the temple and went upstairs to shower and get ready for the day.
Peter looked at Neal’s retreating figure and couldn’t help but smile. This had been their weekday routine for the better part of two decades. Peter would shower and dress first, Neal would make coffee, retrieve the Times (which didn’t take that much effort, since the doorman had it brought to their door). Depending on the season, they’d start their day with a discussion of the previous day’s ballgames (Neal didn’t care for football, so Peter kept his thoughts about the Jets and Giants to himself), then segue into the harder news, and while Neal fed him choice bits from the Opinion and Op-Ed pages, he’d do the crossword puzzle. They’d have their first cup of coffee and a light breakfast, then Neal would go shower and get dressed.
As familiar as the routine was, Peter never failed to appreciate it, just as he could never fail to see the bullet scars on his chest and shoulder. He had learned the hard way not to take life for granted. Peter sipped his coffee and after finishing the puzzle, he snagged the section of the Times that Neal had tossed aside.
“As it relates to society in general, I think we are inviting God’s judgment on our nation when we shake our fist at him and say, ‘We know better than you as to what constitutes a marriage.’ ”
A ripple of disgust turned the taste of his coffee sour in his mouth. Neal’s outrage was more than justified. Marriage was a civil right, a civil matter. No religious ceremony was legally binding unless the celebrant was granted the right by the state to perform marriages.
Ah, to hell with it. Getting angry wasn’t going to fix this problem.
Peter tossed the paper back on the table and ambled into the bedroom. He didn’t have anything urgent on deck for this morning, and he was sure that Neal didn’t either. At forty-something-or-other, he thought he was supposed to be experiencing a diminishing sex drive, yet some days (like today) he felt like a goat; ready for sex at the least provocation, and he certainly didn’t question the good fortune that he still had the libido of his seventeen year-old self.
He took off his jacket, loosened his tie, slipped off his shoes and relaxed on the bed, ankles crossed. One hand was tucked behind his head; the other massaging his pleasantly hardening dick through his trousers. Waiting for Neal to get out of the shower, his mind drifted to all the places in the office where they’d had sex. There was the file room on sub-level four. The supply closet shared by White Collar and Forensic Accounting (it was the only one that had a lock on the inside of the door). They fucked more than a few times on the conference room table after hours, and then eye-fucked each other through the next morning’s meetings. He had Neal in the men’s room on thirty-two, Neal had him under the table in the interrogation room.
Their occasional sexual risk-taking still had the power to surprise him. Maybe it was because they had to spend so many years pretending they barely knew each other at work. On the other hand, it could just be that he and Neal had a kink for sex in risky places. Simple as that.
Neal came out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, another one working his hair dry. He was still a god amongst men – broader at the shoulder than he was at seventeen, but just as hard-bodied – and Peter’s mouth (and other parts) watered at the sight of him.
“Anyone tell you that you’re a goat.” Neal stared at the impressive bulge in Peter’s trousers.
“Actually, I was just thinking the exact same thing.” Peter replied, a smirk twisting his lips. “And it’s not like you’re never ready for a good fucking at the drop of a hat. Speaking of which …” A few years back, Neal had taken to wearing vintage headwear. Peter had teased him – told him it made him look like a cartoon. And then proceeded to nail him against the door.
“No, I am not putting on my hat. It’s seven-twenty in the morning, a little too early for kinky sex games.”
“Me thinks thou dost protest too much.” Peter stared pointedly at Neal’s towel, which had formed its own impressive bulge.
Neal tossed aside the towel he was using to dry his hair, then slowly untucked the one around his waist, holding it in place for a few seconds before letting it slip through his fingers. Neal’s grin was pure sex and Peter reacted accordingly.
His voice thick with arousal, he commanded, “No argument, we’re calling in late today.”
“Nothing like being subtle.” It was Neal’s turn to smirk.
“As if there’s anyone at the office who doesn’t know about us.”
“I think there are a few probies who haven’t been clued in yet.”
Peter’s mind really wasn’t on office gossip, or whether the latest batch of shiny new agents knew that their SAIC was life partners with the SAIC a few doors down the hallway. He was more interested in getting that all-too-coy SAIC in bed, underneath him.
But Neal was playing hard to get. That little shit danced out of his reach and Peter surged out of bed. He was, unbelievably, chasing Neal around the bedroom. Until Neal let himself be caught. “Gotcha!”
He threw him on the bed, face down. Neal laughed, the sound joyful, breathless. “Yeah, you got me, copper – what are you going to do to me now?”
Peter leaned over his lover’s body, spread out like a fallen angel amongst the sheets. “I’m going to fuck you until you beg me for mercy. And then I’m going to fuck you again.”
Neal shivered at the words. “What’s my crime, Agent Burke?” His face was turned to Peter, blue eyes glowing.
“You’re a thief, and now you’re going to pay the price.” Peter wondered at himself, at this crazy dialogue, but he was so damn aroused, his dick could crack stone. He considered getting out the handcuffs, but instead reached for the night table drawer – for the condom and the lube. Until Neal stunned him.
“Fuck me bareback.”
Peter stilled at that breathless command.
“Don’t use a condom, Peter.”
All thoughts of role-play left his brain. They’d been all but married for almost three decades; they never fucked around, they never stepped out on each other. But coming of age in the plague years had made some habits unbreakable. They hadn’t done it without condoms since their freshman year in college. Despite their absolute monogamy, bare-backing was something they rarely considered.
“Please.” That one word, that breathless plea, undid him.
Neal lifted his hips and Peter captured them between his palms, his thumbs curving in to separate those tight cheeks. “You’ve already slicked yourself?”
“Yeah – and I’m still loose from last night. Come on, Peter – fuck me.” Neal whined and Peter slipped a thumb in.
Yeah, Neal was just like he liked him, tight enough and slippery. Peter unzipped himself, his cock practically erupting out of his shorts. He pressed the head against Neal’s hole, his thumb still tucked in. It was so difficult to take it slow, not to ram himself inside, not to do as he threatened and fuck Neal so hard he’d have trouble walking.
Even though Neal wanted it like that.
No, Peter savored it. The heat, the slide of skin against skin, the crazy sensation of the sharp edge of his thumbnail against his own dick, was incredible. He wanted to savor, to go slow, to drive them both to madness.
Neal pushed back against him, and Peter pulled out his thumb, better to concentrate on giving Neal as much pleasure as he was receiving.
“Faster – damn it, fuck me faster.”
“No.” He sank into Neal’s ass, up to his balls and held himself there, grinding slowly against him. There was joy in this, this taking and giving. Peter leaned over, still dressed, pressing himself along the length of Neal’s back, resting his head against Neal’s shoulder.
Neal squirmed and struggled against Peter’s hold, trying to get some leverage, some friction. “Damn you.”
“And yet you complain that I take you like a marauder. Don’t you like going slow? I like this – I like being naked inside you.” Peter reached around; Neal’s cock was burning hot in his palm. He stroked him, toyed with him. “You always tell me I have no self-control.”
“Well, now’s not the time to prove me wrong.”
Peter had to chuckle, which apparently transmitted through his dick, because Neal shivered and bucked up against him.
He pulled Neal up, and Neal grasped the edge of the headboard. Good boy.
Peter fucked Neal like Neal wanted to be fucked, hard and fast. He was jack-hammering into him, his hips whipping, cock pistoning. He still couldn’t get over the heat, the silken feel of skin against skin. Neal whined and clamped down. Peter lost all control, the edges of his vision turning white as he emptied himself into Neal, nearly passing out from the pleasure.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It was close to ten-thirty before they made it to the office. Neal thought he saw Frank-the-Guard wink at them. Peter was, as usual, oblivious to things like that. His lover was a man who strode across the world like he owned it – never noticing the little things until he had to.
Neal checked email and messages on his cell phone while waiting for the elevator. Even though he had nothing urgent on his desk, there was always something to deal with. Besides, concentrating on email was a distraction from all the lovely sensations still running through his body.
Neal cast his eyes towards Peter, similarly engrossed. It never failed to amaze him that this man was his. He wasn’t blind about his own attractions – but Peter …
How do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.
Neal couldn’t restrain a sigh. Peter looked over to him. “What’s the matter?”
He ducked his head, hiding a smile. “Oh, nothing.”
Peter’s eyes flashed with a knowing gleam. “Ah, okay.”
A light flashed over the third car in the bank of elevators. “You coming, Burke?”
That gleam flashed just a little brighter.
The door was closing when a familiar voice called out, asking them to hold the door. It was one of his agents, Helen Chen. She slipped into the car and slapped the button for the twenty-first floor before noticing that Neal was in the car, too.
“Oh – good morning, Sir.” She turned and saw Peter. “Sir.”
Peter nodded at her, but otherwise remained absorbed by his email.
Neal liked Helen the best of all of the agents under his command. Over the years, he had the chance to supervise quite a few probies, and no matter how smart they were, he was careful not to make the same mistakes that Hughes made with him (even though everything did work out in the end). His new agents weren’t relegated to simply coffee-and-file fetching, but they weren’t given their own case files, either. At least not right away.
That Helen had degrees in forensic accounting and art history made her doubly useful. It didn’t hurt that she was fluent in French, Russian and Mandarin, and had a way of charming herself into all sorts of situations. She reminded Neal of himself – at least his younger self. His own brief was extremely eclectic: most of his work was with White Collar, but he ran the tiny Art Crimes unit, too. Plus consulting with other divisions as needed.
They worked well together, and had for the last two years. She started as a probie, so fresh out of Quantico that there was still Yellow Brick Road mud on her shoes. And by the end of the first month, she impressed him enough that he knew he’d want to keep her as his right hand after her probationary period was done. Which was a first.
The elevator made a few stops before landing at their floor, but no one spoke. It was a rule that Peter had imposed on all his staff – no business was to be discussed in elevators, open corridors or any place where civilians could be listening. Neal had adopted it as well, and he could see that Helen was simply dying to tell him something – she was bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her smile was infectious, and in the brief minutes it took for their elevator to reach their destination, Neal was grinning too.
The doors opened and he gestured for her to precede him, catching Peter’s eye and giving him a quick wink before parting company.
Helen was talking so quickly, he only caught one in every three words, but those words made the hair stand up on the back of his neck – “Nazi” – “Music box” – “Amber”.
“Slow down, slow down – speak in complete sentences. And have a little respect for these aged ears.” He unlocked his office door, waited for Helen to charge in ahead of him, and finally took a seat in his own chair. “Now – what’s going on?”
“Okay, sorry. Remember George Devore?”
“Of course I do. Chased that son of a bitch for three years. Bond forgery, racketeering, art theft. He ‘recreated’ some rather spectacular Renaissance bronze medals that belonged to the Smithsonian. One of his replicas was made out of chocolate. He’s doing four and change in Hawthorne Fed for that. ”
“Got a call from him this morning – he wanted to talk to someone about this.” Helen pushed a file over his desk. “I wanted to wait for you, but …”
Neal understood. “Not a problem – you took Agent Garces with you?”
Helen sighed. “Of course, I’m not stupid.”
He just raised an eyebrow at her. “Okay – what did Devore want?”
“He says he’s got a line on that.” Helen pointed to the folder.
Neal opened the folder and whistled at the detailed color drawing. “Nice – tell me about it.”
“It’s supposed to be the amber music box, the one from Catherine the Great’s Amber Room at the Ekaterina Palace in Tsarskoye Selo. It was looted by the Nazis – but you already know about that. Devore says he knows where it is, and it’s the key to something bigger than anything we could imagine.”
“Hmmmm, could also be a wild goose chase. You need to do some more research on this – check all the art registries, call Mischa Popolov at the Russian Art Institute, Adele Schiller at the Smithsonian …”
“All the usual suspects?”
Neal nodded. “And before that – ” He held out his mug.
“We have interns for that.” She made a moue of distaste.
“I’ve got something better, I’ve got you.”
Helen stalked off in a mock huff, and when she came back with his coffee, he took a sip and grimaced. She laughed at him. “You really should know better – this stuff will kill you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He shooed her out and let the morning catch up with him.
The crap with Chick-fil-A still bothered him. There was nothing he could do about it, but it still bothered him. He swung his chair around and looked out over the lower Manhattan skyline. The sky was hazy with summer heat, the rooftops shimmering. Gazing out but not seeing anything, Neal felt a little helpless. One step forward, two steps back. He had the right to marry here, in his home state, but just across the river, friends couldn’t – and if they came to New York and got married here – there was no guarantee that the rights afforded to them by their marriage would be recognized.
Which set up a whole other train of thought. They had friends who had done the civil union thing in Vermont, they attended a dozen weddings in Massachusetts and literally countless commitment ceremonies here in New York. Truth be told, he hated all of those commitment ceremonies. They were just a big gay excuse for a party and had no legal standing. Besides, Neal figured that two-thirds of the couples who went through that dog and pony show didn’t last a year anyway – so why did they even bother? He and Peter were committed to each other, and had been for more than half their lives. They didn’t need to stand up in front of a bunch of people to make it real.
Neal could never forget that day in a D.C. hotel room, Peter seducing him with poetry.
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise
I love thee with a passion put to use in my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
They had said all they needed to that day. There was no need for a commitment ceremony; they didn’t need to mouth vows that were redundant to promises already made.
But still, there were well-meaning questions. Uncle Joe – Peter’s dad – recently asked him why they hadn’t tied the knot, now that they could. Neal had shrugged. “It’s not like we’re going to give you grandchildren.”
Joe had glared at him and shook his head. “You and Peter have rights, opportunities that no one could have imagined even just a decade ago. You’re squandering them.”
Neal had sighed. “We’re happy the way we are.”
The truth was, though, that Neal wanted to be married. He wanted what everyone one else had. But Peter never seemed interested in being married – he liked the status quo. It wasn’t like Peter was allergic to commitment – it was just … just what?
A light bulb went on – maybe Peter was waiting, maybe he didn’t want to be the one to do the asking.
Neal sat up, he got up, paced the length of the tiny office, ran his suddenly sweaty hands through his hair. His stomach clenched in agitation. Was this all his fault?
Well, whether or not it was, it was something he could rectify easily enough. Maybe pop the question over a romantic dinner. Peter wasn’t the big, romantic gestures kind of guy, but he’d appreciate the effort.
Or he could just be nonchalant about the whole thing, work it into their daily routine, over morning coffee and the newspaper. He’d ask him as casually as if he were reading the sports scores to him. ”Yankees beat the Angels, five-zip, and will you marry me?”
Neal couldn’t help but smile at the thought.
Which lead to another idea. They had tickets for a home game on Sunday; Neal had gotten them seats on the first base line. How hard would it be to have his proposal put up on the Jumbotron? People do that all the time.
Or maybe Peter wouldn’t like something quite so … well, public. Besides, Uncle Joe would be with them, too. How romantic would it be to ask Peter to marry him with his dad right there?
And what about a ring? Should he even give Peter a ring? They both had had their ten-year service pins made into rings, but they didn’t wear them all the time – too big and clunky and not very aesthetically appealing. But maybe Peter would wear something tasteful.
Neal thought for a moment or two, pulled out his cell phone and made a call.
“Hey there, Uncle Joe.”
“Neal! Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine – really good. Did I wake you?” Peter’s dad had moved into an adult living community last year, a few months after Peter’s mom had passed away.
“It’s nearly noon – what do you think I do all day, nap?”
“Would that be such a bad thing?”
“I may be eighty-two years old, but I’ve still got all my marbles. And don’t you forget that, young man.”
“No, sir – I won’t. Sorry.”
“Sorry my ass. Now, why are you calling me in the middle of the day if everything’s all right?”
Neal took a deep breath. “Remember that conversation we had a few months ago? The one about rights and opportunities?”
Joe let out a shout of laughter. “Yeah.”
“What would you say if I wanted to make an honest man out of your son?”
“Other than ‘It’s about damn time’?”
Neal grinned. “Okay. Okay.” He took another deep breath. “I was wondering … and feel free to say no …but could I have Aunt Cathy’s engagement ring? I’d like to use the stone for a ring for Peter.”
Joe didn’t answer right away. “I’m sorry, son. I don’t have it anymore.”
Neal tamped down the curl of disappointment. “Ah. Okay. Not a problem – I was just being a little sentimental.”
Neither man said anything for a moment. Joe finally spoke, “Nothing wrong with sentiment. When are you going to ask him?”
“Not quite sure. I’m thinking …” Neal ran through his ideas.
Joe told him how he had popped the question to Peter’s mom, the traditional bended knee proposal after coming home from a date. “Have you thought about that?”
Neal had to admit he hadn’t.
“My son appreciates the classics. They never go out of style.”
“I don’t know if we’re going to have a formal wedding, but if we do, will you give me away?”
“Neal – isn’t that every father’s dream?”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter had completely forgotten about the appointment he had in Midtown – on Forty-Seventh Street, to be precise. When his mom died and Dad decided to sell the house, he had given Peter a number of things, including his mother’s engagement ring.
For six months, Peter had dithered about what to do – about asking Neal to marry him – about the ring. Of course, his father was right, he and Neal should be married. No commitment ceremony, not even a civil union, would mean what marriage meant. He had taken the ring to a jeweler he knew – actually an old friend of Neal’s – and had it set into something he hoped Neal would like.
He checked his calendar. The rest of the day was clear; he’d head up to the jeweler’s and pick up the ring. But having it wasn’t going to solve the bigger dilemma: when and how to ask Neal the most important question of their lives.
Will you marry me?
It took about an hour to complete his errand, it would have been longer if he had stayed and chatted. The ring was beautiful, perfect in its elegance. Peter had his mother’s stone placed in an understated platinum mounting, the diamond bezel mounted, the setting brushed-finished. It was something he could see Neal wearing with pride, not only because it was a gift, but because it was something of beauty. He might lightly mock Neal’s sartorial pleasures, but he understood them. He appreciated them.
They were as much a part of Neal as his blue eyes, his perpetual five o’clock shadow and his intellectual brilliance.
It was a little after three when he got back to the office. Everything seemed to be running smoothly. His second-in-command, Stephen Anderson, was at the quarterly budget meeting, as was Neal. But then he noticed three people in the conference room. One was AD Malloy, the other two men he didn’t know.
Malloy must have seen him come into the office. He went out onto the balcony and gave him a two-finger summons. “Burke – conference room – now.”
Peter wasn’t particularly fond of Assistant Director Malloy, who was too much of a political animal and not enough of an agent. That he ordered him about in front of his staff set his temper on edge.
He joined them in the conference room, and to his increasing irritation, Malloy had taken up the position at the head of the table. Peter tried to rationalize that it was his right as Assistant Director in charge of the New York field office. The other two agents sat in the chairs to his right. Peter took up the remaining power position at the other end of the table, in front of the large monitor with its glowing FBI logo. So there.
The posturing was all for nothing. Malloy simply introduced the two men as FBI agents – Sylvester DiNapoli and Walter O’Donnell, both out of the Kansas City field office – and left.
“What brings you to New York City, gentlemen? And more importantly, to White Collar?”
“We have a case that you may be able to provide some support on.” DiNapoli slid a file down the table. Peter caught it before it hit the floor. He should have let it drop and made the junior agent, O’Donnell, come pick it up. But he really wasn’t that petty.
He skimmed the file. The case was interesting and right up his alley. A fairly typical boiler room scheme, but the players were unique. Instead of the junior Gordon Geckos and Wall Street Wannabes, the players were the Harvard and Yale educated sons of the leading Kansas City organized crime families. Peter couldn’t hold back a whistle. “Family money backing them?”
DiNapoli explained. “Of course. The operation’s mobile. They set up shop, run the boiler room scam for six months, sell out – leaving destitution and devastation in their wake.”
“So they’re setting up here in New York? Have you talked to Organized Crime?”
DiNapoli made a face. “Your locals aren’t interested in taking this on – their plates are too full. AD Malloy suggested we work with you.” He continued. “This time, it looks to be something a little more than just a mob-funded scam. Our inside connection tells us that there’s a big-time Wall Street player involved, which can take the scheme to a whole other level.”
Peter had to agree – if a legitimate brokerage got involved, the losses could dwarf what Madoff did. “You have someone on the inside – someone you’ve turned?”
“No, not quite. We’ve had our eye on the operation for two years, but haven’t been able to get close to it until now. Our insider, Madison Cockler, is a civilian. She reached out to us a few weeks ago; she’d been dating Anthony Civella Jr. – the grandson of the current head of the Kansas City mob. He got her a job doing the scut work in the boiler room – taking client information, running errands – the woman’s work. But he’s been cheating on her and she wants to get even.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “That’s risky.”
O’Donnell spoke up for the first time. “Turns out, AJ’s a little light on his feet. He likes to bat for the home team. Really likes the bat, if you know what I mean.” The agent actually snickered at his own repulsive whit.
“No, actually I don’t.” Peter’s tone was icy, in contrast to the instantly white hot rage he felt at this agent’s not-so-veiled homophobia. “Why don’t you explain it to me?”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Midday, Neal had to go to the quarterly budget meeting on the 27th floor. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t send Helen in his place, and he couldn’t blow it off. The higher-ups were (as always) looking to cut headcount, and those that weren’t there to speak up for themselves were the first to lose. At least those who had tiny budgets and smaller staff. Peter could (and did) send his second in command, the ever-competent Stephen Anderson, confident that he’d retain his current staffing levels, and maybe gain a few slots, too.
Of course the meeting was a waste of his time and it took a desperate recollection of the morning’s sex to keep him awake, if not exactly alert. By the time the meeting came to a close, he was mildly aroused and extraordinarily sleepy.
Helen, bless her, met him outside the conference room with a double espresso and a half-dozen macaroons from his favorite French bakery. “Do I have to now give you my first born?”
She grinned at him. “As if I’d want any of the monsters from your loins.”
“Then what’s this for?” He all but inhaled the coffee but was polite enough to offer her one of the cookies.
“No, thanks – I had my own.” She said nothing else, just stood there, grinning.
“Tell me that you got a hit on the music box.”
“Yes, sir, that I did. Dr. Popolov confirmed its existence and he even had a photograph of it when it was taken from Russia and put on display in Königsberg Castle. So Devore could be telling the truth.”
Neal shoved the last macaroon in his mouth – the sugar and caffeine helped restore him to some level of working intelligence – and swallowed. Helen handed him a napkin and he wiped his lips before speaking. “Call Hawthorne Fed and schedule a meeting with Devore for tomorrow, first thing. I want to hear what he has to say, face-to-face.”
“He’s good, almost impossible to read.”
“Believe me, I know. Took me the better part of three years to catch him. Devore’s one of the world’s greatest con artists. We’ll need to be careful. If this is real, he’s going to want something big from us.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure he was disappointed when you didn’t show up for the meeting.”
“I’m sure he was.” Changing the subject, Neal asked, “Anything else of interest going on in the office.”
“Actually, yeah. Assistant Director Malloy came in to the White Collar office with two out-of-towners, and corralled Agent Burke. They’ve been in the conference room for over an hour. Agent Burke looks pissed.”
Neal didn’t like Malloy and he knew that Peter shared that opinion, but Peter was too good an agent to let his dislike show. So there must be something else going on. “Do you know who the out-of-towners are?”
Helen’s grin was, as always, infectious. “I checked with Frank at the front desk. He says that they signed in as Sylvester DiNapoli and Walter O’Donnell, from the Kansas City field office. I’ve pulled their CVs. DiNapoli’s head of KC’s Organized Crime division, O’Donnell’s –”
“Here as window dressing.”
“How did you know that, sir?”
“He was my roommate at Quantico. Loser then, undoubtedly still a loser now.”
“Says here that his first assignment was at the Resident Agency in Fort Walton, Kansas. I didn’t think that new agents were assigned to Resident Agency offices.”
“They’re not – Walter was an exception.”
Helen was, as always, lightning-quick on the uptake. “I am guessing that he had political connections that made it impossible to fail him out of the Academy.”
Neal nodded. “His uncle was a U.S. Senator. So they did the next best thing to booting him. They gave him an assignment where he could do no harm. I am surprised that he’s lasted this long. He’s just shy of his twenty.”
“Maybe he settled down and became an agent worthy of his training.” Helen was such an optimist.
“That is unlikely.” Neal had very vivid memories of the five months he spent with Walter in close quarters. You really got to know a person, and at twenty-five, Walter wasn’t the kind of man who’d have the intestinal fortitude to turn himself around. He didn’t need to – his family had all the right connections. At forty-five, he was probably still scraping by on those connections.
Back in the office, Neal couldn’t help but notice the people in the conference room. And yes, he recognized O’Donnell, even though most of his hair was gone and his face was soft and pudgy.
Peter, on the other hand, was anything but soft and pudgy. He was pacing back and forth like a caged lion, and even from the distance of the bullpen, Neal could tell that he was tense and angry. His face was tight and pointed; he was leading with this chin. O’Donnell looked smug. The third man in the room, presumably Sylvester DiNapoli, was sitting back, watching the by-play.
Neal couldn’t see Peter’s expression when he stalked down to the near end of the table and confronted O’Donnell face to face.
They never interfered with each other’s work, but this was something he needed to step into. Neal grabbed a file off of Stephen’s desk and casually sauntered up the stairs, pretending to do a double take when he saw O’Donnell.
Neal plastered on a fake smile, tapped on the glass wall to get everyone’s attention and entered the conference room, seemingly oblivious to the tensions.
“Walter, how the hell are you?” Walter looked puzzled, he didn’t recognize him. “It’s me, Neal Caffrey – we were roommates in Quantico.”
O’Donnell got a shifty-eyed look. “Yeah, Caffrey – of course I remember you. Still in New York?” The implication was clear.
Neal ignored the not-so-subtle dig. “What brings you to the Big Apple? Last I heard you were posted in Kansas City.”
Someone cleared their throat – it was DiNapoli. “I don’t know who you are, but we’re having a briefing, and junior agents don’t just burst in like it’s old home week at the frat house.”
Neal looked around, all innocence. “Oh – sorry to interrupt everyone.” He caught Peter’s eye, Peter gave him an infinitesimal nod back. There were on the same page of the playbook, as always.
“DiNapoli – ” Peter deliberately left off the man’s title, “Agent Caffrey – unlike your associate, O’Donnell – is hardly a junior agent. He’s a highly decorated senior agent, the SAIC for the entire Art Crimes department, both in New York and in D.C. as well. Neal also has a permanent working brief here at White Collar.”
Neal tried not to goggle at Peter. He had never seen him indulge in dick-measuring by proxy. He also never heard Peter use quite that tone. Not even when the local heroes burst in and messed up his operation. Despite that, Neal truly enjoyed the whole compare and contrast thing – Neal as SAIC and Walter as a junior agent – when they both had been in the same class in the Academy. Nice move …
Peter didn’t let the ball go quite yet. “In any event, Neal might have some insights.” He passed a case file to him. “It’s a classic pump-and-dump, but with a twist.”
Neal perused the data. “I can see that.”
Peter continued. “Walter was just explaining his scheme for getting into the boiler room operation.”
DiNapoli cleared his throat. “Nothing’s final yet.”
“Oh, really?” Neal was stunned at the derision in Peter’s reply. “Your agent here seems to think otherwise.”
“What’s going on?” He handed the file back to Peter, who dropped it on the conference like it was a sack of garbage.
“They want to set up a honey trap.”
Walter was apparently oblivious to the tension in the room, or he was simply stupid. “It’ll work, trust me. Hang the right piece of meat in front of AJ Civella and he’s gonna take a great big bite. Then we can use him to crack open the whole operation, and maybe even the entire Kansas City organization.”
Neal was skeptical. “Honey traps rarely work like you think they will. Besides, even if the suspects bites – what are you expecting? That the target will just roll? Is he even married?”
“Oh, I didn’t get to the best part. AJ – Anthony Civella, Junior’s a faggot.”
Neal froze. It had been a long time since he heard that word uttered with such joy-filled disgust. “Excuse me?”
DiNapoli interrupted, “Don’t tell me you’re one of those sensitive types.” He made air quotes around the word “sensitive.”
Neal held his hand out. Peter looked like he was about to commit an act of violence against another agent. Not a good idea. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, come on …”
“Yeah, Caffrey’s probably one of those. All he whined about was how he wanted to work in Art Crimes when we were at Quantico.”
Both of the agents snickered. DiNapoli added insult upon insult. “I bet he’s one of those who think that the fags should marry.”
Neal blinked. Of all the things. Of all the words that could come out of those assholes mouths.
DiNapoli and O’Donnell kept at it, kept digging deeper and deeper holes. The plan was to catch Civella in a compromising position with a male agent, use that to turn him – because Civella would be as good as dead if his family found out about him.
Objectively, it wasn’t a bad plan. But he knew that Peter wouldn’t stand for it – whatever the target’s sexual orientation – he didn’t pimp out his agents. Nor did Neal. And the thought that these two morons believed that this was an acceptable solution was disgusting.
Peter snagged the folder and opened the conference room. “Agents, you can go back to Kansas City now. We’ll take it from here.”
That got their attention. “What the hell do you mean; you’ll take it from here?” DiNapoli stood up, his posture suddenly aggressive.
“I mean that this is now our case. It’s in our jurisdiction. We’ll keep you briefed, but it’s no longer your operation and I have no interest in allowing bigots on my team.”
DiNapoli looked like he had been slapped. Then his expression turned vicious. “I think Walter, here, was wrong. It’s not Caffrey who’s the sensitive type. It’s you, Burke. You’re the one with the big dick in this office and you really like to swing it.”
Walter added, “Tell me, Caffrey – does he put the moves on you in the men’s room?”
Neal stood there for a second, jaw agape, before responding. “You’re kidding me, right? You’re both really this stupid?” Neal would have continued, but Peter interrupted, with – of all things – a heartfelt laugh. Neal’s hands were bunched into tight fists, he hadn’t been this moved to violence in very long time.
“Neal – stop.” Peter went out to the balcony and called over the guard at the door. “Allen, please escort these two out of the building.”
Of course, DiNapoli and O’Donnell starting making all sorts of threats – to take this back to Malloy, to DC, all the way up to the Director himself.
“Don’t bother. I don’t think you’ll particularly care for the reception you’ll get there. And besides, you came to New York for help and that’s just what you’re getting.”
Allen stood there, his hand on his sidearm. The entire bullpen was keenly observing the little drama. DiNapoli and O’Donnell finally left and they watched as they waited for the elevator, accompanied by Allen, who would escort them to the street.
Neals hands were stuffed in his pockets; he didn’t want anyone to see his fists. He had a bad feeling that this wasn’t going to be the last time he saw that pair.
Peter clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be fine. And thanks for the interruption. Your timing is – as always – impeccable.”
“And yet I’m the one who was nearly moved to violence.” Neal was still seething.
Peter tugged him into his office and shut the door. “Relax. Take a deep breath. Just let it go.”
Neal complied.
“It’s really a cliché, but they aren’t worth it,” Peter told him.
“I know, I know. But I guess I never expected that. Not here, not in our own office.” Neal took another deep, steadying breath. Then chuckled. “I wonder, when they do go to Malloy, what he’ll tell them about us?”
“Hmm, I doubt he’ll say anything. Malloy may be a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.”
Neal had to agree. “But it just feels so …”
“Yeah, I know. One step forward, two steps back?”
Part Two: On DW | On LJ
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R (with the occasional NC-17 moment)
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Peter/Neal, many Original Characters, including Joe Burke.
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Expressions of Homophobia
Word Count: ~7,100 (~23,000 total)
Beta Credit:
coffeethyme4meArt Credit:
kanarek13Summary: In July, 2012, the Marriage Equality Act has been law in New York State for about a year, but there are forces arrayed throughout the United States to deny some citizens the civil right that most enjoy. Neal’s outrage over comments against gay marriage spark a sea change in him, and little does he know that his life-partner of nearly thirty years has been thinking along those very same lines. Neither man realizes that there’s a couple of wanna-be cupids working to make things happen.
A/N: I started this story back in August, 2012, shortly after the Chick-fil-A debacle hit the newspapers, for my dear friend,
coffeethyme4me. I got stalled, distracted and diverted with Real Life things, and finally made my way back to this a few weeks ago (when I should have been working on my Poly Big Bang). For those of you who like the Wonder(ful) Years ‘verse, you’ll be happy to know that this story sets up at least two case-fic sequels.Monday
His hair sleep-mussed and still wearing his bathrobe, Neal tossed down the day’s edition of the New York Times in obvious agitation. Peter had, as was his habit, snagged the section with the crossword puzzle, and was hard at work filling in the answers. It was Monday, and the puzzle was barely a challenge. He looked up at Neal’s sound of disgust.
“What’s the matter?”
“This – this – this –” Neal sputtered in outrage.
His partner of nearly thirty years pointed to a headline: “Chick-fil-A Thrust Back Into Spotlight on Gay Rights”. “I still don’t get it – how does one marriage threaten anyone else’s? Why can’t people just live and let live?”
Peter sighed. They had had this argument – discussion – whatever – dozens of times. Every time that some politician made a negative comment about same-sex marriage, his partner went a little crazy. “Do you really want an answer to that?”
“No.” Neal shook his head, exasperated. “There are no good answers to crap like this.” He got up, kissed Peter on the temple and went upstairs to shower and get ready for the day.
Peter looked at Neal’s retreating figure and couldn’t help but smile. This had been their weekday routine for the better part of two decades. Peter would shower and dress first, Neal would make coffee, retrieve the Times (which didn’t take that much effort, since the doorman had it brought to their door). Depending on the season, they’d start their day with a discussion of the previous day’s ballgames (Neal didn’t care for football, so Peter kept his thoughts about the Jets and Giants to himself), then segue into the harder news, and while Neal fed him choice bits from the Opinion and Op-Ed pages, he’d do the crossword puzzle. They’d have their first cup of coffee and a light breakfast, then Neal would go shower and get dressed.
As familiar as the routine was, Peter never failed to appreciate it, just as he could never fail to see the bullet scars on his chest and shoulder. He had learned the hard way not to take life for granted. Peter sipped his coffee and after finishing the puzzle, he snagged the section of the Times that Neal had tossed aside.
“As it relates to society in general, I think we are inviting God’s judgment on our nation when we shake our fist at him and say, ‘We know better than you as to what constitutes a marriage.’ ”
A ripple of disgust turned the taste of his coffee sour in his mouth. Neal’s outrage was more than justified. Marriage was a civil right, a civil matter. No religious ceremony was legally binding unless the celebrant was granted the right by the state to perform marriages.
Ah, to hell with it. Getting angry wasn’t going to fix this problem.
Peter tossed the paper back on the table and ambled into the bedroom. He didn’t have anything urgent on deck for this morning, and he was sure that Neal didn’t either. At forty-something-or-other, he thought he was supposed to be experiencing a diminishing sex drive, yet some days (like today) he felt like a goat; ready for sex at the least provocation, and he certainly didn’t question the good fortune that he still had the libido of his seventeen year-old self.
He took off his jacket, loosened his tie, slipped off his shoes and relaxed on the bed, ankles crossed. One hand was tucked behind his head; the other massaging his pleasantly hardening dick through his trousers. Waiting for Neal to get out of the shower, his mind drifted to all the places in the office where they’d had sex. There was the file room on sub-level four. The supply closet shared by White Collar and Forensic Accounting (it was the only one that had a lock on the inside of the door). They fucked more than a few times on the conference room table after hours, and then eye-fucked each other through the next morning’s meetings. He had Neal in the men’s room on thirty-two, Neal had him under the table in the interrogation room.
Their occasional sexual risk-taking still had the power to surprise him. Maybe it was because they had to spend so many years pretending they barely knew each other at work. On the other hand, it could just be that he and Neal had a kink for sex in risky places. Simple as that.
Neal came out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, another one working his hair dry. He was still a god amongst men – broader at the shoulder than he was at seventeen, but just as hard-bodied – and Peter’s mouth (and other parts) watered at the sight of him.
“Anyone tell you that you’re a goat.” Neal stared at the impressive bulge in Peter’s trousers.
“Actually, I was just thinking the exact same thing.” Peter replied, a smirk twisting his lips. “And it’s not like you’re never ready for a good fucking at the drop of a hat. Speaking of which …” A few years back, Neal had taken to wearing vintage headwear. Peter had teased him – told him it made him look like a cartoon. And then proceeded to nail him against the door.
“No, I am not putting on my hat. It’s seven-twenty in the morning, a little too early for kinky sex games.”
“Me thinks thou dost protest too much.” Peter stared pointedly at Neal’s towel, which had formed its own impressive bulge.
Neal tossed aside the towel he was using to dry his hair, then slowly untucked the one around his waist, holding it in place for a few seconds before letting it slip through his fingers. Neal’s grin was pure sex and Peter reacted accordingly.
His voice thick with arousal, he commanded, “No argument, we’re calling in late today.”
“Nothing like being subtle.” It was Neal’s turn to smirk.
“As if there’s anyone at the office who doesn’t know about us.”
“I think there are a few probies who haven’t been clued in yet.”
Peter’s mind really wasn’t on office gossip, or whether the latest batch of shiny new agents knew that their SAIC was life partners with the SAIC a few doors down the hallway. He was more interested in getting that all-too-coy SAIC in bed, underneath him.
But Neal was playing hard to get. That little shit danced out of his reach and Peter surged out of bed. He was, unbelievably, chasing Neal around the bedroom. Until Neal let himself be caught. “Gotcha!”
He threw him on the bed, face down. Neal laughed, the sound joyful, breathless. “Yeah, you got me, copper – what are you going to do to me now?”
Peter leaned over his lover’s body, spread out like a fallen angel amongst the sheets. “I’m going to fuck you until you beg me for mercy. And then I’m going to fuck you again.”
Neal shivered at the words. “What’s my crime, Agent Burke?” His face was turned to Peter, blue eyes glowing.
“You’re a thief, and now you’re going to pay the price.” Peter wondered at himself, at this crazy dialogue, but he was so damn aroused, his dick could crack stone. He considered getting out the handcuffs, but instead reached for the night table drawer – for the condom and the lube. Until Neal stunned him.
“Fuck me bareback.”
Peter stilled at that breathless command.
“Don’t use a condom, Peter.”
All thoughts of role-play left his brain. They’d been all but married for almost three decades; they never fucked around, they never stepped out on each other. But coming of age in the plague years had made some habits unbreakable. They hadn’t done it without condoms since their freshman year in college. Despite their absolute monogamy, bare-backing was something they rarely considered.
“Please.” That one word, that breathless plea, undid him.
Neal lifted his hips and Peter captured them between his palms, his thumbs curving in to separate those tight cheeks. “You’ve already slicked yourself?”
“Yeah – and I’m still loose from last night. Come on, Peter – fuck me.” Neal whined and Peter slipped a thumb in.
Yeah, Neal was just like he liked him, tight enough and slippery. Peter unzipped himself, his cock practically erupting out of his shorts. He pressed the head against Neal’s hole, his thumb still tucked in. It was so difficult to take it slow, not to ram himself inside, not to do as he threatened and fuck Neal so hard he’d have trouble walking.
Even though Neal wanted it like that.
No, Peter savored it. The heat, the slide of skin against skin, the crazy sensation of the sharp edge of his thumbnail against his own dick, was incredible. He wanted to savor, to go slow, to drive them both to madness.
Neal pushed back against him, and Peter pulled out his thumb, better to concentrate on giving Neal as much pleasure as he was receiving.
“Faster – damn it, fuck me faster.”
“No.” He sank into Neal’s ass, up to his balls and held himself there, grinding slowly against him. There was joy in this, this taking and giving. Peter leaned over, still dressed, pressing himself along the length of Neal’s back, resting his head against Neal’s shoulder.
Neal squirmed and struggled against Peter’s hold, trying to get some leverage, some friction. “Damn you.”
“And yet you complain that I take you like a marauder. Don’t you like going slow? I like this – I like being naked inside you.” Peter reached around; Neal’s cock was burning hot in his palm. He stroked him, toyed with him. “You always tell me I have no self-control.”
“Well, now’s not the time to prove me wrong.”
Peter had to chuckle, which apparently transmitted through his dick, because Neal shivered and bucked up against him.
He pulled Neal up, and Neal grasped the edge of the headboard. Good boy.
Peter fucked Neal like Neal wanted to be fucked, hard and fast. He was jack-hammering into him, his hips whipping, cock pistoning. He still couldn’t get over the heat, the silken feel of skin against skin. Neal whined and clamped down. Peter lost all control, the edges of his vision turning white as he emptied himself into Neal, nearly passing out from the pleasure.
It was close to ten-thirty before they made it to the office. Neal thought he saw Frank-the-Guard wink at them. Peter was, as usual, oblivious to things like that. His lover was a man who strode across the world like he owned it – never noticing the little things until he had to.
Neal checked email and messages on his cell phone while waiting for the elevator. Even though he had nothing urgent on his desk, there was always something to deal with. Besides, concentrating on email was a distraction from all the lovely sensations still running through his body.
Neal cast his eyes towards Peter, similarly engrossed. It never failed to amaze him that this man was his. He wasn’t blind about his own attractions – but Peter …
How do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.
Neal couldn’t restrain a sigh. Peter looked over to him. “What’s the matter?”
He ducked his head, hiding a smile. “Oh, nothing.”
Peter’s eyes flashed with a knowing gleam. “Ah, okay.”
A light flashed over the third car in the bank of elevators. “You coming, Burke?”
That gleam flashed just a little brighter.
The door was closing when a familiar voice called out, asking them to hold the door. It was one of his agents, Helen Chen. She slipped into the car and slapped the button for the twenty-first floor before noticing that Neal was in the car, too.
“Oh – good morning, Sir.” She turned and saw Peter. “Sir.”
Peter nodded at her, but otherwise remained absorbed by his email.
Neal liked Helen the best of all of the agents under his command. Over the years, he had the chance to supervise quite a few probies, and no matter how smart they were, he was careful not to make the same mistakes that Hughes made with him (even though everything did work out in the end). His new agents weren’t relegated to simply coffee-and-file fetching, but they weren’t given their own case files, either. At least not right away.
That Helen had degrees in forensic accounting and art history made her doubly useful. It didn’t hurt that she was fluent in French, Russian and Mandarin, and had a way of charming herself into all sorts of situations. She reminded Neal of himself – at least his younger self. His own brief was extremely eclectic: most of his work was with White Collar, but he ran the tiny Art Crimes unit, too. Plus consulting with other divisions as needed.
They worked well together, and had for the last two years. She started as a probie, so fresh out of Quantico that there was still Yellow Brick Road mud on her shoes. And by the end of the first month, she impressed him enough that he knew he’d want to keep her as his right hand after her probationary period was done. Which was a first.
The elevator made a few stops before landing at their floor, but no one spoke. It was a rule that Peter had imposed on all his staff – no business was to be discussed in elevators, open corridors or any place where civilians could be listening. Neal had adopted it as well, and he could see that Helen was simply dying to tell him something – she was bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her smile was infectious, and in the brief minutes it took for their elevator to reach their destination, Neal was grinning too.
The doors opened and he gestured for her to precede him, catching Peter’s eye and giving him a quick wink before parting company.
Helen was talking so quickly, he only caught one in every three words, but those words made the hair stand up on the back of his neck – “Nazi” – “Music box” – “Amber”.
“Slow down, slow down – speak in complete sentences. And have a little respect for these aged ears.” He unlocked his office door, waited for Helen to charge in ahead of him, and finally took a seat in his own chair. “Now – what’s going on?”
“Okay, sorry. Remember George Devore?”
“Of course I do. Chased that son of a bitch for three years. Bond forgery, racketeering, art theft. He ‘recreated’ some rather spectacular Renaissance bronze medals that belonged to the Smithsonian. One of his replicas was made out of chocolate. He’s doing four and change in Hawthorne Fed for that. ”
“Got a call from him this morning – he wanted to talk to someone about this.” Helen pushed a file over his desk. “I wanted to wait for you, but …”
Neal understood. “Not a problem – you took Agent Garces with you?”
Helen sighed. “Of course, I’m not stupid.”
He just raised an eyebrow at her. “Okay – what did Devore want?”
“He says he’s got a line on that.” Helen pointed to the folder.
Neal opened the folder and whistled at the detailed color drawing. “Nice – tell me about it.”
“It’s supposed to be the amber music box, the one from Catherine the Great’s Amber Room at the Ekaterina Palace in Tsarskoye Selo. It was looted by the Nazis – but you already know about that. Devore says he knows where it is, and it’s the key to something bigger than anything we could imagine.”
“Hmmmm, could also be a wild goose chase. You need to do some more research on this – check all the art registries, call Mischa Popolov at the Russian Art Institute, Adele Schiller at the Smithsonian …”
“All the usual suspects?”
Neal nodded. “And before that – ” He held out his mug.
“We have interns for that.” She made a moue of distaste.
“I’ve got something better, I’ve got you.”
Helen stalked off in a mock huff, and when she came back with his coffee, he took a sip and grimaced. She laughed at him. “You really should know better – this stuff will kill you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He shooed her out and let the morning catch up with him.
The crap with Chick-fil-A still bothered him. There was nothing he could do about it, but it still bothered him. He swung his chair around and looked out over the lower Manhattan skyline. The sky was hazy with summer heat, the rooftops shimmering. Gazing out but not seeing anything, Neal felt a little helpless. One step forward, two steps back. He had the right to marry here, in his home state, but just across the river, friends couldn’t – and if they came to New York and got married here – there was no guarantee that the rights afforded to them by their marriage would be recognized.
Which set up a whole other train of thought. They had friends who had done the civil union thing in Vermont, they attended a dozen weddings in Massachusetts and literally countless commitment ceremonies here in New York. Truth be told, he hated all of those commitment ceremonies. They were just a big gay excuse for a party and had no legal standing. Besides, Neal figured that two-thirds of the couples who went through that dog and pony show didn’t last a year anyway – so why did they even bother? He and Peter were committed to each other, and had been for more than half their lives. They didn’t need to stand up in front of a bunch of people to make it real.
Neal could never forget that day in a D.C. hotel room, Peter seducing him with poetry.
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise
I love thee with a passion put to use in my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
They had said all they needed to that day. There was no need for a commitment ceremony; they didn’t need to mouth vows that were redundant to promises already made.
But still, there were well-meaning questions. Uncle Joe – Peter’s dad – recently asked him why they hadn’t tied the knot, now that they could. Neal had shrugged. “It’s not like we’re going to give you grandchildren.”
Joe had glared at him and shook his head. “You and Peter have rights, opportunities that no one could have imagined even just a decade ago. You’re squandering them.”
Neal had sighed. “We’re happy the way we are.”
The truth was, though, that Neal wanted to be married. He wanted what everyone one else had. But Peter never seemed interested in being married – he liked the status quo. It wasn’t like Peter was allergic to commitment – it was just … just what?
A light bulb went on – maybe Peter was waiting, maybe he didn’t want to be the one to do the asking.
Neal sat up, he got up, paced the length of the tiny office, ran his suddenly sweaty hands through his hair. His stomach clenched in agitation. Was this all his fault?
Well, whether or not it was, it was something he could rectify easily enough. Maybe pop the question over a romantic dinner. Peter wasn’t the big, romantic gestures kind of guy, but he’d appreciate the effort.
Or he could just be nonchalant about the whole thing, work it into their daily routine, over morning coffee and the newspaper. He’d ask him as casually as if he were reading the sports scores to him. ”Yankees beat the Angels, five-zip, and will you marry me?”
Neal couldn’t help but smile at the thought.
Which lead to another idea. They had tickets for a home game on Sunday; Neal had gotten them seats on the first base line. How hard would it be to have his proposal put up on the Jumbotron? People do that all the time.
Or maybe Peter wouldn’t like something quite so … well, public. Besides, Uncle Joe would be with them, too. How romantic would it be to ask Peter to marry him with his dad right there?
And what about a ring? Should he even give Peter a ring? They both had had their ten-year service pins made into rings, but they didn’t wear them all the time – too big and clunky and not very aesthetically appealing. But maybe Peter would wear something tasteful.
Neal thought for a moment or two, pulled out his cell phone and made a call.
“Hey there, Uncle Joe.”
“Neal! Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine – really good. Did I wake you?” Peter’s dad had moved into an adult living community last year, a few months after Peter’s mom had passed away.
“It’s nearly noon – what do you think I do all day, nap?”
“Would that be such a bad thing?”
“I may be eighty-two years old, but I’ve still got all my marbles. And don’t you forget that, young man.”
“No, sir – I won’t. Sorry.”
“Sorry my ass. Now, why are you calling me in the middle of the day if everything’s all right?”
Neal took a deep breath. “Remember that conversation we had a few months ago? The one about rights and opportunities?”
Joe let out a shout of laughter. “Yeah.”
“What would you say if I wanted to make an honest man out of your son?”
“Other than ‘It’s about damn time’?”
Neal grinned. “Okay. Okay.” He took another deep breath. “I was wondering … and feel free to say no …but could I have Aunt Cathy’s engagement ring? I’d like to use the stone for a ring for Peter.”
Joe didn’t answer right away. “I’m sorry, son. I don’t have it anymore.”
Neal tamped down the curl of disappointment. “Ah. Okay. Not a problem – I was just being a little sentimental.”
Neither man said anything for a moment. Joe finally spoke, “Nothing wrong with sentiment. When are you going to ask him?”
“Not quite sure. I’m thinking …” Neal ran through his ideas.
Joe told him how he had popped the question to Peter’s mom, the traditional bended knee proposal after coming home from a date. “Have you thought about that?”
Neal had to admit he hadn’t.
“My son appreciates the classics. They never go out of style.”
“I don’t know if we’re going to have a formal wedding, but if we do, will you give me away?”
“Neal – isn’t that every father’s dream?”
Peter had completely forgotten about the appointment he had in Midtown – on Forty-Seventh Street, to be precise. When his mom died and Dad decided to sell the house, he had given Peter a number of things, including his mother’s engagement ring.
“What am I going to do with this?” The ring was pretty, about two carets, in a traditional Tiffany setting. Maybe he’d have the stone reset into something, a tie tack, he considered. Something to give to Neal.
“Maybe make this into an engagement ring?” His father’s tone was casual. “Don’t you think it’s time you and Neal got married?”
Peter stiffened. “It’s crossed my mind.”
“It’s not like you’re getting any younger.”
“And it’s not like Neal and I are going to have children.”
“You could adopt.”
Peter shook his head. “And what type of life would our child have? Neal and I work more than we’re home. We’d be terrible parents, you know that.”
His father sighed heavily. “I know, but for the record, I don’t think you’d be terrible parents. And can you blame a man for wanting grandchildren?”
The question set up a cascade of difficult feelings in Peter. He loved his father so much; he missed his mother even more. They had given him everything – love and acceptance unconditionally. He blinked hard to keep the tears away. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, hey – none of that. This old man’s just being foolish.”
Peter took a deep breath, then another – steadying himself.
“But you still should think about getting married.”
Peter’s reply was slow in coming. “Years ago, I thought about asking Neal if he’d do a commitment ceremony. We’d just been to one, and I couldn’t help thinking about how wonderful it would be to stand up in front of everyone and make those promises to each other. We got home and Neal commented – okay – ranted at how ridiculous those ceremonies were. How they meant absolutely nothing. Kind of took the wind out of my sails. So I never brought it up.”
“I can see his point, Peter. But things are different now.”
“I know, I know.” Peter looked at the ring in its worn velveteen box. It wasn’t a big stone, but it was perfect.
“Maybe make this into an engagement ring?” His father’s tone was casual. “Don’t you think it’s time you and Neal got married?”
Peter stiffened. “It’s crossed my mind.”
“It’s not like you’re getting any younger.”
“And it’s not like Neal and I are going to have children.”
“You could adopt.”
Peter shook his head. “And what type of life would our child have? Neal and I work more than we’re home. We’d be terrible parents, you know that.”
His father sighed heavily. “I know, but for the record, I don’t think you’d be terrible parents. And can you blame a man for wanting grandchildren?”
The question set up a cascade of difficult feelings in Peter. He loved his father so much; he missed his mother even more. They had given him everything – love and acceptance unconditionally. He blinked hard to keep the tears away. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, hey – none of that. This old man’s just being foolish.”
Peter took a deep breath, then another – steadying himself.
“But you still should think about getting married.”
Peter’s reply was slow in coming. “Years ago, I thought about asking Neal if he’d do a commitment ceremony. We’d just been to one, and I couldn’t help thinking about how wonderful it would be to stand up in front of everyone and make those promises to each other. We got home and Neal commented – okay – ranted at how ridiculous those ceremonies were. How they meant absolutely nothing. Kind of took the wind out of my sails. So I never brought it up.”
“I can see his point, Peter. But things are different now.”
“I know, I know.” Peter looked at the ring in its worn velveteen box. It wasn’t a big stone, but it was perfect.
For six months, Peter had dithered about what to do – about asking Neal to marry him – about the ring. Of course, his father was right, he and Neal should be married. No commitment ceremony, not even a civil union, would mean what marriage meant. He had taken the ring to a jeweler he knew – actually an old friend of Neal’s – and had it set into something he hoped Neal would like.
He checked his calendar. The rest of the day was clear; he’d head up to the jeweler’s and pick up the ring. But having it wasn’t going to solve the bigger dilemma: when and how to ask Neal the most important question of their lives.
Will you marry me?
It took about an hour to complete his errand, it would have been longer if he had stayed and chatted. The ring was beautiful, perfect in its elegance. Peter had his mother’s stone placed in an understated platinum mounting, the diamond bezel mounted, the setting brushed-finished. It was something he could see Neal wearing with pride, not only because it was a gift, but because it was something of beauty. He might lightly mock Neal’s sartorial pleasures, but he understood them. He appreciated them.
They were as much a part of Neal as his blue eyes, his perpetual five o’clock shadow and his intellectual brilliance.
It was a little after three when he got back to the office. Everything seemed to be running smoothly. His second-in-command, Stephen Anderson, was at the quarterly budget meeting, as was Neal. But then he noticed three people in the conference room. One was AD Malloy, the other two men he didn’t know.
Malloy must have seen him come into the office. He went out onto the balcony and gave him a two-finger summons. “Burke – conference room – now.”
Peter wasn’t particularly fond of Assistant Director Malloy, who was too much of a political animal and not enough of an agent. That he ordered him about in front of his staff set his temper on edge.
He joined them in the conference room, and to his increasing irritation, Malloy had taken up the position at the head of the table. Peter tried to rationalize that it was his right as Assistant Director in charge of the New York field office. The other two agents sat in the chairs to his right. Peter took up the remaining power position at the other end of the table, in front of the large monitor with its glowing FBI logo. So there.
The posturing was all for nothing. Malloy simply introduced the two men as FBI agents – Sylvester DiNapoli and Walter O’Donnell, both out of the Kansas City field office – and left.
“What brings you to New York City, gentlemen? And more importantly, to White Collar?”
“We have a case that you may be able to provide some support on.” DiNapoli slid a file down the table. Peter caught it before it hit the floor. He should have let it drop and made the junior agent, O’Donnell, come pick it up. But he really wasn’t that petty.
He skimmed the file. The case was interesting and right up his alley. A fairly typical boiler room scheme, but the players were unique. Instead of the junior Gordon Geckos and Wall Street Wannabes, the players were the Harvard and Yale educated sons of the leading Kansas City organized crime families. Peter couldn’t hold back a whistle. “Family money backing them?”
DiNapoli explained. “Of course. The operation’s mobile. They set up shop, run the boiler room scam for six months, sell out – leaving destitution and devastation in their wake.”
“So they’re setting up here in New York? Have you talked to Organized Crime?”
DiNapoli made a face. “Your locals aren’t interested in taking this on – their plates are too full. AD Malloy suggested we work with you.” He continued. “This time, it looks to be something a little more than just a mob-funded scam. Our inside connection tells us that there’s a big-time Wall Street player involved, which can take the scheme to a whole other level.”
Peter had to agree – if a legitimate brokerage got involved, the losses could dwarf what Madoff did. “You have someone on the inside – someone you’ve turned?”
“No, not quite. We’ve had our eye on the operation for two years, but haven’t been able to get close to it until now. Our insider, Madison Cockler, is a civilian. She reached out to us a few weeks ago; she’d been dating Anthony Civella Jr. – the grandson of the current head of the Kansas City mob. He got her a job doing the scut work in the boiler room – taking client information, running errands – the woman’s work. But he’s been cheating on her and she wants to get even.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “That’s risky.”
O’Donnell spoke up for the first time. “Turns out, AJ’s a little light on his feet. He likes to bat for the home team. Really likes the bat, if you know what I mean.” The agent actually snickered at his own repulsive whit.
“No, actually I don’t.” Peter’s tone was icy, in contrast to the instantly white hot rage he felt at this agent’s not-so-veiled homophobia. “Why don’t you explain it to me?”
Midday, Neal had to go to the quarterly budget meeting on the 27th floor. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t send Helen in his place, and he couldn’t blow it off. The higher-ups were (as always) looking to cut headcount, and those that weren’t there to speak up for themselves were the first to lose. At least those who had tiny budgets and smaller staff. Peter could (and did) send his second in command, the ever-competent Stephen Anderson, confident that he’d retain his current staffing levels, and maybe gain a few slots, too.
Of course the meeting was a waste of his time and it took a desperate recollection of the morning’s sex to keep him awake, if not exactly alert. By the time the meeting came to a close, he was mildly aroused and extraordinarily sleepy.
Helen, bless her, met him outside the conference room with a double espresso and a half-dozen macaroons from his favorite French bakery. “Do I have to now give you my first born?”
She grinned at him. “As if I’d want any of the monsters from your loins.”
“Then what’s this for?” He all but inhaled the coffee but was polite enough to offer her one of the cookies.
“No, thanks – I had my own.” She said nothing else, just stood there, grinning.
“Tell me that you got a hit on the music box.”
“Yes, sir, that I did. Dr. Popolov confirmed its existence and he even had a photograph of it when it was taken from Russia and put on display in Königsberg Castle. So Devore could be telling the truth.”
Neal shoved the last macaroon in his mouth – the sugar and caffeine helped restore him to some level of working intelligence – and swallowed. Helen handed him a napkin and he wiped his lips before speaking. “Call Hawthorne Fed and schedule a meeting with Devore for tomorrow, first thing. I want to hear what he has to say, face-to-face.”
“He’s good, almost impossible to read.”
“Believe me, I know. Took me the better part of three years to catch him. Devore’s one of the world’s greatest con artists. We’ll need to be careful. If this is real, he’s going to want something big from us.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure he was disappointed when you didn’t show up for the meeting.”
“I’m sure he was.” Changing the subject, Neal asked, “Anything else of interest going on in the office.”
“Actually, yeah. Assistant Director Malloy came in to the White Collar office with two out-of-towners, and corralled Agent Burke. They’ve been in the conference room for over an hour. Agent Burke looks pissed.”
Neal didn’t like Malloy and he knew that Peter shared that opinion, but Peter was too good an agent to let his dislike show. So there must be something else going on. “Do you know who the out-of-towners are?”
Helen’s grin was, as always, infectious. “I checked with Frank at the front desk. He says that they signed in as Sylvester DiNapoli and Walter O’Donnell, from the Kansas City field office. I’ve pulled their CVs. DiNapoli’s head of KC’s Organized Crime division, O’Donnell’s –”
“Here as window dressing.”
“How did you know that, sir?”
“He was my roommate at Quantico. Loser then, undoubtedly still a loser now.”
“Says here that his first assignment was at the Resident Agency in Fort Walton, Kansas. I didn’t think that new agents were assigned to Resident Agency offices.”
“They’re not – Walter was an exception.”
Helen was, as always, lightning-quick on the uptake. “I am guessing that he had political connections that made it impossible to fail him out of the Academy.”
Neal nodded. “His uncle was a U.S. Senator. So they did the next best thing to booting him. They gave him an assignment where he could do no harm. I am surprised that he’s lasted this long. He’s just shy of his twenty.”
“Maybe he settled down and became an agent worthy of his training.” Helen was such an optimist.
“That is unlikely.” Neal had very vivid memories of the five months he spent with Walter in close quarters. You really got to know a person, and at twenty-five, Walter wasn’t the kind of man who’d have the intestinal fortitude to turn himself around. He didn’t need to – his family had all the right connections. At forty-five, he was probably still scraping by on those connections.
Back in the office, Neal couldn’t help but notice the people in the conference room. And yes, he recognized O’Donnell, even though most of his hair was gone and his face was soft and pudgy.
Peter, on the other hand, was anything but soft and pudgy. He was pacing back and forth like a caged lion, and even from the distance of the bullpen, Neal could tell that he was tense and angry. His face was tight and pointed; he was leading with this chin. O’Donnell looked smug. The third man in the room, presumably Sylvester DiNapoli, was sitting back, watching the by-play.
Neal couldn’t see Peter’s expression when he stalked down to the near end of the table and confronted O’Donnell face to face.
They never interfered with each other’s work, but this was something he needed to step into. Neal grabbed a file off of Stephen’s desk and casually sauntered up the stairs, pretending to do a double take when he saw O’Donnell.
Neal plastered on a fake smile, tapped on the glass wall to get everyone’s attention and entered the conference room, seemingly oblivious to the tensions.
“Walter, how the hell are you?” Walter looked puzzled, he didn’t recognize him. “It’s me, Neal Caffrey – we were roommates in Quantico.”
O’Donnell got a shifty-eyed look. “Yeah, Caffrey – of course I remember you. Still in New York?” The implication was clear.
Neal ignored the not-so-subtle dig. “What brings you to the Big Apple? Last I heard you were posted in Kansas City.”
Someone cleared their throat – it was DiNapoli. “I don’t know who you are, but we’re having a briefing, and junior agents don’t just burst in like it’s old home week at the frat house.”
Neal looked around, all innocence. “Oh – sorry to interrupt everyone.” He caught Peter’s eye, Peter gave him an infinitesimal nod back. There were on the same page of the playbook, as always.
“DiNapoli – ” Peter deliberately left off the man’s title, “Agent Caffrey – unlike your associate, O’Donnell – is hardly a junior agent. He’s a highly decorated senior agent, the SAIC for the entire Art Crimes department, both in New York and in D.C. as well. Neal also has a permanent working brief here at White Collar.”
Neal tried not to goggle at Peter. He had never seen him indulge in dick-measuring by proxy. He also never heard Peter use quite that tone. Not even when the local heroes burst in and messed up his operation. Despite that, Neal truly enjoyed the whole compare and contrast thing – Neal as SAIC and Walter as a junior agent – when they both had been in the same class in the Academy. Nice move …
Peter didn’t let the ball go quite yet. “In any event, Neal might have some insights.” He passed a case file to him. “It’s a classic pump-and-dump, but with a twist.”
Neal perused the data. “I can see that.”
Peter continued. “Walter was just explaining his scheme for getting into the boiler room operation.”
DiNapoli cleared his throat. “Nothing’s final yet.”
“Oh, really?” Neal was stunned at the derision in Peter’s reply. “Your agent here seems to think otherwise.”
“What’s going on?” He handed the file back to Peter, who dropped it on the conference like it was a sack of garbage.
“They want to set up a honey trap.”
Walter was apparently oblivious to the tension in the room, or he was simply stupid. “It’ll work, trust me. Hang the right piece of meat in front of AJ Civella and he’s gonna take a great big bite. Then we can use him to crack open the whole operation, and maybe even the entire Kansas City organization.”
Neal was skeptical. “Honey traps rarely work like you think they will. Besides, even if the suspects bites – what are you expecting? That the target will just roll? Is he even married?”
“Oh, I didn’t get to the best part. AJ – Anthony Civella, Junior’s a faggot.”
Neal froze. It had been a long time since he heard that word uttered with such joy-filled disgust. “Excuse me?”
DiNapoli interrupted, “Don’t tell me you’re one of those sensitive types.” He made air quotes around the word “sensitive.”
Neal held his hand out. Peter looked like he was about to commit an act of violence against another agent. Not a good idea. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, come on …”
“Yeah, Caffrey’s probably one of those. All he whined about was how he wanted to work in Art Crimes when we were at Quantico.”
Both of the agents snickered. DiNapoli added insult upon insult. “I bet he’s one of those who think that the fags should marry.”
Neal blinked. Of all the things. Of all the words that could come out of those assholes mouths.
DiNapoli and O’Donnell kept at it, kept digging deeper and deeper holes. The plan was to catch Civella in a compromising position with a male agent, use that to turn him – because Civella would be as good as dead if his family found out about him.
Objectively, it wasn’t a bad plan. But he knew that Peter wouldn’t stand for it – whatever the target’s sexual orientation – he didn’t pimp out his agents. Nor did Neal. And the thought that these two morons believed that this was an acceptable solution was disgusting.
Peter snagged the folder and opened the conference room. “Agents, you can go back to Kansas City now. We’ll take it from here.”
That got their attention. “What the hell do you mean; you’ll take it from here?” DiNapoli stood up, his posture suddenly aggressive.
“I mean that this is now our case. It’s in our jurisdiction. We’ll keep you briefed, but it’s no longer your operation and I have no interest in allowing bigots on my team.”
DiNapoli looked like he had been slapped. Then his expression turned vicious. “I think Walter, here, was wrong. It’s not Caffrey who’s the sensitive type. It’s you, Burke. You’re the one with the big dick in this office and you really like to swing it.”
Walter added, “Tell me, Caffrey – does he put the moves on you in the men’s room?”
Neal stood there for a second, jaw agape, before responding. “You’re kidding me, right? You’re both really this stupid?” Neal would have continued, but Peter interrupted, with – of all things – a heartfelt laugh. Neal’s hands were bunched into tight fists, he hadn’t been this moved to violence in very long time.
“Neal – stop.” Peter went out to the balcony and called over the guard at the door. “Allen, please escort these two out of the building.”
Of course, DiNapoli and O’Donnell starting making all sorts of threats – to take this back to Malloy, to DC, all the way up to the Director himself.
“Don’t bother. I don’t think you’ll particularly care for the reception you’ll get there. And besides, you came to New York for help and that’s just what you’re getting.”
Allen stood there, his hand on his sidearm. The entire bullpen was keenly observing the little drama. DiNapoli and O’Donnell finally left and they watched as they waited for the elevator, accompanied by Allen, who would escort them to the street.
Neals hands were stuffed in his pockets; he didn’t want anyone to see his fists. He had a bad feeling that this wasn’t going to be the last time he saw that pair.
Peter clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be fine. And thanks for the interruption. Your timing is – as always – impeccable.”
“And yet I’m the one who was nearly moved to violence.” Neal was still seething.
Peter tugged him into his office and shut the door. “Relax. Take a deep breath. Just let it go.”
Neal complied.
“It’s really a cliché, but they aren’t worth it,” Peter told him.
“I know, I know. But I guess I never expected that. Not here, not in our own office.” Neal took another deep, steadying breath. Then chuckled. “I wonder, when they do go to Malloy, what he’ll tell them about us?”
“Hmm, I doubt he’ll say anything. Malloy may be a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.”
Neal had to agree. “But it just feels so …”
“Yeah, I know. One step forward, two steps back?”
Part Two: On DW | On LJ
Tags:
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: ofc,
- character: omc,
- character: peter burke,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: case fic,
- genre: domesticity,
- genre: romance,
- genre: slash,
- kink: barebacking,
- kink: dirty talk,
- kink: frotting,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- wc verse: wonderful years,
- white collar,
- year: 2012
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-12-04 04:59 pm (UTC)But in the midst of it, a very sad Art Imitates Life. I hope DiNapoli and O'Donnell get a highly visible and undeniable comeuppance.
Lovely illustrations. (Does Peter think Neal looks especially good in a turtleneck?)
I'm so glad you used that sonnet. I have fond memories of it being read during a dear friend's wedding.
no subject
Date: 2012-12-04 05:06 pm (UTC)Credit for the wonderful art goes to the awesome
Thank you, too for your comments on Helen, who is one of my favorite OCs of all time. She will be around for the sequels I've alluded to, most def.
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Date: 2012-12-04 05:27 pm (UTC)And
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Date: 2012-12-04 05:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-04 07:27 pm (UTC)And thank you for thanking
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Date: 2012-12-04 05:42 pm (UTC)Thank you, thank you for this story and the entire verse \o/ ♥
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Date: 2012-12-04 07:28 pm (UTC)Thank you again, for this lovely, lovely comment and for lending your talents.
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Date: 2012-12-05 03:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-05 01:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-04 05:59 pm (UTC)This was wonderful.
Not only was the sex hot, as always, but so much love throughout the piece.
The ring -- I can't wait for Peter to give it to Neal.
The two losers from the KC branch should be taken out behind the woodshed and beaten.
Kanarek's artwork is stellar.
I love this 'verse. Thank you so much for sharing it with us. I'm going to curl up with it when I get home tonight and read the stories from the very first one again.
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Date: 2012-12-04 06:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-04 07:02 pm (UTC)Doesn't it though? I'll have my tea and my laptop and Pandora on and be such a happy camper.
BTW -- Your artwork is beautiful for this.
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Date: 2012-12-04 07:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-04 07:15 pm (UTC)It's perfect.
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Date: 2012-12-04 07:31 pm (UTC)Thank you again for sharing it.
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Date: 2012-12-04 07:30 pm (UTC)My Masterlist has the stories posted in chrono order (except that the epilogue to the original story is currently the last part).
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Date: 2012-12-04 07:33 pm (UTC)Great .. Now I can't wait to get home from work.
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Date: 2012-12-04 10:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-04 06:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-04 07:32 pm (UTC)Isn't Helen awesome? She's one of my favorite OCs, ever.
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Date: 2012-12-04 08:32 pm (UTC)I also love Neal's righteous anger in the beginning, which is completely justified and, more importantly, gets the thought of marriage percolating . . . . more please!
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Date: 2012-12-05 01:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-04 08:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-05 01:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-04 10:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-05 01:49 pm (UTC)And yes, the ART is AWESOME beyond words.
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Date: 2012-12-05 01:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-05 03:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-05 01:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-05 04:24 am (UTC)There is something that is just sooooooo squishy and perfect and adorable about these two! sigh.
I can't wait for the engagement. :D And maybe wedding? I don't know if that is part of these 3 parts or not. But hopefully we'll read it some day. :)
I hate those homophobes and want them to go way. >.<
Oh, and the sex? UUUUUUUNF. the hotness.
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Date: 2012-12-05 01:51 pm (UTC)I have something else, very special, planned for the wedding. This is just the proposal.
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Date: 2012-12-05 03:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-05 05:44 am (UTC)Hopefully, I'll have something more coherent to say soon.
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Date: 2012-12-05 01:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-05 05:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-01 02:56 pm (UTC)