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elrhiarhodanA Life More Ordinary – Part Three
Neal might have actually floated down the stairs. He certainly had no memory of his feet touching the steps. Now, standing in a pool of sunlight in the Burke’s backyard, waiting for the dog to finish his business, Neal felt a little unreal, a little dazed.
What he just did to Peter …
He kissed him. He took that first step, without even thinking about the need for an escape route. It was like last night, when he fell asleep on the couch, knowing that he was safe.
This absence of fear was so freeing. In that instant, Neal understood that it wasn’t because he knew that Matthew Keller was dead and couldn’t hurt him or those he loved. No, this freedom came from knowing that he could absolutely trust Peter Burke.
Neal stood there, ignoring the dog that ran around the yard, chasing the squirrels and barking like mad. He stood there and let that revelation sink in.
This was different from trusting Peter and Elizabeth with his past, taking the step to tell them what an idiot he’d been. The risk in that telling had been their disgust. The risk here …
Intellectually, he knew that Peter would never harm him. But intellect couldn’t overcome the primal instinct for safety and survival.
In the eight years since Mozzie had gotten him free of Matthew Keller, he hadn’t lived like a monk. There hadn’t been a lot of people in his life, but he hadn’t been celibate, either.
He had rules, though. Important, unbreakable rules. Even though it wasn’t his preference when he was with a guy, he never bottomed. For him, that was an act of trust and he simply didn’t have the capacity to trust anyone not to hurt him the way Matthew had. He never took anyone home with him. No one ever knew where he lived. He didn’t discuss his business beyond the most basic facts. Most of the time, and all the time if he was with a man, they went to a hotel. He didn’t mind paying, for the simple reason that when he checked in, he always tipped the staff to do a room check if they didn’t see him leave.
Of course, these rules meant that he never had long term relationships. Actually, the rules really meant that he never had second dates. Until he’d made up his mind about coming back to New York, Neal hadn’t really thought he minded.
Satchmo got bored with the squirrels and shoved his cold, wet nose into his palm, distracting Neal from his thoughts. "Okay, boy – let’s go in." The dog barked in agreement and all but tripped him up to get to the back door.
Neal could hear the shower running upstairs and wondered what Peter would do if he decided to invade his privacy. Would he hold to his pact with Elizabeth if Neal joined him in the shower, fell to his knees and started sucking his cock? Probably not, but he’d probably be angry. And that didn’t frighten him at all.
Not that he’d act on this little fantasy. He really knew nothing about polyamory. He should make an effort to rectify that. There must be a lot of trust involved. If Peter and Elizabeth had an agreement, they both needed to stick to that agreement for their marriage and their outside interests to work.
Neal explored the Burkes’ kitchen. It was shiny and open and polished, but not in the glossy way of style magazines or home shows. This was a kitchen that belonged to real people, used every day by real people who enjoyed working in it. The grates covering the gas burners on the range were worn, the cast iron skillet and copper sauce pans were well-seasoned. The tea kettle matched the tiles, but the enamel was chipped and the base discolored from frequent use. Everything looked well-used and well-cared for. An odd, whimsical thought made Neal smile; even though these were inanimate objects, they seemed happy to be there.
He smiled at the vase filled with yellow and orange dahlias – the colors were all wrong for the kitchen. Happy flowers didn’t need to match the tile work or countertops. Flowers like these just needed to be.
Neal brushed a finger against one of the bright blossoms and was rewarded with a small handful of petals. Happy flowers needed fresh water.
As did the dog, who all but danced on his feet when Neal turned the faucet on. He freshened up the vase, freshened up the dog’s water and had a horrible thought. Was this one of those houses where you couldn’t turn on the water if someone was in the shower? He ran over to the staircase, listening for the sounds of Peter screaming in pain. Nope, nothing more than the thump of water pipes shutting off and footsteps going from one side of the hall to the other.
Neal went back to the kitchen and wondered if he should put together something for breakfast. Or would that be presuming too much? Maybe he could take Peter out, but he thought it would be a good idea to head home, change his shirt and put on some clean underwear before being seen in public.
He was still mulling over the problem of breakfast when the sound of slow, steady footfalls on the steps announced Peter’s arrival.
Neal hoped he kept his jaw off the floor and his tongue in his mouth. Peter, all sweaty from exercise, was almost too delicious to resist. Peter, fresh from the shower, hair slicked back, wearing a blood red Henley and a pair of button fly jeans, was like a secret wet dream.
Despite the quick shower this morning, Neal felt distinctly grubby. But Peter didn’t seem to mind. He gave him that slow, deep smile that had attracted Neal at their very first meeting.
"I’m glad you hung around. I thought you might have decided to head home."
Neal blinked. "You know, it’s a little scary to say but that never occurred to me. I’ve actually spent the time wondering what you’d like for breakfast."
Peter’s smile got a little broader. "You were thinking of cooking for me?"
"Actually, more like heading out for bagels and lox or maybe going to the diner where I bailed on you last night. You really wouldn’t want to eat my cooking."
"But I did, didn’t I? At brunch last Sunday?"
Neal felt a flush start somewhere around his navel and quickly rise. "I – uh – had it catered."
Peter just laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "How do you feel about pancakes? I’m really in the mood."
Neal couldn’t remember the last time he had them, maybe when he was twelve? "Sure, sounds good. Can I help?"
"Nah – it’s a one-man job. Coffee?"
"Of course!" Neal hadn’t overlooked the espresso machine on the counter and watched with appreciation as Peter made just one perfect, tiny cup. "You’re not having any?"
"I will, after I get everything going."
To Neal’s delight, Peter put on an apron and set to work. "You like cooking."
"Yeah – I do. It’s a process and requires attention to detail but room for experimentation."
"I guess you don’t get a lot of room to experiment as an FBI agent."
"No, not if you want to keep your badge. The work is good; it’s important and meaningful. It’s …" Peter sighed.
"You miss it."
"Yeah, I do." Before Neal could ask him another question, Peter changed the subject. "What type of pancakes?"
"Type?"
"Unless you just want them plain, your choices are blueberry, banana, or …" Peter opened one of the pantry cabinets and came up triumphant with a yellow and black bag. "Chocolate chip?"
He grinned. "Is that what you’re having?"
"With El not here to tell me ‘no’? You bet your sweet ass I am. And since we’re going to hell in a hand basket, how about some bacon to go with the pancakes?"
"Another forbidden treat?"
"You’re not going to blackmail me, are you?"
"Over bacon?" Neal laughed. "Nah – not worth the effort." Besides, Elizabeth Burke wasn’t stupid. If Peter cooked bacon, she’d surely smell it when she came home.
While the pancakes might have been scratch-made, Peter pulled an alarmingly large package of pre-cooked bacon from the freezer. He must have noticed Neal’s expression. "Okay, so El and I indulge on the weekends."
"Not really too much to blackmail you with, then."
Peter shrugged and smiled and Neal wondered if he just passed a subtle test.
He watched the other man cook, taking great pleasure in the wordless camaraderie that flowed between them. Over the past two months, he’d been feeling his way forward with the Burkes. Mostly focusing on repairing the damage he’d done. He wasn’t sure he was fully redeemed, especially when it came to Elizabeth, but for the moment, he was letting himself think about a future that included plenty of breakfasts with Peter and Elizabeth.
It didn’t take much longer for Peter to finish preparing the feast. Neal set the table, taking almost too much enjoyment out of the domesticity and the sense that he was part of this household and not merely a welcome guest.
The eating was accomplished much like the cooking had been, in companionable conversation. Neal complimented Peter on his culinary skills.
Peter was a little shy when he admitted, "I’ve always loved cooking."
"You and El share the kitchen?"
"Actually, Elizabeth sort of hates cooking. Her favorite recipe is take-out."
Neal laughed. "That is sort of funny for someone in the food business."
"Well, it makes sense in a way – she knows all the best caterers."
The conversation went back and forth about nothing important. They talked about cooking – which Peter knew a great deal about; about wine – which was more Neal’s area of expertise. Neal chided Peter for sneaking a piece of bacon to Satchmo, who’d remained glued to his master’s side since the start of the meal. The dog had obviously trained his master well.
"It’s all the sodium and nitrates. It’s bad enough we’re poisoning ourselves – you shouldn’t give it to your dog."
"It’s just a tiny piece."
"You feed him the top of the line organic, hormone-free, corn-free, meat by-product-free food, but give him bacon?"
Peter sighed. "I know, I know I shouldn’t. "
"You’re right, you shouldn’t. He’ll be around to love you a lot longer if you don’t sneak him bacon."
Peter held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
Neal felt a little bad. "Sorry about the lecture. I just see too many pets that are too well loved by owners who don’t know how to say ‘no’. They’re called ‘puppy-dog eyes’ for a reason."
Peter’s lips twitched. "I’m kind of a soft touch. I do the same thing when it comes to my human family. My mother-in-law is addicted to Matlock and my father-in-law thinks that Perry Mason is the epitome of crime drama. You have no idea how torturous it is to spend the holidays with them and they insist on marathoning those shows. I want to tear my hair out."
"But you preserve family harmony and pretend to enjoy because they’re Elizabeth’s parents and it’s not worth the argument?"
"Exactly."
Breakfast finished, Neal insisted on doing the dishes. He still wanted to ask Peter about the shooting, but somehow introducing that conversation seems out of character with the gentle banter they were indulging in. He didn’t want to break the golden mood.
He didn’t really want to go home, either, so when Peter offered to make cappuccino, he quickly agreed. They sat on the patio, enjoying the late morning sunshine. It was probably one of the last times they’d enjoy the setting until the late springtime. The conversation took a meandering path. The local sports scene, and how Peter was torn between rooting for the Knicks and the new hometown team, the Nets. Neal told Peter a little about growing up in the neighborhood before Brooklyn became so trendy. Eventually the conversation turned to more important things.
"So, polyamory. When I think about it, and about you and Elizabeth, I’m still sort of …" Neal searched for an adjective that didn’t seem offensive.
"Appalled?" Peter leaned back in his chair and smiled.
Neal nodded slowly. "Obviously, I’m all for it, with you and Elizabeth. But you’re an FBI agent, doesn’t that present some complications?"
Peter shrugged. "It can. But by and large, our partners have been professional people. White collar, if you will."
Neal grinned at the double-entendre. "I guess it only becomes an issue when you’d have to arrest them."
"That hasn’t happened yet."
"But it could."
Peter gave him an odd sort of look and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He raised his hand in mock defense. "Don’t worry – I don’t have any plans to commit a crime."
"No, I didn’t think you did."
"But seriously – don’t you worry that your bosses would find out?"
Peter shook his head. "Maybe, but the divorce rate for FBI agents is about twice the national average. There’s sort of an expectation that marriages fail."
"That’s sort of … sad."
"Yeah. And I’m lucky – my boss has always been of the mindset, ‘don’t ask, don’t care.’ If it’s not illegal or self-destructive, he doesn’t care what I do on my own time."
Neal had to smile at that. "Okay, let me get this straight. You can have consensual orgies, so long as everyone wears a condom."
"Basically."
"Nice boss."
"Smart boss. He knows what matters."
They sat in silence, enjoying the birdsong and the sunshine. Neal had another question. "Have you ever had a problem with your partners? Have things gone badly?"
"I wish I could say no. We’ve been careful in choosing partners, always making certain that whomever we’ve added into our lives understood that the marital relationship was primary."
Neal cut him off. "You do know that I would never come between you and Elizabeth - "
Peter reached out and covered his hand, squeezing gently. "I know that. I just want to explain."
"Okay"
"We don’t – unlike some poly people – use formal or written rules to define the parameters of our relationships with outsiders. And you know the promise El and I made …"
Neal nodded. His balls still felt a little blue.
"But we’ve always been clear that there should be no expectations that either one of us is looking to change the status quo. And no matter how clear we’ve been, there had been times when a temporary partner has tried to make the relationship exclusive and permanent."
"Seriously? It sort of boggles my mind. The two of you are like the halves of the same coin, inseparable."
Peter never really liked that analogy, if just because those sides never saw each other, but he was pleased by Neal’s perception none the less. "It’s happened a few times. The relationships were ended quickly."
"And cleanly."
"Well, the breaks were clean, but there was this one time…" Peter trailed off, a look of disgust on his face. "Let’s just say, El and I shouldn’t have known better."
Neal wanted to ask what happened, but there were other things he wanted to know. "You said you’d tell me about the shooting."
Peter raised an eyebrow at Neal’s abrupt change of subject. But he didn’t demur. "You want to know what happened?"
Neal swallowed his coffee. "Only if you want to tell me."
Peter sighed. "It’s a pretty straightforward story. I was leading a team executing an arrest warrant. The subject of that warrant pulled a gun and shot me six times in three seconds."
"Somehow, I think there’s a hell of a lot more to it than that."
"Of course, there is. I just wanted to give you the basics, first."
"Peter, if you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to." It was too clear that even the memory was distressing him.
"I know, I know. The thing is, I’m going to have to tell what happened eventually."
"You will?"
"The man who shot me will be going on trial in a few months."
"He’s not dead?"
"No." Peter kept his gaze on the table. "He shot me, dropped his weapon and claimed self-defense. Apparently it happened so quickly that my agents hadn’t had time to clear leather."
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Breakfast was a sour lump in his stomach as he tried to tell Neal what happened. If he was wise, he’d take the out Neal offered. But he’d never been a coward and he wasn’t going to become one now. "I don’t suppose you ever heard of Gary Jennings?"
Neal shook his head. "Should I have?"
"Not unless you followed local politics. Jennings was a state senator up for reelection."
"I was living in Richmond for about six months before I bought Ellen’s practice. Was in Boston before that. And Chicago before that. Never a need to follow New York State politics, though I’ve read that the local system is exceedingly corrupt."
"Yeah, ‘exceedingly corrupt’ is a good way to put it. We’ve had local politicos wearing wires and catching others offering and accepting payoffs. State representatives offering to rig the mayoral election. You name it, New York State’s elected officials have been indicted for it."
"Including the attempted murder of an FBI agent?"
"Including that." Peter paused and watched a pair of squirrels chase each other over the back fence and up a tree. "Jennings was corrupt, too. He was also ambitious and stupid."
"Stupid, how?"
"He actually hired an assistant campaign manager who had a sense of ethics."
"That seems … unlikely."
"It does, but Dylan was young and started out as a true believer."
"And there’s nothing more dangerous than someone who loses faith."
"Exactly. Dylan came to the FBI with evidence that Jennings was funding his campaign using a straw donor scam."
"Straw donor scam? What’s that?"
"State election laws cap the amounts that any single person can donate. If you have an over-the-limit donation or funding from a questionable source, you can cover that by getting a bunch of regular people to write smaller checks then reimbursing them under the table for their contributions. This way, everything tallies up when the books are reviewed."
"Makes sense."
"We’d been watching Jennings for years. There were some questionable loans on some failed property development projects that were magically paid off. We investigated but couldn’t prove anything. It didn’t help that Jennings had something of a populist reputation and was able to make the loan investigation appear partisan."
"So, when you wanted to investigate the campaign finance allegation, you needed a different tactic."
"Exactly. We had to be careful or this could come across as sour grapes, particularly since Jennings was already looking beyond Albany." Peter laughed a little at the memory. "It was a good investigation. My team outdid themselves."
Neal picked up on his affection. "Tell me about them."
"I have …" Peter corrected himself, because right now, he had no one. "I had a team of a dozen field agents, but there were two who I always could rely on."
"Your right and left hands?"
"That’s one way to put it. You’d like them. About ten years ago, Clinton had talked his way onto a task force I was forming. He had an impressive resume, but not a lot of field experience. My gut told me that he’d fit in perfectly, even though there were a dozen other agents with a lot more experience that should have gotten the position."
"And you always listen to your gut?"
"Always." Peter took a sip of his now-cold coffee. "Almost always, anyway. Diana was once my probationary agent." At Neal’s raised eyebrow, Peter explained. "I trained her after she graduated from Quantico – one of the best probies I’ve ever had."
"Probie – that sounds a little dirty."
Peter chuckled. "Yeah, I guess, to an outsider it would. Anyway, we sent Diana undercover as a fixer. She would work her way into the inner circle, see if she could locate the real source of Jennings’ funding."
"How did you manage that? I wouldn’t think an experienced politician – especially one who’s got some under-the-table financing going on – would be willing to trust a newcomer to the campaign."
"No, but we ran a variation on the old ‘good-cop, bad-cop’ play – except we called it ‘bad-cop, good-criminal.’ I’d burst onto the scene as the aggressive and ambitious FBI agent, looking to take Jennings down for the old loan scandal. Get him worked up about that and Diana would conveniently offer a solution. One that wasn’t quite so honest and above-board."
"Which was?"
"She came up with the idea of creating a political distraction. Like a stage magician – keep the public focused on a completely unrelated problem until after the election, until after Jennings could figure out how to get me off his back. She had Jennings make several statements that he wasn’t in favor of building a new stadium."
"That seems counter-intuitive. A new sports stadium would bring in revenue into his district, jobs, all sorts of perks." Neal’s skepticism was well founded.
"Except that the new stadium would take land that should have been set aside for a children’s playground."
"Huh? That would be an awfully big playground."
Peter just smiled, still proud of his team’s out-of-the-box thinking. "Maybe, but the kicker was that there was no stadium. It was a complete non-issue; just a bunch of locals getting worked up over some old ideas that had been fielded back when the city was contending for the 2012 Olympics. Diana twisted it into a campaign issue for Jennings to use and he fell for it."
"And that got your agent into Jennings inner circle? He told her about the straw donor scam?"
"Oh, it was nowhere that easy. I’d already ruffled Jennings feathers – came into his office, all threats and bluster – told him that I planned to bury him. He tried to set the dogs on me, get me fired. Had the house watched. El had been traveling and Clinton came over, we had some business to discuss. Jennings had pictures and wanted Diana’s take on them. He had correctly figured that Clinton was another agent, but she convinced Jennings and his right-hand man that Clinton was doing outcall." He watched Neal’s reaction and wished he could video it – the slow blink, the dawning comprehension, the absolute incredulity, and then the utter amusement.
"That Diana sounds like she’s part con-artist."
Peter shrugged. "She’s good, she’s creative, she’s smart. She understands the rules and she knows how to work within them. Those are the qualities I need for every agent on my team." Peter tried not to think about all the months he’d spent not having a team and all the months ahead of him before he could return to active duty. That team he’d so carefully built probably wouldn’t exist by time he came back.
"And how did your other agent – Clinton – react when he found out? That Diana said he was a male escort." Neal made air-quotes around that last word.
"Oh, Clinton was fine with it. And it gets better. Jennings jumped all over that information. He thought that he could use it as blackmail – to get me to back off. He also tipped his hand a bit, that he knew a guy who provided certain services..."
"Services?" Neal looked puzzled.
"A high-class pimp."
"This does gets better and better." Neal laughed, then paused. "Sorry, I forget I know how the story ends."
Peter shrugged. "That’s okay. If Jennings hadn’t shot me, I think this would have been one of my all-time favorite operations." He stretched his leg, ignoring the pull of the tight muscles, the unfamiliar click-pop in his kneecap. "Anyway, Diana arranged to have Clinton meet Jennings’ ‘friend,’ which turning into an unexpected audition."
"I take it that your agent didn’t follow through."
"Actually, he did. One of the ‘guests’ at the party was a ball player who just signed a new multi-million dollar contract."
"And I’m guessing that the team that signed him didn’t know he was on the down-low."
"Yup. Clinton took the man upstairs, stuck his badge in his face and told him that unless he played along, he just might find himself arrested for solicitation."
"And he played along."
"To the tune of ten grand, which Clinton had to produce by three AM. And don’t give me that look – we vouchered the cash and he got it back, with the thanks of the FBI."
"I don’t suppose you’d tell me who …"
"Nope – you don’t need to know that." Peter grinned. "The guy did have a record-breaking year, though."
"I guess, if I was really that interested, I could figure it out." Neal held up a hand before Peter could ask him not to. "But I’m not."
"Anyways, it turned out that the pimp – Roger Barrow – had a record for violence and when he tried to shoot my agent, Clinton took him out."
"He killed him?"
"Nah – one bullet, right through his shoulder. He sung like a bird when he realized he was facing charges for the attempted murder of a Federal agent."
"Life in prison?"
"Yeah. That has a way of motivating people. Barrow gave up Jennings and all of his ‘donors.’ He even gave us the ledgers, so we could trace the payments from the prostitution ring to Jennings’s straw donor accounts."
"And then you went and arrested Jennings?"
Peter nodded. "Took about an hour to get the arrest warrants, and we marched right into his office at the end of the day, after almost everyone had gone home. Jennings was there – I think he may have been tipped off, but he was sitting at his desk like nothing was wrong. Watching; waiting as my agents started seizing computer equipment, boxing up papers, pretty much tearing the office apart."
"You’d have thought he’d cause a fuss."
"You would, wouldn’t you? Anyways, he just sat there until I came in. He didn’t say a word, just stood up, pointed a gun at me and started shooting. Three seconds, six bullets." Peter rubbed his chest. He could still feel the punch of the impact as the first two bullets knocked him back. He started to sweat as the memories, vivid, began to overtake him and he was back there. The burn in his arm, the blunt trauma in his shoulder, the sudden absence of stability – his leg giving way as the last two bullets shattered bone.
"Peter? Peter?" There was a hand on his, squeezing tight.
He blinked, and he wasn’t in that midtown office anymore, but in his backyard in Brooklyn. Geese were flying overhead, the sun was bright, but it really wasn’t that warm. His vision was filled by Neal Caffrey’s face, his eyes just a shade lighter than the sky.
"Peter?" Neal cupped his cheek. "Tell me you’re okay?"
"I’m – I’m all right." He licked his lips. His mouth was bone dry and the thought of having more of the ice-cold coffee was nauseating. "Just – let’s go inside."
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal watched Peter drink a couple of glasses of ice water and worried. He looked like someone suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, and Neal was far too familiar with that look. He’d seen it in the mirror on way too many mornings.
"Come on." He pulled Peter towards the couch and sat down next to him. He’d learned that one of the best ways to work through a bad episode was through physical contact. It was why he didn’t abandon his career as a vet. Because even on the worst days, having a warm, living animal to care for helped him get past the worst of his anxieties. It wasn’t a panacea and he’d probably have been better off with some intensive therapy, but over the months and years, he was able to rebuild himself.
Peter hadn’t told him, but Neal figured that he was seeing a therapist – he was sure that the FBI insisted on it. But right now, Peter was sweating and shaking and in need of simple physical contact. He put a hand on Peter’s back and gently stroked him, as if he were a child in need of comfort.
Satchmo, sensing his master’s distress, climbed onto the couch and draped himself across Peter’s lap.
The shivering eventually subsided and Peter came back to himself. "I, uh – I’m sorry."
"What are you sorry about? Is it my turn to lecture you about making unnecessary apologies?" Neal kept his tone light, joking.
Peter gave a little laugh. "Yeah, yeah. Turn the tables on me when I’m down."
"Down, but not out." Neal stopped the stroking, but kept his hand on Peter’s back. Peter sighed and leaned into him.
The sat like that for a while, and Satchmo, bored now that Peter seemed to be okay, hopped down. He sniffed around the living room and came up with prize. Neal wasn’t sure what it was until Satch took it back to his dog bed in front of the fireplace and started snuffling and licking it.
Neal was about to excuse himself and discreetly retrieve his briefs, when Peter looked from the dog to him and back to the dog, who was enjoying his find excessively.
"Umm, Neal?"
"Yeah?"
"Why does Satchmo have your underpants on his head?" The pup looked up at the sound of his name, and he was, after a fashion, wearing Neal’s underwear on his face.
"I – uh – I …" This time, Neal didn’t hesitate. He got up and grabbed at the underpants. Except that Satchmo was just a bit quicker and thought that one of his favorite humans was playing a game. His teeth clamped down and as hard as Neal tugged, Satchmo tugged back just has hard. Neal knew he should probably let go and get something to distract the dog, but Peter’s laughter egged him on and he kept tugging. So did Satch, who was clearly enjoying the game.
Neal gave one last tug, the cotton ripped and he fell backwards, onto his ass. Satch was no longer interested in the mouthful of fabric he had left, dropped it at Neal’s feet and retreated back to his bed.
Neal sat on the floor, embarrassed at his wounded dignity, but delighted at the sound of Peter’s unrestrained whoops of laughter. It was infectious and he started chuckling, too. Finally, the laughter eased and panting, Neal looked up at Peter, relishing the joy that sparkled in his eyes, a contrast to the earlier bleakness. This was how Peter should always look. He was a man made to be happy.
Peter caught his breath and grinned as he asked, "I have to know, do you often go commando?"
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The baby shower was finished and Elizabeth asked Yvonne to stay and oversee the cleanup. She had a nice fat check from the grandmother-to-be in her wallet and it was time to head home. Elizabeth never minded these early morning events, unless she had to work another one that night.
But today wasn’t one of those days, and she had the rest of the weekend to look forward to. Enjoy a little downtime with her husband. And maybe with Neal, too.
El thought about her ambivalence yet again, and was annoyed by her own dithering. She wanted Neal to be part of their lives, she was attracted to him, she understood why he ran hot, then cold. Why he avoided them for so long, and why he was so cautious now. But she was tired of doing all the work.
None of the past relationships she and Peter had shared had been this much effort. Their partners had been easy to bring into their lives and just as easy to let go of. Only Asher had come close to this amount of drama, because Asher was a dramatic person who enjoyed being the center of attention.
Elizabeth kept telling herself that Neal would be worth all the drama. He made Peter happy, that was certain. He gave her husband something to focus on, something to worry about other than himself and his recovery.
She wasn’t blind. She didn’t need the FBI fitness guidelines spelled out for her to know that Peter’s chances of being certified for field duty were slim. He could walk without a cane, and that was a miracle, but he couldn’t run and be a functioning member of his team. The FBI made little allowance for agents in the field and El knew that being permanently assigned to a desk would be torture for her husband.
But what choice would he have? Retire and do what? It wasn’t a question of money. They’d talked about it, back when it seemed likely that Peter might never walk again. He’d retire on full salary because he was wounded in the line of duty. He’d keep his benefits, and they wouldn’t have to worry about an income, even if El wanted to retire too. Back then it seemed likely that they’d need to move into a house more suitable for someone with mobility issues. Selling the house in Brooklyn would substantially contribute to their nest egg.
That was a moot point, now. Peter was mobile, he got around just fine. Just not ‘fine’ enough to suit the FBI, it seemed.
Neal distracted Peter from that, which wasn’t fair to either man. Neal wasn’t simply a project or a shiny new toy to take her husband’s mind off his problems. Peter sincerely cared for him, and El knew, without question, that that caring could easily turn to love.
She just wanted to feel the same way. She’d been the strong one for so damn long, and right now, she just wanted a relationship where she didn’t need to be in charge, in control. She wanted to be catered to, cosseted, treated like a princess. She didn’t want to have to make all the decisions.
At least the early afternoon traffic was light and she didn’t have to make any decisions about what route to take home. It was a little before one as she climbed the front stairs; the sound of unrestrained laughter making her smile. If Neal was the one making Peter laugh like that, she could live with whatever drama he brought into her life.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal had left shortly after Elizabeth got home. Peter didn’t try to convince him to stay. The knowledge that Neal wasn’t wearing any underpants sorely tested his self-control, but really, he wanted to spend some time alone with his wife. They needed to talk about where they went from here, and he needed to know if her ambivalence to a relationship with Neal centered on misgivings about his emotional stability or her own lingering hurt about how Neal treated them earlier this summer.
"Someone made pancakes." El tapped the cast iron griddle Peter had used. "Someone made pancakes without me." She looked stern, and Peter couldn’t get a read on whether she was truly put out or was jerking his chain.
"I can make pancakes for you if you want." Peter stood there, hands in his pockets.
El smiled. "Tomorrow, maybe." She checked the water in the bouquet of flowers on the counter and gave a small, indecipherable smile. "You and Neal have a nice morning?"
"Yeah."
"Just … yeah?" Her smile was still enigmatic. "Neal seemed rather shattered last night, you sat up with him until two AM before you put him to bed in the guest room, and ‘Yeah’ is all you have to say?"
"When did you take interrogation lessons? Is there a friends and family program at Quantico that I didn’t know about?" Peter grinned, but he wasn’t all that sure why he felt the need to deflect.
"Ahh, hon – I know you and we’ve been married for fifteen years. Partners have come and gone, but not a single one of them made you laugh the way you did when I came home."
Peter felt himself flushing.
El came over and kissed him. "I liked hearing that laughter. I liked hearing the joy shared by the two of you."
Peter was surprised that she didn’t want to know what they were laughing about.
She kissed him again and cupped her palm against his cheek. "I want you to have your happiness with Neal."
Peter had to ask, "But what about you?"
"What about me?"
"You’ve been, well, a bit reluctant about Neal." El started to say something, but Peter cut her off. "I understand why. He hurt you. He hurt you very badly, and even though it came from a place that, thank god, we’ve never had to experience, the damage he did was real."
El sighed. "Yeah, I’ve tried to hide it, but I suppose I haven’t been very effective."
Peter stroked her hair and wrapped an arm around her, loving the feel of her warmth, her softness. "You’ve been my rock. You’ve been keeping me upright, keeping me going, you’re entitled to crack."
"Hmmm." El relaxed into Peter’s hold. "I’m not sure that I really know what I want from Neal – "
"Hon?" Peter wasn’t really surprised by her admission.
"I know I want you to have your happiness with him. He’s a good man who’s had some horrible experiences and I think that the two of you will be good for each other, but I don’t know if I want the same thing." She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. "We don’t have to be a perfect triangle."
"In other words, ‘V’ is for Victory?"
"Exactly." El let go of him. "I’m going to go change into something a little sloppier. Wanna come keep me company and tell me just how you spent your morning? Or maybe we could … " She ran a hand down his back and squeezed his ass.
"How can I resist an offer like that?" Peter let his wife lead him upstairs, to their bedroom. She was humming something and he gave a shout of laughter as he recognized the tune – it was "Afternoon Delight".
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal left a few minutes after Elizabeth came home. When Peter asked him about going commando, they had both gotten hysterical again, like a pair of fifth-grade boys, and Elizabeth had picked that moment to arrive. She stood there, smiling at them and when he finally recovered some dignity (although Peter was still chortling), he’d discreetly retrieved the torn underpants, shoved them in his pockets and thanked her for her kindness the night before.
The streets were busy, the denizens of Cobble Hill were enjoying their early Saturday afternoon. But it only took him a little more than five minutes to reach his front door. To find Mozzie sitting on the front steps, enjoying the New York Times and a cup of tea.
"Hey there, Moz."
His oldest friend didn’t bother looking up from an article in the Book Review. "The weary traveler returns."
Neal wasn’t completely sure who he was talking about. Even though he wanted to go and change out of yesterday’s clothes, he sat down next. "Good trip?"
"Hmm, what can one say about modern air travel? You stand on line for hours, you’re subjected to indignity after indignity, then you get ready and wait for hours, only to be stuffed into a tin can that stays aloft by exploiting a quirk in the laws of physics. Upon finding yourself back on solid ground, you wait on line again, you’re subjected to more untold humiliations before finally having the privilege of claiming your baggage, which may or may not have arrived on the same flight."
"Are you done?"
"I’ve only started."
Neal tilted his face up to the sun, the warmth and light felt nice on his skin.
"You’re looking well, mon frère."
"Thanks, Moz."
"I mean it. You look … happy."
Neal turned to face his friend. There was a surprising amount of compassion in that gaze. "I think I am."
"I take it, since you weren’t home last night, that ‘things’ have progressed?"
Neal grimaced. "No, actually they haven’t. At least not as far as you’re implying."
"You’re still worried about the Suit and his Bride?"
"No. You were right, Moz. Peter and Elizabeth are two of the most decent people to walk the face of the earth."
"Then what’s the issue?"
"The same as it’s always been. Me."
"Ah. You’re still gun shy."
"Which is irrational."
Moz put a hand on his knee, squeezing gently. "You were hurt very badly and I didn’t really help matters by keeping you in the dark and at a distance for so long. I’ve always regretted that."
Neal waved off the apology. "You were there for me when I needed you, Moz. You saved my life; you got me back on track."
"If I hadn’t left in the first place, you might not have been in that situation in the first place."
Neal thought back to those early, heady days with Matthew, when he was so much in love. "That’s possible. But I think, unlikely. June tried to warn me and I didn’t want to listen."
Moz took a sip of his tea. "Even if you hadn’t listened to me, I wouldn’t have allowed it to happen."
"Moz?" Neal wasn’t sure he understood what his friend was saying.
"I’m a firm believer in free will and making your own decisions, but you’re my friend – you’re the closest thing I have to a family. I would have taken care of Keller, whether you wanted me to or not."
Neal let out a surprised huff of laughter. "Do I need to be scared of you?"
"Nah. I’m pretty harmless, unless you piss me off."
Of that, Neal had no doubt.
"So, the Suits …"
Neal sighed. "I made some bad mistakes there."
"Like telling Elizabeth Burke I was your long-lost boyfriend?"
"Yeah. That’s one."
"And is Peter still holding a grudge?"
"No, not at all. He’s …" Neal searched for the right word. "Wonderful. He forgave me, he’s been so careful with me."
"Too careful?"
Neal shrugged. "Maybe."
"But Mrs. Suit isn’t wonderful?"
"Oh, she is – but I know she’s still angry."
"You humiliated her."
"I did."
"You need to make it right."
"I know."
"And how do you plan to do that?"
"That, I don’t know."
"Have you had any time alone with her?"
"No, not really. When I’ve seen her, it’s always been with Peter. Had them over for brunch last Sunday."
"You cooked?"
Neal actually felt his friend’s delicate shudder. "I had it catered."
Moz refocused on the real issue. "But you’ve haven’t made the effort with her."
Neal was about to reply, but paused. Mozzie’s phrasing struck a chord. "No, I haven’t."
"Then maybe you need to. Maybe you need to be the one who does the wooing. From what you told me, Mrs. Suit was the one who made the running in the first place. You spurned her. Maybe you have to actually do something more than rely on your baby blues, your fabulous head of hair, and your winsome smile. You might actually have to do some work."
"Yeah." Neal sighed. "And any suggestions on how to do the wooing?"
"Who do you think I am, Cyrano de Bergerac? My nose is not that big."
"I wasn’t implying that it was. But, help?"
His friend was quiet for a moment. "Don’t suppose you want to woo her with sonnets and anonymous deliveries of long-stemmed roses."
"This isn’t high school. I don’t want her to think she’s got a stalker."
"Ah, and her husband carries a gun. Maybe the direct approach might work best."
"Not sure what you’re getting at?"
"How about simply taking her out to lunch and talking with her? Man to woman. Put your cards on the table. Let her see that you’re sincere, harmless, and that you want nothing more than her happiness."
"If only it was that simple."
"It’s not? You don’t want her happiness? You’re not sincere?"
"That’s not what I mean, Moz. I mean – I can’t just tell her that."
"What not?"
"Because – "
Moz waved a hand, dismissing his objections. "Don’t play games, Neal. You’re not some world-class con man who needs to lie and misdirect as much as he needs to breathe. You’re a veterinarian who’s been kicked around by life and has had the tremendous good fortune to find two people who what you to be part of their life. Their very good life. Carpe diem, Neal. Seize the day and make the most of it."
At the end of that extraordinary speech, Moz got up and stretched. "If you need a wingman, you can count on me – but I don’t think you do. Just be straightforward and honest."
As if to convince himself, Neal repeated, "Straightforward and honest."
"Have I ever steered you wrong, mon frère?"
Neal grinned. "Well, there was that time, when I was in my freshman year, and you convinced me to try those brownies …"
"And you had a mind-altering experience."
"I also flunked my Chemistry midterm."
"Don’t dwell on the small stuff. Besides, I changed your grade, remember?" Moz patted his shoulder. "You coming in?"
"In a bit. Have a lot to think about."
"Yes, my friend, you do."
GO TO PART FOUR: ON DW | ON LJ
Neal might have actually floated down the stairs. He certainly had no memory of his feet touching the steps. Now, standing in a pool of sunlight in the Burke’s backyard, waiting for the dog to finish his business, Neal felt a little unreal, a little dazed.
What he just did to Peter …
He kissed him. He took that first step, without even thinking about the need for an escape route. It was like last night, when he fell asleep on the couch, knowing that he was safe.
This absence of fear was so freeing. In that instant, Neal understood that it wasn’t because he knew that Matthew Keller was dead and couldn’t hurt him or those he loved. No, this freedom came from knowing that he could absolutely trust Peter Burke.
Neal stood there, ignoring the dog that ran around the yard, chasing the squirrels and barking like mad. He stood there and let that revelation sink in.
This was different from trusting Peter and Elizabeth with his past, taking the step to tell them what an idiot he’d been. The risk in that telling had been their disgust. The risk here …
Intellectually, he knew that Peter would never harm him. But intellect couldn’t overcome the primal instinct for safety and survival.
In the eight years since Mozzie had gotten him free of Matthew Keller, he hadn’t lived like a monk. There hadn’t been a lot of people in his life, but he hadn’t been celibate, either.
He had rules, though. Important, unbreakable rules. Even though it wasn’t his preference when he was with a guy, he never bottomed. For him, that was an act of trust and he simply didn’t have the capacity to trust anyone not to hurt him the way Matthew had. He never took anyone home with him. No one ever knew where he lived. He didn’t discuss his business beyond the most basic facts. Most of the time, and all the time if he was with a man, they went to a hotel. He didn’t mind paying, for the simple reason that when he checked in, he always tipped the staff to do a room check if they didn’t see him leave.
Of course, these rules meant that he never had long term relationships. Actually, the rules really meant that he never had second dates. Until he’d made up his mind about coming back to New York, Neal hadn’t really thought he minded.
Satchmo got bored with the squirrels and shoved his cold, wet nose into his palm, distracting Neal from his thoughts. "Okay, boy – let’s go in." The dog barked in agreement and all but tripped him up to get to the back door.
Neal could hear the shower running upstairs and wondered what Peter would do if he decided to invade his privacy. Would he hold to his pact with Elizabeth if Neal joined him in the shower, fell to his knees and started sucking his cock? Probably not, but he’d probably be angry. And that didn’t frighten him at all.
Not that he’d act on this little fantasy. He really knew nothing about polyamory. He should make an effort to rectify that. There must be a lot of trust involved. If Peter and Elizabeth had an agreement, they both needed to stick to that agreement for their marriage and their outside interests to work.
Neal explored the Burkes’ kitchen. It was shiny and open and polished, but not in the glossy way of style magazines or home shows. This was a kitchen that belonged to real people, used every day by real people who enjoyed working in it. The grates covering the gas burners on the range were worn, the cast iron skillet and copper sauce pans were well-seasoned. The tea kettle matched the tiles, but the enamel was chipped and the base discolored from frequent use. Everything looked well-used and well-cared for. An odd, whimsical thought made Neal smile; even though these were inanimate objects, they seemed happy to be there.
He smiled at the vase filled with yellow and orange dahlias – the colors were all wrong for the kitchen. Happy flowers didn’t need to match the tile work or countertops. Flowers like these just needed to be.
Neal brushed a finger against one of the bright blossoms and was rewarded with a small handful of petals. Happy flowers needed fresh water.
As did the dog, who all but danced on his feet when Neal turned the faucet on. He freshened up the vase, freshened up the dog’s water and had a horrible thought. Was this one of those houses where you couldn’t turn on the water if someone was in the shower? He ran over to the staircase, listening for the sounds of Peter screaming in pain. Nope, nothing more than the thump of water pipes shutting off and footsteps going from one side of the hall to the other.
Neal went back to the kitchen and wondered if he should put together something for breakfast. Or would that be presuming too much? Maybe he could take Peter out, but he thought it would be a good idea to head home, change his shirt and put on some clean underwear before being seen in public.
He was still mulling over the problem of breakfast when the sound of slow, steady footfalls on the steps announced Peter’s arrival.
Neal hoped he kept his jaw off the floor and his tongue in his mouth. Peter, all sweaty from exercise, was almost too delicious to resist. Peter, fresh from the shower, hair slicked back, wearing a blood red Henley and a pair of button fly jeans, was like a secret wet dream.
Despite the quick shower this morning, Neal felt distinctly grubby. But Peter didn’t seem to mind. He gave him that slow, deep smile that had attracted Neal at their very first meeting.
"I’m glad you hung around. I thought you might have decided to head home."
Neal blinked. "You know, it’s a little scary to say but that never occurred to me. I’ve actually spent the time wondering what you’d like for breakfast."
Peter’s smile got a little broader. "You were thinking of cooking for me?"
"Actually, more like heading out for bagels and lox or maybe going to the diner where I bailed on you last night. You really wouldn’t want to eat my cooking."
"But I did, didn’t I? At brunch last Sunday?"
Neal felt a flush start somewhere around his navel and quickly rise. "I – uh – had it catered."
Peter just laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "How do you feel about pancakes? I’m really in the mood."
Neal couldn’t remember the last time he had them, maybe when he was twelve? "Sure, sounds good. Can I help?"
"Nah – it’s a one-man job. Coffee?"
"Of course!" Neal hadn’t overlooked the espresso machine on the counter and watched with appreciation as Peter made just one perfect, tiny cup. "You’re not having any?"
"I will, after I get everything going."
To Neal’s delight, Peter put on an apron and set to work. "You like cooking."
"Yeah – I do. It’s a process and requires attention to detail but room for experimentation."
"I guess you don’t get a lot of room to experiment as an FBI agent."
"No, not if you want to keep your badge. The work is good; it’s important and meaningful. It’s …" Peter sighed.
"You miss it."
"Yeah, I do." Before Neal could ask him another question, Peter changed the subject. "What type of pancakes?"
"Type?"
"Unless you just want them plain, your choices are blueberry, banana, or …" Peter opened one of the pantry cabinets and came up triumphant with a yellow and black bag. "Chocolate chip?"
He grinned. "Is that what you’re having?"
"With El not here to tell me ‘no’? You bet your sweet ass I am. And since we’re going to hell in a hand basket, how about some bacon to go with the pancakes?"
"Another forbidden treat?"
"You’re not going to blackmail me, are you?"
"Over bacon?" Neal laughed. "Nah – not worth the effort." Besides, Elizabeth Burke wasn’t stupid. If Peter cooked bacon, she’d surely smell it when she came home.
While the pancakes might have been scratch-made, Peter pulled an alarmingly large package of pre-cooked bacon from the freezer. He must have noticed Neal’s expression. "Okay, so El and I indulge on the weekends."
"Not really too much to blackmail you with, then."
Peter shrugged and smiled and Neal wondered if he just passed a subtle test.
He watched the other man cook, taking great pleasure in the wordless camaraderie that flowed between them. Over the past two months, he’d been feeling his way forward with the Burkes. Mostly focusing on repairing the damage he’d done. He wasn’t sure he was fully redeemed, especially when it came to Elizabeth, but for the moment, he was letting himself think about a future that included plenty of breakfasts with Peter and Elizabeth.
It didn’t take much longer for Peter to finish preparing the feast. Neal set the table, taking almost too much enjoyment out of the domesticity and the sense that he was part of this household and not merely a welcome guest.
The eating was accomplished much like the cooking had been, in companionable conversation. Neal complimented Peter on his culinary skills.
Peter was a little shy when he admitted, "I’ve always loved cooking."
"You and El share the kitchen?"
"Actually, Elizabeth sort of hates cooking. Her favorite recipe is take-out."
Neal laughed. "That is sort of funny for someone in the food business."
"Well, it makes sense in a way – she knows all the best caterers."
The conversation went back and forth about nothing important. They talked about cooking – which Peter knew a great deal about; about wine – which was more Neal’s area of expertise. Neal chided Peter for sneaking a piece of bacon to Satchmo, who’d remained glued to his master’s side since the start of the meal. The dog had obviously trained his master well.
"It’s all the sodium and nitrates. It’s bad enough we’re poisoning ourselves – you shouldn’t give it to your dog."
"It’s just a tiny piece."
"You feed him the top of the line organic, hormone-free, corn-free, meat by-product-free food, but give him bacon?"
Peter sighed. "I know, I know I shouldn’t. "
"You’re right, you shouldn’t. He’ll be around to love you a lot longer if you don’t sneak him bacon."
Peter held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
Neal felt a little bad. "Sorry about the lecture. I just see too many pets that are too well loved by owners who don’t know how to say ‘no’. They’re called ‘puppy-dog eyes’ for a reason."
Peter’s lips twitched. "I’m kind of a soft touch. I do the same thing when it comes to my human family. My mother-in-law is addicted to Matlock and my father-in-law thinks that Perry Mason is the epitome of crime drama. You have no idea how torturous it is to spend the holidays with them and they insist on marathoning those shows. I want to tear my hair out."
"But you preserve family harmony and pretend to enjoy because they’re Elizabeth’s parents and it’s not worth the argument?"
"Exactly."
Breakfast finished, Neal insisted on doing the dishes. He still wanted to ask Peter about the shooting, but somehow introducing that conversation seems out of character with the gentle banter they were indulging in. He didn’t want to break the golden mood.
He didn’t really want to go home, either, so when Peter offered to make cappuccino, he quickly agreed. They sat on the patio, enjoying the late morning sunshine. It was probably one of the last times they’d enjoy the setting until the late springtime. The conversation took a meandering path. The local sports scene, and how Peter was torn between rooting for the Knicks and the new hometown team, the Nets. Neal told Peter a little about growing up in the neighborhood before Brooklyn became so trendy. Eventually the conversation turned to more important things.
"So, polyamory. When I think about it, and about you and Elizabeth, I’m still sort of …" Neal searched for an adjective that didn’t seem offensive.
"Appalled?" Peter leaned back in his chair and smiled.
Neal nodded slowly. "Obviously, I’m all for it, with you and Elizabeth. But you’re an FBI agent, doesn’t that present some complications?"
Peter shrugged. "It can. But by and large, our partners have been professional people. White collar, if you will."
Neal grinned at the double-entendre. "I guess it only becomes an issue when you’d have to arrest them."
"That hasn’t happened yet."
"But it could."
Peter gave him an odd sort of look and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He raised his hand in mock defense. "Don’t worry – I don’t have any plans to commit a crime."
"No, I didn’t think you did."
"But seriously – don’t you worry that your bosses would find out?"
Peter shook his head. "Maybe, but the divorce rate for FBI agents is about twice the national average. There’s sort of an expectation that marriages fail."
"That’s sort of … sad."
"Yeah. And I’m lucky – my boss has always been of the mindset, ‘don’t ask, don’t care.’ If it’s not illegal or self-destructive, he doesn’t care what I do on my own time."
Neal had to smile at that. "Okay, let me get this straight. You can have consensual orgies, so long as everyone wears a condom."
"Basically."
"Nice boss."
"Smart boss. He knows what matters."
They sat in silence, enjoying the birdsong and the sunshine. Neal had another question. "Have you ever had a problem with your partners? Have things gone badly?"
"I wish I could say no. We’ve been careful in choosing partners, always making certain that whomever we’ve added into our lives understood that the marital relationship was primary."
Neal cut him off. "You do know that I would never come between you and Elizabeth - "
Peter reached out and covered his hand, squeezing gently. "I know that. I just want to explain."
"Okay"
"We don’t – unlike some poly people – use formal or written rules to define the parameters of our relationships with outsiders. And you know the promise El and I made …"
Neal nodded. His balls still felt a little blue.
"But we’ve always been clear that there should be no expectations that either one of us is looking to change the status quo. And no matter how clear we’ve been, there had been times when a temporary partner has tried to make the relationship exclusive and permanent."
"Seriously? It sort of boggles my mind. The two of you are like the halves of the same coin, inseparable."
Peter never really liked that analogy, if just because those sides never saw each other, but he was pleased by Neal’s perception none the less. "It’s happened a few times. The relationships were ended quickly."
"And cleanly."
"Well, the breaks were clean, but there was this one time…" Peter trailed off, a look of disgust on his face. "Let’s just say, El and I shouldn’t have known better."
Neal wanted to ask what happened, but there were other things he wanted to know. "You said you’d tell me about the shooting."
Peter raised an eyebrow at Neal’s abrupt change of subject. But he didn’t demur. "You want to know what happened?"
Neal swallowed his coffee. "Only if you want to tell me."
Peter sighed. "It’s a pretty straightforward story. I was leading a team executing an arrest warrant. The subject of that warrant pulled a gun and shot me six times in three seconds."
"Somehow, I think there’s a hell of a lot more to it than that."
"Of course, there is. I just wanted to give you the basics, first."
"Peter, if you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to." It was too clear that even the memory was distressing him.
"I know, I know. The thing is, I’m going to have to tell what happened eventually."
"You will?"
"The man who shot me will be going on trial in a few months."
"He’s not dead?"
"No." Peter kept his gaze on the table. "He shot me, dropped his weapon and claimed self-defense. Apparently it happened so quickly that my agents hadn’t had time to clear leather."
Breakfast was a sour lump in his stomach as he tried to tell Neal what happened. If he was wise, he’d take the out Neal offered. But he’d never been a coward and he wasn’t going to become one now. "I don’t suppose you ever heard of Gary Jennings?"
Neal shook his head. "Should I have?"
"Not unless you followed local politics. Jennings was a state senator up for reelection."
"I was living in Richmond for about six months before I bought Ellen’s practice. Was in Boston before that. And Chicago before that. Never a need to follow New York State politics, though I’ve read that the local system is exceedingly corrupt."
"Yeah, ‘exceedingly corrupt’ is a good way to put it. We’ve had local politicos wearing wires and catching others offering and accepting payoffs. State representatives offering to rig the mayoral election. You name it, New York State’s elected officials have been indicted for it."
"Including the attempted murder of an FBI agent?"
"Including that." Peter paused and watched a pair of squirrels chase each other over the back fence and up a tree. "Jennings was corrupt, too. He was also ambitious and stupid."
"Stupid, how?"
"He actually hired an assistant campaign manager who had a sense of ethics."
"That seems … unlikely."
"It does, but Dylan was young and started out as a true believer."
"And there’s nothing more dangerous than someone who loses faith."
"Exactly. Dylan came to the FBI with evidence that Jennings was funding his campaign using a straw donor scam."
"Straw donor scam? What’s that?"
"State election laws cap the amounts that any single person can donate. If you have an over-the-limit donation or funding from a questionable source, you can cover that by getting a bunch of regular people to write smaller checks then reimbursing them under the table for their contributions. This way, everything tallies up when the books are reviewed."
"Makes sense."
"We’d been watching Jennings for years. There were some questionable loans on some failed property development projects that were magically paid off. We investigated but couldn’t prove anything. It didn’t help that Jennings had something of a populist reputation and was able to make the loan investigation appear partisan."
"So, when you wanted to investigate the campaign finance allegation, you needed a different tactic."
"Exactly. We had to be careful or this could come across as sour grapes, particularly since Jennings was already looking beyond Albany." Peter laughed a little at the memory. "It was a good investigation. My team outdid themselves."
Neal picked up on his affection. "Tell me about them."
"I have …" Peter corrected himself, because right now, he had no one. "I had a team of a dozen field agents, but there were two who I always could rely on."
"Your right and left hands?"
"That’s one way to put it. You’d like them. About ten years ago, Clinton had talked his way onto a task force I was forming. He had an impressive resume, but not a lot of field experience. My gut told me that he’d fit in perfectly, even though there were a dozen other agents with a lot more experience that should have gotten the position."
"And you always listen to your gut?"
"Always." Peter took a sip of his now-cold coffee. "Almost always, anyway. Diana was once my probationary agent." At Neal’s raised eyebrow, Peter explained. "I trained her after she graduated from Quantico – one of the best probies I’ve ever had."
"Probie – that sounds a little dirty."
Peter chuckled. "Yeah, I guess, to an outsider it would. Anyway, we sent Diana undercover as a fixer. She would work her way into the inner circle, see if she could locate the real source of Jennings’ funding."
"How did you manage that? I wouldn’t think an experienced politician – especially one who’s got some under-the-table financing going on – would be willing to trust a newcomer to the campaign."
"No, but we ran a variation on the old ‘good-cop, bad-cop’ play – except we called it ‘bad-cop, good-criminal.’ I’d burst onto the scene as the aggressive and ambitious FBI agent, looking to take Jennings down for the old loan scandal. Get him worked up about that and Diana would conveniently offer a solution. One that wasn’t quite so honest and above-board."
"Which was?"
"She came up with the idea of creating a political distraction. Like a stage magician – keep the public focused on a completely unrelated problem until after the election, until after Jennings could figure out how to get me off his back. She had Jennings make several statements that he wasn’t in favor of building a new stadium."
"That seems counter-intuitive. A new sports stadium would bring in revenue into his district, jobs, all sorts of perks." Neal’s skepticism was well founded.
"Except that the new stadium would take land that should have been set aside for a children’s playground."
"Huh? That would be an awfully big playground."
Peter just smiled, still proud of his team’s out-of-the-box thinking. "Maybe, but the kicker was that there was no stadium. It was a complete non-issue; just a bunch of locals getting worked up over some old ideas that had been fielded back when the city was contending for the 2012 Olympics. Diana twisted it into a campaign issue for Jennings to use and he fell for it."
"And that got your agent into Jennings inner circle? He told her about the straw donor scam?"
"Oh, it was nowhere that easy. I’d already ruffled Jennings feathers – came into his office, all threats and bluster – told him that I planned to bury him. He tried to set the dogs on me, get me fired. Had the house watched. El had been traveling and Clinton came over, we had some business to discuss. Jennings had pictures and wanted Diana’s take on them. He had correctly figured that Clinton was another agent, but she convinced Jennings and his right-hand man that Clinton was doing outcall." He watched Neal’s reaction and wished he could video it – the slow blink, the dawning comprehension, the absolute incredulity, and then the utter amusement.
"That Diana sounds like she’s part con-artist."
Peter shrugged. "She’s good, she’s creative, she’s smart. She understands the rules and she knows how to work within them. Those are the qualities I need for every agent on my team." Peter tried not to think about all the months he’d spent not having a team and all the months ahead of him before he could return to active duty. That team he’d so carefully built probably wouldn’t exist by time he came back.
"And how did your other agent – Clinton – react when he found out? That Diana said he was a male escort." Neal made air-quotes around that last word.
"Oh, Clinton was fine with it. And it gets better. Jennings jumped all over that information. He thought that he could use it as blackmail – to get me to back off. He also tipped his hand a bit, that he knew a guy who provided certain services..."
"Services?" Neal looked puzzled.
"A high-class pimp."
"This does gets better and better." Neal laughed, then paused. "Sorry, I forget I know how the story ends."
Peter shrugged. "That’s okay. If Jennings hadn’t shot me, I think this would have been one of my all-time favorite operations." He stretched his leg, ignoring the pull of the tight muscles, the unfamiliar click-pop in his kneecap. "Anyway, Diana arranged to have Clinton meet Jennings’ ‘friend,’ which turning into an unexpected audition."
"I take it that your agent didn’t follow through."
"Actually, he did. One of the ‘guests’ at the party was a ball player who just signed a new multi-million dollar contract."
"And I’m guessing that the team that signed him didn’t know he was on the down-low."
"Yup. Clinton took the man upstairs, stuck his badge in his face and told him that unless he played along, he just might find himself arrested for solicitation."
"And he played along."
"To the tune of ten grand, which Clinton had to produce by three AM. And don’t give me that look – we vouchered the cash and he got it back, with the thanks of the FBI."
"I don’t suppose you’d tell me who …"
"Nope – you don’t need to know that." Peter grinned. "The guy did have a record-breaking year, though."
"I guess, if I was really that interested, I could figure it out." Neal held up a hand before Peter could ask him not to. "But I’m not."
"Anyways, it turned out that the pimp – Roger Barrow – had a record for violence and when he tried to shoot my agent, Clinton took him out."
"He killed him?"
"Nah – one bullet, right through his shoulder. He sung like a bird when he realized he was facing charges for the attempted murder of a Federal agent."
"Life in prison?"
"Yeah. That has a way of motivating people. Barrow gave up Jennings and all of his ‘donors.’ He even gave us the ledgers, so we could trace the payments from the prostitution ring to Jennings’s straw donor accounts."
"And then you went and arrested Jennings?"
Peter nodded. "Took about an hour to get the arrest warrants, and we marched right into his office at the end of the day, after almost everyone had gone home. Jennings was there – I think he may have been tipped off, but he was sitting at his desk like nothing was wrong. Watching; waiting as my agents started seizing computer equipment, boxing up papers, pretty much tearing the office apart."
"You’d have thought he’d cause a fuss."
"You would, wouldn’t you? Anyways, he just sat there until I came in. He didn’t say a word, just stood up, pointed a gun at me and started shooting. Three seconds, six bullets." Peter rubbed his chest. He could still feel the punch of the impact as the first two bullets knocked him back. He started to sweat as the memories, vivid, began to overtake him and he was back there. The burn in his arm, the blunt trauma in his shoulder, the sudden absence of stability – his leg giving way as the last two bullets shattered bone.
"Peter? Peter?" There was a hand on his, squeezing tight.
He blinked, and he wasn’t in that midtown office anymore, but in his backyard in Brooklyn. Geese were flying overhead, the sun was bright, but it really wasn’t that warm. His vision was filled by Neal Caffrey’s face, his eyes just a shade lighter than the sky.
"Peter?" Neal cupped his cheek. "Tell me you’re okay?"
"I’m – I’m all right." He licked his lips. His mouth was bone dry and the thought of having more of the ice-cold coffee was nauseating. "Just – let’s go inside."
Neal watched Peter drink a couple of glasses of ice water and worried. He looked like someone suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, and Neal was far too familiar with that look. He’d seen it in the mirror on way too many mornings.
"Come on." He pulled Peter towards the couch and sat down next to him. He’d learned that one of the best ways to work through a bad episode was through physical contact. It was why he didn’t abandon his career as a vet. Because even on the worst days, having a warm, living animal to care for helped him get past the worst of his anxieties. It wasn’t a panacea and he’d probably have been better off with some intensive therapy, but over the months and years, he was able to rebuild himself.
Peter hadn’t told him, but Neal figured that he was seeing a therapist – he was sure that the FBI insisted on it. But right now, Peter was sweating and shaking and in need of simple physical contact. He put a hand on Peter’s back and gently stroked him, as if he were a child in need of comfort.
Satchmo, sensing his master’s distress, climbed onto the couch and draped himself across Peter’s lap.
The shivering eventually subsided and Peter came back to himself. "I, uh – I’m sorry."
"What are you sorry about? Is it my turn to lecture you about making unnecessary apologies?" Neal kept his tone light, joking.
Peter gave a little laugh. "Yeah, yeah. Turn the tables on me when I’m down."
"Down, but not out." Neal stopped the stroking, but kept his hand on Peter’s back. Peter sighed and leaned into him.
The sat like that for a while, and Satchmo, bored now that Peter seemed to be okay, hopped down. He sniffed around the living room and came up with prize. Neal wasn’t sure what it was until Satch took it back to his dog bed in front of the fireplace and started snuffling and licking it.
Neal was about to excuse himself and discreetly retrieve his briefs, when Peter looked from the dog to him and back to the dog, who was enjoying his find excessively.
"Umm, Neal?"
"Yeah?"
"Why does Satchmo have your underpants on his head?" The pup looked up at the sound of his name, and he was, after a fashion, wearing Neal’s underwear on his face.
"I – uh – I …" This time, Neal didn’t hesitate. He got up and grabbed at the underpants. Except that Satchmo was just a bit quicker and thought that one of his favorite humans was playing a game. His teeth clamped down and as hard as Neal tugged, Satchmo tugged back just has hard. Neal knew he should probably let go and get something to distract the dog, but Peter’s laughter egged him on and he kept tugging. So did Satch, who was clearly enjoying the game.
Neal gave one last tug, the cotton ripped and he fell backwards, onto his ass. Satch was no longer interested in the mouthful of fabric he had left, dropped it at Neal’s feet and retreated back to his bed.
Neal sat on the floor, embarrassed at his wounded dignity, but delighted at the sound of Peter’s unrestrained whoops of laughter. It was infectious and he started chuckling, too. Finally, the laughter eased and panting, Neal looked up at Peter, relishing the joy that sparkled in his eyes, a contrast to the earlier bleakness. This was how Peter should always look. He was a man made to be happy.
Peter caught his breath and grinned as he asked, "I have to know, do you often go commando?"
The baby shower was finished and Elizabeth asked Yvonne to stay and oversee the cleanup. She had a nice fat check from the grandmother-to-be in her wallet and it was time to head home. Elizabeth never minded these early morning events, unless she had to work another one that night.
But today wasn’t one of those days, and she had the rest of the weekend to look forward to. Enjoy a little downtime with her husband. And maybe with Neal, too.
El thought about her ambivalence yet again, and was annoyed by her own dithering. She wanted Neal to be part of their lives, she was attracted to him, she understood why he ran hot, then cold. Why he avoided them for so long, and why he was so cautious now. But she was tired of doing all the work.
None of the past relationships she and Peter had shared had been this much effort. Their partners had been easy to bring into their lives and just as easy to let go of. Only Asher had come close to this amount of drama, because Asher was a dramatic person who enjoyed being the center of attention.
Elizabeth kept telling herself that Neal would be worth all the drama. He made Peter happy, that was certain. He gave her husband something to focus on, something to worry about other than himself and his recovery.
She wasn’t blind. She didn’t need the FBI fitness guidelines spelled out for her to know that Peter’s chances of being certified for field duty were slim. He could walk without a cane, and that was a miracle, but he couldn’t run and be a functioning member of his team. The FBI made little allowance for agents in the field and El knew that being permanently assigned to a desk would be torture for her husband.
But what choice would he have? Retire and do what? It wasn’t a question of money. They’d talked about it, back when it seemed likely that Peter might never walk again. He’d retire on full salary because he was wounded in the line of duty. He’d keep his benefits, and they wouldn’t have to worry about an income, even if El wanted to retire too. Back then it seemed likely that they’d need to move into a house more suitable for someone with mobility issues. Selling the house in Brooklyn would substantially contribute to their nest egg.
That was a moot point, now. Peter was mobile, he got around just fine. Just not ‘fine’ enough to suit the FBI, it seemed.
Neal distracted Peter from that, which wasn’t fair to either man. Neal wasn’t simply a project or a shiny new toy to take her husband’s mind off his problems. Peter sincerely cared for him, and El knew, without question, that that caring could easily turn to love.
She just wanted to feel the same way. She’d been the strong one for so damn long, and right now, she just wanted a relationship where she didn’t need to be in charge, in control. She wanted to be catered to, cosseted, treated like a princess. She didn’t want to have to make all the decisions.
At least the early afternoon traffic was light and she didn’t have to make any decisions about what route to take home. It was a little before one as she climbed the front stairs; the sound of unrestrained laughter making her smile. If Neal was the one making Peter laugh like that, she could live with whatever drama he brought into her life.
Neal had left shortly after Elizabeth got home. Peter didn’t try to convince him to stay. The knowledge that Neal wasn’t wearing any underpants sorely tested his self-control, but really, he wanted to spend some time alone with his wife. They needed to talk about where they went from here, and he needed to know if her ambivalence to a relationship with Neal centered on misgivings about his emotional stability or her own lingering hurt about how Neal treated them earlier this summer.
"Someone made pancakes." El tapped the cast iron griddle Peter had used. "Someone made pancakes without me." She looked stern, and Peter couldn’t get a read on whether she was truly put out or was jerking his chain.
"I can make pancakes for you if you want." Peter stood there, hands in his pockets.
El smiled. "Tomorrow, maybe." She checked the water in the bouquet of flowers on the counter and gave a small, indecipherable smile. "You and Neal have a nice morning?"
"Yeah."
"Just … yeah?" Her smile was still enigmatic. "Neal seemed rather shattered last night, you sat up with him until two AM before you put him to bed in the guest room, and ‘Yeah’ is all you have to say?"
"When did you take interrogation lessons? Is there a friends and family program at Quantico that I didn’t know about?" Peter grinned, but he wasn’t all that sure why he felt the need to deflect.
"Ahh, hon – I know you and we’ve been married for fifteen years. Partners have come and gone, but not a single one of them made you laugh the way you did when I came home."
Peter felt himself flushing.
El came over and kissed him. "I liked hearing that laughter. I liked hearing the joy shared by the two of you."
Peter was surprised that she didn’t want to know what they were laughing about.
She kissed him again and cupped her palm against his cheek. "I want you to have your happiness with Neal."
Peter had to ask, "But what about you?"
"What about me?"
"You’ve been, well, a bit reluctant about Neal." El started to say something, but Peter cut her off. "I understand why. He hurt you. He hurt you very badly, and even though it came from a place that, thank god, we’ve never had to experience, the damage he did was real."
El sighed. "Yeah, I’ve tried to hide it, but I suppose I haven’t been very effective."
Peter stroked her hair and wrapped an arm around her, loving the feel of her warmth, her softness. "You’ve been my rock. You’ve been keeping me upright, keeping me going, you’re entitled to crack."
"Hmmm." El relaxed into Peter’s hold. "I’m not sure that I really know what I want from Neal – "
"Hon?" Peter wasn’t really surprised by her admission.
"I know I want you to have your happiness with him. He’s a good man who’s had some horrible experiences and I think that the two of you will be good for each other, but I don’t know if I want the same thing." She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. "We don’t have to be a perfect triangle."
"In other words, ‘V’ is for Victory?"
"Exactly." El let go of him. "I’m going to go change into something a little sloppier. Wanna come keep me company and tell me just how you spent your morning? Or maybe we could … " She ran a hand down his back and squeezed his ass.
"How can I resist an offer like that?" Peter let his wife lead him upstairs, to their bedroom. She was humming something and he gave a shout of laughter as he recognized the tune – it was "Afternoon Delight".
Neal left a few minutes after Elizabeth came home. When Peter asked him about going commando, they had both gotten hysterical again, like a pair of fifth-grade boys, and Elizabeth had picked that moment to arrive. She stood there, smiling at them and when he finally recovered some dignity (although Peter was still chortling), he’d discreetly retrieved the torn underpants, shoved them in his pockets and thanked her for her kindness the night before.
The streets were busy, the denizens of Cobble Hill were enjoying their early Saturday afternoon. But it only took him a little more than five minutes to reach his front door. To find Mozzie sitting on the front steps, enjoying the New York Times and a cup of tea.
"Hey there, Moz."
His oldest friend didn’t bother looking up from an article in the Book Review. "The weary traveler returns."
Neal wasn’t completely sure who he was talking about. Even though he wanted to go and change out of yesterday’s clothes, he sat down next. "Good trip?"
"Hmm, what can one say about modern air travel? You stand on line for hours, you’re subjected to indignity after indignity, then you get ready and wait for hours, only to be stuffed into a tin can that stays aloft by exploiting a quirk in the laws of physics. Upon finding yourself back on solid ground, you wait on line again, you’re subjected to more untold humiliations before finally having the privilege of claiming your baggage, which may or may not have arrived on the same flight."
"Are you done?"
"I’ve only started."
Neal tilted his face up to the sun, the warmth and light felt nice on his skin.
"You’re looking well, mon frère."
"Thanks, Moz."
"I mean it. You look … happy."
Neal turned to face his friend. There was a surprising amount of compassion in that gaze. "I think I am."
"I take it, since you weren’t home last night, that ‘things’ have progressed?"
Neal grimaced. "No, actually they haven’t. At least not as far as you’re implying."
"You’re still worried about the Suit and his Bride?"
"No. You were right, Moz. Peter and Elizabeth are two of the most decent people to walk the face of the earth."
"Then what’s the issue?"
"The same as it’s always been. Me."
"Ah. You’re still gun shy."
"Which is irrational."
Moz put a hand on his knee, squeezing gently. "You were hurt very badly and I didn’t really help matters by keeping you in the dark and at a distance for so long. I’ve always regretted that."
Neal waved off the apology. "You were there for me when I needed you, Moz. You saved my life; you got me back on track."
"If I hadn’t left in the first place, you might not have been in that situation in the first place."
Neal thought back to those early, heady days with Matthew, when he was so much in love. "That’s possible. But I think, unlikely. June tried to warn me and I didn’t want to listen."
Moz took a sip of his tea. "Even if you hadn’t listened to me, I wouldn’t have allowed it to happen."
"Moz?" Neal wasn’t sure he understood what his friend was saying.
"I’m a firm believer in free will and making your own decisions, but you’re my friend – you’re the closest thing I have to a family. I would have taken care of Keller, whether you wanted me to or not."
Neal let out a surprised huff of laughter. "Do I need to be scared of you?"
"Nah. I’m pretty harmless, unless you piss me off."
Of that, Neal had no doubt.
"So, the Suits …"
Neal sighed. "I made some bad mistakes there."
"Like telling Elizabeth Burke I was your long-lost boyfriend?"
"Yeah. That’s one."
"And is Peter still holding a grudge?"
"No, not at all. He’s …" Neal searched for the right word. "Wonderful. He forgave me, he’s been so careful with me."
"Too careful?"
Neal shrugged. "Maybe."
"But Mrs. Suit isn’t wonderful?"
"Oh, she is – but I know she’s still angry."
"You humiliated her."
"I did."
"You need to make it right."
"I know."
"And how do you plan to do that?"
"That, I don’t know."
"Have you had any time alone with her?"
"No, not really. When I’ve seen her, it’s always been with Peter. Had them over for brunch last Sunday."
"You cooked?"
Neal actually felt his friend’s delicate shudder. "I had it catered."
Moz refocused on the real issue. "But you’ve haven’t made the effort with her."
Neal was about to reply, but paused. Mozzie’s phrasing struck a chord. "No, I haven’t."
"Then maybe you need to. Maybe you need to be the one who does the wooing. From what you told me, Mrs. Suit was the one who made the running in the first place. You spurned her. Maybe you have to actually do something more than rely on your baby blues, your fabulous head of hair, and your winsome smile. You might actually have to do some work."
"Yeah." Neal sighed. "And any suggestions on how to do the wooing?"
"Who do you think I am, Cyrano de Bergerac? My nose is not that big."
"I wasn’t implying that it was. But, help?"
His friend was quiet for a moment. "Don’t suppose you want to woo her with sonnets and anonymous deliveries of long-stemmed roses."
"This isn’t high school. I don’t want her to think she’s got a stalker."
"Ah, and her husband carries a gun. Maybe the direct approach might work best."
"Not sure what you’re getting at?"
"How about simply taking her out to lunch and talking with her? Man to woman. Put your cards on the table. Let her see that you’re sincere, harmless, and that you want nothing more than her happiness."
"If only it was that simple."
"It’s not? You don’t want her happiness? You’re not sincere?"
"That’s not what I mean, Moz. I mean – I can’t just tell her that."
"What not?"
"Because – "
Moz waved a hand, dismissing his objections. "Don’t play games, Neal. You’re not some world-class con man who needs to lie and misdirect as much as he needs to breathe. You’re a veterinarian who’s been kicked around by life and has had the tremendous good fortune to find two people who what you to be part of their life. Their very good life. Carpe diem, Neal. Seize the day and make the most of it."
At the end of that extraordinary speech, Moz got up and stretched. "If you need a wingman, you can count on me – but I don’t think you do. Just be straightforward and honest."
As if to convince himself, Neal repeated, "Straightforward and honest."
"Have I ever steered you wrong, mon frère?"
Neal grinned. "Well, there was that time, when I was in my freshman year, and you convinced me to try those brownies …"
"And you had a mind-altering experience."
"I also flunked my Chemistry midterm."
"Don’t dwell on the small stuff. Besides, I changed your grade, remember?" Moz patted his shoulder. "You coming in?"
"In a bit. Have a lot to think about."
"Yes, my friend, you do."
Tags:
- character: clinton jones,
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: june ellington,
- character: mozzie,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: omc,
- character: peter burke,
- character: reese hughes,
- character: satchmo,
- genre: abuse,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: badassery,
- genre: emotional trauma,
- genre: first time,
- genre: friendship,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: marital sex,
- genre: pre-ot3,
- genre: romance,
- genre: slash,
- kink: anal sex,
- kink: frotting,
- kink: kissing,
- kink: oral sex,
- pairing: elizabeth/neal,
- pairing: elizabeth/omc,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- wc verse: vet neal,
- white collar,
- written for: polyamory big bang,
- year: 2013
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Date: 2013-11-20 10:11 am (UTC)Now off to fix things with El :D
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Date: 2013-11-21 05:25 am (UTC)I love how you mixed recast the WC team for the Jennings take down. Looks like you had a lot of fun with this chapter!
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Date: 2013-11-23 10:20 pm (UTC)I like Mozzie in this chapter. Honest and sincere.