White Collar Fic - The Circumstance of You and Me (Part One of Two)

[elrhiarhodan]

Title: The Circumstance of You and Me – Prequel to Nothing Will Remain - Part One of Two
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, nee Mitchell, Reese Hughes, Neal Caffrey, Original Female Characters, Original Male Characters, Peter – Elizabeth friendship, Elizabeth – Neal friendship
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: References to the events of 9/11 in New York City, reference to the death of a non-canon character.
Word Count: ~14,000 total
Beta Credit: miri_thompson, coffeethyme4me
Summary: In the near-canon A/U, Nothing Will Remain, Peter and Elizabeth had been divorced for years, but remained very close friends. This is the story of how they met, forged an unbreakable bond, and why, when Peter is gay and is not in the closet, they got married. This story can stand alone, but the experience will be richer if you’ve read the other fic.

A/N: Written for the 2013 White Collar Hurt/Comfort Advent over at whitecollarhc. And I guess it's now official (if it wasn't apparent before) that there is a "Nothing Will Remain 'verse". When you write 30k for two stories in less than three weeks, it's pretty clear that there's a 'verse in the works.

Title from Oysterband's "Only When You Call."

__________________



New York City, 1999

“Burke, my office.” Hughes, the new ASAC for the White Collar division, gave him the double finger point summons, an unnecessary accompaniment to his terse order. Peter jumped up, grabbed his notebook and all but ran up to the conference room. He didn’t think anything was wrong, but he was still feeling his way with this legendary agent.

“Sir?”

“You like art, right?” Hughes’ tone was brusque.

“Yes.” Peter kept his answer simple and his own tone respectful. He didn’t know where this was going and he was still not sure what his new boss knew or didn’t know about him.

“Good, then you’ve got point on a new case.”

Hughes ushered him into the conference room. There was a young woman sitting at the table, and she looked up as they entered. Peter thought she seemed nervous.

“This is Elizabeth Mitchell, and she’s come forward with evidence about an on-going fraud at the gallery she where works.” Hughes turned to the woman. “Would you like to explain?”

Ms. Mitchell stood up and cleared her throat. Peter tried not to smile. She was definitely nervous.

“Um, yes – well. I’ve been working as the Assistant Manager at the Diarmitt Gallery for about two years. Until a few months ago, part of my job was to collate and submit the sales tax information to the finance department.” She cleared her throat again. “But we had a reorganization and that work was given to another – ” Ms. Mitchell coughed again and Peter poured her a glass of water.

“Here, just relax. You can sit down.” Peter took a seat, hoping she’d follow suit. She did. He spared a glance at his boss, who nodded and left. That, more than anything seemed to relax the young woman.

Peter gave her what he hoped was a calming smile. “Agent Hughes is a good man, but he can be a little intimidating.”

She nodded. “He kind of reminds me of my father.” She twisted her hands, still nervous.

Peter waited for Ms. Mitchell to regain some composure.

“Anyway – I haven’t been doing the sales tax reporting for a few months, and I really didn’t think about it and didn’t mind that someone else was. I mean, I have an accounting degree but I’m not really interested in bookkeeping.”

“But something happened?”

She nodded. “About two weeks ago, I was going through the mail – which is still part of my job – and there was a letter from the state sales tax division. The person who’s now doing the reporting was out on vacation and I figured I’d take care of whatever it was.” She took another sip of water. “I wasn’t being nosy.”

“I’m sure you weren’t. But what was in the letter?”

“It was a request for supporting information – pretty routine. Danielle hadn’t included copies of the tax exempt statements, which are required for all purchases over a certain amount. I went into the files and was going to make copies – and I found a whole bunch of fake exemption statements.”

“Fake? How do you know they weren’t real? Those aren’t issued by the state.”

“Okay – maybe ‘fake’ isn’t the right word. They were for clients that weren’t the kind that were usually tax exempt. You know – like non-profits, governments, charities.” At Peter’s frown, Ms. Mitchell added, “I did say I have an accounting degree. I know the basics.”

“All right. So how do you know that these businesses are not exempt?”

“Well, the purchasers weren’t businesses or charities. Claude Tallinger, who bought a Georges Braque, is a fashion designer. Madeline Serra is a pop singer – she paid over a hundred thousand dollars for a Klee study. They live in New York, and the paintings were delivered to their residences. I processed their invoices, with the right sales tax, but the sales are now both listed as tax exempt – ”

“And the invoices – were they rebilled to charities without the tax?”

“Not in the billing system. I checked. Mr. Tallinger and Ms. Serra both paid the full amount, but the tax records show that no sales tax was remitted to the state. It doesn’t make any sense.” Ms. Mitchell sighed. “I don’t want to lose my job, but something is wrong.”

“Did you tell anyone you were coming here?”

She shook her head. “No. I made copies of everything and called in sick.”

“That was a smart thing. And you’re very brave to do this.”

“Brave? Like someone’s going to kill me when they find out?”

Peter was quick to disabuse her of that worry. “No, I don’t think so. But most people would shrug and say it’s not their problem. It takes guts to risk your job and come forward when you think something’s wrong. And some people might even look for a payout to keep quiet.”

Ms. Mitchell’s back went up and she looked like a livid fawn, all big eyes and pretty lips. “I wouldn’t dream of doing that!”

“I’m not accusing you, Ms. Mitchell – like I said, you’ve done the right thing.”

She drooped, outrage gone. “I’m going to lose my job, right?”

Peter didn’t want to offer her false hope. “I don’t think it’s going to be pleasant for you at work if and when everything comes to light. No one likes to have their dirty laundry aired. Of course, we’ll do our best to keep your name out of it but we can’t guarantee, especially if it comes to trial. The courts don’t like anonymous tips.”

“I can’t pay my rent on your best intentions, Agent Burke.”

“Call me Peter, please.” He tried, again, for a calming smile, but he suspected that he looked like he was constipated.

“Then I’m Elizabeth.” Her smile was sweet, if a little sad. “So, you’re going to bust the place? Seize the records?”

“I think you’ve watched too much Law & Order. We like to use a little more finesse here in White Collar.”

“Okay. What else should I do?”

Peter could see that despite her anxiety about losing her job, Elizabeth was actually excited about helping with the investigation. It was cute, but maybe a little dangerous for her and for the FBI. “For the moment, nothing. You need to go back to work tomorrow and pretend that we didn’t have this conversation, and that you never came down to the FBI. If you see me or any agent there, you have to pretend that don’t know us, all right?”

“You might be undercover?”

Peter nodded. “It’s possible. Or we could be keeping the gallery under surveillance. And also, we don’t want to draw you into the case if we don’t have to – remember? We’re trying to keep your name out of it.”

“Right.” Elizabeth took a deep breath and gave herself a pep talk. “Right. I know nothing. I can do this.”

Peter talked to her for a few more minutes, trying to ease her nerves and keep her excitement to a minimum. Even with something as banal as sales tax fraud, having a civilian sticking her nose into the investigation could create all sorts of problems.

He walked her down to the elevators and on a whim, decided to escort her to the street.

“You’re very gallant, Agent Burke.” She smiled and there was a bit of a twinkle in her eyes. Peter wondered if she was trying to flirt with him.

“I wanted a little fresh air – and I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Elizabeth chuckled. “You are gallant. And blunt.”

Peter shrugged. “It’s the truth.”

Elizabeth leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, regardless.”

Peter stood there and watched Ms. Elizabeth Mitchell disappear into the ebb and flow of afternoon foot traffic. Nice woman. Pity that she was a witness.

And that he preferred nice men.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Elizabeth figured that her good deed wouldn’t go unpunished, or unnoticed, but nothing happened for weeks. Summer turned to autumn and autumn turned to winter and life at the Diarmitt Gallery continued.

She was so tempted to get another look in the bookkeeper’s office, to see if there were any more fake tax exempt forms in the files. But she remembered Agent Burke’s warning. Playing Nancy Drew could jeopardize the investigation, if there actually was one. It had been almost six months since she’d reported her suspicions to the FBI and she’d heard nothing.

About two weeks after Thanksgiving, she noticed a municipal utility van parked in front of the building that housed the gallery. That was actually the third or fourth time she’d seen the vehicle this week. But it was strange, because she hadn’t seen any utility workers or orange cones or gotten a notice about work being done. It was just parked there, taking up space all day long, from before eight, when she got into work, until after six at night, when she left the gallery.

Elizabeth went to lunch, and the van was still there. She was heading down the block to the salad place when something told her to turn around. A man in a suit was climbing into the back of the truck, and if she wasn’t mistaken (and she was certain she wasn’t), the man was Special Agent Peter Burke.

She ducked her head and smiled. Apparently something was happening.

Of course, the van was still parked there when she came back, and as she walked towards it, she noticed a few things, like the small parabolic antennas on the back corners of the roof and the camera above the rear door. She probably never would have realized that this wasn’t an authentic Municipal Utilities truck if she hadn’t seen the man – Peter – get into it.

Elizabeth was dying to wave at the camera, to let whoever was inside know that she knew who they were, but she didn’t. Even though she was almost positive that Agent Burke was inside, there was still a margin for error and she didn’t want to freak anyone out or jeopardize the investigation.

And it was a good thing that she didn’t, because Arthur Ainsley just stepped outside and was frowning at her. Arthur was the new sales manager, the man who precipitated her change in responsibilities, and the one who handled the sales to Tallinger and Serra – the sales that she’d reported to the FBI. If she had to identify the person responsible for the apparent sales tax fraud, it would be him.

Of course, it didn’t help that Arthur was a pig of a human being, sexist and classist, and odd for someone in the art world, homophobic. He called her “girl” and deliberately forgot her name, snapping his fingers at her whenever he wanted something. It was a good thing she didn’t report to him, but directly to Sebastian Diarmitt, the gallery owner and manager. He’d hired Arthur on the strength of recommendations from people he respected, but one morning, over coffee, Sebastian had admitted to her that it was a mistake. Not that he couldn’t sell ice to the Eskimos, but that there was something “off” about the man.

Maybe if Agent Burke needed to talk to her again, she’d tell him about Arthur Ainsley.

She kind of hoped that he would. He was a little intense – like she’d imagined that an FBI agent would be – but he was slightly goofy, too. He wasn’t extraordinarily handsome, like a model or an actor, but good looking in a way that made her think that he would age like fine wine. She liked him – his looks, his smile, his intensity and his goofiness. It was unfortunate that she got the feeling that he wasn’t interested or receptive to her as a woman. She had to wonder if he was projecting those vibes because she was a witness in an investigation or if he actually wasn’t interested. And the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that he wasn’t interested in her that way.

She’d lived in New York and been part of the more bohemian elements of the art world for long enough to realize that sexual identity had nothing to do with how you dressed or behaved. It was quite possible that Peter Burke was gay.

Arthur gave her the stink eye and pointedly looked at his watch as she walked passed him. She just smiled and hoped that the pig-faced bastard was going to get what was coming to him sooner than later.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Shit – I think we’ve been made.” David Carson, one of the agents working with him on surveillance duty pointed to the young woman walking towards the van. She had stopped and looked directly at the camera.

Peter checked the monitor. “Oh, nothing to worry about. That’s our reporting witness, Elizabeth Mitchell.”

“Well, I hope she doesn’t blow our cover.” David was a good agent, a few years senior to Peter, but he was something of a kvetch and a worry wart. Peter didn’t mind working with him, but his glass-half-empty attitude could be wearing after a couple of shifts in close quarters.

“I don’t think she will, but maybe I’ll have a word with her.” Peter checked the case file. Ms. Mitchell lived in Soho, sharing an apartment with two other women. Maybe he’d stop by and talk to her about what was going on.

They had been listening in on the gallery’s telephone lines for the past week and there was something definitely hinky going on. The investigation was on Arthur Ainsley, the gallery’s sales manager. Since he’d joined the firm, the Diarmitt’s sales had increased, but the reported sales tax payments had not.

He’d been given free rein to run the investigation, but as always it was subject to Agent Hughes’ sign off. He was thinking about going undercover as a wealthy buyer, one who was looking to dodge some hefty sales tax and commission payments. But they’d have to be careful; it would be a disaster to have the case blown apart by a claim of entrapment. The Diarmitt specialized in early Twentieth Century European art, not precisely his forte, but he’d spent the past few weeks familiarizing himself with the works from that era and could wax eloquent about Expressionism, Cubism, Fauvism and even the Die Brücke and Der Blaue Reiter schools.

The last would probably help the most, since the Diarmitt was currently offering a lesser Kandinsky and two paintings by Natalia Goncharova. Peter actually liked the period and the art that came from the various schools of German Expressionism.

At least he didn’t have to pretend to be fascinated by a cube of dirty clothes wrapped in bailing wire.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized he needed to talk with Elizabeth Mitchell again. Not only to remind her that she couldn’t tell anyone about the investigation, but to sound her out about the potential target of the investigation, get her read on the man. He could bring her into the office, but that might send up all sorts of red flags. Better to stop by her apartment and talk privately.

The rest of the surveillance shift went like most shifts in the van: moments of intense boredom interrupted by vast periods of ennui. The Diarmitt’s telephone logs were exceedingly dull, except for the telephone calls from one of the accounting staff who seemed to enjoy sexually antagonizing her boyfriend.

By six o’clock, Peter wanted nothing more than a cold beer and the Knicks game. But that was going to have to wait. He needed to talk with Elizabeth Mitchell and her apartment in Greenwich Village was on his way home.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Lizzie, you have a visitor!”

El put down the copy of last month's ARTNews and winced. She had told Amanda a hundred times or maybe a thousand times, that she didn’t like being called Liz or Lizzie or Beth or Bitsy or Bess or any of the other common diminutives for her name. It was El to her friends – and she’d tolerate Ellie if she had to – but that was it. She was tempted to ignore Amanda, but from long experience, she knew that wouldn’t work. The woman would just keep shouting until she appeared.

If only Emma, the third of the trio sharing this tiny three-room apartment, was home. She had a way of getting Amanda to behave herself with just a look. Emma had amazing powers over people, which was why she was a human resources manager at Cantor, Fitzgerald.

And it wasn’t like Amanda couldn’t let her know she had company in a civilized fashion. The apartment was small and her “bedroom” was a corner of the main living space, closed off with some cheap rice paper screens for privacy. Amanda was shouting like she needed to be heard down on the ground floor.

“Are you coming? Because he’s cute and if you don’t want him, I do.”

Him? El had no idea who was here to see her. She’d been expecting Dana, her college roommate, to drop by. Her last boyfriend had unceremoniously dumped her a couple of months ago and she’d not yet taken the plunge back into the dating pool.

She got up, ran her fingers through her hair and toed around for her shoes. The right shoe was there, but no sign of the left one.

“Lizzie, you there?”

“I’m here, I’m here. Just hold on a sec.” She looked around the tiny space and spotted the bright red heel of her missing shoe under the end of her night table. Maybe if she didn’t splurge on Jimmy Choos, she could afford a place with her own bedroom. But once she slipped the shoes on, which gave her an extra four inches and a hell of a lot more confidence, she decided that the expense was worth it.

Elizabeth came out from her “room” to find her gallant FBI agent smiling and talking to Amanda. She felt suddenly territorial, as if her apartment mate was poaching. “Hey there.” There was a slight edge to her voice.

Peter looked up and gave her a wry smile, as if they had just share a private joke. She smiled back.

Amanda stopped talking long enough to acknowledge El’s presence. “You didn’t tell me you were seeing anyone.” Her tone was accusatory, as if Elizabeth was responsible for keeping her updated about her social life.

She was about to say that she wasn’t, but she noticed something. Peter wasn’t wearing his badge and it seemed that he hadn’t introduced himself as an FBI agent. She figured he did that for a reason. “It’s all sort of new, Mandy. You know how that is, right?”

The other woman nodded, but glared at her. “If I knew you were going out tonight, I would have called Brad and had him come over.” El could understand that – it was hard to have romantic company when there was someone not three feet away.

Out tonight? She caught Peter’s eye and he gave an infinitesimal nod. She felt a surge of excitement. He was undercover and needed her to play along. But before she could say anything, he cleared his throat and cut into the conversation.

“El – “ How did he know she preferred that version of her name? “didn’t know I was stopping by. I’ve been out of town and I thought I’d surprise her.” Peter gave her a very earnest look. “I've made reservations at La Cucina de Tua Nonna. I know how much you like Italian food.”

She smiled. As cuisines of choice went, Italian was a pretty safe bet, and La Cucina was the new it place in the neighborhood. Peter Burke was not only gallant, but he was smart. And better than that, he expected that she was equally intelligent. “I’ve been dying to try that place – so, thank you.” She skipped over to him – because in four-inch Jimmy Choos, you had to skip – and brushed her lips against his cheek.

Peter froze and she stepped back, hoping she hadn’t overdone it. But apparently not, because he gave her that approving smile again. She retrieved her coat and bag, he offered her his arm, and they left the apartment. He didn’t say anything while they walked down to the street and she followed his lead.

He continued the pretense of besotted boyfriend even when they were out of the building, holding onto her hand. The sidewalk was still filled with people and El had to wonder if there was anyone watching them. Finally, when they turned the corner onto a quieter street, he let go and stopped.

“Thanks for playing along back there. I didn’t want to complicated things for you.”

“And Mandy works for another art gallery – so …”

Peter’s grin lit up his whole face. “Not only beauty, but brains.”

Elizabeth sighed. “You don’t have to flirt with me, Agent Burke.”

“How do you know I’m not flirting?”

“Because you’re an agent and I’m a witness on an active case.”

This time his smile was tinged with a healthy amount of respect. “Like I said, brains.” He tugged her in the direction of the restaurant.

“And I think you’re gay.”

Peter stopped and turned back to her. “Excuse me?”

Damn, she hadn’t meant to blurt that out. “Sorry.” El bit her lip and looked at the sidewalk, feeling like an idiot.

“We’ve met twice, we’ve spent a total of an hour in each other’s company and you’ve figured out that I’m gay.” Peter didn’t seem upset at her statement, more puzzled than anything else. “How?”

El shrugged. “Not sure, really. Vibes, gaydar, who knows?”

“Okay.” Peter tugged at her again.

“Where are we going?”

“La Cucina de Tua Nonna. I really did make reservations. And we really do need to talk.” He started walking again.

She had to admire the way Agent Burke compartmentalized everything. She told him she thought he was gay and he was simply curious as to how she’d figured that out. She gave him a half-assed answer and he accepted it as truth, as if her answer really didn’t matter at all. What was important to him was the case, at least for the moment.

She skipped to keep up with his long strides, feeling a little like Carrie Bradshaw trailing after Big. But in that fictional slice of a single New York girl’s life, Big didn’t shorten his strides for his companion. Peter Burke was nothing like that character. He was just the opposite, a good and caring man and she wanted to get to know him better, regardless.

She wondered if they could be friends.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

New York City, September 2001

Elizabeth felt like she’d never stop crying, even though the tears no longer poured down her face. Her eyes were dry but there was that hard knot of pain in her chest that wouldn’t go away.

Emma was dead. She was there one moment – just that morning, they’d just been talking about renewing the lease on the apartment – and now she was gone. There was nothing left, just ashes.

Amanda was gone, too. This morning, she packed her bags and told El that she couldn’t stay in New York anymore. She was going home to Ohio, too scared to stay in a place where everything seemed like a target.

El understood that. It was a week after the world all but ended, and the passenger planes were flying again. But she couldn’t bear to see them in the sky. If one was flying low, she’d squeeze her eyes shut and whisper a prayer, “don’t fly into the buildings, don’t fly into the buildings.” Hearing the roar of the fighter jets was just as bad.

She couldn’t take the subways, either; too scared that they’d stop running and she’d be stuck underground. Or worse – that some crazy person would try to blow up the trains – and she’d be killed in the wreckage.

The gallery reopened yesterday, and she went to work, but there were no clients. Who would be interested in buying art when it seemed like the world was about to end? Sebastian had been talking about closing the gallery again. He’d been talking about doing that since the FBI arrested Arthur Ainsley for fraud last year, even though the Justice Department had cleared the business of any wrong-doing. Arthur had been working with one of the accounting staff to falsify the sales tax records. They’d dug deep, into everyone’s lives – including her own – and found that Ainsley had done the same thing at the last three galleries he’d worked at.

After so many years of living with almost no privacy, her apartment was frighteningly empty and the thought of going home tonight made her feel worse than she already did. It was getting close to five and if she didn’t go back to the apartment, she didn’t know where she’d go.

The door chime distracted her and she looked up, surprised and delighted. “Peter!” She ran to him, throwing herself into his arms, laughing and sobbing at the same time.

“Hey, hey.” He held her tightly and stroked her hair. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not – but you’re home and you’re safe.” El kept her arms wrapped around Peter, unwilling to let go of the one person she could trust to keep her sane right now.

He let her hold onto him and finally, once she’d gotten control over her emotions, she let go. Peter looked exhausted, his suit rumpled, his face covered in days of scruff. But he was smiling, his expression tender and affectionate.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

She knew he meant that on so many levels. “I’m just glad you’re home.” She hugged him again and pulled him back towards the gallery’s private spaces. “Want some coffee?”

“I’d kill for a cup.”

She fussed with the espresso machine, pulling a perfectly made cup of Peter’s preferred Italian roast. He was standing against the wall, and El gestured for him to take a seat.

He took a sip of the coffee and sighed with gratitude. “No, I need to stand. I’ve been sitting for the better part of five days. I’d always wanted to drive from coast to coast, but not like this.” Peter had been on assignment, interviewing a witness in Seattle, when the disaster happened.

“Was it bad?”

He shrugged. “Not really – just long days. I had company until Chicago – there was an agent I picked up in Spokane and we shared the driving duties for three of the days. But after that …” Peter’s voice trailed off.

El understood the toll of spending so many hours alone with your thoughts and your grief.

“You doing okay?”

Peter’s question, so softly asked, almost set her to crying again.

“Honestly, I don’t know. Emma …” Her breath came out in a shudder. Peter reached out, hugging her again. “Amanda’s left, too.”

“I’m so sorry.” The words, his arms around her, gave her some small measure of comfort.

“Thank you. Thank you for being my friend.” She knew that sounded so corny, but she needed to say the words.

“Listen – I have to return the car, but if you’d like – I can stay at your place, tonight. Or you can come stay with me if you prefer?”

“Yeah, I think I’d like to stay with you.” She felt like she never wanted to go back to that little apartment on Greene Street.

“Then my place it is.”

Peter waited while she said goodnight to Sebastian, who was scowling at the printer’s drafts of an exhibition catalogue. He drove her back to her place and waited again while she ran upstairs and packed a bag. She stuffed it with a random assortment of clothes and toiletries and rushed back out, unwilling to spend a moment more than necessary in this empty space.

It was her turn to wait while Peter returned his car. At least he wasn’t dealing with a rental agency – he had driven a car from the Seattle FBI office back to New York. The guy in charge of the motor pool just said welcome home when Peter handed him the paperwork approving his use of the vehicle on a cross-country journey.

The weather was pleasant and it wasn’t that far to walk to Peter’s apartment in Stuyvesant Town on the East Side. Of course, Peter insisted on carrying her bag, as well as his own.

The streets were strangely quiet, everything eerily subdued. The ban on private vehicles was still in effect and this close to Ground Zero, Manhattan felt like a ghost town.

One of the many things she adored about Peter was that he never felt the need to fill the silences. He was comfortable just not talking. But he also knew when those silences needed to be filled. This was one of those moments.

“The drive really wasn’t bad. The scenery was interesting. We drove across the Continental Divide.”

“And did you feel all the fluids in your body suddenly change direction?”

Peter laughed. “You’re silly, you know that?”

Elizabeth smiled and for the first time in a week, that hard knot of grief eased just a bit.

The sun had dipped below the skyline as they walked across the Oval to Peter’s building. Peter had been lucky when he’d moved into New York City; his mother’s sister owned a two-bedroom co-op in Stuyvesant Town, and had let Peter move in. When she’d retired to Florida a year later, Peter purchased it. Over the years, he’d had a succession of roommates – all platonic – but at the moment, the second bedroom was empty.

“I’ve never been so grateful to be home.” Peter flopped onto the couch with a groan. “Any idea what you’d like for dinner?”

“Give me a few minutes, okay?”

“Sure.”

She took her bag and made her way towards the back bedroom. The apartment was spacious, but the view – at least from this room – was not the best, looking right into the brick wall of the neighboring building. But she would have traded her six by nine corner of her Greenwich Village living room for this any day.

And suddenly, it hit her. By Thanksgiving, she was going to be homeless. Emma was gone and the lease was in her name. Amanda was gone too. There was no way she could afford that apartment on her salary. Not if she wanted to eat.

She dropped onto the bed, and buried her face in her hands. All the grief came back, fear and uncertainty compounding her anxiety. She sat there, paralyzed, as the room got dark.

“El?”

She looked up, Peter was standing in the doorway. He must have seen her tears but she scrubbed them away. “Sorry – just …”

“No need to apologize. I’m going to take a shower – we’ll sort out dinner after.”

She nodded. “Sounds good.” The last thing she wanted to do was eat.

There was no point in sitting in a dark, empty bedroom. Besides, Peter would only come looking for her and worry. She went into the kitchen, and poked around the fridge. There was little in there that was edible and she took it upon herself to toss out the spoiled food. Not that there was much in there. Peter wasn’t much of a cook, long hours generally meant take in or prepared meals. But he apparently had tried to make an effort – there were the near liquefied remains of a salad in the vegetable bin, as well as a couple of blackened bananas on the fruit side (and who puts bananas in the fridge?) She didn’t toss those. They were perfect for cooking and maybe make she’d make him some muffins as a thank you present.

The milk had gone bad, and so had the orange juice. El didn’t even bother opening the boxes of leftover Chinese food. They went right into the garbage.

“Whatever you do, don’t toss the beer.” Peter came into the kitchen and reached around her for a bottle. “Want one?”

“Yeah, actually I do.” El wasn’t normally a beer drinker, but tonight, a beer sounded like perfection.

“Pizza?”

“Sausage and mushroom?” That was their usual order.

“Calling it in now.” Peter paused before dialing. “You don’t think that there will be any problems with getting deliveries?”

“No. There aren’t – we had food delivered to the gallery this afternoon. I think the businesses are really hurting and are doing everything they can to keep customers happy.”

Peter nodded and El listened with half an ear as he placed the order. She couldn’t keep her mind off her problems.

“Should be about twenty minutes. Was there anything edible left in the fridge? I’m starving.”

“Not much – just a bottle of olives, some cheese of the spray variety and the rest of your beer, but that’s it.”

“Are you dissing my food choices?” Peter gave her a mock stare before opening the fridge and retrieving the can. “Now – I’ve got the perfect accompaniment to this.” He stretched and opened a cabinet, snagging a familiar yellow box. “Ah ha! Perfect.”

“Spray cheese and Triscuits, food of champions?”

“Well, if not that, then food for the hungry.” Peter deposited a dollop of orange “cheese” on a cracker and downed it in one bite. He chewed and swallowed. “Want one?”

“Nah – not that hungry. And come to think of it, I don’t think I’d ever be that hungry.”

Peter sprayed another cracker, and commented “You don’t know what you’re missing,” before popping it into his mouth.

They headed back into the living room to wait for the pizza, except that El couldn’t seem to relax and wandered around the room, fiddling with some books, straightening a knickknack or two.

“You know, I’ve been thinking …”

“You have? That’s always a dangerous thing.” They teased each other all like this all the time, and the banter helped her feel a little less tense.

“No, seriously.” Peter patted the couch next to him. “Come sit down and listen to my idea.”

She sat down next to him and slipped off her shoes. This was Peter and she didn’t need to keep the gloss on for him. “Okay, so what’s your idea.”

“Now, I need you to listen to everything I have to say before you react.” Peter had a very serious expression on his face.

“This doesn’t sound good.”

“Oh, no – it’s not something bad.” He smiled but that did nothing to quell her anxiety.

“Then tell me, already.”

“How about you move in with me?” Before she could say anything, Peter held up a hand. “Your lease is up soon, right? And maybe you’d like to take the second bedroom – it would be a lot nicer than your corner. You’d have your own bathroom, too. And I was thinking about this even before …” He trailed off, unwilling to bring that into the conversation.

El took a deep breath, trying to frame her acceptance in a way that didn’t sound desperate and needy, but gave up. Because she was desperate and needy and even if the disaster hadn’t happened, she’d have been tempted to take Peter’s offer.

“El?”

She flung herself into his arms. “Yes, oh god, yes. How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That I was so worried – it just hit me that there was no way I could keep that apartment, even if I wanted to stay there. I didn’t know where I was going to live.”

“So – you want to move in with me?”

“Absolutely. And I promise not to cramp your style.”

Peter gave her a mocking grin. “Style? Me? Didn’t you once call me the straightest gay man you’d ever met?”

She slapped his shoulder. “That wasn’t an insult, and you know what I mean.”

He kissed her forehead. “I do, El. And I appreciate it.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. They’d both been through bad patches romantically over the last few months. “Max was an idiot.” Peter’s last long term relationship had been an accountant, a man so deep in the closet that when they ran into his colleagues one evening, Max introduced Peter as his “cousin.” They’d ended things that night.

Peter propped her up in turn. “As so was Jeremy. Anyone who would cheat on you has to be an idiot.”

“Yeah.” She smiled, though. “Jeremy had a tiny dick. And he couldn’t find my clit even with a map and a searchlight.”

Peter let out a shout of laughter. “You are one of a kind, Elizabeth Mitchell.”


End Part One
Part Two – On DW | On LJ