White Collar Fic - The Special Parts (barefoot in the garden)

[elrhiarhodan]

Title: The Special Parts (barefoot in the garden)
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, (Peter/Neal/Elizabeth)
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Reference to possible dub-con
Word Count: ~ 1000
Summary: Peter knows the whole is better than the sum of its parts, but some parts are very special.

A/N: Written as a fill for coffeethyme4me, as a response to this prompt on my on-going meme.


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Even though he had been a math major, Peter knew that the whole was better than the sum of its parts.

Elizabeth was more than a shapely brunette with extraordinary breasts. Neal was not merely a pair of blue eyes, great hair, and a tight ass. These two people were exceptional - at least to him (and probably the rest of the world, too). They were smart, funny, caring, committed, loyal, trustworthy (even though when he applied that adjective to Neal, there were always just a few caveats).

But when came down to the visceral components of his desire, Peter was aware he had weaknesses, strange turn-ons that only he knew about.

With his wife, there were two things (or make that four) that sent his engine into fifth gear - her toe cleavage and her naked earlobes.

It wasn’t the shoes that did it for him - it was that tiny, almost mysterious meeting of skin, disappearing into the darkness of her shoe that reminded Peter of other points where flesh met flesh.

Elizabeth’s earlobes were another story. With her hair piled high in some complex ‘do, earrings dangling to her shoulders, Peter could (and did) admire the pure beauty of her skin, the line of shoulder and neck and nape. But when the earrings came off, her hair caught up in a scrunch, and her head bent over some invoice or the newspaper or the latest bestselling thriller, Peter’s pulse raced. Maybe it was the vulnerability - the unintentional nakedness.

If he tried to explain it, El would probably chuckle and tell him to stop overanalyzing things. And he would, at least for the space of time after she lead him up the stairs, into the bedroom and had her naughty, wicked way when him.

There were also things about Neal that aroused Peter to unbearable heights. The hats, of course. Peter may have scorned them to Neal’s face - telling him he looked like a cartoon, calling them annoying, but the truth was, Neal wearing a hat - preferably the black trilby - was an instant turn on. Their first year together, he’d taken to wearing a cup, if just to hide the wood he was constantly sporting.

Peter’s reaction to the hat was now a simmer rather than a full, rolling boil - he could contain himself at work, though if Neal wore the hat in the car on the way home, sometimes he had a hard time controlling himself, especially if it drifted down, across his eyes.

It was so strange. Peter was a man who took pride in his self control. He never really wanted what he couldn’t have, and there were times when this desire, this intense need to possess Neal troubled him. Neal knew, of course. Peter couldn’t hid this from him. They talked about it one night, after Peter all but overwhelmed Neal before the door was shut.

Afterwards, when they lay together, front to back, Peter’s hand a heavy bar across Neal’s waist, he sighed, not really a sound of satisfaction - more one of puzzled resignation.

“It’s okay, Peter.” Neal’s words were really a comfort.

“No - it’s not. I shouldn’t do that to you.”

“If I didn’t want you to take my choices away, I wouldn’t let you. You know that.”

Objectively, Peter did. Neal wasn’t a doormat. He had more will, more agency than anyone he knew. “But still.”

Neal turned in his arms, rolled him on to his back and straddled him. “But nothing.” Neal’s kiss was all about power and control and for once it was easy for him to let go, to let Neal overwhelm him.

They rolled along like that for years. El and her peep-toes and her naked earlobes and his propensity to go caveman on her. Neal and his annoying little hats. Peter loved them both - the sum of them and their parts.

He was sitting on the deck, enjoying the early summer sunshine, a pleasant breeze and a cold beer. There was a easel set up in the garden, in front of a hedge of azaleas. For several years, Neal had persuaded Peter not to trim the bushes, to let them just grow wild, and it had paid off. The flowers were in riotous bloom, and Neal stood in there, drawing with languid ease, fingers stained pink and purple and green from the pastels he was using.

But it wasn’t Neal’s hands that really drew his attention, but his bare feet. Long and elegant, the middle toes slightly crooked. It occurred to Peter that he might be developing a foot fetish, given his predicable reaction to Elizabeth’s toe cleavage. But he discarded the thought. It really wasn’t Neal’s bare feet that aroused him - it was what that bareness represented. Vulnerability, strength, commitment.

After everything, the tracker long gone, Neal was still here. Their best days were still in front of them. They were Burke and Caffrey, agent and CI-turned-analyst, unlikely a story as ever told. But here, in this garden, they were Peter and Neal. Friends, partners, lovers.

Neal looked up from his drawing and smiled at Peter. He smiled back, no words were needed. Neal set his pastel back in the box, wiped his fingers on his pants, the streaks of color joining other stains, and walked towards him. He picked up Peter’s beer and took a sip, then sat down in the other lounge chair.

Peter couldn’t take his eyes off of Neal’s bare feet.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Peter smiled. He was aroused, yes - but more than that - he was happy in ways impossible to describe. He wanted to worship those grass stained soles, but he was also content to just enjoy the moment. They had plenty of time for everything, now.


FIN

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