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elrhiarhodanTitle: Stay By Me (and Make the Moment Last) - A Wonder(ful) Years Timestamp
For: MMOM - Thirty (One) Dirty Words 2012 - Prompt 031 – Desire
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey (Peter/Neal)
Spoilers/Episode References: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~1000
Summary: Another timestamp for the Wonder(flu) Years ‘Verse, and a direct sequel to Just The Sound Of Your Voice. It’s 1993, Peter’s an up and coming agent in the New York field office. He’s bright and dedicated and he misses his partner Neal Caffrey. Neal’s an agent-trainee at Quantico, and in the days before cell phones, one has to make do with talking on the pay phone in the hall.
_________________________
Peter stretched and it felt like every joint in his body cracked. He’d been in the office from a little after eight this morning, even though it was a Sunday and two weeks before Christmas. They were getting so damn close to getting indictments on a half a dozen of New York’s biggest players. Guys that were at the level of Boesky and Milliken and Vesco. It had been all hands on deck for the better part of the last three months.
But that didn’t mean he didn’t have time to miss Neal. He missed him like he’d miss breathing. They’d never been separated this long, not even when he was at the Academy. Neal had been working in Washington and they got together every free weekend he had. This was worse that that time in high school when he thought he was being noble, except that he has just been stupid.
“Go home, Peter.” Hughes dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “There’s nothing more that can be done tonight.”
Peter looked up. His boss, Reese Hughes, was a stern, no-nonsense agent. But he was fair, too. And he seemed to take delight in pointing out Peter’s dedication to the higher-ups. One of the older agents had commented, rather snidely, that Peter was being groomed for bigger things. He hoped this was true.
That might very well be, but he was still here on a Sunday afternoon doing scut work, searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack.
“Sir?”
“I said, pack it in. Everyone else has left and I’m going home.”
Peter looked at the folder, as if it would instantly reveal the one piece of evidence they needed. “But …”
“No buts, Burke. It’s two o’clock, and if you leave now, you just might make it home in time for the Giants game.”
Peter gave in, gave up and dropped the file on the desk. Monday would come soon enough.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter trudged up the three flights of stairs, aggravated and exhausted. It took about an hour and forty-five minutes to get home. Signal problems on his subway line forced a rerouting and three train changes.
He didn’t really care if he missed the kickoff or even the whole damn game. Watching football by himself was not something he enjoyed. While Neal didn’t particularly care for the game, he would still sit on the couch with Peter, studying or sketching. Always doing something. It had become something of a wintertime ritual, and damn it - he missed him. Neal’s easy companionship, his quick intelligence, his body next to him at night.
Of course, it was more than just the sex - he didn’t like going without, but there was no one for him but Neal, and he’d survive. Even if it meant stocking up on industrial-sized bottles of Jergen’s.
What he missed the most was the bright, easy desire between them. Four years of college and three years of grad school did nothing to dim that. They had a few gay friends, guys on the down-low, who thought that their monogamy was a little crazy. Maybe it was, but Peter had no interest in anyone else and he knew to the depth of his bones that Neal felt the same way.
That’s not to say that porn didn’t do any for him - particularly videos of well-built brunettes with big dicks and tight asses. Jerk-off material, that’s all it was. Something to release the tension. He knew that Neal had a stash of porn - they’d compared collections more than once. He preferred moving images, but Neal like “erotica” - classy stuff. Books and shit like that.
Peter let himself into the apartment, and as he closed the door, the answering machine clicked on.
Peter. It’s me. Neal. Thought you’d be home …
He made a diving lunge for the phone. “I am, I am. Just got in.”
“Hey there.” Neal was the one who actually sounded a bit breathless.
“Hey, yourself.”
Neal didn’t answer right away.
“You okay, Neal?”
“Yeah, just ...”
Peter could hear the aching loneliness in Neal’s voice. “Yeah. I know.” He sat down on the beat up wing chair that had been part of the furnishings in their house in Cambridge. “You doing okay?”
“Great, fine, wonderful.”
Neal didn’t sound like any of those things. “Listen, you’re over the halfway mark. Only two more months to go.” He tried to distract Neal. “Tell me about your classes.”
Neal chuckled. “It’s not like you don’t know exactly what I’m doing, Peter. Four years isn’t long enough to forget that.”
“Don’t be such a smart aleck. How is the thesis coming along?”
“The outline’s done, have some interviews to do - I may go up to the Boston field office next week and talk with the case agent.”
They chatted for a few minutes longer, Peter gave him some highlights of his own work. Nothing particularly detailed - that would be indiscreet. The call came to an abrupt end.
“Damn, there’s someone waiting to use the phone - I’ve got to go.”
Peter swallowed against the ache in his throat, against the words that he longed to say, but couldn’t. Not now. “I understand. Have a great night.”
“You too.”
“Bye.”
Neal hung up and Peter couldn’t help himself. Against the dial tone, he whispered, “I love you.”
FIN
For: MMOM - Thirty (One) Dirty Words 2012 - Prompt 031 – Desire
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey (Peter/Neal)
Spoilers/Episode References: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~1000
Summary: Another timestamp for the Wonder(flu) Years ‘Verse, and a direct sequel to Just The Sound Of Your Voice. It’s 1993, Peter’s an up and coming agent in the New York field office. He’s bright and dedicated and he misses his partner Neal Caffrey. Neal’s an agent-trainee at Quantico, and in the days before cell phones, one has to make do with talking on the pay phone in the hall.
Peter stretched and it felt like every joint in his body cracked. He’d been in the office from a little after eight this morning, even though it was a Sunday and two weeks before Christmas. They were getting so damn close to getting indictments on a half a dozen of New York’s biggest players. Guys that were at the level of Boesky and Milliken and Vesco. It had been all hands on deck for the better part of the last three months.
But that didn’t mean he didn’t have time to miss Neal. He missed him like he’d miss breathing. They’d never been separated this long, not even when he was at the Academy. Neal had been working in Washington and they got together every free weekend he had. This was worse that that time in high school when he thought he was being noble, except that he has just been stupid.
“Go home, Peter.” Hughes dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “There’s nothing more that can be done tonight.”
Peter looked up. His boss, Reese Hughes, was a stern, no-nonsense agent. But he was fair, too. And he seemed to take delight in pointing out Peter’s dedication to the higher-ups. One of the older agents had commented, rather snidely, that Peter was being groomed for bigger things. He hoped this was true.
That might very well be, but he was still here on a Sunday afternoon doing scut work, searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack.
“Sir?”
“I said, pack it in. Everyone else has left and I’m going home.”
Peter looked at the folder, as if it would instantly reveal the one piece of evidence they needed. “But …”
“No buts, Burke. It’s two o’clock, and if you leave now, you just might make it home in time for the Giants game.”
Peter gave in, gave up and dropped the file on the desk. Monday would come soon enough.
Peter trudged up the three flights of stairs, aggravated and exhausted. It took about an hour and forty-five minutes to get home. Signal problems on his subway line forced a rerouting and three train changes.
He didn’t really care if he missed the kickoff or even the whole damn game. Watching football by himself was not something he enjoyed. While Neal didn’t particularly care for the game, he would still sit on the couch with Peter, studying or sketching. Always doing something. It had become something of a wintertime ritual, and damn it - he missed him. Neal’s easy companionship, his quick intelligence, his body next to him at night.
Of course, it was more than just the sex - he didn’t like going without, but there was no one for him but Neal, and he’d survive. Even if it meant stocking up on industrial-sized bottles of Jergen’s.
What he missed the most was the bright, easy desire between them. Four years of college and three years of grad school did nothing to dim that. They had a few gay friends, guys on the down-low, who thought that their monogamy was a little crazy. Maybe it was, but Peter had no interest in anyone else and he knew to the depth of his bones that Neal felt the same way.
That’s not to say that porn didn’t do any for him - particularly videos of well-built brunettes with big dicks and tight asses. Jerk-off material, that’s all it was. Something to release the tension. He knew that Neal had a stash of porn - they’d compared collections more than once. He preferred moving images, but Neal like “erotica” - classy stuff. Books and shit like that.
Peter let himself into the apartment, and as he closed the door, the answering machine clicked on.
Peter. It’s me. Neal. Thought you’d be home …
He made a diving lunge for the phone. “I am, I am. Just got in.”
“Hey there.” Neal was the one who actually sounded a bit breathless.
“Hey, yourself.”
Neal didn’t answer right away.
“You okay, Neal?”
“Yeah, just ...”
Peter could hear the aching loneliness in Neal’s voice. “Yeah. I know.” He sat down on the beat up wing chair that had been part of the furnishings in their house in Cambridge. “You doing okay?”
“Great, fine, wonderful.”
Neal didn’t sound like any of those things. “Listen, you’re over the halfway mark. Only two more months to go.” He tried to distract Neal. “Tell me about your classes.”
Neal chuckled. “It’s not like you don’t know exactly what I’m doing, Peter. Four years isn’t long enough to forget that.”
“Don’t be such a smart aleck. How is the thesis coming along?”
“The outline’s done, have some interviews to do - I may go up to the Boston field office next week and talk with the case agent.”
They chatted for a few minutes longer, Peter gave him some highlights of his own work. Nothing particularly detailed - that would be indiscreet. The call came to an abrupt end.
“Damn, there’s someone waiting to use the phone - I’ve got to go.”
Peter swallowed against the ache in his throat, against the words that he longed to say, but couldn’t. Not now. “I understand. Have a great night.”
“You too.”
“Bye.”
Neal hung up and Peter couldn’t help himself. Against the dial tone, he whispered, “I love you.”
