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elrhiarhodanTitle: What Time Would It Be (if we were on mars)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, Peter/Elizabeth, Peter/Neal, OMC
Spoilers: S2.15, S3.16 – S4.01
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Suggestion of dub-con; BDSM, aftercare
Word Count: ~4400
Beta Credit:coffeethyme4me
Summary: Neal and Elizabeth exchange a kiss, Peter gets jealous.
Prompted by my wonderful friend,coffeethyme4me. Title is from Ani DiFranco’s Hat Shaped Hat. For my brand new, shiny Kink Bingo card, too.
__________________
Peter considers himself a reasonable man, logical, rational, not given to impulsive emotional acts that would leave devastation in their wake. There are exceptions, of course, because he is human and no one’s perfect.
This is why he knows that these feelings are irrational and the self-awareness makes it worse.
The first time it happens is during that hot, horrible summer, just before his life nearly falls apart. He’s standing in the bullpen, waiting for El to bring up the girl – the one who is going to give them evidence about her boss, who Peter once snarkly called the world’s most evil, interesting man.
Traffic, bad timing, a witness scared of her own shadow, the need to bring in a white collar criminal responsible for the deaths of a dozen people because of his own greed, all contribute to the debacle. El isn’t responsible for this misadventure. She isn’t responsible when Neal decides to impersonate him. She isn’t responsible when Neal reaches out and hugs her. She isn’t responsible for the feelings of blind rage he feels at the sight of her arms wrapped around Neal’s slender torso.
It is all over quickly, Peter has his little revenge against Neal and they move on.
But the feeling never leaves him, maybe because he has never been jealous of Elizabeth before. Jealousy exists only when one partner is insecure, when there is doubt or mistrust. And there is no one he trusts with his love more than El. So why?
He should let it go, but he can’t. He finds himself frequently taking that scene out – like renting a video from the library – playing it over and over again, examining his reactions. It takes a long time, years actually, to reach some rational conclusion.
Peter doesn’t like what he learns about himself, no – not at all.
It’s springtime, a few months after Neal’s misadventures in that tropical paradise. His partner is home and everyone’s happy. Things were going well – or as well as could be expected with a (former) conman who has the impulse control of a five year old (an improvement since their first days together) and the moral sense of an archangel. Peter keeps that unpleasant bit of self-knowledge to himself (and if it screams in madness from behind the locked iron door in his psyche, he ignores the noise).
These days Neal goes through women and men, too like he goes through underwear. El is amused. Mozzie is a little censorious – the difficult-to-pick locks on the apartment door effectively end his career as a cock-blocker. Diana affectionately called him a slut, and Clinton keeps volunteering for wingman duties on the theory that he can scoop up the leftovers of either sex.
Peter doesn’t find Neal’s promiscuity (or flirtatiousness if he isn’t actually fucking all those girls and boys) amusing. He watches Neal go with everyone and seethes. There is variety in the women: tall, short, thin, fat, brunette and blonde and redhead. Buxom and flat-chested. He samples everything like an ecumenical hummingbird.
The men, though, are oddly uniform. Peter notes that Neal’s tastes are sorely lacking when it comes to dicks. Or simply too narcissistic. They are all blue-eyed brunets, singularly young and thoroughly vapid. Thankfully, there aren’t too many of them.
But it’s Neal’s choice and after years of celibacy in prison and the debacle that came after, he’s entitled. Isn’t he?
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::
When it happens again, it’s unexpected and the consequences are devastating.
He knows his wife has a taste for trouble – streaking across campus is a pretty solid indicator. Peter doesn’t mind, even if it meant a little extra vigilance at home – because that taste for trouble once gave her the determination to effectuate her own escape. But it turns up the temperature on Peter’s own private hell when she gets herself involved in a case – once again inadvertently pairing up with Neal – this time as the luscious and lovely Mrs. Benjamin Cooper.
Peter sits in the van, listening to his sharp-witted wife bill and coo about her new husband, Ben. She’s doing an excellent job of keeping the suspect diverted while Neal plants bugs and copies a few computer hard drives. They can’t see what’s going on, despite the spy-cam glasses Neal’s wearing or the little camera they built into El’s necklace. Something interfering with the signal. He’ll probably get some sort of official reprimand for allowing this to continue, but it’s either this or let six months of work go down the drain.
After several painfully long minutes, Neal and El leave the building and are standing outside, where the exterior cameras on the van can pick them up. The bug in Neal’s watch is transmitting and Peter can hear their conversation:
“He’s still watching us, isn’t he?”
Yeah – he thinks we’re newlyweds and can’t keep our hands off each other.
El must have done something because Neal yelps. Mrs. Cooper, I’m shocked!
Everyone in the van chuckles. Peter pretends to join in.
I think we need to kiss. That was bold, even for Elizabeth.
Peter watches as Neal cups El’s cheeks. Objectively, it’s a beautiful sight. But his gut roils. As Neal bends forward, the occupants of the fan collectively hold their breath.
“Sorry, Peter. Neal’s voice through the headset is a whisper.
Sorry, hon. El’s voice is contrite, too. Then cut off as Neal presses his lips to hers. Peter prides himself on not reacting. The kiss is brief, affectionate and just this side of proper. They break apart and Neal holds out his arm as the walk away.
The van rumbles to life and follows the pair to the designated meeting point; Peter hits the street before the vehicle is in park. El’s standing there, chatting with Neal like it’s just an ordinary spring day.
“Hey, hon! How did we do?” Her cheerful greeting does little to soothe his rage.
But he keeps control, at least long enough to get her into a cab and get Neal back to the office. The debriefing is textbook; the intel from the hard drives solid and the case is ready for the next phase. Peter sends Neal home; it’s all he can do not to punch his partner in the face when he thanks him. Apparently Brad (or Chad or Thad) is coming over for a gourmet meal and Neal wants to stop at Fairway.
Peter watches Neal, he stops at his desk to pick up his hat. He flips it onto his head and saunters away. It’s only the thought that everyone could see him through the glass that keeps Peter from sweeping his desk clean in a temper tantrum.
That night, after dinner, Peter closets himself in the third floor office. He’s pulled out boxes with old surveillance photos of Neal and takes out his favorites. He runs his thumb over that face, so beautiful, so unaware of everything he wants to do to him.
Seeing El’s hands on him, her lips on him, even those casual touches drives him to a frenzy. He can barely stand the thought of Neal dating. That his wife gets to touch and caress Neal (and he can’t) is unacceptable. But Peter has to accept it. Because he’s a rational man and he loves his wife, he knows that he can’t have Neal. “Beyond his pay grade” barely covers the forbidden nature of what he desires. He wouldn’t lose his badge – or make that just lose his badge. He’d end up in prison. “FBI agent rapes paroled felon, enjoys it. News at 11.”
No – he’ll just have to settle for sublimation, for these old pictures. There are plenty of photos of Neal without his shirt, taken during joint operation with the French police on the Cote d’Azur about a year before Neal’s first arrest. The team in charge of surveillance was so enamored of those pictures of Neal that they didn’t realize he slipped away.
He’s so involved in his fantasies – young Neal, prisoner Neal, Neal in a suit and tie with his come dripping down his face, that he doesn’t hear El’s tap on the door. He’s pressing a hand against his fly, massaging his dick and enjoying the slight bite of the zipper against his aroused flesh.
“Hon?”
Peter’s grateful he doesn’t have a hair-trigger startle reflex. He puts down the photos, takes his hand off his dick and turns to his wife, like he hasn’t just betrayed their vows (again) in the privacy of his head. He turns to her, a smile on his lips. “What’s up?”
“Peter – are you okay?”
“Of course I am – why do you ask?”
“Because you’ve been acting strangely since – well, since I got myself involved in your case.”
Peter laughs, lightly and without any real humor. “I’ve been worried about you – it’s really not standard operating procedure for an FBI agent’s wife to be used as an undercover asset.”
She looks at him and is about to call him on his bullshit, but something catches her eye. El reaches around him and Peter knows just what she’s found. Those photos of Neal, where he’s shirtless and wearing little tiny swim trunks that confirm that he’s not Jewish.
El knows, she knows instantly how badly Peter’s sinned against her. He can’t hide anymore.
“Nothing’s ever happened – I swear.” He swallows hard against the lump in his throat. He loves this woman, but … Why does there have to be this ‘but’?
She smiles at him, sweet and sad. “I know, hon. I’ve always known how you’ve felt.”
Peter looks at her, shocked.
“And I know that since Neal’s been back, he’s been driving you a little crazy.”
He has to admit it, there’s no point in lying - not to her, not to himself anymore. “I’m going out of my mind. He’s ...” Peter tries to frame his feelings into the right words, ones that won’t send Elizabeth to the nearest divorce attorney.
But he doesn’t have to. She fishes something out of her pocket – the keys to the Taurus. She also hands him a small zippered case. Peter opens it, shocked by the contents. “El – honey. Why?”
“Because I love you, because I want you to be happy. And because I know that regardless of that tight ass and perfect abs and killer smile, you will always love me best.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Despite El’s words of encouragement, Peter is still on the knife edge of jealous rage. This isn’t going to be the sweet union of friends that his wife envisions. If he was a wise man, he’d turn around and go home. He’d be content with working his dick to fantasies of Neal, and maybe even introducing those fantasies into bed play with Elizabeth.
But Peter doesn’t turn around, because he’s not a wise man. Parked on Riverside Drive, just far enough away that he can see the lights on in Neal’s apartment, Peter tries to talk himself out of this course of action. He can’t – he’s angry and desperate and he’s sick and tired of always denying what he wants.
He watches Neal’s apartment. The shadows of two men dance across the windows and Peter can’t take it anymore. Thankfully, June’s not home so he doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. The housekeeper lets him in and Peter ignores her as she tries to tell him that Mr. Neal has a guest. The innocent delivery of that information is a goad to his anger, the jazzy beat of the music he hears coming through door is another. And the laughter, light and sophisticated, is the match to the tinderbox of his rage.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Whatever excitement he about his dinner date with Brad quickly disappears. Even the name of the guy is off-putting and weirdly accurate. He is nothing more than a tiny finish nail, irritating and mostly useless. All he’s done since arriving is complain. Neal makes pasta e fagioli, and before he even puts the plate on the table, Brad declaims in overly dramatic tones, “What – I’m not eating all those carbs! Don’t you have something else?”
He sighs and turns off the oven. Neal doesn’t have to be an FBI agent to figure out that since the twerp refuses to have a bowl of soup, he certainly won’t eat the roast chicken stuffed with cornbread and oysters. If there ever is a night that he wishes Peter would show up with a bottle of cheap wine and a stack of case files, this one is it.
Brad whines and cajoles to go out. Neal needs to take him downtown where they can go dancing, and does Neal have any light beer because there are too many calories in wine? And for that matter, does Neal know he’s getting a bit of a paunch, and older men like him should really take better care of themselves.
Neal wonders why he ever thought, even for a moment, that this moron was attractive. He surreptitiously glances at his cell phone, no messages, no text and it’s only eight-thirty. At least another three hours before he can get rid of Brad, unless he wants to be rude.
Which sounds better and better as the guy starts complaining about everything: from the insufficiency of Neal’s kitchen, to the quality of the paintings on the wall, to the faint smell of linseed oil and oh my god, he’s going to have an asthma attack if they don’t leave soon (never mind that he wants to light up a joint).
Neal is just about to hand Brad his coat when there’s a knock on the door. Hope (and something else) blooms in his chest. June’s away and the rapping is too terse and arrhythmic for Mozzie (who prefers iambic pentameter to free verse). It’s Peter, wonderful, wonderful Peter. Who’ll eat his delicious soup and his stuffed chicken and argue and banter until the moon sets and never call him fat or untalented.
“Don’t answer that!” Brad whisper-shouts at him. “We’re on a date!”
Neal shakes his head – this is not a date, and why didn’t he notice that this idiot speaks in exclamation points? “I can’t – it could be important.”
“More important than me?” Brad asks.
There’s another knock, harder and more imperious, then a voice. “Neal? I know you’re in there.”
Brad pulls at him; he clings like Velcro and whines to just ignore it – whoever’s there will go away. Neal doesn’t quite manage to shake him off as he answers the door. “Peter – what brings you here?”
Peter strides in, much like he always does – like he owns the place and everything in it. He takes one look at Brad, who is draped over him like a bad smell, and does something completely un-Peter like.
He sneers.
Neal blinks and disentangles himself from Brad. “What’s the matter?”
“Get rid of it, Neal.”
“Rid of what?” He’s puzzled.
“That.” Peter flicks a finger in Brad’s direction.
“How dare you, this is OUR date! You can’t just come in here and bully me around!” Brad is outraged, but not for Neal.
Neal closes his eyes, embarrassed. He smiles weakly at Peter, who doesn’t appreciate the humor in the situation.
Brad’s like a nasty, yappy little dog and tries to assert his dominance. “I said, this is our date – you just can’t barge in here. I have rights, you know! Neal is taking me dancing, you big, fat, old man.”
Peter blinks, as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. The laugh that rolls out of him is nasty – it’s the same chuckle Peter gives at an exceedingly stupid suspect in interrogation and the hair on the back of Neal’s neck stands up. “Neal isn’t taking you anywhere. You’re leaving. Now.” Peter tosses Brad’s jacket at him.
For maybe the first time in his life, Brad is smart. Or maybe it’s animal instinct, but he puts on his coat, looks at Neal and says in a low and vicious tone, “I don’t know what I thought I saw in you. Don’t ever call me.” He sweeps out of the apartment like a diva, and the slamming door sets the plates rattling.
Neal gives Peter another weak smile. “Sorry about that – but I’m grateful. You’ve saved me from an evening of utter –”
The next words are cut off as Peter puts a hand around his throat and pushes him up against the wall.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
When Neal opens the door with that boy-toy clinging to him, Peter sees red – pulsating and violent. It isn’t as bad as when El was hugging him this afternoon, but without the protective presence of the Harvard Crew, Peter knows what a hungry lion must feel like when it finds the cage door open.
He pushes Neal against the wall, a hand around his throat, pinning him there with his hips.
He whispers into his ear, anger and lust making his voice unrecognizable – even to himself. “I have had enough, Neal.” He takes his hand away, he lets Neal breathe.
“Enough? Enough of what?”
Peter likes the spark of challenge in Neal’s eyes. “Enough of you letting all those other people touch you – letting those men fuck you.”
Neal tries to push back – Peter presses harder against him, letting him feel the heavy weight of his erection. The pressure is good, he enjoys the pulsing feedback of his hard flesh as it thrusts against Neal’s thigh and groin. Soon there is an answering beat. Neal’s aroused, too.
Good.
“You think I’m going to keep allowing this?” There is a deep and bitter sadness mixing in with the anger.
Neal isn’t stupid and he’s not playing hard to get, either. “I don’t see how you have the right to stop me, Peter.”
“I’m your handler, remember – I’m the only one allowed to handle you.”
Neal tries to break free, but it’s a futile gesture. “I don’t think I care for your definition of ‘handler’.”
“Well, you’re stuck with it, stuck with me.” Peter grinds himself into Neal, just to emphasize that point.
“What about Elizabeth? Your wife?”
“You’d think that would be a sticking point –” Peter chuckles at the double entendre. “But apparently she’s fine with this. She sent me here.”
“Oh, really?” Neal tries for scathing skepticism, but it changes to a heady, breathless moan as Peter keeps up the grinding.
“Yeah, really. She even gave me lube and rubbers – because there’s no way in hell that I’m fucking you bareback tonight.” Neal’s eyes are wide, he’s incredulous but that doesn’t matter to Peter.
Neal stops struggling, but he doesn’t give in, either. “Why now?”
Peter doesn’t answer that question, he just keeps pressing at him, into him. “I thought you were such a romantic, looking for your one, true love?” And yet as angry and as hurt as he is, Peter is unbearably aroused. He keeps Neal pinned to the wall, his erection aching against Neal’s body. It kills him, to still want this after all that Neal’s done, all the bodies he’s fucked, all the wasted time.
He threads his hands through Neal’s glossy curls, a caress. “Look at me, you bastard. Look at me.” He tightens his grip, forcing Neal to look up. Peter can’t tell if it is remorse or pain that’s bringing tears to his eyes.
Finally, Neal speaks. “Peter, please.”
“Please what? Please, stop. Please, I’m sorry? Please forgive me? Please fuck me? Please let me go?” His grip tightens further, but the pain he inflicts doesn’t make him feel any better.
Neal sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“You always are, and I always forgive you.” Peter presses a soft kiss against Neal’s temple. “That’s my shame.” He keeps his grip tight and forces Neal to his knees. “You are a liar, Neal. Everything out of your mouth is a lie. Your whole existence is a lie.”
“No, Peter – it’s not. You know that – you know I don’t lie to you.”
Those words are like knives. “Shut up, Neal, shut the fuck up.” Peter uses his free hand to undo his pants and drag his cock out. He’s dripping and he hates it. He hates the desire, the anger. He hates himself and the jealousy that’s brought him to this point. And that he is going to betray everything he’s stood for his whole life – honor, integrity, justice – to make Neal see that he belongs only to him.
Peter pulls Neal’s head back, still ignoring the whimper of pain, and rubs his cock over the other man’s face, his pre-come like a trail of slime over his cheeks and eyelids.
Neal opens his mouth, a hungry gesture. But Peter isn’t ready to give him that. Instead, he beats Neal with his cock, hard. Hard enough to leave bruises, he hopes. He wants to mark Neal like this, to stain Neal the way Neal has stained him.
Neal whimpers again – not pain, though. Peter knows this sound, it’s thwarted desire, lust. Not love. Unless it’s love for the degradation that Neal wants Peter to inflict on him.
Peter looks down and sees Neal’s bright blue eyes. They are still brimming with tears. He can’t stand it. He lets go and Neal falls back. But he’s not done with him; he just doesn’t want to see his face.
“Stand up. Strip.”
Neal transforms at the command. He’s relaxed, confident, sexually open and Peter wonders if this is what he’s like with everyone else. Whatever control he had on his anger evaporates at that thought.
“Turn around, hands and face against the wall.”
Neal actually gives him a little shimmy. The bastard thinks that Peter’s sold himself for a taste of his sweet ass. Maybe he has – but Neal isn’t getting a taste of Peter’s cock, yet.
Peter pulls his belt off, wraps the buckle end around his palm, leaving a good nine inches free. Which is ironically the length of his aroused cock.
He lashes Neal, flogging him hard enough to raise bruises, welts at least an inch wide. “You deserve this, at the very least.”
Neal doesn’t scream, he doesn’t make a sound as the belt strikes his buttocks over and over again. Peter doesn’t lose count, he doesn’t bother to count. It doesn’t matter.
Peter stops, exhausted. But still achingly aroused. He drops the belt and runs a gentle hand across Neal’s bruised ass. He wants to apologize for this, for taking his anger and his jealousy out so brutally, but he won’t. He pulls at Neal’s shoulders and turns him around. Neal had buried his teeth into his forearm to keep from shouting. There is a pair of bloody crescent shaped marks on Neal’s arm, and a faint ring of blood on his lips.
Peter looks down; Neal’s thighs and belly are streaked with fluid of a different color. The same white that stains the wall that he was pressed against when he came.
He kisses Neal, gently now, his anger gone. His rage dissipated.
Neal rests his head against his shoulder, as trusting as a child. He will take care of Neal. He always does.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal’s lying face down on his bed, his face turned towards the apartment. He watches Peter clean up their mess, puttering around, avoiding him. Peter had taken care of him, made sure that he was good, that he was safe. Tended his bruises and watched over him until he came back to himself.
“It’s okay, Peter.”
Peter stops, stands stock still. The closed-off look on his face makes Neal’s heart hurt.
“I mean it, Peter. It’s okay.”
Peter sighs and comes over to him. He sits down, head hanging, hands drooping. “No, Neal – it’s not all right. What I did …”
“Was nothing I didn’t want. Or need.”
Peter’s hand hovers over his shoulder, finally coming to rest. It’s hot and smooth and Neal thinks that he’ll never forget this touch.
“Still – I shouldn’t have taken out my anger on you.”
“I still don’t understand – why were you so furious?”
“Because – ” The pause is telling. “Because I was jealous.”
Peter had already made that clear, and Neal is still trying to wrap his brain around that concept. “Why? For what?”
“It’s too simple, too stupid. Everyone gets a part of you but me. I’ve …” Peter stops, he takes his hand away to scrub at his face and Neal’s skin feels chilled. “I’ve loved you for so long and …”
Neal shifts around and sits up. His ass hurts but he can’t stand being prone and helpless when Peter’s suffering. “Don’t you understand – you have always had the best parts of me. This – ” Neal gestures to his cock, “This isn’t all that I am, you know that. It’s the least of me.”
“I hurt you.” Peter doesn’t want to escape the cycle of self-punishment. “Because I was stupid.”
Neal thinks about all the times that Peter has hurt him and this one barely counts. It’s only skin and muscle – it’s not a betrayal of the trust between them. Those hurts are far greater. And then Neal remembers all the times Peter’s helped him, forgiven him, made him a better man. “Yes, you were stupid. But maybe so was I.”
“Neal?”
“Maybe I’ve been shoving it in your face.” The look Peter gives him is hard to describe - confused, a little angry, a lot of self-loathing. “Oh, not consciously – but this has always been between us.”
“Yeah, it has.”
Neal rests his head against Peter. He doesn’t say anything – Peter’s not ready for the words yet. But this is good, it’s comfortable. It’s like sipping the terrible wine Peter brings and letting go of some secrets. It eases something in Neal that he never realized was so knotted.
Peter sighs and Neal can feel the terrible tension ease. “I have to say, though – your taste in men…”
“You mean Brad?”
“And all the others. You know that they all look like you, right?”
Of course he does. Neal can’t stop the flush of embarrassment and Peter cues in on it.
“What gives?”
Neal shakes his head, he doesn’t want to tell Peter, but he also knows that Peter will worry at it like a dog with a bone. “Can we talk about that some other time?”
Peter stares at him, trying to parse his embarrassment. Neal meets his eyes and wills Peter to just let it go. He does. Peter leans against him, and Neal leans back, as comfortable as a pair of worn slippers.
But Peter has to ask, “So, where do we go from here?”
Neal has no answers, all he can say is, “I don’t know.”
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, Peter/Elizabeth, Peter/Neal, OMC
Spoilers: S2.15, S3.16 – S4.01
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Suggestion of dub-con; BDSM, aftercare
Word Count: ~4400
Beta Credit:
coffeethyme4me Summary: Neal and Elizabeth exchange a kiss, Peter gets jealous.
Prompted by my wonderful friend,
coffeethyme4me. Title is from Ani DiFranco’s Hat Shaped Hat. For my brand new, shiny Kink Bingo card, too.Peter considers himself a reasonable man, logical, rational, not given to impulsive emotional acts that would leave devastation in their wake. There are exceptions, of course, because he is human and no one’s perfect.
This is why he knows that these feelings are irrational and the self-awareness makes it worse.
The first time it happens is during that hot, horrible summer, just before his life nearly falls apart. He’s standing in the bullpen, waiting for El to bring up the girl – the one who is going to give them evidence about her boss, who Peter once snarkly called the world’s most evil, interesting man.
Traffic, bad timing, a witness scared of her own shadow, the need to bring in a white collar criminal responsible for the deaths of a dozen people because of his own greed, all contribute to the debacle. El isn’t responsible for this misadventure. She isn’t responsible when Neal decides to impersonate him. She isn’t responsible when Neal reaches out and hugs her. She isn’t responsible for the feelings of blind rage he feels at the sight of her arms wrapped around Neal’s slender torso.
It is all over quickly, Peter has his little revenge against Neal and they move on.
But the feeling never leaves him, maybe because he has never been jealous of Elizabeth before. Jealousy exists only when one partner is insecure, when there is doubt or mistrust. And there is no one he trusts with his love more than El. So why?
He should let it go, but he can’t. He finds himself frequently taking that scene out – like renting a video from the library – playing it over and over again, examining his reactions. It takes a long time, years actually, to reach some rational conclusion.
Peter doesn’t like what he learns about himself, no – not at all.
It’s springtime, a few months after Neal’s misadventures in that tropical paradise. His partner is home and everyone’s happy. Things were going well – or as well as could be expected with a (former) conman who has the impulse control of a five year old (an improvement since their first days together) and the moral sense of an archangel. Peter keeps that unpleasant bit of self-knowledge to himself (and if it screams in madness from behind the locked iron door in his psyche, he ignores the noise).
These days Neal goes through women and men, too like he goes through underwear. El is amused. Mozzie is a little censorious – the difficult-to-pick locks on the apartment door effectively end his career as a cock-blocker. Diana affectionately called him a slut, and Clinton keeps volunteering for wingman duties on the theory that he can scoop up the leftovers of either sex.
Peter doesn’t find Neal’s promiscuity (or flirtatiousness if he isn’t actually fucking all those girls and boys) amusing. He watches Neal go with everyone and seethes. There is variety in the women: tall, short, thin, fat, brunette and blonde and redhead. Buxom and flat-chested. He samples everything like an ecumenical hummingbird.
The men, though, are oddly uniform. Peter notes that Neal’s tastes are sorely lacking when it comes to dicks. Or simply too narcissistic. They are all blue-eyed brunets, singularly young and thoroughly vapid. Thankfully, there aren’t too many of them.
But it’s Neal’s choice and after years of celibacy in prison and the debacle that came after, he’s entitled. Isn’t he?
When it happens again, it’s unexpected and the consequences are devastating.
He knows his wife has a taste for trouble – streaking across campus is a pretty solid indicator. Peter doesn’t mind, even if it meant a little extra vigilance at home – because that taste for trouble once gave her the determination to effectuate her own escape. But it turns up the temperature on Peter’s own private hell when she gets herself involved in a case – once again inadvertently pairing up with Neal – this time as the luscious and lovely Mrs. Benjamin Cooper.
Peter sits in the van, listening to his sharp-witted wife bill and coo about her new husband, Ben. She’s doing an excellent job of keeping the suspect diverted while Neal plants bugs and copies a few computer hard drives. They can’t see what’s going on, despite the spy-cam glasses Neal’s wearing or the little camera they built into El’s necklace. Something interfering with the signal. He’ll probably get some sort of official reprimand for allowing this to continue, but it’s either this or let six months of work go down the drain.
After several painfully long minutes, Neal and El leave the building and are standing outside, where the exterior cameras on the van can pick them up. The bug in Neal’s watch is transmitting and Peter can hear their conversation:
“He’s still watching us, isn’t he?”
Yeah – he thinks we’re newlyweds and can’t keep our hands off each other.
El must have done something because Neal yelps. Mrs. Cooper, I’m shocked!
Everyone in the van chuckles. Peter pretends to join in.
I think we need to kiss. That was bold, even for Elizabeth.
Peter watches as Neal cups El’s cheeks. Objectively, it’s a beautiful sight. But his gut roils. As Neal bends forward, the occupants of the fan collectively hold their breath.
“Sorry, Peter. Neal’s voice through the headset is a whisper.
Sorry, hon. El’s voice is contrite, too. Then cut off as Neal presses his lips to hers. Peter prides himself on not reacting. The kiss is brief, affectionate and just this side of proper. They break apart and Neal holds out his arm as the walk away.
The van rumbles to life and follows the pair to the designated meeting point; Peter hits the street before the vehicle is in park. El’s standing there, chatting with Neal like it’s just an ordinary spring day.
“Hey, hon! How did we do?” Her cheerful greeting does little to soothe his rage.
But he keeps control, at least long enough to get her into a cab and get Neal back to the office. The debriefing is textbook; the intel from the hard drives solid and the case is ready for the next phase. Peter sends Neal home; it’s all he can do not to punch his partner in the face when he thanks him. Apparently Brad (or Chad or Thad) is coming over for a gourmet meal and Neal wants to stop at Fairway.
Peter watches Neal, he stops at his desk to pick up his hat. He flips it onto his head and saunters away. It’s only the thought that everyone could see him through the glass that keeps Peter from sweeping his desk clean in a temper tantrum.
That night, after dinner, Peter closets himself in the third floor office. He’s pulled out boxes with old surveillance photos of Neal and takes out his favorites. He runs his thumb over that face, so beautiful, so unaware of everything he wants to do to him.
Seeing El’s hands on him, her lips on him, even those casual touches drives him to a frenzy. He can barely stand the thought of Neal dating. That his wife gets to touch and caress Neal (and he can’t) is unacceptable. But Peter has to accept it. Because he’s a rational man and he loves his wife, he knows that he can’t have Neal. “Beyond his pay grade” barely covers the forbidden nature of what he desires. He wouldn’t lose his badge – or make that just lose his badge. He’d end up in prison. “FBI agent rapes paroled felon, enjoys it. News at 11.”
No – he’ll just have to settle for sublimation, for these old pictures. There are plenty of photos of Neal without his shirt, taken during joint operation with the French police on the Cote d’Azur about a year before Neal’s first arrest. The team in charge of surveillance was so enamored of those pictures of Neal that they didn’t realize he slipped away.
He’s so involved in his fantasies – young Neal, prisoner Neal, Neal in a suit and tie with his come dripping down his face, that he doesn’t hear El’s tap on the door. He’s pressing a hand against his fly, massaging his dick and enjoying the slight bite of the zipper against his aroused flesh.
“Hon?”
Peter’s grateful he doesn’t have a hair-trigger startle reflex. He puts down the photos, takes his hand off his dick and turns to his wife, like he hasn’t just betrayed their vows (again) in the privacy of his head. He turns to her, a smile on his lips. “What’s up?”
“Peter – are you okay?”
“Of course I am – why do you ask?”
“Because you’ve been acting strangely since – well, since I got myself involved in your case.”
Peter laughs, lightly and without any real humor. “I’ve been worried about you – it’s really not standard operating procedure for an FBI agent’s wife to be used as an undercover asset.”
She looks at him and is about to call him on his bullshit, but something catches her eye. El reaches around him and Peter knows just what she’s found. Those photos of Neal, where he’s shirtless and wearing little tiny swim trunks that confirm that he’s not Jewish.
El knows, she knows instantly how badly Peter’s sinned against her. He can’t hide anymore.
“Nothing’s ever happened – I swear.” He swallows hard against the lump in his throat. He loves this woman, but … Why does there have to be this ‘but’?
She smiles at him, sweet and sad. “I know, hon. I’ve always known how you’ve felt.”
Peter looks at her, shocked.
“And I know that since Neal’s been back, he’s been driving you a little crazy.”
He has to admit it, there’s no point in lying - not to her, not to himself anymore. “I’m going out of my mind. He’s ...” Peter tries to frame his feelings into the right words, ones that won’t send Elizabeth to the nearest divorce attorney.
But he doesn’t have to. She fishes something out of her pocket – the keys to the Taurus. She also hands him a small zippered case. Peter opens it, shocked by the contents. “El – honey. Why?”
“Because I love you, because I want you to be happy. And because I know that regardless of that tight ass and perfect abs and killer smile, you will always love me best.”
Despite El’s words of encouragement, Peter is still on the knife edge of jealous rage. This isn’t going to be the sweet union of friends that his wife envisions. If he was a wise man, he’d turn around and go home. He’d be content with working his dick to fantasies of Neal, and maybe even introducing those fantasies into bed play with Elizabeth.
But Peter doesn’t turn around, because he’s not a wise man. Parked on Riverside Drive, just far enough away that he can see the lights on in Neal’s apartment, Peter tries to talk himself out of this course of action. He can’t – he’s angry and desperate and he’s sick and tired of always denying what he wants.
He watches Neal’s apartment. The shadows of two men dance across the windows and Peter can’t take it anymore. Thankfully, June’s not home so he doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. The housekeeper lets him in and Peter ignores her as she tries to tell him that Mr. Neal has a guest. The innocent delivery of that information is a goad to his anger, the jazzy beat of the music he hears coming through door is another. And the laughter, light and sophisticated, is the match to the tinderbox of his rage.
Whatever excitement he about his dinner date with Brad quickly disappears. Even the name of the guy is off-putting and weirdly accurate. He is nothing more than a tiny finish nail, irritating and mostly useless. All he’s done since arriving is complain. Neal makes pasta e fagioli, and before he even puts the plate on the table, Brad declaims in overly dramatic tones, “What – I’m not eating all those carbs! Don’t you have something else?”
He sighs and turns off the oven. Neal doesn’t have to be an FBI agent to figure out that since the twerp refuses to have a bowl of soup, he certainly won’t eat the roast chicken stuffed with cornbread and oysters. If there ever is a night that he wishes Peter would show up with a bottle of cheap wine and a stack of case files, this one is it.
Brad whines and cajoles to go out. Neal needs to take him downtown where they can go dancing, and does Neal have any light beer because there are too many calories in wine? And for that matter, does Neal know he’s getting a bit of a paunch, and older men like him should really take better care of themselves.
Neal wonders why he ever thought, even for a moment, that this moron was attractive. He surreptitiously glances at his cell phone, no messages, no text and it’s only eight-thirty. At least another three hours before he can get rid of Brad, unless he wants to be rude.
Which sounds better and better as the guy starts complaining about everything: from the insufficiency of Neal’s kitchen, to the quality of the paintings on the wall, to the faint smell of linseed oil and oh my god, he’s going to have an asthma attack if they don’t leave soon (never mind that he wants to light up a joint).
Neal is just about to hand Brad his coat when there’s a knock on the door. Hope (and something else) blooms in his chest. June’s away and the rapping is too terse and arrhythmic for Mozzie (who prefers iambic pentameter to free verse). It’s Peter, wonderful, wonderful Peter. Who’ll eat his delicious soup and his stuffed chicken and argue and banter until the moon sets and never call him fat or untalented.
“Don’t answer that!” Brad whisper-shouts at him. “We’re on a date!”
Neal shakes his head – this is not a date, and why didn’t he notice that this idiot speaks in exclamation points? “I can’t – it could be important.”
“More important than me?” Brad asks.
There’s another knock, harder and more imperious, then a voice. “Neal? I know you’re in there.”
Brad pulls at him; he clings like Velcro and whines to just ignore it – whoever’s there will go away. Neal doesn’t quite manage to shake him off as he answers the door. “Peter – what brings you here?”
Peter strides in, much like he always does – like he owns the place and everything in it. He takes one look at Brad, who is draped over him like a bad smell, and does something completely un-Peter like.
He sneers.
Neal blinks and disentangles himself from Brad. “What’s the matter?”
“Get rid of it, Neal.”
“Rid of what?” He’s puzzled.
“That.” Peter flicks a finger in Brad’s direction.
“How dare you, this is OUR date! You can’t just come in here and bully me around!” Brad is outraged, but not for Neal.
Neal closes his eyes, embarrassed. He smiles weakly at Peter, who doesn’t appreciate the humor in the situation.
Brad’s like a nasty, yappy little dog and tries to assert his dominance. “I said, this is our date – you just can’t barge in here. I have rights, you know! Neal is taking me dancing, you big, fat, old man.”
Peter blinks, as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. The laugh that rolls out of him is nasty – it’s the same chuckle Peter gives at an exceedingly stupid suspect in interrogation and the hair on the back of Neal’s neck stands up. “Neal isn’t taking you anywhere. You’re leaving. Now.” Peter tosses Brad’s jacket at him.
For maybe the first time in his life, Brad is smart. Or maybe it’s animal instinct, but he puts on his coat, looks at Neal and says in a low and vicious tone, “I don’t know what I thought I saw in you. Don’t ever call me.” He sweeps out of the apartment like a diva, and the slamming door sets the plates rattling.
Neal gives Peter another weak smile. “Sorry about that – but I’m grateful. You’ve saved me from an evening of utter –”
The next words are cut off as Peter puts a hand around his throat and pushes him up against the wall.
When Neal opens the door with that boy-toy clinging to him, Peter sees red – pulsating and violent. It isn’t as bad as when El was hugging him this afternoon, but without the protective presence of the Harvard Crew, Peter knows what a hungry lion must feel like when it finds the cage door open.
He pushes Neal against the wall, a hand around his throat, pinning him there with his hips.
He whispers into his ear, anger and lust making his voice unrecognizable – even to himself. “I have had enough, Neal.” He takes his hand away, he lets Neal breathe.
“Enough? Enough of what?”
Peter likes the spark of challenge in Neal’s eyes. “Enough of you letting all those other people touch you – letting those men fuck you.”
Neal tries to push back – Peter presses harder against him, letting him feel the heavy weight of his erection. The pressure is good, he enjoys the pulsing feedback of his hard flesh as it thrusts against Neal’s thigh and groin. Soon there is an answering beat. Neal’s aroused, too.
Good.
“You think I’m going to keep allowing this?” There is a deep and bitter sadness mixing in with the anger.
Neal isn’t stupid and he’s not playing hard to get, either. “I don’t see how you have the right to stop me, Peter.”
“I’m your handler, remember – I’m the only one allowed to handle you.”
Neal tries to break free, but it’s a futile gesture. “I don’t think I care for your definition of ‘handler’.”
“Well, you’re stuck with it, stuck with me.” Peter grinds himself into Neal, just to emphasize that point.
“What about Elizabeth? Your wife?”
“You’d think that would be a sticking point –” Peter chuckles at the double entendre. “But apparently she’s fine with this. She sent me here.”
“Oh, really?” Neal tries for scathing skepticism, but it changes to a heady, breathless moan as Peter keeps up the grinding.
“Yeah, really. She even gave me lube and rubbers – because there’s no way in hell that I’m fucking you bareback tonight.” Neal’s eyes are wide, he’s incredulous but that doesn’t matter to Peter.
Neal stops struggling, but he doesn’t give in, either. “Why now?”
Peter doesn’t answer that question, he just keeps pressing at him, into him. “I thought you were such a romantic, looking for your one, true love?” And yet as angry and as hurt as he is, Peter is unbearably aroused. He keeps Neal pinned to the wall, his erection aching against Neal’s body. It kills him, to still want this after all that Neal’s done, all the bodies he’s fucked, all the wasted time.
He threads his hands through Neal’s glossy curls, a caress. “Look at me, you bastard. Look at me.” He tightens his grip, forcing Neal to look up. Peter can’t tell if it is remorse or pain that’s bringing tears to his eyes.
Finally, Neal speaks. “Peter, please.”
“Please what? Please, stop. Please, I’m sorry? Please forgive me? Please fuck me? Please let me go?” His grip tightens further, but the pain he inflicts doesn’t make him feel any better.
Neal sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“You always are, and I always forgive you.” Peter presses a soft kiss against Neal’s temple. “That’s my shame.” He keeps his grip tight and forces Neal to his knees. “You are a liar, Neal. Everything out of your mouth is a lie. Your whole existence is a lie.”
“No, Peter – it’s not. You know that – you know I don’t lie to you.”
Those words are like knives. “Shut up, Neal, shut the fuck up.” Peter uses his free hand to undo his pants and drag his cock out. He’s dripping and he hates it. He hates the desire, the anger. He hates himself and the jealousy that’s brought him to this point. And that he is going to betray everything he’s stood for his whole life – honor, integrity, justice – to make Neal see that he belongs only to him.
Peter pulls Neal’s head back, still ignoring the whimper of pain, and rubs his cock over the other man’s face, his pre-come like a trail of slime over his cheeks and eyelids.
Neal opens his mouth, a hungry gesture. But Peter isn’t ready to give him that. Instead, he beats Neal with his cock, hard. Hard enough to leave bruises, he hopes. He wants to mark Neal like this, to stain Neal the way Neal has stained him.
Neal whimpers again – not pain, though. Peter knows this sound, it’s thwarted desire, lust. Not love. Unless it’s love for the degradation that Neal wants Peter to inflict on him.
Peter looks down and sees Neal’s bright blue eyes. They are still brimming with tears. He can’t stand it. He lets go and Neal falls back. But he’s not done with him; he just doesn’t want to see his face.
“Stand up. Strip.”
Neal transforms at the command. He’s relaxed, confident, sexually open and Peter wonders if this is what he’s like with everyone else. Whatever control he had on his anger evaporates at that thought.
“Turn around, hands and face against the wall.”
Neal actually gives him a little shimmy. The bastard thinks that Peter’s sold himself for a taste of his sweet ass. Maybe he has – but Neal isn’t getting a taste of Peter’s cock, yet.
Peter pulls his belt off, wraps the buckle end around his palm, leaving a good nine inches free. Which is ironically the length of his aroused cock.
He lashes Neal, flogging him hard enough to raise bruises, welts at least an inch wide. “You deserve this, at the very least.”
Neal doesn’t scream, he doesn’t make a sound as the belt strikes his buttocks over and over again. Peter doesn’t lose count, he doesn’t bother to count. It doesn’t matter.
Peter stops, exhausted. But still achingly aroused. He drops the belt and runs a gentle hand across Neal’s bruised ass. He wants to apologize for this, for taking his anger and his jealousy out so brutally, but he won’t. He pulls at Neal’s shoulders and turns him around. Neal had buried his teeth into his forearm to keep from shouting. There is a pair of bloody crescent shaped marks on Neal’s arm, and a faint ring of blood on his lips.
Peter looks down; Neal’s thighs and belly are streaked with fluid of a different color. The same white that stains the wall that he was pressed against when he came.
He kisses Neal, gently now, his anger gone. His rage dissipated.
Neal rests his head against his shoulder, as trusting as a child. He will take care of Neal. He always does.
Neal’s lying face down on his bed, his face turned towards the apartment. He watches Peter clean up their mess, puttering around, avoiding him. Peter had taken care of him, made sure that he was good, that he was safe. Tended his bruises and watched over him until he came back to himself.
“It’s okay, Peter.”
Peter stops, stands stock still. The closed-off look on his face makes Neal’s heart hurt.
“I mean it, Peter. It’s okay.”
Peter sighs and comes over to him. He sits down, head hanging, hands drooping. “No, Neal – it’s not all right. What I did …”
“Was nothing I didn’t want. Or need.”
Peter’s hand hovers over his shoulder, finally coming to rest. It’s hot and smooth and Neal thinks that he’ll never forget this touch.
“Still – I shouldn’t have taken out my anger on you.”
“I still don’t understand – why were you so furious?”
“Because – ” The pause is telling. “Because I was jealous.”
Peter had already made that clear, and Neal is still trying to wrap his brain around that concept. “Why? For what?”
“It’s too simple, too stupid. Everyone gets a part of you but me. I’ve …” Peter stops, he takes his hand away to scrub at his face and Neal’s skin feels chilled. “I’ve loved you for so long and …”
Neal shifts around and sits up. His ass hurts but he can’t stand being prone and helpless when Peter’s suffering. “Don’t you understand – you have always had the best parts of me. This – ” Neal gestures to his cock, “This isn’t all that I am, you know that. It’s the least of me.”
“I hurt you.” Peter doesn’t want to escape the cycle of self-punishment. “Because I was stupid.”
Neal thinks about all the times that Peter has hurt him and this one barely counts. It’s only skin and muscle – it’s not a betrayal of the trust between them. Those hurts are far greater. And then Neal remembers all the times Peter’s helped him, forgiven him, made him a better man. “Yes, you were stupid. But maybe so was I.”
“Neal?”
“Maybe I’ve been shoving it in your face.” The look Peter gives him is hard to describe - confused, a little angry, a lot of self-loathing. “Oh, not consciously – but this has always been between us.”
“Yeah, it has.”
Neal rests his head against Peter. He doesn’t say anything – Peter’s not ready for the words yet. But this is good, it’s comfortable. It’s like sipping the terrible wine Peter brings and letting go of some secrets. It eases something in Neal that he never realized was so knotted.
Peter sighs and Neal can feel the terrible tension ease. “I have to say, though – your taste in men…”
“You mean Brad?”
“And all the others. You know that they all look like you, right?”
Of course he does. Neal can’t stop the flush of embarrassment and Peter cues in on it.
“What gives?”
Neal shakes his head, he doesn’t want to tell Peter, but he also knows that Peter will worry at it like a dog with a bone. “Can we talk about that some other time?”
Peter stares at him, trying to parse his embarrassment. Neal meets his eyes and wills Peter to just let it go. He does. Peter leans against him, and Neal leans back, as comfortable as a pair of worn slippers.
But Peter has to ask, “So, where do we go from here?”
Neal has no answers, all he can say is, “I don’t know.”
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Date: 2012-07-02 03:31 pm (UTC)And then he finally did something about it and it was ungh :P I think they both needed that release, they seemed to be on a destructive path and even if they are not sure where to go from here, it's still so much better now that they've admitted how they feel about each other \o/
And this:
Neal shifts around and sits up. His ass hurts but he can’t stand being prone and helpless when Peter’s suffering. “Don’t you understand – you have always had the best parts of me. This – ” Neal gestures to his cock, “This isn’t all that I am, you know that. It’s the least of me.”
... is so damn beautiful! ♥
All in all - yowza :D Thank you :D
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Date: 2012-07-08 05:23 pm (UTC)And yes, El is always going to be the emotional adult in my little White Collar world
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Date: 2012-07-02 04:53 pm (UTC)"Sorry, Peter" in Peter's ear like that before Neal kisses his wife. OMG. Just, OMG.
Then Brad! LOLOLOL!!!!
Then THE BELT. Neal "sexually open". The transformation to subspace for Peter. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And then the aftercare. *wilts*
This was gorgeous and hit so many of my kinks. THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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Date: 2012-07-08 05:25 pm (UTC)This wouldn't have gotten written without your amazing prompt and your cheerleading - so triple thanks are due.
THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU
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Date: 2012-07-02 10:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-08 05:26 pm (UTC)Oh, I hope you didn't go out with a guy like Brad - that would be just too awful for words.
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Date: 2012-07-02 10:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-08 05:27 pm (UTC)I think that sometimes we have to recognize that their relationship is truly twisted, but not wrong.
And yes, sometimes life doesn't have all the answers.
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Date: 2012-07-03 03:12 am (UTC)And are we going to get to know what's behind the Neal dating his lookalikes?
The jealousy was hot too.
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Date: 2012-07-08 05:28 pm (UTC)I don't know - after I wrote it, the lookalike thing seemed really stupid. Maybe I'll do it as crackfic.
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Date: 2012-07-03 12:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-08 05:30 pm (UTC)I don't know if they'll figure it out, though. At least in this scenario - I suspect that they just keep hurting each other.
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Date: 2012-07-05 03:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-08 05:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-12 10:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-17 01:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-12 06:15 am (UTC)I feel like I should make that into a haiku...
I am horrid at feedback.
Your writing is great.
I fell in love with this fic.
Damn, I should be a professional haikuist.