White Collar Fic - Kneel Before the King
Oct. 23rd, 2012 08:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: Kneel Before the King
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R – NC-17
Characters Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Philip Kramer, Clinton Jones, Diana Berrigan, OMC,
Pairings: Peter Burke/Neal Caffrey
Spoilers: Reference to the events in S3.10, 3.16
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~5900
Summary: After his tracker comes off, Neal's invited to consult with D.C. Art Crimes. Kramer, though retired now, pays Neal a most unwelcome visit. His questions create a problem for Neal, but an unexpected conversation with Peter helps resolve them.
A/N: Written for Caffrey-Burke Day. On Caffrey-Burke Day. Hence, it’s completely unbeta’d. Title from Mumford's "White Blank Page."
__________________
The anklet came off. But Neal stayed.
And then something terrible happened.
Oh, not terrible in the sense of a great tragedy. No one died or was injured or contracted some life-threatening illness. In fact, everyone in Neal’s life was doing splendidly. Elizabeth’s business was booming on both the east and west coasts. Hughes retired and Peter was promoted. Diana and Christie finally patched things up, and if they weren’t going to have a big, splashy wedding, they were having a wedding and Neal was on the guest list. Clinton met the love of his life, and he was as nice of a Jewish boy as any mother could want.
June and her daughters and granddaughters were in month six of a twelve-month cruise around the world.
Sara was named head of Sterling-Bosch’s European operations, and she gave him the key to her apartment in Paris. There was also an open-ended round-trip ticket just waiting to be used.
Mozzie bought a storage locker filled with Russian military surplus and hadn’t come up for air for weeks. Both the State Department and the CIA were looking for him. Moz couldn't have been more delighted.
Everyone was happy, except for Neal.
And he wasn’t precisely unhappy, at least not that he wanted to admit. He was aggravated. Frustrated. Anything but miserable, except that miserable was exactly what he was. Not because he was free of his tracker, free to travel beyond that two mile radius, free to realize his dreams.
Neal was blocked.
He couldn’t sketch or paint or sculpt a damn thing. And not being able to create was, in a way, like not being able to breathe. It had only been two weeks, but it felt like a two months. Or a year. Or maybe a lifetime.
Or two.
It wasn’t really the painting or sculpting. His talent for original work was sporadic, and he’d long since given up copying the old masters. The thought of Peter’s eventual disappointment in him was enough to still his hand. Besides, that sort of painting had lost much of its appeal when he realized that there was no point to it – these canvases would never hang in a museum or gallery or some rich man’s overpriced trophy house.
No, what was frustrating was that he couldn’t sketch. The outlet that sustained him through the lonely days when he first came to New York, the months and years missing Kate, the deadly boring routine in prison. And yes, even during the time on the anklet, when he had a theoretical leash and far too much freedom for some people’s peace of mind.
But lately, he’d just sit there with a sketchbook opened to a white, blank page. His pencil poised.
And nothing.
Nada.
Nil.
Zip.
This absence hurt. Like the lingering effects of a bad leg cramp or the onset of the flu or that shaky post-migraine feeling.
At least he was busy at the office, even as a full-fledged, fully paid government employee - a Level IV Technical Specialist - Neal still found the work fulfilling. He was still going undercover a few times a month. He consulted with other departments in the Bureau. People listened to him, they didn’t dismiss what he had to say because he was a felon on work release.
A few weeks ago, he was called in to consult - most gloriously - for the Art Crimes unit in D.C. Kramer had retired and his replacement, a classmate of Peter’s, was most eager to have Neal come and examine a pair of Canaletto paintings that didn't seem quite right.
Peter had, at his insistence, accompanied Neal to Penn Station, and waited with him until he boarded.
“You know where you’re going?”
“Yes…” Neal specifically refrained from whiningly calling Peter “Dad.” He never, ever wanted to introduce the thought of a filial relationship with Peter.
“Neal …” Peter just gave him that look.
“I’ll call you when I arrive at Union Station, and I’ll have Agent Stokes call you when I get to the office. I’ll call you when I leave and when I’m back in New York.” Neal shook his head, exasperated. “You’d think I never travelled anywhere before.”
Peter shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned. “Yeah, I tend to forget. This is just the first time you’ve left New York since it came off.” He glanced meaningfully at his left ankle.
"Train 1204, the Acela to Union Station, Washington, D.C. is now boarding. All passengers may proceed to Staircase 12, Track 15. Please have your tickets ready."
"That's my train." Neal hefted his messenger bag. “I’ll be fine, I’ll make you proud.”
“You’d better.” Peter hadn't bothered to disguise the worry, but Neal didn't mention it.
Thinking back, Neal could track his blockage to this trip. He was fine on the way down to D.C., doodling miniature Venetian skylines along the margins of the case file.
Here was the Rialto, where he and Peter had such a momentous first meeting. And here was the Cathedral of San Marco. Of course, no mental visit to Venice would be complete without a trip to the Ca’ Rezzonico, which he cased first with Mozzie, then with Alex. It took a while, but he had finally succumbed to the pressure to do a double-switch: first stealing a Renaissance-era gold and gem-encrusted salt cellar, replacing it with an exquisitely rendered copy. Then stealing the copy he had placed there a year later. Neither Alex nor Mozzie knew that the buyers they had each lined up (a Japanese steel magnate and a Russian oligarch, respectively) received Caffrey-created forgeries. Neal had gone back a third time and replaced the second forgery with the original piece.
It was one of his more altruistic moments. And he was proud of himself.
Thankfully, Neal had nothing to do with the suspicious Canalettos that Stokes wanted a consultation on. He loved the artist’s work - they were why he loved Venice. Maybe it was a gesture of respect, but he never forged any of the artist's Venetian cityscapes.
As the train sped through New Jersey and Pennsylvania, Neal read and re-read the case notes, reviewed the provenance, examined the high quality images with a loupe, and decided that until he saw the paintings up-close and in person, he couldn’t come to any conclusions. The rest of the train ride was spent sketching. He made a concerted effort to keep the drawings G-rated. It wasn’t easy. Since the anklet came off, all he seemed to do was draw Peter, Peter and Elizabeth, Peter, Elizabeth and him.
Naked.
Neal had told himself that they were harmless fantasies. Harmless daydreams. Harmless night dreams.
It wasn’t like he really wanted Peter to do that to him. Or this to him. Or all of those other things that he kept sketching. He just had a healthy imagination, supplemented by a recent fascination with gay porn. And Neal knew he was lying to himself. Ever since they came back from Cape Verde, Neal knew his feelings for Peter weren't precisely platonic. He still shivered at the sense memory of Peter wrapping his arms around him, whispering how good it was to see him, how much he had missed him. The strength of his feelings - the unexpected intensity - still shook him.
The PA announced their imminent arrival at Union Station, and Neal looked down. Instead of the architectural study of the Doge's Palace he thought he was drawing, Neal had sketched a very beautiful and very graphic depiction of Peter fucking him. At least the seat next to him was empty.
This had to stop. It really, really did.
Neal made certain that his sketchbook was tucked in the inner pocket of his messenger bag, where he couldn’t accidentally take it out, or leave it behind.
As promised, Neal called Peter when he got into the station. “I’m here – safe and sound.”
“Make sure you stay that way.”
Neal was surprised at the level of concern in Peter’s voice. “What are you worried about? It’s not like I’m going to steal anything from the Smithsonian - of all places.”
There was a pause – all too pregnant – on the other end. Finally, Peter replied. “I can’t help but have a bad feeling about this. Last time you were in Art Crimes’ sights …”
Kramer. “He’s retired, Peter. And do you really think that this is some elaborate set up to arrest me and keep me in chains here?”
“The thought keeps crossing my mind. I keep feeling that I should be there with you.”
A strange warmth curled in Neal’s belly. To be the object of such concern was rare. “I’ll be fine, and if I see Agent Kramer, I’ll be certain to give him your regards.”
Peter didn’t succumb to Neal’s humor. “If you have any problems, if there is anything that makes you uncomfortable – the least bit – call me immediately.”
Neal closed his eyes and just let those words, the feeling being him, settled in his veins. “I will, I promise.”
He arrived at the Art Crimes office in the Smithsonian without incident. There was no sign of either Philip Kramer or his sidekick, Melissa Matthews. Just a tall, thin agent with a nose like a Roman senator and hair styled by Albert Einstein.
“Agent Stokes?” Neal held out his hand, and the man shook it – so hard that Neal thought his arm was about to drop off.
“The famous Neal Caffrey – here at Art Crimes. It’s a red-letter day, that’s for sure.”
The man’s obvious good humor dispelled any lingering anxiety that Peter’s own concern had caused. “Infamous, surely? Not famous?”
“Not in my book. Your work in New York during the last few years is all I care about.”
Stokes led him through the office, a rabbit warren of cubicles – mostly empty. “We’ve lost a lot of staff in the last round of budget cuts. It’s just me and a few old geezers now.” Stokes introduced him, and “old geezers” was a good description. The remaining staff consisted of a quartet of agents whose combined tenure was probably close to a century. They greeted him with varying levels of welcome.
He fielded a few questions about his experience, carefully couching his pre-Bureau, pre-prison efforts in “allegedly” and “purportedly” and a few “some have claimed” before Stokes pulled him away from the staff and into a small conference room.
The Canalettos – or rather, the paintings that were identified as Canalettos – had been recently donated to the Smithsonian. The provenance was complete from the mid-nineteen-twenties when the donor's great-grandfather had acquired them from an impoverished British nobleman, but there was something about the canvases that sent up a red flag with the curator, who reached out to Art Crimes. They were valuable enough to represent a significant tax write-off for the donor.
“You’ve consulted with two experts.”
“And as you must have read, neither one could give a conclusive answer. One said they could be authentic, the other suggested that they could be modern forgeries.”
“The chemical analysis on the paint samples was conclusive, though.”
“And it’s not that difficult to reproduce Renaissance era paints. You, of all people, should know that.” That comment didn’t come from Agent Stokes. The breathy, wheezing tones were all too familiar to Neal. He donned a careful smile before looking up.
“Ah - Agent Kramer. Good to see you.” From the corner of Neal’s eye, he saw Stokes frown. The man was not happy with the appearance of this visitor.
“I heard you were invited to consult on the Canalettos and I thought it would be nice to stop by and say hello.”
“You’ve said ‘hello’ and now you can leave, Philip.” Neal was surprised at the overt hostility from Stokes.
“Now, now, Mikey. Mr. Caffrey and I are old friends and I wouldn’t want to miss an opportunity to catch up with him.”
Neal wasn’t sure this was a good idea, but not knowing what Kramer’s agenda was would be worse. He turned to Agent Stokes. “Maybe a few minutes?”
Stokes nodded. “I’ve got a phone call to make. I’ll be back in five.” Neal figured that he was going to call Peter. He took comfort in the knowledge that Hell could start raining down soon enough.
The door closed behind Stokes, leaving Neal alone with his former bête noire.
“So, Neal – how are you these days?”
Neal made a production of rubbing his thigh and grimacing. “Other than the ache I occasionally get from where Collins shot me – I’m fine.”
“You were a fugitive, Agent Collins was doing his job.”
“I was in handcuffs. He had no cause.”
Kramer just stared at him with narrowed eyes. Narrowed, pig-like eyes. Neal stared back until Kramer broke. Score one for the away team.
"What really brings you here? Certainly not to observe the consultation."
Kramer got a sly look. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Sure.” Neal wondered if Kramer wanted to know how he had switched the Matisse, but had no plans on telling him. And in any event, he was wrong.
“Before your commutation hearing, when I was doing research on your activities …”
Neal corrected him, “When you were digging for ammunition to violate my civil rights.”
Kramer shrugged. “When I was doing research, I came across a disturbing pattern.”
Neal opened his mouth, but Kramer held up a hand. “Let me finish.”
He did, reluctantly.
“All through those first two years of your work-release, you committed a number of crimes. And there was every indication that Agent Burke knew about them and covered them up.”
Neal thought it best to keep silent at this point.
“When I confronted Petey about it, do you know what he said?”
Neal maintained his silence.
“He didn’t deny what you had done; he didn’t deny what he had done. All he told me was, ‘It’s complicated.’ Strange answer, don’t you think?”
“I wasn’t there, I have no comment.” Neal stuffed his hands in his pockets; otherwise he might reach out and strangle the old buzzard.
"No idea why Peter would say that? None at all?"
Neal frowned and shook his head.
“The way I look at it, complicated isn't the right word. More like complicit.”
Now he was attacking Peter’s honor, and that was unacceptable. “You’re wrong, dead wrong.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Neal. I’m old and retired and have no further interest in digging into the shenanigans of Gotham City’s most famous crime fighting couple.”
Neal frowned at that description.
“Just wanted to know if you knew what Peter meant by that. I guess not. Have a good life, Neal. Give my best to Petey when you get home.” Kramer waddled out the door and hopefully out of his life for good.
Neal stood there, confused and angry. What right did that bastard have to come in here like that, make accusations and just leave? His cell phone rang, it was Peter.
“Neal?”
“He’s gone. He said he just wanted to stop by and say hello.” Neal didn’t think he should mention the details of the conversation. It wasn’t necessary. “Just wanted to tell me that that he’s letting bygone be bygones.”
“Well, finish up and come home tonight, okay?”
Stokes came back into the conference room, a wary expression on his face. “Gotta go, I’ll let you know what train I’ll be in on when we get done.”
"Good."
Neal disconnected and tried to turn his attention back to the paintings.
“For the record, I think – and I’ve always thought – that Philip Kramer was a vindictive bastard. Peter never saw that side of him, but working under him – it was hard to miss, hard not to be a victim of it, too.”
Neal blinked.
“Had things turned out differently, turned out his way – you wouldn’t have lacked for friends or resources here. Just thought you should know. Kramer wasn't a good boss. He knew his Impressionists but he didn't know people.”
It was ancient history, in a way, but Stokes’ confession still moved him. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
After that, they both focused on the paintings. Neal spent hours going over the brushwork, the cracking, the canvas – even how it was attached to the frame.
“I have to say – this is one of the best fakes I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re positive?”
Neal hedged his bets. “I can’t be one hundred percent positive, but there are a lot of small problems that lead up to one huge question mark – on this painting.” Neal gestured to the scene of the Piazza San Marco at sunrise. “The nail heads are wrong – they aren’t machine made – but they aren’t correct for the period. I’d say this canvas is from the 1790’s at the earliest, maybe twenty years after the artist’s death.”
“Could it have been re-stretched?”
“Unlikely. There’s no damage to the fabric that would indicate that.” Neal pointed out a dozen other issues he had – most were technical in nature. “Of course, it’s impossible to go by style alone. Canaletto was a prolific artist, painting Venice scenes for over forty years – and his style changed over the decades. But everything adds up to this not being a Canaletto.”
“What about this one?” Stokes pointed to the other painting, the Piazza San Marco at sunrise.
“That’s the real deal. And worth about half of what it would be if these two paintings were paired.” They talked a bit more about the fake. Neal speculated that it wasn’t a forgery, per se. “It’s possible – almost likely – that these two paintings have been paired together for a hundred years. I don’t doubt the provenance – but somewhere along the line - years before the paintings were sold, someone attributed this to Canaletto.”
“So, the donor didn’t commit fraud.”
“I don’t think so. The painting is old – from the early eighteen-hundreds. It’s possible that it’s an excellent copy of a Caneletto that’s out there, or that someone reproduced the real one and simply changed the time of day. But I don’t think it’s modern.”
“And when Neal Caffrey, former master forger speaks, we all should listen.”
Neal tried not to blush at the flattery.
The trip back to New York was as uneventful as the trip to D.C. But something strange kept happening. He pulled out his sketchbook, intending to draw Michael Stokes. The man had an interesting face. Instead, Neal found himself writing out “complicated = complicit = complicated” over and over again. Kramer’s words had infected his brain.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter knew something was bothering Neal since he came back from D.C. But as much as he pushed, Neal didn’t say anything. Wouldn’t say anything. He suspected that Kramer had done whatever he could to cause some damage, but what that was, was impossible to determine. He had talked with Michael, who admitted to leaving them alone for all of five minutes.
It had only been two weeks since Neal’s trip, but in that time, he watched his friend, his partner, go from being lighthearted and optimistic, a man who wore his smile like he wore his vintage suits, to someone sullen, closed off, and constantly on the edge of anger.
And Peter was worried.
It didn’t help matters that his promotion meant more time dealing with administrative issues, budget meetings, strategic planning sessions. There weren't enough hours in the day anymore. Elizabeth was complaining (in an affectionate way) that she had seen more of him when he was chasing after Neal than she was now, not including the time she was spending with clients in San Francisco.
Peter wanted to press, but Neal was a master of the art of deflection and until he was ready to say something, he would get nothing out of his friend.
At least, this week, he could get back to being an FBI agent and not some highly paid paper-pusher. Clinton, who had stepped into his shoes as SAIC, was enough of a gentleman and even more of a politician, to give him the floor for the morning tag up meeting.
It went smoothly. There was no reason why it shouldn’t have – he’d only been in his new job for ten weeks. But there was an odd undercurrent, odd because it was Neal. In four years and a few months, he’d never seen Neal so completely tuned out.
The meeting came to an end, everyone dispersed except for Clinton and Diana.
“What’s wrong, boss?”
“Neal.”
“Yeah, Neal.” Clinton commented in a flat tone.
“Do either of you know what’s wrong? I’ve been tied up with all this administrative b-s …”
“Maybe that’s it?” Diana suggested.
“What?”
“Maybe he’s missing you? I mean – you were partners – and now things are different. You haven’t been involved in much field work.”
Diana had a point – but it had been two and a half months – and Neal’s attitude had changed only recently. “It could be that.”
“But you’re not convinced.”
Peter shook his head.
“I saw him tear pages out of his sketchbook and shred them yesterday.” Jones noted. “I’ve never seen him do that.”
That was unusual. But Peter wasn’t sure what to make of it. “Okay – thanks.” He dismissed them and went back to his office.
Truthfully, he didn’t like this space, which didn’t have a clear line of sight into the bullpen – and specifically – to Neal’s desk. Short of ordering a complete reorganization of the desk and file areas, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about that.
Instead, he contemplated another insurmountable problem. Neal.
They’d had their rough patches. The time Neal thought he was holding Kate hostage. The time that he thought Neal had orchestrated the destruction of Adler’s warehouse and the submarine full of art. And of course, the whole debacle with Neal's father.
This was different – this wasn’t something that Peter had done or something Neal had done (or technically, being blamed for things neither of them had done). Neal was just slipping away from him.
Peter had been shocked when Neal elected to stay on with the Bureau. Not even taking off a few months to travel, revisit the world. There had been discussion about going back to school – maybe Columbia. When Peter had needled him about not having his high school diploma, Neal casually informed him that he’d gotten his GED and a Bachelor of Arts degree in prison.
It was embarrassing to realize that in the intervening months, he had never followed up with Neal on that – he’d been too damn busy, too damn self-involved.
Well, that was going to change. Immediately.
His computer pinged, reminding him of his eleven-thirty meeting. Well, it would change tonight.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The blank page was taunting him. It’s whiteness a temptation, a terror. Neal picked up his pencil, leaned his hand against the page and …
Nothing. Not even a doodle, a scribble.
Well, not nothing. Kramer’s words just kept haunting him. Complicated. Complicit. Gotham City’s famous crime fighting couple. He found himself writing those words over and over again. Yesterday, in a fit of anger, he had ripped the pages out of his sketchbook and shredded them.
Maybe the best thing to do was to just stop trying. Read a book, cook, watch something stupid on television. Wasn’t it basketball season? Over the years, he’d learned to appreciate the game, not as much as say – baseball – but he could sit through a few quarters with Peter and not want to tear his hair out.
Neal closed his sketchbook, frowned, and opened it up again. Yeah, he could do other things, but none of them were the things he wanted to do. Flipping through the early pages brought a blush – the sketches were pornographic.
There was Peter bending him over his dining room table, Elizabeth handing her husband a condom and some lube. There was Peter holding his mouth open and feeding him his cock. And another where Peter was working his cock into him – bare. He had even captioned that one, “Risking Everything.” There were dozens of other such drawings – exquisitely detailed and shaded. And all of them depicting Neal getting fucked by Peter. Or by Peter and Elizabeth.
Sexual preference was always fluid, and Neal would never deny that Peter was highly attractive to him. Not just physically. There was such a strong emotional attraction, Peter’s dominance stirred things in him that he had never noticed before. Adler had tried to play those games – but there was something so inherently false about Vincent that he never responded.
Peter was the opposite – true and honest and loyal to the core.
Neal had to laugh at himself, at his desires. A semi-straight man wanting another straight and much-married man.
Mozzie might tell him, after he got done screaming in horror, that such labels were inherently false, or he’d find some pithy quote to fit the moment. And then tell him if this was what he wanted, then so be it. But the Suit?
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Neal closed the book and slipped it into the small compartment built into the fireplace mantle. He knew who it was – Moz was inclined to iambic pentameter, June was somewhere in the South China Sea and Sara was in Paris. That left Peter.
All evidence of his pornographic musing hidden away, he opened the door. Peter burst in, bringing the December cold and alcohol. Neal had to smile, the more things change, the more they stay the same.
“Here – ” Peter thrust a bottle into his hands.
Neal looked at it. An Australian Syrah. “Awww, you shouldn’t have spent so much …” The reaction was part of their song and dance.
“Just because it doesn’t cost an arm and a leg and half my take-home doesn’t mean it’s undrinkable.”
That was true. “At least this one has a cork.”
It was a testament to their comfort level with each other that Neal didn’t ask what Peter was doing here, and Peter didn’t offer any explanations. He opened his beer and sat down at the table. Neal opened the wine and poured a glass. He took a sip and nodded. “Not bad.”
“You’ve trained me well.”
Neal wasn’t so sure of that. “Elizabeth’s still in California?”
“Yeah – and she sends her love.”
Neal didn’t react, or he hoped he didn’t. Love. Such a word to be casually tossing around.
They sat there, the silence companionable, easy.
“What’s the matter, Neal?”
So much for easy.
“Nothing – why do you ask?”
“You’ve been – well – a little out of sorts. Something bothering you?”
“You’ve asked me that before.” The deflection was automatic.
“And I’m still worried. You haven’t been quite yourself lately.” Peter was like a dog with a bone. He wasn’t going to give up.
“Myself?”
“You’ve been moody, out of sorts. You’ve snapped at people.”
“Have I snapped at you?”
“No, but you did at Clinton before the meeting this morning. Good thing it wasn’t Diana – she’d have taken your head off … at your balls.”
Neal remembered the incident and flushed in shame. “I’ll apologize first thing tomorrow.”
“Okay – but this isn’t like you. Even when you’re pissed off, you’re still Mr. Sunshine. Talk to me, Neal.”
Neal thought of all the times when they hadn’t talked, all the wrong headed assumptions that were made. They were quick to forgive each other, but damage was still done. Other than the fact that it was second nature for Neal to keep secrets, except for the embarrassment - he couldn’t think of a valid reason not to tell Peter. Maybe there was some truth to the adage about a burden shared.
He chose words with care. “When I was in D.C., Kramer asked me something.”
“What?” Peter’s lips thinned, his eyes got hard. Neal had seen that look often enough to be grateful it wasn’t directed at him.
Neal took a sip of his wine. “He told me about a conversation the two of you had, just before my commutation hearing.”
“And?”
“He accused you of covering for me. Covering up crimes that I committed while working for the Bureau. He said …” Neal looked away and then back at Peter. “That you didn’t deny anything, that you told him it was ‘complicated.’ He was implying something.”
“Is that all he said?” Neal couldn’t discern anything from Peter’s tone.
“He did tell me that it really didn’t matter, he had no further interest in …” Neal searched his memory for the exact phrase. “The shenanigans of Gotham City’s most famous crime fighting couple.”
“Huh.”
Neal licked his lips. “It bothered me – I can’t get that out of my head. It’s like it’s poisoned something. He made it sound like you were involved in something dirty.” The word hung out there, and Neal felt ashamed. Maybe it was just him, tagging something innocuous with his own desires.
Peter got up and paced the length of the apartment. Once, twice. Neal was reminded of a caged lion.
“Kramer was always perceptive. I didn’t realize just how much he saw.”
“Peter?”
Peter sat down, examined his hands, scrubbed at his face. “Lying is complicated. Sometimes telling the truth is even more complicated. I couldn’t lie and I couldn’t tell the truth.”
“And what is the truth?” It was as if there was no air in the room.
“That I love you.”
Maybe it was the lack of oxygen, but Neal could have sworn he just heard Peter tell him he loved him.
Peter didn't see Neal's distress, his joy. “Could you imagine what would have happened if I told Kramer the truth? That I was in love with my CI, that I’d been breaking all the rules because I needed to protect him?”
Peter loves me. The air rushed back in, and Neal felt as giddy as a teenager just invited to the prom. Until he saw the pain in Peter’s eyes; he didn’t want this.
“I’m sorry.” That was the only thing he could say.
“Why?”
“Because …” Because it’s been over two years since that moment and I never saw it, not even when you risked everything to bring me home. When you put your life on the line to save me from my own stupidity. I only saw my feelings.
“Look – I don’t expect anything. El’s known how I’ve felt, since the beginning.” Peter got up, picked up his coat. He was leaving.
“Wait – wait.”
Peter turned back; hope a terrible thing on his face. Neal had a stark moment of déjà vu, just before Kate’s plane exploded, just before his world changed. “What if I said, ‘I love you, too.’?”
“You don’t have to do this, Neal – you don’t have to pretend. We’ll be fine.” Peter started for the door again.
Neal grabbed him, sat him down. “Just – just wait.” He went to the mantle and retrieved his sketchbook. “You just put everything on the line. I think I need to do that, too.” He sat down and pushed the book towards Peter. “Here.”
As Peter opened it, Neal had a horrible thought – that Peter meant he loved him like a son, or a brother. But he wasn’t going to grab it back. Alia jacta est.
Of course, Peter had to open it to his favorite – the one where he’s barebacking him. Peter looked at it and didn’t stop. He didn’t close the book in disgust. Neal watched, fascinated, as a flush darkened his cheeks.
Peter turned the page. The next one was even worse. Or better. Depending on a point of view. Neal was tied up and blindfolded. His nipples were clamped, so were his balls. There was a cock ring binding him. But to Neal, that wasn’t the truly erotic part of the image. It was Peter, dressed in his basic weekend casual clothing – worn jeans, a ratty tee shirt. He was feeding him his index and middle finger – they were crooked in the same gesture he used to summon Neal from the balcony.
“Jesus, Neal – is this… Is this what you want?”
Neal met Peter’s eyes, looking for some sign of revulsion. There was surprise there, but not aversion. “They’re fantasies – extreme. They excite me – but I …” The words trailed off. “I’ve never – not … I’m not …” Oddly, the only thing that was embarrassing Neal was is sudden inability to express himself.
“You’re not gay.”
“Until recently, I’d say not. But are labels important?” The last came out in a plaintive whine.
“No, they aren’t. But we live in a world that has an intense need to label everything.” Peter carefully closed the sketchbook. “I love you – I’ve taken a long time to figure out my feelings.”
“You said that Elizabeth knows.” Neal’s greatest terror was hurting her, and he couldn’t see how – now that everything was in the open – that he wasn’t going to.
“She’s known before I’ve known. She knew when I was chasing you just how much I liked you.”
Neal was startled – he didn’t think Peter’s feeling went back that far.
They didn’t. “She said I fell in love with you the day you jumped out of that judge’s window. Or actually before – when I came home after arresting you for the diamond theft. I was – apparently – heartbroken.”
“I had – ” Neal shook his head in bemusement. “I had no idea.”
“I worked hard to keep my feelings from you. She's been pushing me to tell you, now that you're off the tracker.”
“Where do we go from here?” The future, once so clear to him, seemed impossibly complicated now. And that filled him with happiness.
“I’m never going to let you go – you’ve got to realize that.”
“You’re going to be possessive?” Neal thrilled to that word.
“Probably – El will keep me in control. But I’m not inclined to give you a lot of latitude. You may end of longing for that two-mile radius.”
Neal smiled – he had to. The happiness was impossible to quell. “We’ll work on that.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter rolled over and opened his eyes. The bed was unfamiliar. So was his companion – at least in that state of complete undress. They hadn’t done much last night. Well, not much by the standards of Neal’s sketchbook pornography. But Peter enjoyed what they did – sliding skin against skin until they were both mindless with pleasure.
Neal was sitting cross-legged on the bed, completely naked, except for some charcoal smudges on his cheeks and fingers.
“Whatcha doing?”
Neal looked up at him, smiling. “Sketching.”
FIN
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R – NC-17
Characters Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Philip Kramer, Clinton Jones, Diana Berrigan, OMC,
Pairings: Peter Burke/Neal Caffrey
Spoilers: Reference to the events in S3.10, 3.16
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~5900
Summary: After his tracker comes off, Neal's invited to consult with D.C. Art Crimes. Kramer, though retired now, pays Neal a most unwelcome visit. His questions create a problem for Neal, but an unexpected conversation with Peter helps resolve them.
A/N: Written for Caffrey-Burke Day. On Caffrey-Burke Day. Hence, it’s completely unbeta’d. Title from Mumford's "White Blank Page."
The anklet came off. But Neal stayed.
And then something terrible happened.
Oh, not terrible in the sense of a great tragedy. No one died or was injured or contracted some life-threatening illness. In fact, everyone in Neal’s life was doing splendidly. Elizabeth’s business was booming on both the east and west coasts. Hughes retired and Peter was promoted. Diana and Christie finally patched things up, and if they weren’t going to have a big, splashy wedding, they were having a wedding and Neal was on the guest list. Clinton met the love of his life, and he was as nice of a Jewish boy as any mother could want.
June and her daughters and granddaughters were in month six of a twelve-month cruise around the world.
Sara was named head of Sterling-Bosch’s European operations, and she gave him the key to her apartment in Paris. There was also an open-ended round-trip ticket just waiting to be used.
Mozzie bought a storage locker filled with Russian military surplus and hadn’t come up for air for weeks. Both the State Department and the CIA were looking for him. Moz couldn't have been more delighted.
Everyone was happy, except for Neal.
And he wasn’t precisely unhappy, at least not that he wanted to admit. He was aggravated. Frustrated. Anything but miserable, except that miserable was exactly what he was. Not because he was free of his tracker, free to travel beyond that two mile radius, free to realize his dreams.
Neal was blocked.
He couldn’t sketch or paint or sculpt a damn thing. And not being able to create was, in a way, like not being able to breathe. It had only been two weeks, but it felt like a two months. Or a year. Or maybe a lifetime.
Or two.
It wasn’t really the painting or sculpting. His talent for original work was sporadic, and he’d long since given up copying the old masters. The thought of Peter’s eventual disappointment in him was enough to still his hand. Besides, that sort of painting had lost much of its appeal when he realized that there was no point to it – these canvases would never hang in a museum or gallery or some rich man’s overpriced trophy house.
No, what was frustrating was that he couldn’t sketch. The outlet that sustained him through the lonely days when he first came to New York, the months and years missing Kate, the deadly boring routine in prison. And yes, even during the time on the anklet, when he had a theoretical leash and far too much freedom for some people’s peace of mind.
But lately, he’d just sit there with a sketchbook opened to a white, blank page. His pencil poised.
And nothing.
Nada.
Nil.
Zip.
This absence hurt. Like the lingering effects of a bad leg cramp or the onset of the flu or that shaky post-migraine feeling.
At least he was busy at the office, even as a full-fledged, fully paid government employee - a Level IV Technical Specialist - Neal still found the work fulfilling. He was still going undercover a few times a month. He consulted with other departments in the Bureau. People listened to him, they didn’t dismiss what he had to say because he was a felon on work release.
A few weeks ago, he was called in to consult - most gloriously - for the Art Crimes unit in D.C. Kramer had retired and his replacement, a classmate of Peter’s, was most eager to have Neal come and examine a pair of Canaletto paintings that didn't seem quite right.
Peter had, at his insistence, accompanied Neal to Penn Station, and waited with him until he boarded.
“You know where you’re going?”
“Yes…” Neal specifically refrained from whiningly calling Peter “Dad.” He never, ever wanted to introduce the thought of a filial relationship with Peter.
“Neal …” Peter just gave him that look.
“I’ll call you when I arrive at Union Station, and I’ll have Agent Stokes call you when I get to the office. I’ll call you when I leave and when I’m back in New York.” Neal shook his head, exasperated. “You’d think I never travelled anywhere before.”
Peter shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned. “Yeah, I tend to forget. This is just the first time you’ve left New York since it came off.” He glanced meaningfully at his left ankle.
"Train 1204, the Acela to Union Station, Washington, D.C. is now boarding. All passengers may proceed to Staircase 12, Track 15. Please have your tickets ready."
"That's my train." Neal hefted his messenger bag. “I’ll be fine, I’ll make you proud.”
“You’d better.” Peter hadn't bothered to disguise the worry, but Neal didn't mention it.
Thinking back, Neal could track his blockage to this trip. He was fine on the way down to D.C., doodling miniature Venetian skylines along the margins of the case file.
Here was the Rialto, where he and Peter had such a momentous first meeting. And here was the Cathedral of San Marco. Of course, no mental visit to Venice would be complete without a trip to the Ca’ Rezzonico, which he cased first with Mozzie, then with Alex. It took a while, but he had finally succumbed to the pressure to do a double-switch: first stealing a Renaissance-era gold and gem-encrusted salt cellar, replacing it with an exquisitely rendered copy. Then stealing the copy he had placed there a year later. Neither Alex nor Mozzie knew that the buyers they had each lined up (a Japanese steel magnate and a Russian oligarch, respectively) received Caffrey-created forgeries. Neal had gone back a third time and replaced the second forgery with the original piece.
It was one of his more altruistic moments. And he was proud of himself.
Thankfully, Neal had nothing to do with the suspicious Canalettos that Stokes wanted a consultation on. He loved the artist’s work - they were why he loved Venice. Maybe it was a gesture of respect, but he never forged any of the artist's Venetian cityscapes.
As the train sped through New Jersey and Pennsylvania, Neal read and re-read the case notes, reviewed the provenance, examined the high quality images with a loupe, and decided that until he saw the paintings up-close and in person, he couldn’t come to any conclusions. The rest of the train ride was spent sketching. He made a concerted effort to keep the drawings G-rated. It wasn’t easy. Since the anklet came off, all he seemed to do was draw Peter, Peter and Elizabeth, Peter, Elizabeth and him.
Naked.
Neal had told himself that they were harmless fantasies. Harmless daydreams. Harmless night dreams.
It wasn’t like he really wanted Peter to do that to him. Or this to him. Or all of those other things that he kept sketching. He just had a healthy imagination, supplemented by a recent fascination with gay porn. And Neal knew he was lying to himself. Ever since they came back from Cape Verde, Neal knew his feelings for Peter weren't precisely platonic. He still shivered at the sense memory of Peter wrapping his arms around him, whispering how good it was to see him, how much he had missed him. The strength of his feelings - the unexpected intensity - still shook him.
The PA announced their imminent arrival at Union Station, and Neal looked down. Instead of the architectural study of the Doge's Palace he thought he was drawing, Neal had sketched a very beautiful and very graphic depiction of Peter fucking him. At least the seat next to him was empty.
This had to stop. It really, really did.
Neal made certain that his sketchbook was tucked in the inner pocket of his messenger bag, where he couldn’t accidentally take it out, or leave it behind.
As promised, Neal called Peter when he got into the station. “I’m here – safe and sound.”
“Make sure you stay that way.”
Neal was surprised at the level of concern in Peter’s voice. “What are you worried about? It’s not like I’m going to steal anything from the Smithsonian - of all places.”
There was a pause – all too pregnant – on the other end. Finally, Peter replied. “I can’t help but have a bad feeling about this. Last time you were in Art Crimes’ sights …”
Kramer. “He’s retired, Peter. And do you really think that this is some elaborate set up to arrest me and keep me in chains here?”
“The thought keeps crossing my mind. I keep feeling that I should be there with you.”
A strange warmth curled in Neal’s belly. To be the object of such concern was rare. “I’ll be fine, and if I see Agent Kramer, I’ll be certain to give him your regards.”
Peter didn’t succumb to Neal’s humor. “If you have any problems, if there is anything that makes you uncomfortable – the least bit – call me immediately.”
Neal closed his eyes and just let those words, the feeling being him, settled in his veins. “I will, I promise.”
He arrived at the Art Crimes office in the Smithsonian without incident. There was no sign of either Philip Kramer or his sidekick, Melissa Matthews. Just a tall, thin agent with a nose like a Roman senator and hair styled by Albert Einstein.
“Agent Stokes?” Neal held out his hand, and the man shook it – so hard that Neal thought his arm was about to drop off.
“The famous Neal Caffrey – here at Art Crimes. It’s a red-letter day, that’s for sure.”
The man’s obvious good humor dispelled any lingering anxiety that Peter’s own concern had caused. “Infamous, surely? Not famous?”
“Not in my book. Your work in New York during the last few years is all I care about.”
Stokes led him through the office, a rabbit warren of cubicles – mostly empty. “We’ve lost a lot of staff in the last round of budget cuts. It’s just me and a few old geezers now.” Stokes introduced him, and “old geezers” was a good description. The remaining staff consisted of a quartet of agents whose combined tenure was probably close to a century. They greeted him with varying levels of welcome.
He fielded a few questions about his experience, carefully couching his pre-Bureau, pre-prison efforts in “allegedly” and “purportedly” and a few “some have claimed” before Stokes pulled him away from the staff and into a small conference room.
The Canalettos – or rather, the paintings that were identified as Canalettos – had been recently donated to the Smithsonian. The provenance was complete from the mid-nineteen-twenties when the donor's great-grandfather had acquired them from an impoverished British nobleman, but there was something about the canvases that sent up a red flag with the curator, who reached out to Art Crimes. They were valuable enough to represent a significant tax write-off for the donor.
“You’ve consulted with two experts.”
“And as you must have read, neither one could give a conclusive answer. One said they could be authentic, the other suggested that they could be modern forgeries.”
“The chemical analysis on the paint samples was conclusive, though.”
“And it’s not that difficult to reproduce Renaissance era paints. You, of all people, should know that.” That comment didn’t come from Agent Stokes. The breathy, wheezing tones were all too familiar to Neal. He donned a careful smile before looking up.
“Ah - Agent Kramer. Good to see you.” From the corner of Neal’s eye, he saw Stokes frown. The man was not happy with the appearance of this visitor.
“I heard you were invited to consult on the Canalettos and I thought it would be nice to stop by and say hello.”
“You’ve said ‘hello’ and now you can leave, Philip.” Neal was surprised at the overt hostility from Stokes.
“Now, now, Mikey. Mr. Caffrey and I are old friends and I wouldn’t want to miss an opportunity to catch up with him.”
Neal wasn’t sure this was a good idea, but not knowing what Kramer’s agenda was would be worse. He turned to Agent Stokes. “Maybe a few minutes?”
Stokes nodded. “I’ve got a phone call to make. I’ll be back in five.” Neal figured that he was going to call Peter. He took comfort in the knowledge that Hell could start raining down soon enough.
The door closed behind Stokes, leaving Neal alone with his former bête noire.
“So, Neal – how are you these days?”
Neal made a production of rubbing his thigh and grimacing. “Other than the ache I occasionally get from where Collins shot me – I’m fine.”
“You were a fugitive, Agent Collins was doing his job.”
“I was in handcuffs. He had no cause.”
Kramer just stared at him with narrowed eyes. Narrowed, pig-like eyes. Neal stared back until Kramer broke. Score one for the away team.
"What really brings you here? Certainly not to observe the consultation."
Kramer got a sly look. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Sure.” Neal wondered if Kramer wanted to know how he had switched the Matisse, but had no plans on telling him. And in any event, he was wrong.
“Before your commutation hearing, when I was doing research on your activities …”
Neal corrected him, “When you were digging for ammunition to violate my civil rights.”
Kramer shrugged. “When I was doing research, I came across a disturbing pattern.”
Neal opened his mouth, but Kramer held up a hand. “Let me finish.”
He did, reluctantly.
“All through those first two years of your work-release, you committed a number of crimes. And there was every indication that Agent Burke knew about them and covered them up.”
Neal thought it best to keep silent at this point.
“When I confronted Petey about it, do you know what he said?”
Neal maintained his silence.
“He didn’t deny what you had done; he didn’t deny what he had done. All he told me was, ‘It’s complicated.’ Strange answer, don’t you think?”
“I wasn’t there, I have no comment.” Neal stuffed his hands in his pockets; otherwise he might reach out and strangle the old buzzard.
"No idea why Peter would say that? None at all?"
Neal frowned and shook his head.
“The way I look at it, complicated isn't the right word. More like complicit.”
Now he was attacking Peter’s honor, and that was unacceptable. “You’re wrong, dead wrong.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Neal. I’m old and retired and have no further interest in digging into the shenanigans of Gotham City’s most famous crime fighting couple.”
Neal frowned at that description.
“Just wanted to know if you knew what Peter meant by that. I guess not. Have a good life, Neal. Give my best to Petey when you get home.” Kramer waddled out the door and hopefully out of his life for good.
Neal stood there, confused and angry. What right did that bastard have to come in here like that, make accusations and just leave? His cell phone rang, it was Peter.
“Neal?”
“He’s gone. He said he just wanted to stop by and say hello.” Neal didn’t think he should mention the details of the conversation. It wasn’t necessary. “Just wanted to tell me that that he’s letting bygone be bygones.”
“Well, finish up and come home tonight, okay?”
Stokes came back into the conference room, a wary expression on his face. “Gotta go, I’ll let you know what train I’ll be in on when we get done.”
"Good."
Neal disconnected and tried to turn his attention back to the paintings.
“For the record, I think – and I’ve always thought – that Philip Kramer was a vindictive bastard. Peter never saw that side of him, but working under him – it was hard to miss, hard not to be a victim of it, too.”
Neal blinked.
“Had things turned out differently, turned out his way – you wouldn’t have lacked for friends or resources here. Just thought you should know. Kramer wasn't a good boss. He knew his Impressionists but he didn't know people.”
It was ancient history, in a way, but Stokes’ confession still moved him. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
After that, they both focused on the paintings. Neal spent hours going over the brushwork, the cracking, the canvas – even how it was attached to the frame.
“I have to say – this is one of the best fakes I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re positive?”
Neal hedged his bets. “I can’t be one hundred percent positive, but there are a lot of small problems that lead up to one huge question mark – on this painting.” Neal gestured to the scene of the Piazza San Marco at sunrise. “The nail heads are wrong – they aren’t machine made – but they aren’t correct for the period. I’d say this canvas is from the 1790’s at the earliest, maybe twenty years after the artist’s death.”
“Could it have been re-stretched?”
“Unlikely. There’s no damage to the fabric that would indicate that.” Neal pointed out a dozen other issues he had – most were technical in nature. “Of course, it’s impossible to go by style alone. Canaletto was a prolific artist, painting Venice scenes for over forty years – and his style changed over the decades. But everything adds up to this not being a Canaletto.”
“What about this one?” Stokes pointed to the other painting, the Piazza San Marco at sunrise.
“That’s the real deal. And worth about half of what it would be if these two paintings were paired.” They talked a bit more about the fake. Neal speculated that it wasn’t a forgery, per se. “It’s possible – almost likely – that these two paintings have been paired together for a hundred years. I don’t doubt the provenance – but somewhere along the line - years before the paintings were sold, someone attributed this to Canaletto.”
“So, the donor didn’t commit fraud.”
“I don’t think so. The painting is old – from the early eighteen-hundreds. It’s possible that it’s an excellent copy of a Caneletto that’s out there, or that someone reproduced the real one and simply changed the time of day. But I don’t think it’s modern.”
“And when Neal Caffrey, former master forger speaks, we all should listen.”
Neal tried not to blush at the flattery.
The trip back to New York was as uneventful as the trip to D.C. But something strange kept happening. He pulled out his sketchbook, intending to draw Michael Stokes. The man had an interesting face. Instead, Neal found himself writing out “complicated = complicit = complicated” over and over again. Kramer’s words had infected his brain.
Peter knew something was bothering Neal since he came back from D.C. But as much as he pushed, Neal didn’t say anything. Wouldn’t say anything. He suspected that Kramer had done whatever he could to cause some damage, but what that was, was impossible to determine. He had talked with Michael, who admitted to leaving them alone for all of five minutes.
It had only been two weeks since Neal’s trip, but in that time, he watched his friend, his partner, go from being lighthearted and optimistic, a man who wore his smile like he wore his vintage suits, to someone sullen, closed off, and constantly on the edge of anger.
And Peter was worried.
It didn’t help matters that his promotion meant more time dealing with administrative issues, budget meetings, strategic planning sessions. There weren't enough hours in the day anymore. Elizabeth was complaining (in an affectionate way) that she had seen more of him when he was chasing after Neal than she was now, not including the time she was spending with clients in San Francisco.
Peter wanted to press, but Neal was a master of the art of deflection and until he was ready to say something, he would get nothing out of his friend.
At least, this week, he could get back to being an FBI agent and not some highly paid paper-pusher. Clinton, who had stepped into his shoes as SAIC, was enough of a gentleman and even more of a politician, to give him the floor for the morning tag up meeting.
It went smoothly. There was no reason why it shouldn’t have – he’d only been in his new job for ten weeks. But there was an odd undercurrent, odd because it was Neal. In four years and a few months, he’d never seen Neal so completely tuned out.
The meeting came to an end, everyone dispersed except for Clinton and Diana.
“What’s wrong, boss?”
“Neal.”
“Yeah, Neal.” Clinton commented in a flat tone.
“Do either of you know what’s wrong? I’ve been tied up with all this administrative b-s …”
“Maybe that’s it?” Diana suggested.
“What?”
“Maybe he’s missing you? I mean – you were partners – and now things are different. You haven’t been involved in much field work.”
Diana had a point – but it had been two and a half months – and Neal’s attitude had changed only recently. “It could be that.”
“But you’re not convinced.”
Peter shook his head.
“I saw him tear pages out of his sketchbook and shred them yesterday.” Jones noted. “I’ve never seen him do that.”
That was unusual. But Peter wasn’t sure what to make of it. “Okay – thanks.” He dismissed them and went back to his office.
Truthfully, he didn’t like this space, which didn’t have a clear line of sight into the bullpen – and specifically – to Neal’s desk. Short of ordering a complete reorganization of the desk and file areas, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about that.
Instead, he contemplated another insurmountable problem. Neal.
They’d had their rough patches. The time Neal thought he was holding Kate hostage. The time that he thought Neal had orchestrated the destruction of Adler’s warehouse and the submarine full of art. And of course, the whole debacle with Neal's father.
This was different – this wasn’t something that Peter had done or something Neal had done (or technically, being blamed for things neither of them had done). Neal was just slipping away from him.
Peter had been shocked when Neal elected to stay on with the Bureau. Not even taking off a few months to travel, revisit the world. There had been discussion about going back to school – maybe Columbia. When Peter had needled him about not having his high school diploma, Neal casually informed him that he’d gotten his GED and a Bachelor of Arts degree in prison.
It was embarrassing to realize that in the intervening months, he had never followed up with Neal on that – he’d been too damn busy, too damn self-involved.
Well, that was going to change. Immediately.
His computer pinged, reminding him of his eleven-thirty meeting. Well, it would change tonight.
The blank page was taunting him. It’s whiteness a temptation, a terror. Neal picked up his pencil, leaned his hand against the page and …
Nothing. Not even a doodle, a scribble.
Well, not nothing. Kramer’s words just kept haunting him. Complicated. Complicit. Gotham City’s famous crime fighting couple. He found himself writing those words over and over again. Yesterday, in a fit of anger, he had ripped the pages out of his sketchbook and shredded them.
Maybe the best thing to do was to just stop trying. Read a book, cook, watch something stupid on television. Wasn’t it basketball season? Over the years, he’d learned to appreciate the game, not as much as say – baseball – but he could sit through a few quarters with Peter and not want to tear his hair out.
Neal closed his sketchbook, frowned, and opened it up again. Yeah, he could do other things, but none of them were the things he wanted to do. Flipping through the early pages brought a blush – the sketches were pornographic.
There was Peter bending him over his dining room table, Elizabeth handing her husband a condom and some lube. There was Peter holding his mouth open and feeding him his cock. And another where Peter was working his cock into him – bare. He had even captioned that one, “Risking Everything.” There were dozens of other such drawings – exquisitely detailed and shaded. And all of them depicting Neal getting fucked by Peter. Or by Peter and Elizabeth.
Sexual preference was always fluid, and Neal would never deny that Peter was highly attractive to him. Not just physically. There was such a strong emotional attraction, Peter’s dominance stirred things in him that he had never noticed before. Adler had tried to play those games – but there was something so inherently false about Vincent that he never responded.
Peter was the opposite – true and honest and loyal to the core.
Neal had to laugh at himself, at his desires. A semi-straight man wanting another straight and much-married man.
Mozzie might tell him, after he got done screaming in horror, that such labels were inherently false, or he’d find some pithy quote to fit the moment. And then tell him if this was what he wanted, then so be it. But the Suit?
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Neal closed the book and slipped it into the small compartment built into the fireplace mantle. He knew who it was – Moz was inclined to iambic pentameter, June was somewhere in the South China Sea and Sara was in Paris. That left Peter.
All evidence of his pornographic musing hidden away, he opened the door. Peter burst in, bringing the December cold and alcohol. Neal had to smile, the more things change, the more they stay the same.
“Here – ” Peter thrust a bottle into his hands.
Neal looked at it. An Australian Syrah. “Awww, you shouldn’t have spent so much …” The reaction was part of their song and dance.
“Just because it doesn’t cost an arm and a leg and half my take-home doesn’t mean it’s undrinkable.”
That was true. “At least this one has a cork.”
It was a testament to their comfort level with each other that Neal didn’t ask what Peter was doing here, and Peter didn’t offer any explanations. He opened his beer and sat down at the table. Neal opened the wine and poured a glass. He took a sip and nodded. “Not bad.”
“You’ve trained me well.”
Neal wasn’t so sure of that. “Elizabeth’s still in California?”
“Yeah – and she sends her love.”
Neal didn’t react, or he hoped he didn’t. Love. Such a word to be casually tossing around.
They sat there, the silence companionable, easy.
“What’s the matter, Neal?”
So much for easy.
“Nothing – why do you ask?”
“You’ve been – well – a little out of sorts. Something bothering you?”
“You’ve asked me that before.” The deflection was automatic.
“And I’m still worried. You haven’t been quite yourself lately.” Peter was like a dog with a bone. He wasn’t going to give up.
“Myself?”
“You’ve been moody, out of sorts. You’ve snapped at people.”
“Have I snapped at you?”
“No, but you did at Clinton before the meeting this morning. Good thing it wasn’t Diana – she’d have taken your head off … at your balls.”
Neal remembered the incident and flushed in shame. “I’ll apologize first thing tomorrow.”
“Okay – but this isn’t like you. Even when you’re pissed off, you’re still Mr. Sunshine. Talk to me, Neal.”
Neal thought of all the times when they hadn’t talked, all the wrong headed assumptions that were made. They were quick to forgive each other, but damage was still done. Other than the fact that it was second nature for Neal to keep secrets, except for the embarrassment - he couldn’t think of a valid reason not to tell Peter. Maybe there was some truth to the adage about a burden shared.
He chose words with care. “When I was in D.C., Kramer asked me something.”
“What?” Peter’s lips thinned, his eyes got hard. Neal had seen that look often enough to be grateful it wasn’t directed at him.
Neal took a sip of his wine. “He told me about a conversation the two of you had, just before my commutation hearing.”
“And?”
“He accused you of covering for me. Covering up crimes that I committed while working for the Bureau. He said …” Neal looked away and then back at Peter. “That you didn’t deny anything, that you told him it was ‘complicated.’ He was implying something.”
“Is that all he said?” Neal couldn’t discern anything from Peter’s tone.
“He did tell me that it really didn’t matter, he had no further interest in …” Neal searched his memory for the exact phrase. “The shenanigans of Gotham City’s most famous crime fighting couple.”
“Huh.”
Neal licked his lips. “It bothered me – I can’t get that out of my head. It’s like it’s poisoned something. He made it sound like you were involved in something dirty.” The word hung out there, and Neal felt ashamed. Maybe it was just him, tagging something innocuous with his own desires.
Peter got up and paced the length of the apartment. Once, twice. Neal was reminded of a caged lion.
“Kramer was always perceptive. I didn’t realize just how much he saw.”
“Peter?”
Peter sat down, examined his hands, scrubbed at his face. “Lying is complicated. Sometimes telling the truth is even more complicated. I couldn’t lie and I couldn’t tell the truth.”
“And what is the truth?” It was as if there was no air in the room.
“That I love you.”
Maybe it was the lack of oxygen, but Neal could have sworn he just heard Peter tell him he loved him.
Peter didn't see Neal's distress, his joy. “Could you imagine what would have happened if I told Kramer the truth? That I was in love with my CI, that I’d been breaking all the rules because I needed to protect him?”
Peter loves me. The air rushed back in, and Neal felt as giddy as a teenager just invited to the prom. Until he saw the pain in Peter’s eyes; he didn’t want this.
“I’m sorry.” That was the only thing he could say.
“Why?”
“Because …” Because it’s been over two years since that moment and I never saw it, not even when you risked everything to bring me home. When you put your life on the line to save me from my own stupidity. I only saw my feelings.
“Look – I don’t expect anything. El’s known how I’ve felt, since the beginning.” Peter got up, picked up his coat. He was leaving.
“Wait – wait.”
Peter turned back; hope a terrible thing on his face. Neal had a stark moment of déjà vu, just before Kate’s plane exploded, just before his world changed. “What if I said, ‘I love you, too.’?”
“You don’t have to do this, Neal – you don’t have to pretend. We’ll be fine.” Peter started for the door again.
Neal grabbed him, sat him down. “Just – just wait.” He went to the mantle and retrieved his sketchbook. “You just put everything on the line. I think I need to do that, too.” He sat down and pushed the book towards Peter. “Here.”
As Peter opened it, Neal had a horrible thought – that Peter meant he loved him like a son, or a brother. But he wasn’t going to grab it back. Alia jacta est.
Of course, Peter had to open it to his favorite – the one where he’s barebacking him. Peter looked at it and didn’t stop. He didn’t close the book in disgust. Neal watched, fascinated, as a flush darkened his cheeks.
Peter turned the page. The next one was even worse. Or better. Depending on a point of view. Neal was tied up and blindfolded. His nipples were clamped, so were his balls. There was a cock ring binding him. But to Neal, that wasn’t the truly erotic part of the image. It was Peter, dressed in his basic weekend casual clothing – worn jeans, a ratty tee shirt. He was feeding him his index and middle finger – they were crooked in the same gesture he used to summon Neal from the balcony.
“Jesus, Neal – is this… Is this what you want?”
Neal met Peter’s eyes, looking for some sign of revulsion. There was surprise there, but not aversion. “They’re fantasies – extreme. They excite me – but I …” The words trailed off. “I’ve never – not … I’m not …” Oddly, the only thing that was embarrassing Neal was is sudden inability to express himself.
“You’re not gay.”
“Until recently, I’d say not. But are labels important?” The last came out in a plaintive whine.
“No, they aren’t. But we live in a world that has an intense need to label everything.” Peter carefully closed the sketchbook. “I love you – I’ve taken a long time to figure out my feelings.”
“You said that Elizabeth knows.” Neal’s greatest terror was hurting her, and he couldn’t see how – now that everything was in the open – that he wasn’t going to.
“She’s known before I’ve known. She knew when I was chasing you just how much I liked you.”
Neal was startled – he didn’t think Peter’s feeling went back that far.
They didn’t. “She said I fell in love with you the day you jumped out of that judge’s window. Or actually before – when I came home after arresting you for the diamond theft. I was – apparently – heartbroken.”
“I had – ” Neal shook his head in bemusement. “I had no idea.”
“I worked hard to keep my feelings from you. She's been pushing me to tell you, now that you're off the tracker.”
“Where do we go from here?” The future, once so clear to him, seemed impossibly complicated now. And that filled him with happiness.
“I’m never going to let you go – you’ve got to realize that.”
“You’re going to be possessive?” Neal thrilled to that word.
“Probably – El will keep me in control. But I’m not inclined to give you a lot of latitude. You may end of longing for that two-mile radius.”
Neal smiled – he had to. The happiness was impossible to quell. “We’ll work on that.”
Peter rolled over and opened his eyes. The bed was unfamiliar. So was his companion – at least in that state of complete undress. They hadn’t done much last night. Well, not much by the standards of Neal’s sketchbook pornography. But Peter enjoyed what they did – sliding skin against skin until they were both mindless with pleasure.
Neal was sitting cross-legged on the bed, completely naked, except for some charcoal smudges on his cheeks and fingers.
“Whatcha doing?”
Neal looked up at him, smiling. “Sketching.”
Tags:
- character: clinton jones,
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: omc,
- character: peter burke,
- character: philip kramer,
- genre: angst,
- genre: case fic,
- genre: post-anklet,
- kink: barebacking,
- kink: bdsm,
- kink: sketchporn,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- white collar,
- written for: caffrey-burke day,
- year: 2012
no subject
Date: 2012-10-24 11:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-24 12:51 pm (UTC)"Dickishness" is a perfect descriptor for Kramer - and it was such a treat to have all his plans work in the opposite way he intended.