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elrhiarhodanTitle: Something We Never Dreamt We Could Have – A Wonder(ful) Years Timestamp – Part 2 of 3
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R (with the occasional NC-17 moment)
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Peter/Neal, many Original Characters, including Joe Burke.
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Expressions of Homophobia
Word Count: ~7,500 (~23,000 total)
Beta Credit:coffeethyme4me
Art Credit:kanarek13
Summary: In July, 2012, the Marriage Equality Act has been law in New York State for about a year, but there are forces arrayed throughout the United States to deny some citizens the civil right that most enjoy. Neal’s outrage over comments against gay marriage spark a sea change in him, and little does he know that his life-partner of nearly thirty years has been thinking along those very same lines. Neither man realizes that there’s a couple of wanna-be cupids working to make things happen.
Part One: On DW | On LJ
__________________
Monday Evening
It was close to eight when they left the office. It was a steam bath outside, and the subway platform was worse. Neal grumbled as they waited for the train, “I must be getting old, because if this is the price to be paid for the morning nookie, I’m not sure I want to pay it anymore.”
“I don’t think our ‘morning nookie’ has anything to do with the heat wave.” He was mouth breathing, trying to avoid the fetid odor of a subway tunnel in late July. Despite the late hour, it was nearly ninety-five on the street and probably ten to fifteen degrees warmer here on the platform. The city may have made progress with cleaning up the mass-transit system, but the stench of decades was not easily scrubbed away.
At least the car was air conditioned and it was marginally cooler when they climbed out onto the tree-lined streets of the Upper West Side. Still, by the time they closed the apartment door behind them, Peter was soaked through his shirt, and Neal wasn’t in any better state.
They stripped and crowded each other in the shower, the water on as cool as they could bear. It might have turned into an encore of the morning’s activities when Peter remembered what was in his suit jacket pocket. He wasn’t a slob, but Neal was very particular about matters of wardrobe. “Even if you’re only going to wear Brooks Brothers, you’re going to have it tailored and you’re going to treat it right.” Which meant that Neal usually went through both their pockets every night, emptying them out and making sure that they were properly hung up or prepped for the dry cleaners.
If Neal got out of the shower before him, he’d probably make a beeline for their clothes. He’d find the box with the ring and all his plans for a romantic proposal would be ruined. Peter extracted himself from the cool shower and casually toweled off and left the bathroom. He wrapped the towel around his waist and retrieved his suit jacket from the floor. It would be suspicious if he hung it up, but timing was critical. The box with the ring went into the night table on his side of the bed, underneath the boxes of condoms and a half-finished book of old New York Times crossword puzzles. No point in putting it in the gun safe, since they were both in there on a daily basis.
He was in the process of picking up the rest of the scattered clothing and dumping them on a chair when Neal came out of the bathroom.
“Jeez, Peter - it’s been nearly thirty years and I still haven’t been able to domesticate you?”
He let out a small sigh of relief. “What can I say? I’m untrainable.”
“Hmmm, at least in certain things.” Neal went through the evening ritual and in a few minutes there was a pile of wallets, badges, ID folders and spare change on the dresser. The guns and clips were locked away and both of their suits, shirts and ties were bagged for the cleaners.
Peter stood there, mostly dry, mostly naked and stupidly happy.
“What?” Neal looked up from what he was doing - putting on a ratty pair of shorts and a worn tee-shirt that might date back to his Academy days.
“Nothing.” Peter just pulled on a pair of gym shorts and didn’t bother with underwear - it was nearly nine and they’d be in bed in another hour.
Supper was foraged from leftovers - they shared the remainder of a cold pasta dish and some salad. Not the most filling, but it was way too late and far too hot to think about a more substantial meal.
Neal flipped through the mail, sorting into the usual piles of to-be-dealt with and to-be-tossed. Something must have caught his interest, because a sharp bark of laugher interrupted Peter’s attempts to finish the Sunday Times crossword puzzle. “Care to share?”
“Another offer for this place.”
“Ah - how much this time?”
“Seven point eight. Cash.”
“Are you interested?”
“Not me – us.”
“Okay, are we interested?”
“Do you want to move?”
“Not particularly. But it’s a nice chunk of change.”
Neal gave him that look, the one that reminded him not to be stupid about certain things. “We don’t need the money and I’m not interested in moving either.” He ripped the letter in half and quarters and eighths and deposited the little pieces of paper into the envelope it originally came in.
They didn’t argue much. Over thirty years together and there had been only a few serious fights. They had each done stupid things in their partnership, and Peter reflexively rubbed the scar on his chest thinking about one of them in particular, but getting into serious arguments was not part of their makeup.
Unless it was about Neal’s money.
They had joint wills, their salaries were deposited into a joint bank account and expenses were shared like any couple. Except that Neal had a net worth in the hundreds of millions of dollars now. Over the past decade, he had started selling off the late Vincent Adler's New York City real estate holdings: dozens of luxury apartments that hadn’t been on the market for decades. He had inherited half of them when Adler died and the other half when his mother passed away. Residential real estate in New York City was better that gold these days. And considering the price of gold ...
This particular apartment, a four-bedroom duplex in a pre-War building on Riverside Drive, was probably the last of Adler’s properties in the city that Neal hadn’t disposed of. It had been their home since Neal graduated Quantico, and one of the few serious arguments they had in the last decade was Neal’s insistence on having Peter’s name added to the title.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want an equal stake; it was just that he kept thinking that this was something he hadn’t earned. They hadn’t shouted at each other, but when Neal had turned from him in anger, the words sort of tumbled out of Peter’s mouth.
Peter sighed at the memory. After that vehement declaration, he had no choice but to give in. When they signed the papers at the attorney’s office, Neal kicked his ankle like they were in grade school. “You know, it actually doesn’t matter. You’ll get everything anyway.”
He remembered the brief moment of rage - how dare Neal talk about that so casually.
“Peter? Everything okay?” He blinked - something of that memory must have shown on his face.
“Yeah - just thinking about those assholes from Kansas City.” Nice deflection, Burke.
Neal grimaced, too. “Yeah. Have any ideas on how you’re going to run the case?”
“Not a honey trap, that’s for certain.” Now he was legitimately angry about the matter.
“No - you wouldn’t do that. Not ever.”
Peter was instantly soothed by Neal’s ringing affirmation. “Sorry - the thought is disgusting. Hetero or homo - my office doesn’t work like that.”
“Pity the rest of the Bureau doesn’t share your morals.”
He shrugged in reply and collected the supper plates and put them in the sink. Tomorrow would be soon enough to wash everything up. “What about your day? What was Helen so excited about?”
Neal leaned back in his chair, a swift grin brightening his face. “George Devore.”
“What does he want now? Wasn’t it bad enough that he kept you on your toes and on the road for almost three years?” He should have despised Devore for that, but Neal loved that chase and it was one of the few cases where White Collar and Art Crime had intersected. Devore had crossed into his territory with a series of spectacular bond forgeries, branching out from gallery heists and art forgeries. “Why is he back on the radar?”
“Supposedly a piece of Catherine the Great’s Amber Room may have surfaced - a music box. He says that it’s part of something huge.”
“Don’t tell me Devore has a lead on the entire missing room? Even the experts now admit it probably went up in flames when the British bombed Königsburg Castle.”
Neal shrugged. “Don’t know what he wants - but Helen went to Hawthorne Fed this morning to see him, and she’s thinks his information could be legit. Apparently there was a music box, and there were even color photos of it. It may have been taken from Königsburg before the bombing. I figure it’s worth a trip to the Tombs to see what else George has to say. Besides, I wouldn’t mind seeing George again."
Peter had to laugh. “You always had a soft spot for Georgie-boy.”
“Hard not to like him. The man might be one of the brightest criminal minds of the new millennium, but he doesn't have a vicious bone in his body. And you have to admit that the chocolate replica of that bronze medallion was nothing short of genius.” Neal turned his attention back to the mail. “Well, well - this is a surprise!”
He handed the thick, cream-colored card, an invitation by the looks of it, to Peter. “Diana Berrigan’s getting married. It looks like she and Christie are finally tying the knot.” Peter instantly thought of the ring hidden in his night table drawer.
“At noon, six weeks from next Sunday.” Neal chuckled. “Another one bites the dust. Bet you never thought, back in high school, that the reason why Diana nailed you in the ‘nads that time was because she preferred girls.”
Peter winced in embarrassment at the old memory. “Or maybe she just didn’t like me trying to feel up her tits.”
“Could be that, too.” Neal shuffled the to-be-dealt-with mail into a neat pile and tossed the rest. “Do you want to watch the ballgame?”
“Nah - no point in getting aggravated.” The slumping Yankees were playing the Angels in Anaheim. “Let’s just call it a night, unless you want to stay up?”
Neal leered at him, and to both men’s shock, the leer turned into a yawn of stupendous proportions.
Yawning in response, he dragged Neal back upstairs and into bed. The air conditioner hummed, keeping the room cool enough that he didn't mind Neal spooning against his back. Any thoughts he had about a casual marriage proposal evaporated in the need for sleep.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Tuesday
They had barely left the claustrophobic confines of Hawthorne Fed when Helen asked, "So, what do you think?"
Neal glared at her. She seemed way too crisp and bouncy for this late July heat wave. Or it could be that she was wearing just half the clothes he was. "I think you aren’t really dressed like an FBI agent. I could insist on a more traditional dress code, suit, skirt, hosiery, one of those blouses with the floppy bow at the buttoned up collar."
"You're only making threats like that because you're too much of a sartorial snob to skip the vest and the long-sleeved shirt with the French cuffs, even in this heat."
"I could also have you reassigned to the Cave for even suggesting that I wear a short-sleeved 'dress' shirt."
"If you do that, who will bring you your perfect, light-as-air cappuccinos?"
Neal had to admit that he was beaten. "All right, all right. You've got me."
"Well, what do you think? Is Devore onto something?"
Neal considered the question as they stopped at the intersection and waited for the green light. "Could be - the box is real. I'm going to reach out to a few CIs, see if they've heard anything."
"Want me to reel in Alex Hunter?"
"Yeah, let's start with her. If she's not in New York, see if Ryan Wilkes is around."
Helen stopped and Neal turned around. The waves of people on the sidewalk parted around them. "What's the matter."
"I don't like Wilkes.” Helen muttered. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but he disturbs me."
Neal tucked his arm into Helen's to get her moving. "You’re probably right to be wary. Ryan Wilkes is as close to a sociopath as we're ever likely to meet. But he's useful."
"He'd sell out his grandmother if he thought he could get something for her, and he probably has."
"Tell you what. You follow up on Hunter and then try to see if Gordon's been putting a crew together. I'll follow up on Wilkes."
Helen stopped again. "When did you turn Gordon Taylor?"
Neal sighed and dragged her along. "I wish I had. But there’s always chatter around him. About him. Nothing concrete, but we may be able to get some sort of idea of what he’s planning by who he’s recruiting."
"Ah - if Taylor's putting the right type of crew together, maybe he's after the box too. Then Devore's story carries more weight."
"Knew I kept you around for a reason, and it isn't just because you get me good coffee." They stopped in front of a downtown entrance to the subway. "We part company here - I've got some stuff to do."
"Stuff?" Helen looked around and Neal winced. They were at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-Seven Street. "You've got stuff to do on Diamond and Jewelry Way?"
"Yeah, and scram."
Helen didn't move, but her always mobile face lit up with an ear-to-ear grin. "You're going to do it, right? You're going to ask him?"
Neal rubbed the back of his neck, and was disgusted at the sweat that had seeped through his collar. So much for keeping this secret. "If you breathe one word - or you smile too brightly or make those weird little sighing noises around Agent Burke - it's not the Cave for you. It's the Resident Agent Office in Fairbanks. During black fly season."
Helen obviously didn't take his threat seriously. She continued to smile. "I wouldn't dream of letting this slip. Do you want me to come to look at rings with you? I could give you another point of view."
"Helen - Agent Burke and I have known each other longer than you've been alive. I don't think I need anyone's opinion on what he'd like."
She actually pouted. "But, diamonds!"
"Don't even start …" Helen had a habit of song-bombing him at inappropriate times, and he could see she was ramping up for a one-woman version of Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend.
"You're no fun." She pulled his briefcase off his shoulder. "I'll take this back to the office, because I'm just that nice. Even if you don't let me come engagement ring shopping with you."
Neal had to smile. "Go - I'll be back in the office in a few hours." He watched as she bounced down the steps of the subway entrance, disappearing into the crowd. He turned and walked up Forty-Seventh Street, dodging first a Hassidic diamond dealer who was probably carrying a few million in stones in his breast pocket, then a barker trying to entice customers into an air conditioned store.
His destination was a second floor office in one of the cramped buildings that lined both sides of the street. “David Hershkovitz & Sons” was painted in black and gold on the ancient shatter-proof glass. Neal's appointment was with Aaron, David's grandson, a man old enough to be his grandfather.
The man who buzzed him in was an old friend. Dov had been a classmate of Neal’s at Harvard Law, where they bonded over a mutual love of art and beautiful things. Dov had initially planned to escape the family business, but he had dropped out during their second year, after his father, Aaron’s only son, died. Neal always thought that Dov was much happier as a jewelry designer and diamond merchant than he’d ever be as an attorney
“You’re late!”
“You’ve been waiting?”
“Patiently, maybe?”
Neal hugged Dov and patted the man’s expansive belly. “You’re looking prosperous.”
“With four sons, three daughters, all geniuses, I’d better be prosperous. Just think of the tuition bills!” Dov pulled him into the back office, calling out, “Zayde, look who I found.”
Aaron looked up from a tray of sparkling white stones and took the loupe from his left eye. “You’re late.” Like his grandson, there was no real sting in the words.
“My apologies, Aaron. I hope I haven’t disrupted your busy schedule.” The words were practically a ritual.
“Feh, I’m eighty-five, what do I know from busy schedules? Come, sit.” Aaron turned to his grandson. “Get us some coffee and don’t give me any backtalk about the hour and what my doctor said about caffeine.”
Dov caught Neal’s eye and asked, “Still light, no sweetener?”
“Yes, please, and some of your wife’s rugelach, perchance?”
“Chocolate or raspberry?”
“A few of each?” Neal didn’t bother to disguise the pleading note.
Aaron casually swept the stones he was examining into a glassine envelope and Neal chatted with him for the few minutes it took for Dov to bring the refreshments.
The conversation continued as they finished the coffee and sweets. “So, now that you fegelahs have the right to marry, you’re going to pop the question?” Aaron leaned back in his chair and brushed the crumbs from his beard.
“Zayde!”
“Oh, hush. I’m sure he’s heard much worse.”
“But not from people who he calls friend, certainly?”
Neal didn’t take offense. “Of course I’ve heard worse, but your grandfather doesn’t mean any insult.” He looked at Aaron. “Unless you do? Intend to insult, that is.”
“Nah. Just pushing your buttons, as they like to say.” Aaron rolled his chair over to a small floor safe. “Any idea what you’re looking for?”
“Peter’s not the type to wear something big and flashy. And the stone has to be perfect – double D, VS1, VS2 at the worst.”
“You’re not asking for much, are you?” Dov chuckled.
“You’re supposed to have the best stones on the street. If you can’t source that – what are you still doing here?”
Aaron rolled back to the table, a small, black velvet tray in hand. “Flattery like that will get you everywhere.” He lifted the lid off the tray and angled a bright lamp over it. “Thought that one of these might be what you’d like.” There were just four stones there, four incredible bits of cut and transformed carbon.
Neal gasped. He knew diamonds, but these were exceptional, and not just for their brilliance. “They are like little shields – little FBI badges.” He picked up the loupe and looked to Aaron for permission.
He waved a hand. “Go ahead, I figured you’d be interested in something like this.”
Plucking a stone from the tray, Neal held it up to the light, almost dazzled by the fire.
Aaron commented, “Now, normally, I don’t like the fancy cuts. But these trillions seemed right for an FBI agent.”
Neal didn’t respond, he just kept looking at each of the stones. Two were set aside immediately – he didn’t like the cut of one and the other was too big. “Which would you pick?” He looked back up at Aaron.
“Hmm, that’s a tricky question. Those two stones are all but identical, and you couldn’t go wrong with either.”
“How much?”
Aaron looked to his grandson. Dov named a figure that made Neal smile.
“I meant for both stones.”
Dov gave a shout of laughter. “Usually, the question is the other way around.”
“Never know when I could use the second one.” Neal was already thinking about a wedding present.
“What about the setting?” Dov grabbed a sketchpad and a handful of catalogs. This was his forte. “White gold?”
“Platinum.” Neal countered.
Aaron left them; he was a diamond dealer, not a jeweler, and had little patience with this end of the business. It took the better part of an hour, plus the remainder of the rugelach and the coffee before they agreed on a design.
“How long?” Neal was figuring on two weeks, at least.
Dov shook his head. “For you, by Friday, noon. You can take Peter out to a fancy dinner on Saturday night and pop the question then.”
Neal arched a brow. “That seems a little quick.”
“Why complain? Are you getting cold feet?”
He was, maybe. But having the ring didn’t mean he had to propose the instant he saw Peter, right?
They talked terms; Neal handed over his platinum Amex, and signed the receipt. He took the unmounted stone, which Dov placed in a small leather envelope and put it in his breast pocket. He checked the time on his cell phone – it was too late to get to his bank’s safety deposit box. Neal just hoped that Peter wasn’t going to go rooting around the gun safe tonight.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Dov escorted Neal back to the front door and waited until Neal disappeared down the stairwell and out to the street. He went back into his grandfather’s office and flopped into a chair.
“Friday, before noon, eyniklekh?”
“It’ll be a tight squeeze, zeyde, but not impossible.”
“Well, here’s to hoping that Peter doesn’t pop the question before Neal picks up his ring.”
“That would be embarrassing – a happy embarrassment, though. Had I known that Neal was going to want to do the asking, too, I would have taken more time with the setting his bashert picked out for his mother’s diamond.”
“It’s a good stone, though?”
Dov shrugged. “Not as good as this one, but that’s not really what matters.”
His grandfather sighed. “You’re too much the romantic.”
This was an old argument. “And you’re not?” Dov leaned over, lifted up his grandfather’s yarmulke and pressed a kiss on the top of his bald head.
Aaron just laughed. “I’m a diamond merchant, I can’t afford to be.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter was mildly annoyed. He had hoped that Neal would be back in time for the planning session on this new boiler room case. Helen Chen was back at her desk, but there was no sign of Neal and he didn’t want to hold up his team.
He’d just finished giving the background of the known players when Neal slid into the conference room, leaning against the wall. The reflection from the monitors highlighted the sheen of perspiration on his face and made his eyes glow bluer.
There was something in Neal’s posture, the way his shoulders curved, the lift of his chin that made Peter think there was something up, but since he offered nothing – letting the younger agents take the floor – Peter figured that whatever it was didn’t relate to the case at hand.
Stephen Anderson suggested that they try to get an agent into the boiler room as a trader, which might get them a lead on who was pulling the strings. The scions of the Kansas City mob may have done this before, but if the intel they had was correct, the game was leveling up with the addition of a big time Wall Street player. Peter agreed.
“What about a two-pronged attack?” Neal finally decided to contribute.
“Go on.”
“Maybe we can get this crew to push a company we pick? One of the dummy corps we’ve used – they’re not listed on the stock exchanges, but according to the profile, Civella’s crew is pushing penny stocks.”
Peter liked the idea. “But how do we get him to take the bait – the company we’re pushing?”
The team tossed around ideas, but he could see that Neal had his own and was keeping it close.
“Okay – okay. All of your ideas are brilliant, but take some time and write them up – I want a report with your suggestions on my desk by close of business.”
Stephen ushered the team out – he’d lead a brainstorming session. Peter headed back to his office, and as he hoped, Neal followed.
“What are you thinking?”
Neal flopped into the guest chair, leaned back and put his feet up, a move calculated to aggravate, especially since Neal hated Peter’s feet on the furniture at home. He swatted at those feet more for form’s sake than anything.
“Well? What have you got?”
“What about a variation on what DiNapoli and Walter proposed?”
“Neal – I thought we were on the same page here. No honey traps. No seducing suspects.”
“But, what if the game wasn’t about sex, but money? What if we orchestrate a meet – using a wealthy investor who has some off-shore funds. He doesn’t want to handle the transactions directly, but he’s got a place to put them, maybe a company that’s flying below the radar? Maybe it’s something that could pop at any moment?”
Peter could see the merits. “And that investor wouldn’t mind if someone bought into that company around the same time, would cover his ass, so to speak.”
“And our bogus investor still wants some bona fides – wants to meet the big player – the man behind the curtain.”
“That’s good. Very good.” Peter was getting excited. “Who should we send in?”
“Me.”
His excitement died. “No – no.” And then, most emphatically, “No.”
“And why not?”
Peter didn’t like Neal’s tone; he didn’t like how Neal’s eyes went flat, the spark dimmed. He didn’t like the abrupt anger, the iciness too reminiscent of another time, a discussion about another undercover opportunity. This time, though, he wasn’t making the same mistake. “Because the idea of you anywhere near a dangerous mobster …”
Neal shook his head, still angry. “Peter – let’s not do this.”
“Neal – ”
He held up a hand. “There’s nothing in his file to indicate that Civella is dangerous or violent. And even if he was, it’s irrelevant. I think you’re forgetting that I’m a senior agent, fully qualified to handle myself in these situations. I have more deep cover experience than you, more undercover experience than you.”
“And you don’t think I don’t worry every damn time you go out there?” Peter tried and failed to keep his temper.
Neal refused to back down. “Lower your voice, Agent Burke. Remember who you’re talking too.” He got up to leave, but turned back before he opened the door. “There isn’t another agent that has the right background, the right mythology for this. I’m going to put this in the planning report for the operation, and I don’t expect you to take my name off it because …” Neal closed his eyes and sighed. “Because you love me, and you worry too much.”
“Neal …” He reached out.
“Don’t. I’m too pissed off right now. I thought we were long past this, Peter.”
Peter watched as Neal walked out, stiff with anger. Neal was right, of course. He wasn’t some inexperienced probie, or a CI too drunk on the exciting proposition of taking down a mobster. His partner was probably one of the most experienced undercover agents in the city, something that Peter was immensely proud of. So why did he just act like an overprotective asshole?
The view out of the twenty-first floor window brought no clarity, nor did the view over the bullpen. Stephen had Peter’s team working in groups, but Neal was engaged with Helen Chen, probably on the Devore matter.
He spent the rest of the afternoon filing reports, nearly losing his temper when Malloy called.
“Apparently you were extremely uncivil and unprofessional to our out-of-town guests yesterday.”
“They were a pair of knuckle-dragging homophobes, and I won’t tolerate that from anyone,” Peter snapped.
“Calm down, Burke. I said, ‘apparently.’ DiNapoli was all up in my face about how us New Yorkers are so politically correct that we’d rather let the fags run around naked than catch criminals.”
Peter took a deep breath. “And what was your reply, sir?”
“That had he said that in my presence, rather than on a phone call from a field office twelve-hundred miles away, he might have ended up with something a little harsher than an escort to the ground floor. And not to bother bringing this to the brass in D.C., they have better things to worry about.”
Peter wondered who replaced his boss with a human being.
“Burke, nothing to say?”
“Thank you, for a start.”
“Now – tell me about how you’re going to handle this case.”
He outlined the plan – to have an agent go in to the brokerage under-cover, and to have another agent get his hooks into Civella, and then into the supposed big-time Wall Street player.
“Caffrey’s the one for that job, you know.”
Peter closed his eyes, surrendering to the inevitable. “That he is.”
“He’s got the right background, the polish. His Nick Halden alias should be perfect for this operation.”
“Yes, you’re right. Of course it is.”
“Make sure that Caffrey’s kept it up to date, and if he has to work on it – now’s the time.” Malloy ended the call and Peter carefully replaced the handset on his phone. Nothing like being boxed in.
The rest of the day went slowly. Neal sent him a text that he’d be late coming home; he had to meet with someone. Under normal circumstances, Peter wasn’t the type of man to read into things, but there was something about this message, the terseness of it, that hurt him and pissed him off. Maybe because they worked in the same building, on the same goddamn floor, separated by less than twenty feet. There was no reason why Neal couldn’t stick his head in the door and let him know what was going on. No reason other than he was still angry at him and his “meeting” was nothing more than avoidance.
Except that Neal didn’t play games like that. He had a temper, yeah. But he wasn’t vindictive, he wasn’t cruel. He may not have wanted to talk to Peter, but he wasn’t lying. Neal didn’t lie to him, ever.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Funny how days that start out so promising can end so badly. Soaked to the skin, suit ruined, shoes ruined, Neal let himself into the apartment. The cool air sent a shiver through him.
“My god, Neal! What happened to you?” Peter must have heard the door open and came out of the kitchen to meet him.
“The heat wave’s broken. It’s pouring out.” Neal wasn’t surprised that Peter didn’t know about the change in weather. This was an old building, but it had new, sound-proofed windows.
“Are you all right?” Peter reached for him, but Neal stepped back.
“I’m okay, just drenched. No point in both of us getting wet.” He toed off his shoes and looked at them mournfully. Three thousand dollars’ worth of Italian leather was about to hit the trash can. But Peter intercepted them.
“Let me take care of this. Go change, before you get sick.” That was Peter, forever the mother hen.
Exhausted, Neal found himself wishing for Aunt Cathy and Uncle Joe’s suburban ranch as he climbed the stairs to the bedroom. He smiled at the peace offering on the bed. Peter had taken out his after-work clothes, a sweet and thoroughly bizarre gesture. He couldn’t remain angry at the man – not when love was the motivation for his stupidity.
He stripped to the skin, but instead of putting on the shorts and tee-shirt, Neal wrapped himself in his favorite haori, which Peter would inevitably tease him about. He hung up his suit – it was a mess, but maybe it could be salvaged; his dry cleaner had worked miracles before. If it wasn’t for the ingrained nightly ritual of emptying his pockets, he might have completely forgotten about the take-home portion of his purchase today.
Neal opened the small leather case and stared at the gem – almost mesmerized by it. He hoped that Dov would be able keep his promise. Suddenly it became urgent that he ask Peter to marry him, he didn’t want to wait a moment longer than he had to.
Why not ask him tonight?
Neal put it in the safe, tucked behind a box with his spare clips, figuring that there was no reason for Peter to be digging around back there. His Glock followed, its trigger nestling against the barrel of Peter’s gun in an NRA-approved version of big-spoon/little-spoon. He shut the door and turned the handle, the lock engaging with a tiny electronic beep.
Energized, Neal joined Peter downstairs, the words “marry me” on his lips. Only to find Peter in the kitchen, filling his ruined shoes with …
“Rice?”
Peter looked up, a proud but sheepish grin on his face. “Well, if it works for electronics, why not your shoes? Just need to keep changing out the rice before it gets too soft. And if it doesn’t work, well – you were about to dump them anyway.”
Strange as it sounded, he had a point. “I hope you’re not using my imported Arborio.”
That earned him The Look. But Peter did hold up the bag of Carolina’s as proof.
Neal opened his mouth, about to pop the question, but Peter spoke first. “About this afternoon – I’m sorry. It was a gut reaction – I know what you are capable of, I respect that, I’m proud of that. There’s no one I’d rather have at my back, no one I’d rather go through a door with.” He took a deep breath. “I’m just an overprotective idiot sometimes. Forgive me?”
All thoughts of a marriage proposal flew out of his head. That could wait. His forgiveness, his understanding, could not. “Always.” Neal reached out, wrapping his arms around Peter. The day wasn’t ending so badly after all.
Peter buried his face in Neal’s neck, the roughness of his late day beard scratching at the sensitive skin. The familiarity of nearly thirty years together hadn’t dimmed the spark between them one bit. He kissed Neal under his ear, a spot that never failed to send a dart of lust through him.
“Mmmm, you taste good.”
“I taste sweaty.”
“That’s what I mean, you taste good.” Peter rocked his hips against him, pressing him back against the refrigerator. The stainless steel was cool through the silk robe, a startling contrast to his lover's hot, hard hands, and hotter mouth. He kissed Neal, nipping at his jaw, moving back to his neck.
When he set his teeth against the muscles and tendons there, Neal’s arousal went into overdrive. Peter was in a mood, he was going to mark him, claim him. But while Neal loved that and he would wear the bruises with pride, it wasn’t want he wanted - now.
It didn’t take much to twist out of Peter’s hold.
“What?” Peter reached for him, confusion warring with desire.
“No – not like that, not tonight.” Neal pulled Peter back to him and spun them around, so that it was Peter’s back against the fridge, and he held him there with his knee. It didn’t matter that Peter was bigger, stronger – he wasn’t going to fight Neal. Not when it came to sex, and certainly not tonight.
“I want you.”
Peter laughed, rubbing his thigh against Neal’s erection. “I think that’s obvious.”
“No, you're not in charge.” Neal pushed his hand under Peter’s tee-shirt, lifting it up, exposing his belly, his chest – hard, smooth perfection. He set his teeth against one of Peter’s tight, dark nipples, biting down gently, a warning. Peter arched his back, pushing himself onto Neal’s mouth.
This was one of the few things that Neal could reliably use to take control away from Peter during sex. “You’re such a slut for this, aren’t you?”
Peter’s answer was to pull off his shirt and lean back against the fridge, arms above his head. Neal thought he looked like a slave awaiting his master’s pleasure, a concept he’d rarely associate with his dominant lover. He ghosted his fingers across Peter’s chest, the muscles rippling in wake of the sensation. Neal let them drift along his collar bone, coming to rest in his suprasternal notch, against the mole, where a small bit of perspiration pooled.
Neal used that moisture to dampen Peter’s nipples, which instantly puckered in the cool air. He tormented Peter a little more, blowing on the sensitive skin. Peter responded so beautifully, writhing against him.
“You just love that, don’t you?” Neal whispered against Peter’s skin, licking and biting at one of his nubs, his fingers pinching the other one. “Big guy like you, such a slut for nipple work.” God, did he just say that?
Peter laughed, and the laugh turned into another moan as Neal bit down again.
He stepped back and looked at Peter, eyes closed, chest thrust out, damp with his saliva, the soft fabric of his gym shorts grossly distended by his trapped erection. There was a growing patch of wetness there, too. He licked his lips. Yeah – he could go down on Peter, swallow him whole, suck that gorgeous cock until he came. He’d drink every last drop – but that really wasn’t what he wanted tonight.
“Strip. Now.”
Peter opened his eyes, confused at the harshness of the command. Neal didn’t let his joy leak out into a smile. Tonight, now – he was the one in charge.
“I said, strip.”
Peter started to smirk, but stopped as he met Neal’s eyes. He pushed his shorts down, as he kicked them away, his cock bobbed up and smacked against his belly. This time, it was Neal who smirked. He stripped too, shrugging out of his robe, casually tossing it on a nearby chair. “Don’t move.”
Neal’s own erection matched Peter’s for enthusiasm and altitude, but he wasn’t a leaker – that was Peter’s specialty, and to do what he wanted, he was going to need a little help. He reached for a bottle of olive oil that had been left on the counter. “There’s something to be said for kitchen sex.”
This time, Neal’s sternness couldn’t restrain his partner’s snark. “And you were worried that I’d use your precious Arborio?”
He looked at the bottle. It was a particularly expensive Frescobaldi Laudemio that he had found and had shipped home during a recent vacation in Tuscany. “You’re worth it.” He poured a small amount into his palm and stroked his cock. It felt so good; the extra viscosity was like another hand gripping him. He could just stand here and jerk himself off over Peter, but …
“Please.”
It wasn’t just the word; it was the look in Peter’s eyes. The need, the desire – that look that had been driving him crazy since they were both teenagers and seriously jailbait.
He pressed himself against Peter, hip to hip. Though Peter was taller, Neal was leggier, and their bodies met perfectly. He grasped Peter’s dick, pulling it tight against his own. He let go and allowed the lubrication do what it was supposed to. The sensation of their cocks riding each other was exquisite, just on the right side of painful. He grunted and pushed harder, a hand on each side of Peter’s hips, fingers digging into that hard ass before sliding back, into his crack.
Peter wasn’t passive, not one bit. He reached up and threaded his fingers through Neal’s hair, cupping the back of his head, bringing him in for a kiss.
Times like this, when Neal strove to control, when Peter forced himself to accept that control, their kisses were a battleground. Their mouths met, tongues and teeth clashing in desire. Neal bit down carefully on Peter’s lower lip, sucking it in and releasing it with reluctance. Peter took his revenge, swooping back in. He laughed, just a little. Peter had always kissed like a conqueror.
But Neal had the upper hand, stroking and pulling and holding Peter’s cock tight, thumb pressed against the slit, keeping them both on the edge of desire.
“Enough, enough,” Peter growled through his kisses.
“You want to come?” That was, in retrospect, a silly question.
Peter’s answer was to rock himself hard against Neal, his thigh rubbing against his groin. Neal let go and shoved back, grinding himself into Peter. They used each other, competing for each sensation.
Neal came first, because Peter refused to play fair. His hands slid down, cupping Neal’s ass and like an invader, without warning, he pressed two fingers deep into his hole, twisting and stretching. There was something to be said for the decades of familiarity; Peter hit his joy button immediately. Turnabout was fair play, and Neal reciprocated.
They held each other through orgasm, their panting breaths accompanied by the thrum of the air conditioner as it clicked on.
“Jeez, Caffrey…”
Neal smiled against Peter’s sweaty skin. “Is that a complaint, Agent Burke?”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“Good thing we don’t have to have make-up sex too often, I probably wouldn’t survive.” Peter murmured.
Neal, tucked into him, chuckled. “But what a way to go.”
“You could say that again.” They had all but stumbled up the stairs and into the shower, where Peter let Neal wash him, care for him. It wasn’t unusual, but after his authoritative performance in the kitchen, it felt right.
They were both naked – also not unusual – but Peter felt oddly vulnerable, like he had been walking on a precipice at night, unaware of the danger. His arms tightened around Neal, he buried his face in Neal’s curls, and sighed.
“What’s the matter?”
Peter swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
Neal twisted out of his arms and turned, sitting up. “Hey, it’s okay – I’m not angry anymore.” Neal reached out and caressed his cheek. “You love me, and on occasion you do stupid things because of that. It’s always been that way.”
Peter sat up, too, and turned on the light. “Yeah, but you’d think – after all this time…”
“Don’t ever change, Peter Burke.” Neal leaned over and kissed him. “I love you just the way you are.”
Peter groaned, it was a wonderful declaration, but now he was going to have that song in his head for days. “You did that deliberately.”
Neal’s chuckle was filled with an evil joy. “Well, I may have forgiven you, but there’s still a penalty to be paid.”
As long as they were up, Peter figured he might as well fill him in on the conversation he had with Malloy. “Is Nick Halden current? Anything you need to do to activate him?”
Neal had reached over to turn off the light, but stopped. “Peter?”
“Spoke with Malloy this afternoon, he told me to put you in play on the new case. Well, to put Halden in play.” Suddenly, Peter realized what a minefield he may just have just stepped into.
“Is that why you were so contrite?” Neal didn’t sound angry, just curious.
“No – I realized that I was behaving like an asshole when the words first left my mouth. It’s a habitual thing – which you’ve just so recently pointed out.”
“Yeah.” Neal relaxed against him. “Yeah.”
“So – is Halden up for the challenge?”
“He’s been in the Caymans the last few years, but I’ll bring him home. Any thoughts on how to set up a meet with Civella?”
“He’s got expensive tastes and he’s been staying at the Carlyle.”
“Then it’s shouldn’t be all that difficult – I believe that the Carlyle is Nick’s favorite hotel when he’s in New York. Such a hard life.”
Peter could see the wheels turning, could see Neal figuring out the best way to trap their suspect. The only thing his partner enjoyed more than solving a good art heist was working undercover, and he did have a rare talent for it. “Come on, put it away. At least until tomorrow.”
“Okay, okay. Turn the light off?” Neal snuggled down and stretched out under the covers. Peter complied and relaxed against Neal. Despite their conversation, he still couldn’t shake the unsettled feeling. Maybe it was time to do the asking, to fix their lives together once and forever.
Neal shifted and muttered, “You’re thinking too loud, Peter. Get some sleep.”
No asking now. Peter wanted this proposal to be at the perfect moment, not as a coda to an argument. This weekend, definitely.
Part Three: On DW | On LJ
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R (with the occasional NC-17 moment)
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Peter/Neal, many Original Characters, including Joe Burke.
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Expressions of Homophobia
Word Count: ~7,500 (~23,000 total)
Beta Credit:
coffeethyme4meArt Credit:
kanarek13Summary: In July, 2012, the Marriage Equality Act has been law in New York State for about a year, but there are forces arrayed throughout the United States to deny some citizens the civil right that most enjoy. Neal’s outrage over comments against gay marriage spark a sea change in him, and little does he know that his life-partner of nearly thirty years has been thinking along those very same lines. Neither man realizes that there’s a couple of wanna-be cupids working to make things happen.
Part One: On DW | On LJ
Monday Evening
It was close to eight when they left the office. It was a steam bath outside, and the subway platform was worse. Neal grumbled as they waited for the train, “I must be getting old, because if this is the price to be paid for the morning nookie, I’m not sure I want to pay it anymore.”
“I don’t think our ‘morning nookie’ has anything to do with the heat wave.” He was mouth breathing, trying to avoid the fetid odor of a subway tunnel in late July. Despite the late hour, it was nearly ninety-five on the street and probably ten to fifteen degrees warmer here on the platform. The city may have made progress with cleaning up the mass-transit system, but the stench of decades was not easily scrubbed away.
At least the car was air conditioned and it was marginally cooler when they climbed out onto the tree-lined streets of the Upper West Side. Still, by the time they closed the apartment door behind them, Peter was soaked through his shirt, and Neal wasn’t in any better state.
They stripped and crowded each other in the shower, the water on as cool as they could bear. It might have turned into an encore of the morning’s activities when Peter remembered what was in his suit jacket pocket. He wasn’t a slob, but Neal was very particular about matters of wardrobe. “Even if you’re only going to wear Brooks Brothers, you’re going to have it tailored and you’re going to treat it right.” Which meant that Neal usually went through both their pockets every night, emptying them out and making sure that they were properly hung up or prepped for the dry cleaners.
If Neal got out of the shower before him, he’d probably make a beeline for their clothes. He’d find the box with the ring and all his plans for a romantic proposal would be ruined. Peter extracted himself from the cool shower and casually toweled off and left the bathroom. He wrapped the towel around his waist and retrieved his suit jacket from the floor. It would be suspicious if he hung it up, but timing was critical. The box with the ring went into the night table on his side of the bed, underneath the boxes of condoms and a half-finished book of old New York Times crossword puzzles. No point in putting it in the gun safe, since they were both in there on a daily basis.
He was in the process of picking up the rest of the scattered clothing and dumping them on a chair when Neal came out of the bathroom.
“Jeez, Peter - it’s been nearly thirty years and I still haven’t been able to domesticate you?”
He let out a small sigh of relief. “What can I say? I’m untrainable.”
“Hmmm, at least in certain things.” Neal went through the evening ritual and in a few minutes there was a pile of wallets, badges, ID folders and spare change on the dresser. The guns and clips were locked away and both of their suits, shirts and ties were bagged for the cleaners.
Peter stood there, mostly dry, mostly naked and stupidly happy.
“What?” Neal looked up from what he was doing - putting on a ratty pair of shorts and a worn tee-shirt that might date back to his Academy days.
“Nothing.” Peter just pulled on a pair of gym shorts and didn’t bother with underwear - it was nearly nine and they’d be in bed in another hour.
Supper was foraged from leftovers - they shared the remainder of a cold pasta dish and some salad. Not the most filling, but it was way too late and far too hot to think about a more substantial meal.
Neal flipped through the mail, sorting into the usual piles of to-be-dealt with and to-be-tossed. Something must have caught his interest, because a sharp bark of laugher interrupted Peter’s attempts to finish the Sunday Times crossword puzzle. “Care to share?”
“Another offer for this place.”
“Ah - how much this time?”
“Seven point eight. Cash.”
“Are you interested?”
“Not me – us.”
“Okay, are we interested?”
“Do you want to move?”
“Not particularly. But it’s a nice chunk of change.”
Neal gave him that look, the one that reminded him not to be stupid about certain things. “We don’t need the money and I’m not interested in moving either.” He ripped the letter in half and quarters and eighths and deposited the little pieces of paper into the envelope it originally came in.
They didn’t argue much. Over thirty years together and there had been only a few serious fights. They had each done stupid things in their partnership, and Peter reflexively rubbed the scar on his chest thinking about one of them in particular, but getting into serious arguments was not part of their makeup.
Unless it was about Neal’s money.
They had joint wills, their salaries were deposited into a joint bank account and expenses were shared like any couple. Except that Neal had a net worth in the hundreds of millions of dollars now. Over the past decade, he had started selling off the late Vincent Adler's New York City real estate holdings: dozens of luxury apartments that hadn’t been on the market for decades. He had inherited half of them when Adler died and the other half when his mother passed away. Residential real estate in New York City was better that gold these days. And considering the price of gold ...
This particular apartment, a four-bedroom duplex in a pre-War building on Riverside Drive, was probably the last of Adler’s properties in the city that Neal hadn’t disposed of. It had been their home since Neal graduated Quantico, and one of the few serious arguments they had in the last decade was Neal’s insistence on having Peter’s name added to the title.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want an equal stake; it was just that he kept thinking that this was something he hadn’t earned. They hadn’t shouted at each other, but when Neal had turned from him in anger, the words sort of tumbled out of Peter’s mouth.
”What do you mean you think that you haven’t earned this?” Neal’s voice was icy, controlled, and Peter could feel the anger rolling off him in waves. “Do you think I had to earn it?”
Peter swallowed, it sounded so awful now. “No – that’s not what I meant – you know that.” It was more than thirty years in their past, and neither man could ever forget what had happened, and what almost happened.
Neal’s anger seemed to collapse, like a deflated balloon. “Peter, if you really feel that way, maybe this will change your mind.” He reached out to take his hand. “You absolutely earned this – you earned it when you invited me over to your house for dinner when Adler left me to find my way home after that Little League game. You earned this when you opened your front door at two AM, gave me orange juice and woke up your parents. You earned this – stupidly – when you dumped me in high school because you were afraid that you were another Vincent Adler.”
Neal paused, the emotions seething. But before Peter could say anything, he spoke again. “You earned this by being my life partner, by making me soup when I’m sick, by waking up next to me every single day and kissing me through my morning breath. You earned this because I love you and there’s nothing more important than that.”
Peter swallowed, it sounded so awful now. “No – that’s not what I meant – you know that.” It was more than thirty years in their past, and neither man could ever forget what had happened, and what almost happened.
Neal’s anger seemed to collapse, like a deflated balloon. “Peter, if you really feel that way, maybe this will change your mind.” He reached out to take his hand. “You absolutely earned this – you earned it when you invited me over to your house for dinner when Adler left me to find my way home after that Little League game. You earned this when you opened your front door at two AM, gave me orange juice and woke up your parents. You earned this – stupidly – when you dumped me in high school because you were afraid that you were another Vincent Adler.”
Neal paused, the emotions seething. But before Peter could say anything, he spoke again. “You earned this by being my life partner, by making me soup when I’m sick, by waking up next to me every single day and kissing me through my morning breath. You earned this because I love you and there’s nothing more important than that.”
Peter sighed at the memory. After that vehement declaration, he had no choice but to give in. When they signed the papers at the attorney’s office, Neal kicked his ankle like they were in grade school. “You know, it actually doesn’t matter. You’ll get everything anyway.”
He remembered the brief moment of rage - how dare Neal talk about that so casually.
“Peter? Everything okay?” He blinked - something of that memory must have shown on his face.
“Yeah - just thinking about those assholes from Kansas City.” Nice deflection, Burke.
Neal grimaced, too. “Yeah. Have any ideas on how you’re going to run the case?”
“Not a honey trap, that’s for certain.” Now he was legitimately angry about the matter.
“No - you wouldn’t do that. Not ever.”
Peter was instantly soothed by Neal’s ringing affirmation. “Sorry - the thought is disgusting. Hetero or homo - my office doesn’t work like that.”
“Pity the rest of the Bureau doesn’t share your morals.”
He shrugged in reply and collected the supper plates and put them in the sink. Tomorrow would be soon enough to wash everything up. “What about your day? What was Helen so excited about?”
Neal leaned back in his chair, a swift grin brightening his face. “George Devore.”
“What does he want now? Wasn’t it bad enough that he kept you on your toes and on the road for almost three years?” He should have despised Devore for that, but Neal loved that chase and it was one of the few cases where White Collar and Art Crime had intersected. Devore had crossed into his territory with a series of spectacular bond forgeries, branching out from gallery heists and art forgeries. “Why is he back on the radar?”
“Supposedly a piece of Catherine the Great’s Amber Room may have surfaced - a music box. He says that it’s part of something huge.”
“Don’t tell me Devore has a lead on the entire missing room? Even the experts now admit it probably went up in flames when the British bombed Königsburg Castle.”
Neal shrugged. “Don’t know what he wants - but Helen went to Hawthorne Fed this morning to see him, and she’s thinks his information could be legit. Apparently there was a music box, and there were even color photos of it. It may have been taken from Königsburg before the bombing. I figure it’s worth a trip to the Tombs to see what else George has to say. Besides, I wouldn’t mind seeing George again."
Peter had to laugh. “You always had a soft spot for Georgie-boy.”
“Hard not to like him. The man might be one of the brightest criminal minds of the new millennium, but he doesn't have a vicious bone in his body. And you have to admit that the chocolate replica of that bronze medallion was nothing short of genius.” Neal turned his attention back to the mail. “Well, well - this is a surprise!”
He handed the thick, cream-colored card, an invitation by the looks of it, to Peter. “Diana Berrigan’s getting married. It looks like she and Christie are finally tying the knot.” Peter instantly thought of the ring hidden in his night table drawer.
“At noon, six weeks from next Sunday.” Neal chuckled. “Another one bites the dust. Bet you never thought, back in high school, that the reason why Diana nailed you in the ‘nads that time was because she preferred girls.”
Peter winced in embarrassment at the old memory. “Or maybe she just didn’t like me trying to feel up her tits.”
“Could be that, too.” Neal shuffled the to-be-dealt-with mail into a neat pile and tossed the rest. “Do you want to watch the ballgame?”
“Nah - no point in getting aggravated.” The slumping Yankees were playing the Angels in Anaheim. “Let’s just call it a night, unless you want to stay up?”
Neal leered at him, and to both men’s shock, the leer turned into a yawn of stupendous proportions.
Yawning in response, he dragged Neal back upstairs and into bed. The air conditioner hummed, keeping the room cool enough that he didn't mind Neal spooning against his back. Any thoughts he had about a casual marriage proposal evaporated in the need for sleep.
Tuesday
They had barely left the claustrophobic confines of Hawthorne Fed when Helen asked, "So, what do you think?"
Neal glared at her. She seemed way too crisp and bouncy for this late July heat wave. Or it could be that she was wearing just half the clothes he was. "I think you aren’t really dressed like an FBI agent. I could insist on a more traditional dress code, suit, skirt, hosiery, one of those blouses with the floppy bow at the buttoned up collar."
"You're only making threats like that because you're too much of a sartorial snob to skip the vest and the long-sleeved shirt with the French cuffs, even in this heat."
"I could also have you reassigned to the Cave for even suggesting that I wear a short-sleeved 'dress' shirt."
"If you do that, who will bring you your perfect, light-as-air cappuccinos?"
Neal had to admit that he was beaten. "All right, all right. You've got me."
"Well, what do you think? Is Devore onto something?"
Neal considered the question as they stopped at the intersection and waited for the green light. "Could be - the box is real. I'm going to reach out to a few CIs, see if they've heard anything."
"Want me to reel in Alex Hunter?"
"Yeah, let's start with her. If she's not in New York, see if Ryan Wilkes is around."
Helen stopped and Neal turned around. The waves of people on the sidewalk parted around them. "What's the matter."
"I don't like Wilkes.” Helen muttered. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but he disturbs me."
Neal tucked his arm into Helen's to get her moving. "You’re probably right to be wary. Ryan Wilkes is as close to a sociopath as we're ever likely to meet. But he's useful."
"He'd sell out his grandmother if he thought he could get something for her, and he probably has."
"Tell you what. You follow up on Hunter and then try to see if Gordon's been putting a crew together. I'll follow up on Wilkes."
Helen stopped again. "When did you turn Gordon Taylor?"
Neal sighed and dragged her along. "I wish I had. But there’s always chatter around him. About him. Nothing concrete, but we may be able to get some sort of idea of what he’s planning by who he’s recruiting."
"Ah - if Taylor's putting the right type of crew together, maybe he's after the box too. Then Devore's story carries more weight."
"Knew I kept you around for a reason, and it isn't just because you get me good coffee." They stopped in front of a downtown entrance to the subway. "We part company here - I've got some stuff to do."
"Stuff?" Helen looked around and Neal winced. They were at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-Seven Street. "You've got stuff to do on Diamond and Jewelry Way?"
"Yeah, and scram."
Helen didn't move, but her always mobile face lit up with an ear-to-ear grin. "You're going to do it, right? You're going to ask him?"
Neal rubbed the back of his neck, and was disgusted at the sweat that had seeped through his collar. So much for keeping this secret. "If you breathe one word - or you smile too brightly or make those weird little sighing noises around Agent Burke - it's not the Cave for you. It's the Resident Agent Office in Fairbanks. During black fly season."
Helen obviously didn't take his threat seriously. She continued to smile. "I wouldn't dream of letting this slip. Do you want me to come to look at rings with you? I could give you another point of view."
"Helen - Agent Burke and I have known each other longer than you've been alive. I don't think I need anyone's opinion on what he'd like."
She actually pouted. "But, diamonds!"
"Don't even start …" Helen had a habit of song-bombing him at inappropriate times, and he could see she was ramping up for a one-woman version of Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend.
"You're no fun." She pulled his briefcase off his shoulder. "I'll take this back to the office, because I'm just that nice. Even if you don't let me come engagement ring shopping with you."
Neal had to smile. "Go - I'll be back in the office in a few hours." He watched as she bounced down the steps of the subway entrance, disappearing into the crowd. He turned and walked up Forty-Seventh Street, dodging first a Hassidic diamond dealer who was probably carrying a few million in stones in his breast pocket, then a barker trying to entice customers into an air conditioned store.
His destination was a second floor office in one of the cramped buildings that lined both sides of the street. “David Hershkovitz & Sons” was painted in black and gold on the ancient shatter-proof glass. Neal's appointment was with Aaron, David's grandson, a man old enough to be his grandfather.
The man who buzzed him in was an old friend. Dov had been a classmate of Neal’s at Harvard Law, where they bonded over a mutual love of art and beautiful things. Dov had initially planned to escape the family business, but he had dropped out during their second year, after his father, Aaron’s only son, died. Neal always thought that Dov was much happier as a jewelry designer and diamond merchant than he’d ever be as an attorney
“You’re late!”
“You’ve been waiting?”
“Patiently, maybe?”
Neal hugged Dov and patted the man’s expansive belly. “You’re looking prosperous.”
“With four sons, three daughters, all geniuses, I’d better be prosperous. Just think of the tuition bills!” Dov pulled him into the back office, calling out, “Zayde, look who I found.”
Aaron looked up from a tray of sparkling white stones and took the loupe from his left eye. “You’re late.” Like his grandson, there was no real sting in the words.
“My apologies, Aaron. I hope I haven’t disrupted your busy schedule.” The words were practically a ritual.
“Feh, I’m eighty-five, what do I know from busy schedules? Come, sit.” Aaron turned to his grandson. “Get us some coffee and don’t give me any backtalk about the hour and what my doctor said about caffeine.”
Dov caught Neal’s eye and asked, “Still light, no sweetener?”
“Yes, please, and some of your wife’s rugelach, perchance?”
“Chocolate or raspberry?”
“A few of each?” Neal didn’t bother to disguise the pleading note.
Aaron casually swept the stones he was examining into a glassine envelope and Neal chatted with him for the few minutes it took for Dov to bring the refreshments.
The conversation continued as they finished the coffee and sweets. “So, now that you fegelahs have the right to marry, you’re going to pop the question?” Aaron leaned back in his chair and brushed the crumbs from his beard.
“Zayde!”
“Oh, hush. I’m sure he’s heard much worse.”
“But not from people who he calls friend, certainly?”
Neal didn’t take offense. “Of course I’ve heard worse, but your grandfather doesn’t mean any insult.” He looked at Aaron. “Unless you do? Intend to insult, that is.”
“Nah. Just pushing your buttons, as they like to say.” Aaron rolled his chair over to a small floor safe. “Any idea what you’re looking for?”
“Peter’s not the type to wear something big and flashy. And the stone has to be perfect – double D, VS1, VS2 at the worst.”
“You’re not asking for much, are you?” Dov chuckled.
“You’re supposed to have the best stones on the street. If you can’t source that – what are you still doing here?”
Aaron rolled back to the table, a small, black velvet tray in hand. “Flattery like that will get you everywhere.” He lifted the lid off the tray and angled a bright lamp over it. “Thought that one of these might be what you’d like.” There were just four stones there, four incredible bits of cut and transformed carbon.
Neal gasped. He knew diamonds, but these were exceptional, and not just for their brilliance. “They are like little shields – little FBI badges.” He picked up the loupe and looked to Aaron for permission.
He waved a hand. “Go ahead, I figured you’d be interested in something like this.”
Plucking a stone from the tray, Neal held it up to the light, almost dazzled by the fire.
Aaron commented, “Now, normally, I don’t like the fancy cuts. But these trillions seemed right for an FBI agent.”
Neal didn’t respond, he just kept looking at each of the stones. Two were set aside immediately – he didn’t like the cut of one and the other was too big. “Which would you pick?” He looked back up at Aaron.
“Hmm, that’s a tricky question. Those two stones are all but identical, and you couldn’t go wrong with either.”
“How much?”
Aaron looked to his grandson. Dov named a figure that made Neal smile.
“I meant for both stones.”
Dov gave a shout of laughter. “Usually, the question is the other way around.”
“Never know when I could use the second one.” Neal was already thinking about a wedding present.
“What about the setting?” Dov grabbed a sketchpad and a handful of catalogs. This was his forte. “White gold?”
“Platinum.” Neal countered.
Aaron left them; he was a diamond dealer, not a jeweler, and had little patience with this end of the business. It took the better part of an hour, plus the remainder of the rugelach and the coffee before they agreed on a design.
“How long?” Neal was figuring on two weeks, at least.
Dov shook his head. “For you, by Friday, noon. You can take Peter out to a fancy dinner on Saturday night and pop the question then.”
Neal arched a brow. “That seems a little quick.”
“Why complain? Are you getting cold feet?”
He was, maybe. But having the ring didn’t mean he had to propose the instant he saw Peter, right?
They talked terms; Neal handed over his platinum Amex, and signed the receipt. He took the unmounted stone, which Dov placed in a small leather envelope and put it in his breast pocket. He checked the time on his cell phone – it was too late to get to his bank’s safety deposit box. Neal just hoped that Peter wasn’t going to go rooting around the gun safe tonight.
Dov escorted Neal back to the front door and waited until Neal disappeared down the stairwell and out to the street. He went back into his grandfather’s office and flopped into a chair.
“Friday, before noon, eyniklekh?”
“It’ll be a tight squeeze, zeyde, but not impossible.”
“Well, here’s to hoping that Peter doesn’t pop the question before Neal picks up his ring.”
“That would be embarrassing – a happy embarrassment, though. Had I known that Neal was going to want to do the asking, too, I would have taken more time with the setting his bashert picked out for his mother’s diamond.”
“It’s a good stone, though?”
Dov shrugged. “Not as good as this one, but that’s not really what matters.”
His grandfather sighed. “You’re too much the romantic.”
This was an old argument. “And you’re not?” Dov leaned over, lifted up his grandfather’s yarmulke and pressed a kiss on the top of his bald head.
Aaron just laughed. “I’m a diamond merchant, I can’t afford to be.”
Peter was mildly annoyed. He had hoped that Neal would be back in time for the planning session on this new boiler room case. Helen Chen was back at her desk, but there was no sign of Neal and he didn’t want to hold up his team.
He’d just finished giving the background of the known players when Neal slid into the conference room, leaning against the wall. The reflection from the monitors highlighted the sheen of perspiration on his face and made his eyes glow bluer.
There was something in Neal’s posture, the way his shoulders curved, the lift of his chin that made Peter think there was something up, but since he offered nothing – letting the younger agents take the floor – Peter figured that whatever it was didn’t relate to the case at hand.
Stephen Anderson suggested that they try to get an agent into the boiler room as a trader, which might get them a lead on who was pulling the strings. The scions of the Kansas City mob may have done this before, but if the intel they had was correct, the game was leveling up with the addition of a big time Wall Street player. Peter agreed.
“What about a two-pronged attack?” Neal finally decided to contribute.
“Go on.”
“Maybe we can get this crew to push a company we pick? One of the dummy corps we’ve used – they’re not listed on the stock exchanges, but according to the profile, Civella’s crew is pushing penny stocks.”
Peter liked the idea. “But how do we get him to take the bait – the company we’re pushing?”
The team tossed around ideas, but he could see that Neal had his own and was keeping it close.
“Okay – okay. All of your ideas are brilliant, but take some time and write them up – I want a report with your suggestions on my desk by close of business.”
Stephen ushered the team out – he’d lead a brainstorming session. Peter headed back to his office, and as he hoped, Neal followed.
“What are you thinking?”
Neal flopped into the guest chair, leaned back and put his feet up, a move calculated to aggravate, especially since Neal hated Peter’s feet on the furniture at home. He swatted at those feet more for form’s sake than anything.
“Well? What have you got?”
“What about a variation on what DiNapoli and Walter proposed?”
“Neal – I thought we were on the same page here. No honey traps. No seducing suspects.”
“But, what if the game wasn’t about sex, but money? What if we orchestrate a meet – using a wealthy investor who has some off-shore funds. He doesn’t want to handle the transactions directly, but he’s got a place to put them, maybe a company that’s flying below the radar? Maybe it’s something that could pop at any moment?”
Peter could see the merits. “And that investor wouldn’t mind if someone bought into that company around the same time, would cover his ass, so to speak.”
“And our bogus investor still wants some bona fides – wants to meet the big player – the man behind the curtain.”
“That’s good. Very good.” Peter was getting excited. “Who should we send in?”
“Me.”
His excitement died. “No – no.” And then, most emphatically, “No.”
“And why not?”
Peter didn’t like Neal’s tone; he didn’t like how Neal’s eyes went flat, the spark dimmed. He didn’t like the abrupt anger, the iciness too reminiscent of another time, a discussion about another undercover opportunity. This time, though, he wasn’t making the same mistake. “Because the idea of you anywhere near a dangerous mobster …”
Neal shook his head, still angry. “Peter – let’s not do this.”
“Neal – ”
He held up a hand. “There’s nothing in his file to indicate that Civella is dangerous or violent. And even if he was, it’s irrelevant. I think you’re forgetting that I’m a senior agent, fully qualified to handle myself in these situations. I have more deep cover experience than you, more undercover experience than you.”
“And you don’t think I don’t worry every damn time you go out there?” Peter tried and failed to keep his temper.
Neal refused to back down. “Lower your voice, Agent Burke. Remember who you’re talking too.” He got up to leave, but turned back before he opened the door. “There isn’t another agent that has the right background, the right mythology for this. I’m going to put this in the planning report for the operation, and I don’t expect you to take my name off it because …” Neal closed his eyes and sighed. “Because you love me, and you worry too much.”
“Neal …” He reached out.
“Don’t. I’m too pissed off right now. I thought we were long past this, Peter.”
Peter watched as Neal walked out, stiff with anger. Neal was right, of course. He wasn’t some inexperienced probie, or a CI too drunk on the exciting proposition of taking down a mobster. His partner was probably one of the most experienced undercover agents in the city, something that Peter was immensely proud of. So why did he just act like an overprotective asshole?
The view out of the twenty-first floor window brought no clarity, nor did the view over the bullpen. Stephen had Peter’s team working in groups, but Neal was engaged with Helen Chen, probably on the Devore matter.
He spent the rest of the afternoon filing reports, nearly losing his temper when Malloy called.
“Apparently you were extremely uncivil and unprofessional to our out-of-town guests yesterday.”
“They were a pair of knuckle-dragging homophobes, and I won’t tolerate that from anyone,” Peter snapped.
“Calm down, Burke. I said, ‘apparently.’ DiNapoli was all up in my face about how us New Yorkers are so politically correct that we’d rather let the fags run around naked than catch criminals.”
Peter took a deep breath. “And what was your reply, sir?”
“That had he said that in my presence, rather than on a phone call from a field office twelve-hundred miles away, he might have ended up with something a little harsher than an escort to the ground floor. And not to bother bringing this to the brass in D.C., they have better things to worry about.”
Peter wondered who replaced his boss with a human being.
“Burke, nothing to say?”
“Thank you, for a start.”
“Now – tell me about how you’re going to handle this case.”
He outlined the plan – to have an agent go in to the brokerage under-cover, and to have another agent get his hooks into Civella, and then into the supposed big-time Wall Street player.
“Caffrey’s the one for that job, you know.”
Peter closed his eyes, surrendering to the inevitable. “That he is.”
“He’s got the right background, the polish. His Nick Halden alias should be perfect for this operation.”
“Yes, you’re right. Of course it is.”
“Make sure that Caffrey’s kept it up to date, and if he has to work on it – now’s the time.” Malloy ended the call and Peter carefully replaced the handset on his phone. Nothing like being boxed in.
The rest of the day went slowly. Neal sent him a text that he’d be late coming home; he had to meet with someone. Under normal circumstances, Peter wasn’t the type of man to read into things, but there was something about this message, the terseness of it, that hurt him and pissed him off. Maybe because they worked in the same building, on the same goddamn floor, separated by less than twenty feet. There was no reason why Neal couldn’t stick his head in the door and let him know what was going on. No reason other than he was still angry at him and his “meeting” was nothing more than avoidance.
Except that Neal didn’t play games like that. He had a temper, yeah. But he wasn’t vindictive, he wasn’t cruel. He may not have wanted to talk to Peter, but he wasn’t lying. Neal didn’t lie to him, ever.
Funny how days that start out so promising can end so badly. Soaked to the skin, suit ruined, shoes ruined, Neal let himself into the apartment. The cool air sent a shiver through him.
“My god, Neal! What happened to you?” Peter must have heard the door open and came out of the kitchen to meet him.
“The heat wave’s broken. It’s pouring out.” Neal wasn’t surprised that Peter didn’t know about the change in weather. This was an old building, but it had new, sound-proofed windows.
“Are you all right?” Peter reached for him, but Neal stepped back.
“I’m okay, just drenched. No point in both of us getting wet.” He toed off his shoes and looked at them mournfully. Three thousand dollars’ worth of Italian leather was about to hit the trash can. But Peter intercepted them.
“Let me take care of this. Go change, before you get sick.” That was Peter, forever the mother hen.
Exhausted, Neal found himself wishing for Aunt Cathy and Uncle Joe’s suburban ranch as he climbed the stairs to the bedroom. He smiled at the peace offering on the bed. Peter had taken out his after-work clothes, a sweet and thoroughly bizarre gesture. He couldn’t remain angry at the man – not when love was the motivation for his stupidity.
He stripped to the skin, but instead of putting on the shorts and tee-shirt, Neal wrapped himself in his favorite haori, which Peter would inevitably tease him about. He hung up his suit – it was a mess, but maybe it could be salvaged; his dry cleaner had worked miracles before. If it wasn’t for the ingrained nightly ritual of emptying his pockets, he might have completely forgotten about the take-home portion of his purchase today.
Neal opened the small leather case and stared at the gem – almost mesmerized by it. He hoped that Dov would be able keep his promise. Suddenly it became urgent that he ask Peter to marry him, he didn’t want to wait a moment longer than he had to.
Why not ask him tonight?
Neal put it in the safe, tucked behind a box with his spare clips, figuring that there was no reason for Peter to be digging around back there. His Glock followed, its trigger nestling against the barrel of Peter’s gun in an NRA-approved version of big-spoon/little-spoon. He shut the door and turned the handle, the lock engaging with a tiny electronic beep.
Energized, Neal joined Peter downstairs, the words “marry me” on his lips. Only to find Peter in the kitchen, filling his ruined shoes with …
“Rice?”
Peter looked up, a proud but sheepish grin on his face. “Well, if it works for electronics, why not your shoes? Just need to keep changing out the rice before it gets too soft. And if it doesn’t work, well – you were about to dump them anyway.”
Strange as it sounded, he had a point. “I hope you’re not using my imported Arborio.”
That earned him The Look. But Peter did hold up the bag of Carolina’s as proof.
Neal opened his mouth, about to pop the question, but Peter spoke first. “About this afternoon – I’m sorry. It was a gut reaction – I know what you are capable of, I respect that, I’m proud of that. There’s no one I’d rather have at my back, no one I’d rather go through a door with.” He took a deep breath. “I’m just an overprotective idiot sometimes. Forgive me?”
All thoughts of a marriage proposal flew out of his head. That could wait. His forgiveness, his understanding, could not. “Always.” Neal reached out, wrapping his arms around Peter. The day wasn’t ending so badly after all.
Peter buried his face in Neal’s neck, the roughness of his late day beard scratching at the sensitive skin. The familiarity of nearly thirty years together hadn’t dimmed the spark between them one bit. He kissed Neal under his ear, a spot that never failed to send a dart of lust through him.
“Mmmm, you taste good.”
“I taste sweaty.”
“That’s what I mean, you taste good.” Peter rocked his hips against him, pressing him back against the refrigerator. The stainless steel was cool through the silk robe, a startling contrast to his lover's hot, hard hands, and hotter mouth. He kissed Neal, nipping at his jaw, moving back to his neck.
When he set his teeth against the muscles and tendons there, Neal’s arousal went into overdrive. Peter was in a mood, he was going to mark him, claim him. But while Neal loved that and he would wear the bruises with pride, it wasn’t want he wanted - now.
It didn’t take much to twist out of Peter’s hold.
“What?” Peter reached for him, confusion warring with desire.
“No – not like that, not tonight.” Neal pulled Peter back to him and spun them around, so that it was Peter’s back against the fridge, and he held him there with his knee. It didn’t matter that Peter was bigger, stronger – he wasn’t going to fight Neal. Not when it came to sex, and certainly not tonight.
“I want you.”
Peter laughed, rubbing his thigh against Neal’s erection. “I think that’s obvious.”
“No, you're not in charge.” Neal pushed his hand under Peter’s tee-shirt, lifting it up, exposing his belly, his chest – hard, smooth perfection. He set his teeth against one of Peter’s tight, dark nipples, biting down gently, a warning. Peter arched his back, pushing himself onto Neal’s mouth.
This was one of the few things that Neal could reliably use to take control away from Peter during sex. “You’re such a slut for this, aren’t you?”
Peter’s answer was to pull off his shirt and lean back against the fridge, arms above his head. Neal thought he looked like a slave awaiting his master’s pleasure, a concept he’d rarely associate with his dominant lover. He ghosted his fingers across Peter’s chest, the muscles rippling in wake of the sensation. Neal let them drift along his collar bone, coming to rest in his suprasternal notch, against the mole, where a small bit of perspiration pooled.
Neal used that moisture to dampen Peter’s nipples, which instantly puckered in the cool air. He tormented Peter a little more, blowing on the sensitive skin. Peter responded so beautifully, writhing against him.
“You just love that, don’t you?” Neal whispered against Peter’s skin, licking and biting at one of his nubs, his fingers pinching the other one. “Big guy like you, such a slut for nipple work.” God, did he just say that?
Peter laughed, and the laugh turned into another moan as Neal bit down again.
He stepped back and looked at Peter, eyes closed, chest thrust out, damp with his saliva, the soft fabric of his gym shorts grossly distended by his trapped erection. There was a growing patch of wetness there, too. He licked his lips. Yeah – he could go down on Peter, swallow him whole, suck that gorgeous cock until he came. He’d drink every last drop – but that really wasn’t what he wanted tonight.
“Strip. Now.”
Peter opened his eyes, confused at the harshness of the command. Neal didn’t let his joy leak out into a smile. Tonight, now – he was the one in charge.
“I said, strip.”
Peter started to smirk, but stopped as he met Neal’s eyes. He pushed his shorts down, as he kicked them away, his cock bobbed up and smacked against his belly. This time, it was Neal who smirked. He stripped too, shrugging out of his robe, casually tossing it on a nearby chair. “Don’t move.”
Neal’s own erection matched Peter’s for enthusiasm and altitude, but he wasn’t a leaker – that was Peter’s specialty, and to do what he wanted, he was going to need a little help. He reached for a bottle of olive oil that had been left on the counter. “There’s something to be said for kitchen sex.”
This time, Neal’s sternness couldn’t restrain his partner’s snark. “And you were worried that I’d use your precious Arborio?”
He looked at the bottle. It was a particularly expensive Frescobaldi Laudemio that he had found and had shipped home during a recent vacation in Tuscany. “You’re worth it.” He poured a small amount into his palm and stroked his cock. It felt so good; the extra viscosity was like another hand gripping him. He could just stand here and jerk himself off over Peter, but …
“Please.”
It wasn’t just the word; it was the look in Peter’s eyes. The need, the desire – that look that had been driving him crazy since they were both teenagers and seriously jailbait.
He pressed himself against Peter, hip to hip. Though Peter was taller, Neal was leggier, and their bodies met perfectly. He grasped Peter’s dick, pulling it tight against his own. He let go and allowed the lubrication do what it was supposed to. The sensation of their cocks riding each other was exquisite, just on the right side of painful. He grunted and pushed harder, a hand on each side of Peter’s hips, fingers digging into that hard ass before sliding back, into his crack.
Peter wasn’t passive, not one bit. He reached up and threaded his fingers through Neal’s hair, cupping the back of his head, bringing him in for a kiss.
Times like this, when Neal strove to control, when Peter forced himself to accept that control, their kisses were a battleground. Their mouths met, tongues and teeth clashing in desire. Neal bit down carefully on Peter’s lower lip, sucking it in and releasing it with reluctance. Peter took his revenge, swooping back in. He laughed, just a little. Peter had always kissed like a conqueror.
But Neal had the upper hand, stroking and pulling and holding Peter’s cock tight, thumb pressed against the slit, keeping them both on the edge of desire.
“Enough, enough,” Peter growled through his kisses.
“You want to come?” That was, in retrospect, a silly question.
Peter’s answer was to rock himself hard against Neal, his thigh rubbing against his groin. Neal let go and shoved back, grinding himself into Peter. They used each other, competing for each sensation.
Neal came first, because Peter refused to play fair. His hands slid down, cupping Neal’s ass and like an invader, without warning, he pressed two fingers deep into his hole, twisting and stretching. There was something to be said for the decades of familiarity; Peter hit his joy button immediately. Turnabout was fair play, and Neal reciprocated.
They held each other through orgasm, their panting breaths accompanied by the thrum of the air conditioner as it clicked on.
“Jeez, Caffrey…”
Neal smiled against Peter’s sweaty skin. “Is that a complaint, Agent Burke?”
“Good thing we don’t have to have make-up sex too often, I probably wouldn’t survive.” Peter murmured.
Neal, tucked into him, chuckled. “But what a way to go.”
“You could say that again.” They had all but stumbled up the stairs and into the shower, where Peter let Neal wash him, care for him. It wasn’t unusual, but after his authoritative performance in the kitchen, it felt right.
They were both naked – also not unusual – but Peter felt oddly vulnerable, like he had been walking on a precipice at night, unaware of the danger. His arms tightened around Neal, he buried his face in Neal’s curls, and sighed.
“What’s the matter?”
Peter swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
Neal twisted out of his arms and turned, sitting up. “Hey, it’s okay – I’m not angry anymore.” Neal reached out and caressed his cheek. “You love me, and on occasion you do stupid things because of that. It’s always been that way.”
Peter sat up, too, and turned on the light. “Yeah, but you’d think – after all this time…”
“Don’t ever change, Peter Burke.” Neal leaned over and kissed him. “I love you just the way you are.”
Peter groaned, it was a wonderful declaration, but now he was going to have that song in his head for days. “You did that deliberately.”
Neal’s chuckle was filled with an evil joy. “Well, I may have forgiven you, but there’s still a penalty to be paid.”
As long as they were up, Peter figured he might as well fill him in on the conversation he had with Malloy. “Is Nick Halden current? Anything you need to do to activate him?”
Neal had reached over to turn off the light, but stopped. “Peter?”
“Spoke with Malloy this afternoon, he told me to put you in play on the new case. Well, to put Halden in play.” Suddenly, Peter realized what a minefield he may just have just stepped into.
“Is that why you were so contrite?” Neal didn’t sound angry, just curious.
“No – I realized that I was behaving like an asshole when the words first left my mouth. It’s a habitual thing – which you’ve just so recently pointed out.”
“Yeah.” Neal relaxed against him. “Yeah.”
“So – is Halden up for the challenge?”
“He’s been in the Caymans the last few years, but I’ll bring him home. Any thoughts on how to set up a meet with Civella?”
“He’s got expensive tastes and he’s been staying at the Carlyle.”
“Then it’s shouldn’t be all that difficult – I believe that the Carlyle is Nick’s favorite hotel when he’s in New York. Such a hard life.”
Peter could see the wheels turning, could see Neal figuring out the best way to trap their suspect. The only thing his partner enjoyed more than solving a good art heist was working undercover, and he did have a rare talent for it. “Come on, put it away. At least until tomorrow.”
“Okay, okay. Turn the light off?” Neal snuggled down and stretched out under the covers. Peter complied and relaxed against Neal. Despite their conversation, he still couldn’t shake the unsettled feeling. Maybe it was time to do the asking, to fix their lives together once and forever.
Neal shifted and muttered, “You’re thinking too loud, Peter. Get some sleep.”
No asking now. Peter wanted this proposal to be at the perfect moment, not as a coda to an argument. This weekend, definitely.
Part Three: On DW | On LJ
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