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elrhiarhodanTitle: It’s Life That Just Sharpens the Blade – A Wonder(ful) Years Timestamp – Part 2 of 3
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Art Credit:kanarek13
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey (Peter/Neal), OMC, OFC, Jack Franklin, Reese Hughes, AD Bancroft
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Extreme expressions of homophobia, use of homophobic slurs
Word Count: ~21,000 (~7,100 this part)
Beta Credit:coffeethyme4me, jrosemary
Summary: Set immediately after Neal’s graduation from Quantico (the story told in For the Ends of Being and Ideal Grace). Neal’s first days on the job at the White Collar division in New York are difficult. Life at home isn’t easy either.
Part One: LiveJournal | Dreamwidth
__________________
Jack Franklin dragged a hand through his hair, frowning. “Sorry, Peter. Didn’t mean to take you on a wild goose chase.”
It was nearly eight and Peter was tired and frustrated, but he didn’t let it show. “It’s okay. These things happen.”
They’d been out, trying to track down a witness for one of Jack’s cases. The guy had a history of violence and Franklin asked Peter to come with him as back up. Of course, the witness wasn’t in any of his usual haunts, and after four hours of fruitless searching, they headed back towards the office.
“I will pin this sucker down even if it’s the last thing I do.”
Peter winced. He wasn’t superstitious, but it was never a good idea to make vows like that, particularly about hostile witnesses with extensive gun collections. “I’m going to catch the subway and head home. See you tomorrow.”
“You sure? The least I can do for dragging you through three of the five Boroughs is to buy you a burger and a beer.”
Jack’s offer was temping, and last week, he would have jumped on it. But that was last week, when he didn’t have anyone to go home to. Tonight, Neal was there, waiting for him, probably eager to talk about the day.
“Thanks, but I’m going to take a rain check.”
“Sure thing. Next time we go out for Happy Hour, I’ll buy you a beer.”
“Sounds good.”
Peter turned towards the subway, anticipating the greeting he was going to get when he walked in the door. Even before Neal had headed to Quantico, there had been way too many nights when he came home to an empty apartment. Neal’s career at Drake Morrissey had been nothing short of spectacular, but that had meant long hours and many nights that Neal stayed in the city. There were days – if not weeks – where they barely saw each other.
Now, though … Now they’d have plenty of time to be together. Even if they pretended they barely knew each other at work, all Peter would have to do is look up and Neal would be there. He could go over to the file cases and listen to his voice. He could watch Neal shine and know that he belonged to him and only him.
He dropped a token into the turnstile and moved forward without checking to see that it was accepted. Of course it wasn’t and the bar jammed into his hips; any lower and he’d be in real pain. Peter glared at the damn thing, fished around for another token and came up empty. There was a transit cop guarding an open gate and Peter did something he’d normally despise; he flashed his badge and nodded at the gate. The cop nodded back and let him through to the platform.
At least there wasn’t a long wait for the subway. It was a short hop from Chambers to Union Square, where he transferred to the N train, which would take him into Queens. Home.
The rhythm of the train reminded him of the semi-argument he had with Neal yesterday. He knew that their apartment was a shithole. He had taken it before Neal had gotten transferred from DC back to New York. It was what he could afford on his probationary agent’s salary. Neal hadn’t said anything when he saw it, but Peter could read the disappointment in his eyes. He had taken home three times what Peter earned, but even that amount was a laughable pittance compared to the money that Adler left him. Neal could afford a lot better, but he knew that Peter wouldn’t accept any living arrangement where he couldn’t contribute an equal share.
It wasn’t so bad for the first few years, but the building changed hands and the new owner had little interest in providing even the basic upkeep. It wasn’t until new tenants moved in next door – a husband and wife and two children – that Neal had started pushing the issue. The kids were kids, a little noisy at inconvenient hours sometimes, but the father was a loudmouth who had taken an instant dislike to Neal. Other than a few sneers, he left Peter alone, but had repeatedly made rude gestures and comments to Neal, who did his best to ignore the behavior.
Had the guy been a drunk, an obvious drug user or overtly violent, Peter wouldn’t have hesitated to interfere, but he seemed okay with his family, if a little over-protective. He just had a strange, irrational hatred for Neal. Peter had wished that the guy would relax and forget about it when Neal was away, but that was apparently too much to hope for.
Last night, when they got back from Washington, he was in the lobby. He saw Neal and looked like he was about to explode. Neal didn’t say a word until the man left.
Neal didn’t say a word while they climbed the three flights to their apartment. He didn’t say a word while Peter unlocked the four deadbolts on the steel security door. Not a word while he changed out of his suit into more casual clothes. It wasn’t until Neal opened the lockbox and put his gun away that he said anything.
“This is going to end badly, you know that. Meeker’s insane.”
“He’s a bit crazy, yeah – but he’s not going to do anything. Come on – he’s got a wife and kids.”
“He’s also a raging homophobe.”
“Can’t you just ignore him?”
“You sound like an elementary school teacher – ‘just ignore the bully and he’ll stop’. It doesn’t work like that, and you know it. I have ignored him and I’ll keep ignoring him. Up until the point where he tries to take a bat to my head. I might just have to kill him, and then we’ll definitely have to move.”
Peter blinked. Neal was joking, but he wasn’t really. They dropped the subject in favor of what Neal should expect from his first day at the White Collar offices. Still, the issue lingered in the air like a bad smell.
He supposed that they could find a nicer place within his budget, now that he was making more money, but he could hear Neal’s argument as clearly as if the man was standing next to him. I own three dozen really nice apartments in Manhattan, it doesn’t make sense to rent any out here. Objectively, Neal was right – it didn’t make sense. Except that it meant that he would be living off Neal. It didn’t really matter that the apartments had been owned by Adler, what mattered was that he didn’t earn them – and that made it impossible.
They had reached an impasse. Neal pushed, but Peter refused to budge, knowing that Neal would eventually see things his way. And he did.
By the time the train pulled into his station, Peter was able to convince himself that there was no need to feel guilty about riding roughshod over his partner’s feelings.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It was impossible to pack all of his suits, so Neal picked three to last him through the week. He’d make arrangements to have the rest picked up on Saturday. He wasn’t coming back here, ever.
Neal just hoped that Peter would see reason.
Just as he finished stuffing some casual clothing into a duffle bag, there was a heavy knock on the door, followed by the brusque announcement: “NYPD.”
He checked the peephole. There were two uniformed offices with hands on their service revolvers. One of them banged again, demanding entrance, like they were about to arrest him. What the fuck? He took a deep breath and stepped back. Maybe they had the wrong apartment.
“Neal Caffrey, this is the police. Open up.”
Shit. They didn’t have the wrong apartment. That bastard, Meeker, must have called the cops, too. He unlocked the door and opened it, putting on a thoroughly puzzled look.
“Neal Caffrey?”
“Yes? What’s the matter, Officers?”
The older cop, a sergeant from the bars on her uniform, asked him to step into the hallway.
He was even more puzzled now. The only reason why they’d ask him to step out is if they wanted to arrest him. Neal declined the “invitation” and issued one of his own. “You can come in. I was expecting you - but not quite like this.”
They did, and Neal was careful to leave the door open. Before either cop could say anything, he took control of the situation, “Your names and precinct, please?”
“Sergeant Olivia Shattuck and Officer Mitchell Owen, out of the 114th Precinct. We received a complaint that you assaulted your neighbor, Anthony Meeker, and threatened to shoot him.”
A tic started in Neal’s right eyelid. “Actually, officers, I called 911 and filed a complaint. Mr. Meeker assaulted me – he tried to bash my head in with that –” Neal pointed to the piece of rebar on the kitchen counter. “I drew my weapon and told him I’d shoot him if he tried to kill me.”
“Your weapon? You admit to pulling a gun on your neighbor?”
“Yes, officers, I do.”
Both cops took up a more defensive position at Neal’s admission. “Please keep your hands visible, Mr. Caffrey.”
He complied, but decided to end this farce. “Actually, it’s Special Agent Caffrey, FBI.” He held up a hand, “May I?” The officers nodded and Neal reached into his pocket, taking out his ID folder and flicking it open.
The cops saw the gold shield and relaxed. Shattuck asked, “What’s your beef with Meeker?”
“I have none. The guy seemed to hate me from the moment he moved in.”
“He says that you …” She looked down at her note pad. “Approached his son and made lewd comments. That this wasn’t the first time.”
“I – I …” Neal was at a loss for words. “I have no idea what is going on in that man’s head.” He described everything that happened with the kid and the ball. 'I didn't say anything “lewd” to him,' he finished, feeling sick. He walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water. The water sloshed in the glass as his hand shook.
“You seem awfully nervous, Agent Caffrey. Why?”
He leaned on the counter. “I’ve just been accused of something unthinkable, officer. Something so horrific …” Neal couldn’t continue. His vision narrowed to a dark tunnel and he couldn’t breathe. He was twelve years old and Vincent Adler was trying to break into his bedroom…
“Sir? Sir? Are you okay?”
There was a commotion at the door, loud enough to break Neal out of his panicked fog. It was Meeker, jumping up and down and shouting, “You gonna to arrest that fairy faggot, right? You gonna die in jail, you filthy cocksucker!”
Shattuck flicked her head at her partner, who went to deal with Meeker, shutting the door behind him.
Neal took another drink of water, but it did nothing to wash away the sour taste of bad memories. At least it gave him time to compose himself. “I have never touched or approached any of Mr. Meeker’s children. If he says I have, he’s a liar. Any more questions, Sergeant?”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter had noticed the police cruiser double parked in front of the apartment building and idly wondered which of his fellow tenants were in trouble. He let himself into the building, picked up the mail because Neal never did - he claimed his key didn’t work - and headed up the three flights to the apartment.
There were times, particularly after long days, that Peter wished the building had an elevator, but usually, he was fine with all of the stairs. He spent so many hours at his desk, Peter reasoned that climbing the steps was the only exercise he was going to get most days.
He was flipping through the mail, and didn’t notice the uniformed cop standing outside his neighbor’s apartment door until he heard a familiar and angry voice – it was his neighbor, Meeker. The man was in handcuffs and arguing with a police officer. The look on his face sent a chill of dread through Peter and he rushed to his own apartment.
The door was unlocked and he entered, terrified at what he might find.
And was nearly overwhelmed with relief to see Neal standing at the kitchen counter, looking like shit, but otherwise fine. There was another cop there. Startled by his sudden entrance, she put her hand on her gun.
Peter held out his hands in the universal not-a-threat gesture. “Neal, what’s going on?”
“Meeker tried to kill me tonight.”
His answer drove and icy stake of fear through him. Before he could go to Neal, the cop stepped between them. “And who are you?”
He pulled out his ID and introduced himself. “Neal and I are roommates; I live here.”
The officer nodded and introduced herself. “Were you aware of problems between Mr. Meeker and your … roommate.”
Peter wasn’t too happy with her subtle emphasis on that last word, but he didn’t make an issue out of it. “Yes, I was. I am. Meeker and his family moved in about a year ago and he seemed to have taken an instant dislike to Neal.”
“And you – what about you?”
“He doesn’t seem to have a problem with me. I – we – had hoped that Meeker would forget about his imaginary beef with Neal while he was away.”
“Away?”
Neal answered. “I was in training at Quantico since November. Just got home yesterday.”
Sergeant Shattuck shook her head. “And on your very first day on the job, you threatened to shoot someone?”
“Neal, what the hell happened?”
“Like I said, Peter, he tried to kill me.”
“Mr. – Agent Caffrey claims that Meeker assaulted him with a piece of rebar.” That would explain why there was a length of the stuff on the kitchen counter.
“Are you okay?” It seemed like such a stupid question to ask.
“He didn’t hit me, but if I hadn’t I pulled my gun on him, he would have.” Neal shook his head. “My first day …”
Peter wanted to go to Neal, he wanted to wrap his arms around him and hold him, to erase that look of fear in his eyes.
“Agent Burke – I have to ask this…”
“What?”
“Mr. Meeker, when he made his own complaint, claimed that Agent Caffrey had behaved inappropriately towards his son. And that he had done it before. Do you know anything about this?”
Peter was stunned. Of all the things to accuse Neal of! Now he understood Neal’s shocked appearance. He took a deep breath. “I will say, categorically and under oath, that there is no truth to those accusations.”
Shattuck nodded. “Okay. I’ll file my report, but I don’t think this will go any further.”
“I saw that Meeker was in cuffs. Are you arresting him?”
Neal perked up at that.
“Owens probably needed to cuff him to get Meeker under control. But right now, it’s a case of your word against his, even if we can get prints off the rebar. And you know, if we arrest him, we’re going to have to address his accusations.”
“There’s no truth to them,” Neal lifted his chin, all but daring the world.
“No – but an investigation means that your private life is not going to be so private anymore. And while I’d like to think we live in a more enlightened age …”
Neal sighed, “Yeah, yeah – I get it. It’ll be big news how a pair of queers are FBI agents.”
Since there really was no further need to pretend anymore, Peter went over to Neal and rested a hand on his back, rubbing gently against the tight muscles. He looked at Shattuck, grateful for her understanding and discretion. “Is there anything else?”
“Stay out of Meeker’s way if you can. That’s about all the advice I can give.”
“We’re moving out of here, so it won’t be hard.” Peter didn’t visibly react to Neal’s sudden start, but guilt and grief at tonight’s near-tragedy twisted his soul.
Shattuck gave them both a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry that it’s come to that, but it’s probably for the best. Just be careful until you’re out of here, neither of you should come and go alone.”
“We’ll be leaving tonight.” Peter answered for both them. Neal gave him a look of utter gratitude.
Shattuck asked, “You’re staying with friends?”
“No – we have a place in Manhattan.” Neal wore a pleading expression on his face, begging him not to contradict. Neal continued, “It belonged to my family – we’ve been sorting out the details.”
“Okay – but give me the address, in case we have to follow up with you.”
Neal rattled off the Upper West Side address.
Shattuck closed her notebook and put it away. “I guess that’s it. Just take care.”
Peter escorted the sergeant to the door, locking it behind her.
Neal hadn’t moved, his arms braced against the kitchen counter like it was the only way to stay upright. He was still wearing his suit, but looked nothing like the bright and shining young agent who started work this morning. He was haggard, drained and Peter went to him, wrapping his arms around him, holding him close.
“I’m sorry, I am so goddamned sorry.”
“For what?”
“This is my fault – I should have listened to you.” The thought of what might have happened sent an icy shaft of fear through him. “I could have lost you because I was too stubborn, too stupidly proud.”
Neal finally relaxed, letting go and leaning into him. “Yeah, but you’re a smart guy. You learn from your mistakes.”
And just like that, there was forgiveness. Peter breathed in deep, letting Neal’s familiar scent fill his lungs. “You okay?”
“Yeah, now.” But Neal didn’t let go of him. “You know what I was thinking when I pulled my gun?” He didn’t wait for Peter to answer. “What the instructor at Quantico told us: ‘Never pull your gun unless you’re prepared to kill someone. Don’t shoot to wound, shoot to kill.’ If Meeker hadn’t stopped, I might have had to kill him.”
He held Neal just a little tighter. Neal lifted his head and looked into his eyes; Peter was taken aback by the pain, the vulnerability there. He was too accustomed to thinking of Neal as invincible. But he wasn’t. His partner, the love of his life, was as frail as any other human.
Stunned, raw and as needy, Peter kissed him. He could taste the sourness of fear and tried to give Neal back some of the sweetness, the joy that they had celebrated just a few days earlier.
They made their way into the bedroom, and Peter stopped short. There was a closed suitcase on the bed and a duffle bag on the floor. “Neal?”
“I wasn’t going to leave before you came home – but I couldn’t stay here.”
Peter wasn’t angry, just sad and upset with himself. “Yeah, I understand completely.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It didn’t taken Peter long to pack a few suits and other necessities; they were out of the building and in a town car in less than an hour. Neal took his bags down first, Peter at his back and the process was repeated with the roles reversed. It felt like they were leaving a war zone.
Neal didn’t relax until the car crossed the 59th Street Bridge and they got caught in crosstown traffic. Peter’s hand rested on top of his, and he was grateful for that simple physical connection. The car finally broke free of the traffic and they were at their destination in a few short minutes.
131 Riverside Drive was a universe away from the building off of Ditmars Boulevard and even though Neal hadn’t spent many nights here – just when he had needed to work until the early hours of the morning – it still felt more like home than the apartment in Queens. He wasn’t a snob, and rightfully, he should have rejected anything that had the slightest connection to Vincent Adler, but something about this place spoke to him, made him want to stay and never leave.
The doorman, sporting a red coat with brightly polished buttons and a name tag that said “Alvin”, rushed to open the car door.
“Mr. Caffrey – I got your message, the apartment’s ready for you.”
Neal smiled, grateful.
“It was a little too late to get a full grocery order, but the basics are there. Coffee, milk, juice, some fresh fruit. If you’d like, I’ll leave a note to have a dozen bagels delivered in the morning …”
He kept talking as he took their bags – nearly grabbing Peter’s out of his hand – and didn’t stop until they were inside the twelfth-floor apartment. He would have taken the luggage up to their bedroom, but enough was enough. Neal pressed a generous tip and stifled a grin as Alvin all but bowed to them and handed Neal the spare set of keys.
“Nice place,” Peter commented as he wandered around the living room.
“Do you think you could be happy here?” Neal held his breath on Peter’s answer.
“I still have my reservations –”
Neal’s heart sank.
“But those are my problems and I’ll work through them. Regardless,” Peter held out his hand to him.
Neal took it and let himself be drawn into his lover’s arms. “I just want you to be happy; I don’t want this to make you miserable.” He kissed Peter’s neck, his jaw, finally his lips.
“You are my home and you make me very happy.” Peter kissed him back, gentle at first, then with the hunger that Neal loved and never failed to respond to. His mouth was invaded, but Peter was a welcome conqueror.
He mewled, rubbing himself against Peter – wanting, always wanting, always needing this - the roughness, the urgency. His hands worked their way under Peter’s suit jacket, pulling at his shirt, getting tangled in the leather straps of his shoulder rig. Peter held him still, cupping his head, his fingers rough and firm against his skull.
“Need you, now. Need you naked.”
Peter let go of him long enough for them both to strip. Need, desire rode him so hard that Neal couldn’t think of anything but his skin against Peter’s as he tossed his jacket aside, pulled off his own shoulder harness, ripped off his tie. He toed off his shoes and before he could get his pants off, Peter had pushed him back against the wall, pinning him there with his hips while he stripped, too.
“We’re going to christen this place and we’re going to do it in every damned room.” Peter growled as he pulled Neal’s pants open then shoved his own down. Their cocks rode against each other, their mingled pre-come the only lube they needed.
Neal wrapped a leg around Peter, his strong thigh pulling them even closer. He reveled in the harshness of this coupling, riding Peter like he was creature made just for his own pleasure. The friction was gorgeous, just on the right side of pain as Neal wrapped his hand around their cocks, stroking and pulling in desperate urgency.
Peter’s head was pressed into his neck, his grunting, straining breaths another goad, and instead of kissing him, Neal bit down on his neck, hard. Peter came in a hot, almost scalding rush, against his belly. The desperate frotting slowed to something richer, more sensual as Peter rubbed himself against Neal’s still aching erection.
“Make me come, please.”
Peter laughed; a breathy and delighted exhalation. “Oh, yes - I’m going to make you come until you’re blind from it.”
Neal whimpered and leaned back against the wall as Peter went to his knees, kissing his belly, licking the come and sweat, his tongue teasing the taut skin at the edge of his pubes, avoiding his aching cock. The torment was perfect and excruciating, a most refined torture and Neal whimpered again. Peter blew a stream of hot air across the head of his cock; it jerked harder against his belly. Neal thrust his hips forward, as if he were trying to copulate with the air.
“Peter… I need you.”
Maybe it was those last three words that made Peter stop teasing him. He took as much of Neal’s cock into his mouth as he could, trying to give as much pleasure as he could. It was sloppy, without the finesse that Peter usually displayed, but Neal didn’t care. He was too aroused to appreciate any sort of artistry. Peter tried to deep-throat him and gagged, but he wouldn’t let Neal pull back, he just kept going for more and more until the heat and the pressure and the sensation of tongue and lips and hands and yes - even teeth - drove him over the edge.
Neal’s world became an infinity of brilliance as his orgasm erupted. Peter caught him as his knees gave out and the both ended up on the floor.
“You okay?” Peter cradled him in his arms, and Neal never felt safer.
“Mmmm.” He buried his face in Peter’s neck, nuzzling against the crescent-shaped bruise his teeth had left.
Neal wasn’t sure how long they remained on the floor - it could have been a few minutes or a few hours. The time passed in a daze of post-orgasmic bliss.
“Is there a bed or are we going to spend the night on the floor?”
“There’s a bed upstairs.” Neal wasn’t sure he wanted to move.
“Come on.” Peter got to his feet, pulled his pants over his hips and zipped up. “Come on,” he repeated and held out a hand. Neal grasped it and let Peter help him upright. Except that he was caught up in his own come-damp clothing.
“Lean on me.” Peter held him still and managed to get everything straightened out.
Neal clung to him; he was still a little dizzy - the day and its highs and lows had taken its toll. He had to smile when he spotted his gun and holster, tangled with Peter’s and their jackets. “We’d get thrown out of the Academy for such careless firearms handling.” He bent over to pick them up and nearly ended up back on the floor.
“You don’t know how to listen, Caffrey, do you?” Peter growled as he steadied him. “I’ve got this.” Peter scooped up the clothing and weapons and shoulder rigs. “Now, where’s our bedroom?”
The master bedroom was on the duplex’s second floor - almost as large as their entire apartment in Long Island City.
Peter whistled in appreciation.
“Like it?”
“What’s not to like?” Peter went over to the bank of windows and looked out – Riverside Park was dark, but they were on a high enough floor that the river traffic and the necklace of lights on the George Washington Bridge were visible. “Definitely a better view than the Park n’ Lock on Ditmars.”
Neal went to take care of their clothes and couldn’t help but grimace at the mess he - well, he and Peter - had made of them. He took off his shirt; cuff links and tie bar went into the leather valet on the dresser. The shirt itself was a lost cause, which was a pity since it was brand new. He had to smile at that thought. Was it only a few hours ago that he was fighting for his life?
There was a small safe in the closet - not as convenient as the gun safe at the other apartment, but it would have to do for the night. He removed the clips from both his and Peter’s firearms and winced when he saw that he’d never re-engaged the safety after his encounter with Meeker.
He came out of the closet, naked as the day he was born. Peter was still standing at the window and from the curve of his shoulders, Neal could tell that he was brooding. They’d known each other long enough that he understood that it was best to let Peter have his quiet moment. Neal set the alarm clock, went to the bathroom and took a quick shower.
Peter was still standing at the window when Neal came out. The time for brooding was over and he wrapped his arms around Peter’s waist and leaned his head against his shoulders. “Come on, let’s get some sleep.”
“Yeah - it’s been a day, hasn’t it?” Peter turned around in his arms and rested against him. Neal could feel the weariness radiating from him.
Just as Peter had taken care of him before, Neal took care of Peter, stripping him to his skin. He pulled back the bedcovers and pushed Peter down. “Time for sleep. Tomorrow will be here soon enough.” He got into bed, on the same side of the bed he had been sleeping on since college. No matter the address, this was just the way things were.
Peter pulled him close and Neal turned to him, finding the comfort and peace he never wanted to be without.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The scent of good coffee worked its way into Peter’s sleeping consciousness and he opened his eyes. Neal was there, so close that his smile filled Peter’s entire field of vision.
“Good morning.”
Peter blinked, chasing away his sleep-wrought confusion. Neal pressed a soft kiss on Peter’s lips, then held a cup of coffee under his nose. The fragrant brew smelled almost as good Neal, fresh from the shower. He sat up and drained the cup. It was as perfect as any coffee he ever tasted, and a splendid way to wake up. “What time is it?”
Neal took the cup and sat down on the edge of the bed. “A little after six. You’ve got some time yet.”
Peter groaned and stretched and tossed back the covers. “No, not really. I’ve got a meeting at eight with an informant at Pederson Weller Kline - he’s supposed to bring me proof of insider trading activity at the firm.” He looked at Neal, a picture of sartorial elegance in a navy pinstriped suit, ice-blue power tie and pristine white shirt. “You okay?”
“Yeah - I guess.”
“You were a bit restless last night.”
“My brain wouldn’t turn off - I kept thinking about what could have happened.” Neal’s smile became strained. “I would have killed him.”
“Don’t think about it like that. You did what you were trained to do. Meeker really is nothing more than a grown-up version of a playground bully - the minute you showed that you were stronger, more powerful, he backed down.”
“I’m not so sure - Philip Kramer never tried to smash an iron bar into anyone’s head.”
Peter chuckled. “Neal - it’s over. We’re safe, we’ll never see the SOB again, okay?” He rested a hand on Neal’s shoulder, trying to ease his tension.
Neal finally sighed, “Okay. But we’re going to have to go back - we’ve got to clean out the apartment, get the rest of our stuff.”
“Don’t worry about that - I’ll take care of it. You don’t have to go back there.”
“You?”
“Yeah me. Don’t be so skeptical.” Peter was going to call his dad and see if he could get a few guys from his crew to help get everything packed up and moved out. “Trust me.”
It didn’t take long for him to shower, shave and dress, even though he stopped to admire the bruise Neal’s teeth had left on his neck. He pulled his tie tight against his collar, sorry he had to hide it.
Peter followed his nose - the scent of more coffee took him into the kitchen. Neal was leaning against a counter, mug in one hand, New York Times in the other.
There was half a pot left. Peter poured himself another cup and snagged the sports section, not that there was any joy in Mudville. Peter and his dad had missed Opening Day, a Burke tradition, but the way the Yankees were playing, it didn’t matter. Might as well be a Mets fan.
They stood there, leaning against the counter because the kitchen had no furniture. It was a beautiful space, with dark wood cabinets, lots of modern appliances and if he wasn’t mistaken, the countertops were the same freakishly expensive material that his mother had wanted to use when she had the kitchen redone. Peter couldn’t see the ratty table and chairs that they had in the old place (and wasn’t it funny, how after just one night here, the apartment they shared for more than three years was the “old place”) fitting in here. Hell, all of the furniture in that place was probably destined for a Dumpster. None of it was the least bit suitable for any place in this ZIP code.
“Whatever you are thinking can’t be too pleasant.” Neal folded up his section of the newspaper and put his cup in the sink.
Peter deflected, “Just about all the crap I’ve got to wade through with this case.” He rinsed out his cup and Neal’s, putting both of them on the counter. “And by the way, thanks for the translations –”
“Shit – with everything, I completely forgot to tell you.”
As they left the apartment, Neal told him about the smoking gun he found. Peter was skeptical. “Probies don’t solve cases on their first days – not even stars like you.”
Neal rolled his eyes and ignored his compliment. “That’s what Hughes said, too. But when I showed him …”
Peter listened and the skepticism gave way to amazement and the tiniest touch of resentment. Neal must have read some of that on his face, or from his body language. They boarded the subway and as the train picked up speed, Neal grew quiet.
He realized that he was being a total ass – he wouldn’t have felt like this if Language Services had translated the document. “Good work, Neal.”
Neal’s face lit up at this compliment. “Thanks. Hughes told me to concentrate on getting the rest of the orders translated. I’ll try to finish them today or tomorrow.”
“You know that once it gets around that you’re polylingual, you’re going to be inundated with requests. You’ll wish that you’d be asked to fetch coffee, instead.”
“There’s a lot of translation work? A lot of foreign stuff?”
“Yeah.” They talked about the globalization of the financial markets until the train pulled into the City Hall station, just a few blocks away from the FBI building. Once they reached the street, Neal turned right, heading for the office. Peter watched him until he disappeared into the crowd, before heading towards Chinatown for his meeting.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal wondered if he should say anything about what happened last night to Agent Hughes, drawing his weapon on a civilian was a big deal and if word got back to the Bureau... While he was concerned about what might happen if he didn’t report it, Neal was more worried about what would happen if he did. Because someone was bound to ask why Anthony Meeker hated him enough to try and bash his brains in, and Neal wasn’t at all prepared for the inevitable disclosures that would follow.
So he figured that keeping quiet would be best – if Hughes did find out, Neal would plead ignorance of the rules, take a rap on the knuckles and move on.
Throughout the early morning, he kept his head down, working on the translations for Peter. It was a tedious process and more than once he snuck a look at the Sullivan S&L file, even though Hughes downgraded the priority.
Agents had started to migrate to the conference room for the regular morning meeting when Peter returned. There was a satisfied look on his face, which meant that his informant delivered. Neal couldn’t wait to hear about it – he couldn’t wait to see Peter shine.
He grabbed his notes, a pad and pen and headed to the conference room. Even though there were seats available today, Neal understood hierarchy. Until invited otherwise, he’d stand against the wall.
The routine was the same as yesterday’s; Agent Hughes went around the room, grilling each agent about the progress they’d made on open cases. It was Peter’s turn, finally, and yes – he had come up aces with his informant.
“Good work, Agent Burke. Since you just got back, Caffrey hasn’t had the chance to brief you on what he found last night. Agent Caffrey?”
While Neal thoroughly enjoyed the title, he didn’t relish being the center of attention, particularly of this group. But he wasn’t Neal George Caffrey for nothing. He’d presented arguments before the New York Court of Appeals and these agents had nothing on the seven august judges who grilled him.
He ordered his thoughts and repeated the information he’d already told Peter, who took notes, nodded and thanked him.
Agent Grainger gave him a suspicious look, but it was Agent Franklin who asked, “And how many languages are you fluent in, Caffrey?”
Neal noticed that his title was deliberately omitted. He was also mindful of Peter’s warning that he’d become inundated with translation work if he wasn’t careful. That didn’t stop him from telling the truth. “I’m fluent in six, seven if you count Russian, but my accent is terrible and I don’t have any idiom.” There were a few doubtful sneers on some of the agents’ faces and Neal figured, why the hell not. “My Portuguese as passable, as is my command of Romanian. And if you ever need a new translation of Beowulf or Caedamon’s Hymn, I know enough Old West Saxon to help you out.”
The room went silent and Neal found himself in a stare-down contest with Jack Franklin. The older agent gave him a small smile, nodded his head and broke eye-contact, conceding the victory.
Someone coughed and Agent Hughes picked up the threads of the meeting as if nothing had happened. Neal felt a little sick inside. He might have won this round, but he never realized that he was at war.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It was like watching a train wreck, a disaster he was powerless to stop. Jack’s tone was calculated to set Neal’s back up – there was nothing he hated more than having his abilities questioned. Maybe it was because he was younger than his peers, maybe it was because he was always above the curve, smarter than almost anyone else in the room. Since they were kids, Neal had always been exceptional, but he had always been able to charm his way out of any resentment that caused.
Not today. Neal got angry and lost just enough control to screw himself over. Peter might have done the same thing if confronted by a sneering idiot. Except that Jack wasn’t a bad guy – just a little too self-invested.
The meeting broke, and Peter gathered his stuff. He was going to have to have a very public tête-à-tête with Neal about the Diahatsu memos, his first real interaction with Neal at the office.
He was settled at his desk, keeping a hopefully discreet eye on Neal when someone yanked at his shirt collar.
“Whoo-hoo! Someone got more than a little action last night.” It was Grainger and she was looking at his neck. He must have loosened his tie as he normally did at the office, forgetting about the bite mark that Neal had left there last night.
Peter brushed away her hands and pulled the knot close, embarrassed. Grainger parked her shapely ass on his desk, crossed her spectacular legs (hell, he could still admire the female form), and gave him a speculative grin. “Had no idea you were seeing anyone, Burke.”
He shrugged.
“Oh, so it’s like that, you dog.” Amy’s legs bobbed up and down. “Was she good?”
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.” Peter doubted that would satisfy her curiosity. He was right.
“Come on, you’ve got a glorious hickey on your neck and you’re not going share? Don’t be such a damn saint, Peter.” She snickered at her own witticism.
Peter thought of all the ways he could answer her. He could lie, he could deflect, or he could tell the truth. He opted for the last. “The sex was … spectacular.”
Someone gasped. It was Neal, file in hand and a flaming blush across his cheeks.
“Aww, you embarrassed the new probie.” Amy got up and went over to Neal, who had his head down and lips between his teeth. Peter knew that he was trying not to burst out laughing; he just happened to look shy and mortified.
Amy swooped in for the kill, or so she thought. “Tell me, probie – have you ever had spectacular sex?”
Neal looked everywhere but at him.
“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue? You had no problems speaking up for yourself this morning.” She was relentless and Peter felt a little sorry for Neal.
He stepped in and put an end to the harassment. “Stop needling the kid, it’s his second day.”
“You’re a soft touch, Peter. Probie needs to be able to stand up for himself.” Amy flounced over to the kitchenette, leaving him relatively alone with Neal.
“Here’s the next batch of translations for Dihatsu Trading.” Neal held out the folder. “No smoking gun in this set, but you may want to take a look at these.” He fanned out a few pages. “There’s a pattern here.”
Neal walked him through what he found, but Peter was having a hard time paying attention. He was having a hard time, period. Seeing Neal like this, so perfectly competent, was arousing as hell. It was like that time he watched Neal cross-examine a witness, he got rock-hard sitting on a hard bench in a public courtroom.
Right now, the little shit knew exactly what was happening. He didn’t look at Peter’s crotch, he didn’t smile or smirk, but his eyes were sparkling.
Peter felt the back of his neck begin to burn, his whole face go hot. Neal bent down, just a little closer and Peter would swear he could smell his arousal, too.
“Spectacular?”
“Yeah, absolutely spectacular.”
Neal’s pupils dilated, the black almost swallowing the blue. If there was any place in this office where they could be guaranteed just ten minutes of privacy …
“Hey, Burke – I think I’ve got a lead on my witness. He may have gone to ground on Staten Island.” Jack Sullivan interrupted the moment, and Peter didn’t know whether he should thank or curse the man.
Neal stepped away and went back to his desk. Peter studiously avoided looking at him.
“Staten Island? You sure?” He retrieved his weapon from the lockbox in his desk, shrugged into his jacket. The cut was long enough to disguise his rapidly deflating erection.
He’d deal with Neal tonight. They’d both enjoy it.
Part Three: LiveJournal | Dreamwidth
Author:
elrhiarhodanArt Credit:
kanarek13 Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey (Peter/Neal), OMC, OFC, Jack Franklin, Reese Hughes, AD Bancroft
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Extreme expressions of homophobia, use of homophobic slurs
Word Count: ~21,000 (~7,100 this part)
Beta Credit:
coffeethyme4me, jrosemary Summary: Set immediately after Neal’s graduation from Quantico (the story told in For the Ends of Being and Ideal Grace). Neal’s first days on the job at the White Collar division in New York are difficult. Life at home isn’t easy either.
Part One: LiveJournal | Dreamwidth
Jack Franklin dragged a hand through his hair, frowning. “Sorry, Peter. Didn’t mean to take you on a wild goose chase.”
It was nearly eight and Peter was tired and frustrated, but he didn’t let it show. “It’s okay. These things happen.”
They’d been out, trying to track down a witness for one of Jack’s cases. The guy had a history of violence and Franklin asked Peter to come with him as back up. Of course, the witness wasn’t in any of his usual haunts, and after four hours of fruitless searching, they headed back towards the office.
“I will pin this sucker down even if it’s the last thing I do.”
Peter winced. He wasn’t superstitious, but it was never a good idea to make vows like that, particularly about hostile witnesses with extensive gun collections. “I’m going to catch the subway and head home. See you tomorrow.”
“You sure? The least I can do for dragging you through three of the five Boroughs is to buy you a burger and a beer.”
Jack’s offer was temping, and last week, he would have jumped on it. But that was last week, when he didn’t have anyone to go home to. Tonight, Neal was there, waiting for him, probably eager to talk about the day.
“Thanks, but I’m going to take a rain check.”
“Sure thing. Next time we go out for Happy Hour, I’ll buy you a beer.”
“Sounds good.”
Peter turned towards the subway, anticipating the greeting he was going to get when he walked in the door. Even before Neal had headed to Quantico, there had been way too many nights when he came home to an empty apartment. Neal’s career at Drake Morrissey had been nothing short of spectacular, but that had meant long hours and many nights that Neal stayed in the city. There were days – if not weeks – where they barely saw each other.
Now, though … Now they’d have plenty of time to be together. Even if they pretended they barely knew each other at work, all Peter would have to do is look up and Neal would be there. He could go over to the file cases and listen to his voice. He could watch Neal shine and know that he belonged to him and only him.
He dropped a token into the turnstile and moved forward without checking to see that it was accepted. Of course it wasn’t and the bar jammed into his hips; any lower and he’d be in real pain. Peter glared at the damn thing, fished around for another token and came up empty. There was a transit cop guarding an open gate and Peter did something he’d normally despise; he flashed his badge and nodded at the gate. The cop nodded back and let him through to the platform.
At least there wasn’t a long wait for the subway. It was a short hop from Chambers to Union Square, where he transferred to the N train, which would take him into Queens. Home.
The rhythm of the train reminded him of the semi-argument he had with Neal yesterday. He knew that their apartment was a shithole. He had taken it before Neal had gotten transferred from DC back to New York. It was what he could afford on his probationary agent’s salary. Neal hadn’t said anything when he saw it, but Peter could read the disappointment in his eyes. He had taken home three times what Peter earned, but even that amount was a laughable pittance compared to the money that Adler left him. Neal could afford a lot better, but he knew that Peter wouldn’t accept any living arrangement where he couldn’t contribute an equal share.
It wasn’t so bad for the first few years, but the building changed hands and the new owner had little interest in providing even the basic upkeep. It wasn’t until new tenants moved in next door – a husband and wife and two children – that Neal had started pushing the issue. The kids were kids, a little noisy at inconvenient hours sometimes, but the father was a loudmouth who had taken an instant dislike to Neal. Other than a few sneers, he left Peter alone, but had repeatedly made rude gestures and comments to Neal, who did his best to ignore the behavior.
Had the guy been a drunk, an obvious drug user or overtly violent, Peter wouldn’t have hesitated to interfere, but he seemed okay with his family, if a little over-protective. He just had a strange, irrational hatred for Neal. Peter had wished that the guy would relax and forget about it when Neal was away, but that was apparently too much to hope for.
Last night, when they got back from Washington, he was in the lobby. He saw Neal and looked like he was about to explode. Neal didn’t say a word until the man left.
Neal didn’t say a word while they climbed the three flights to their apartment. He didn’t say a word while Peter unlocked the four deadbolts on the steel security door. Not a word while he changed out of his suit into more casual clothes. It wasn’t until Neal opened the lockbox and put his gun away that he said anything.
“This is going to end badly, you know that. Meeker’s insane.”
“He’s a bit crazy, yeah – but he’s not going to do anything. Come on – he’s got a wife and kids.”
“He’s also a raging homophobe.”
“Can’t you just ignore him?”
“You sound like an elementary school teacher – ‘just ignore the bully and he’ll stop’. It doesn’t work like that, and you know it. I have ignored him and I’ll keep ignoring him. Up until the point where he tries to take a bat to my head. I might just have to kill him, and then we’ll definitely have to move.”
Peter blinked. Neal was joking, but he wasn’t really. They dropped the subject in favor of what Neal should expect from his first day at the White Collar offices. Still, the issue lingered in the air like a bad smell.
He supposed that they could find a nicer place within his budget, now that he was making more money, but he could hear Neal’s argument as clearly as if the man was standing next to him. I own three dozen really nice apartments in Manhattan, it doesn’t make sense to rent any out here. Objectively, Neal was right – it didn’t make sense. Except that it meant that he would be living off Neal. It didn’t really matter that the apartments had been owned by Adler, what mattered was that he didn’t earn them – and that made it impossible.
They had reached an impasse. Neal pushed, but Peter refused to budge, knowing that Neal would eventually see things his way. And he did.
By the time the train pulled into his station, Peter was able to convince himself that there was no need to feel guilty about riding roughshod over his partner’s feelings.
It was impossible to pack all of his suits, so Neal picked three to last him through the week. He’d make arrangements to have the rest picked up on Saturday. He wasn’t coming back here, ever.
Neal just hoped that Peter would see reason.
Just as he finished stuffing some casual clothing into a duffle bag, there was a heavy knock on the door, followed by the brusque announcement: “NYPD.”
He checked the peephole. There were two uniformed offices with hands on their service revolvers. One of them banged again, demanding entrance, like they were about to arrest him. What the fuck? He took a deep breath and stepped back. Maybe they had the wrong apartment.
“Neal Caffrey, this is the police. Open up.”
Shit. They didn’t have the wrong apartment. That bastard, Meeker, must have called the cops, too. He unlocked the door and opened it, putting on a thoroughly puzzled look.
“Neal Caffrey?”
“Yes? What’s the matter, Officers?”
The older cop, a sergeant from the bars on her uniform, asked him to step into the hallway.
He was even more puzzled now. The only reason why they’d ask him to step out is if they wanted to arrest him. Neal declined the “invitation” and issued one of his own. “You can come in. I was expecting you - but not quite like this.”
They did, and Neal was careful to leave the door open. Before either cop could say anything, he took control of the situation, “Your names and precinct, please?”
“Sergeant Olivia Shattuck and Officer Mitchell Owen, out of the 114th Precinct. We received a complaint that you assaulted your neighbor, Anthony Meeker, and threatened to shoot him.”
A tic started in Neal’s right eyelid. “Actually, officers, I called 911 and filed a complaint. Mr. Meeker assaulted me – he tried to bash my head in with that –” Neal pointed to the piece of rebar on the kitchen counter. “I drew my weapon and told him I’d shoot him if he tried to kill me.”
“Your weapon? You admit to pulling a gun on your neighbor?”
“Yes, officers, I do.”
Both cops took up a more defensive position at Neal’s admission. “Please keep your hands visible, Mr. Caffrey.”
He complied, but decided to end this farce. “Actually, it’s Special Agent Caffrey, FBI.” He held up a hand, “May I?” The officers nodded and Neal reached into his pocket, taking out his ID folder and flicking it open.
The cops saw the gold shield and relaxed. Shattuck asked, “What’s your beef with Meeker?”
“I have none. The guy seemed to hate me from the moment he moved in.”
“He says that you …” She looked down at her note pad. “Approached his son and made lewd comments. That this wasn’t the first time.”
“I – I …” Neal was at a loss for words. “I have no idea what is going on in that man’s head.” He described everything that happened with the kid and the ball. 'I didn't say anything “lewd” to him,' he finished, feeling sick. He walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water. The water sloshed in the glass as his hand shook.
“You seem awfully nervous, Agent Caffrey. Why?”
He leaned on the counter. “I’ve just been accused of something unthinkable, officer. Something so horrific …” Neal couldn’t continue. His vision narrowed to a dark tunnel and he couldn’t breathe. He was twelve years old and Vincent Adler was trying to break into his bedroom…
“Sir? Sir? Are you okay?”
There was a commotion at the door, loud enough to break Neal out of his panicked fog. It was Meeker, jumping up and down and shouting, “You gonna to arrest that fairy faggot, right? You gonna die in jail, you filthy cocksucker!”
Shattuck flicked her head at her partner, who went to deal with Meeker, shutting the door behind him.
Neal took another drink of water, but it did nothing to wash away the sour taste of bad memories. At least it gave him time to compose himself. “I have never touched or approached any of Mr. Meeker’s children. If he says I have, he’s a liar. Any more questions, Sergeant?”
Peter had noticed the police cruiser double parked in front of the apartment building and idly wondered which of his fellow tenants were in trouble. He let himself into the building, picked up the mail because Neal never did - he claimed his key didn’t work - and headed up the three flights to the apartment.
There were times, particularly after long days, that Peter wished the building had an elevator, but usually, he was fine with all of the stairs. He spent so many hours at his desk, Peter reasoned that climbing the steps was the only exercise he was going to get most days.
He was flipping through the mail, and didn’t notice the uniformed cop standing outside his neighbor’s apartment door until he heard a familiar and angry voice – it was his neighbor, Meeker. The man was in handcuffs and arguing with a police officer. The look on his face sent a chill of dread through Peter and he rushed to his own apartment.
The door was unlocked and he entered, terrified at what he might find.
And was nearly overwhelmed with relief to see Neal standing at the kitchen counter, looking like shit, but otherwise fine. There was another cop there. Startled by his sudden entrance, she put her hand on her gun.
Peter held out his hands in the universal not-a-threat gesture. “Neal, what’s going on?”
“Meeker tried to kill me tonight.”
His answer drove and icy stake of fear through him. Before he could go to Neal, the cop stepped between them. “And who are you?”
He pulled out his ID and introduced himself. “Neal and I are roommates; I live here.”
The officer nodded and introduced herself. “Were you aware of problems between Mr. Meeker and your … roommate.”
Peter wasn’t too happy with her subtle emphasis on that last word, but he didn’t make an issue out of it. “Yes, I was. I am. Meeker and his family moved in about a year ago and he seemed to have taken an instant dislike to Neal.”
“And you – what about you?”
“He doesn’t seem to have a problem with me. I – we – had hoped that Meeker would forget about his imaginary beef with Neal while he was away.”
“Away?”
Neal answered. “I was in training at Quantico since November. Just got home yesterday.”
Sergeant Shattuck shook her head. “And on your very first day on the job, you threatened to shoot someone?”
“Neal, what the hell happened?”
“Like I said, Peter, he tried to kill me.”
“Mr. – Agent Caffrey claims that Meeker assaulted him with a piece of rebar.” That would explain why there was a length of the stuff on the kitchen counter.
“Are you okay?” It seemed like such a stupid question to ask.
“He didn’t hit me, but if I hadn’t I pulled my gun on him, he would have.” Neal shook his head. “My first day …”
Peter wanted to go to Neal, he wanted to wrap his arms around him and hold him, to erase that look of fear in his eyes.
“Agent Burke – I have to ask this…”
“What?”
“Mr. Meeker, when he made his own complaint, claimed that Agent Caffrey had behaved inappropriately towards his son. And that he had done it before. Do you know anything about this?”
Peter was stunned. Of all the things to accuse Neal of! Now he understood Neal’s shocked appearance. He took a deep breath. “I will say, categorically and under oath, that there is no truth to those accusations.”
Shattuck nodded. “Okay. I’ll file my report, but I don’t think this will go any further.”
“I saw that Meeker was in cuffs. Are you arresting him?”
Neal perked up at that.
“Owens probably needed to cuff him to get Meeker under control. But right now, it’s a case of your word against his, even if we can get prints off the rebar. And you know, if we arrest him, we’re going to have to address his accusations.”
“There’s no truth to them,” Neal lifted his chin, all but daring the world.
“No – but an investigation means that your private life is not going to be so private anymore. And while I’d like to think we live in a more enlightened age …”
Neal sighed, “Yeah, yeah – I get it. It’ll be big news how a pair of queers are FBI agents.”
Since there really was no further need to pretend anymore, Peter went over to Neal and rested a hand on his back, rubbing gently against the tight muscles. He looked at Shattuck, grateful for her understanding and discretion. “Is there anything else?”
“Stay out of Meeker’s way if you can. That’s about all the advice I can give.”
“We’re moving out of here, so it won’t be hard.” Peter didn’t visibly react to Neal’s sudden start, but guilt and grief at tonight’s near-tragedy twisted his soul.
Shattuck gave them both a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry that it’s come to that, but it’s probably for the best. Just be careful until you’re out of here, neither of you should come and go alone.”
“We’ll be leaving tonight.” Peter answered for both them. Neal gave him a look of utter gratitude.
Shattuck asked, “You’re staying with friends?”
“No – we have a place in Manhattan.” Neal wore a pleading expression on his face, begging him not to contradict. Neal continued, “It belonged to my family – we’ve been sorting out the details.”
“Okay – but give me the address, in case we have to follow up with you.”
Neal rattled off the Upper West Side address.
Shattuck closed her notebook and put it away. “I guess that’s it. Just take care.”
Peter escorted the sergeant to the door, locking it behind her.
Neal hadn’t moved, his arms braced against the kitchen counter like it was the only way to stay upright. He was still wearing his suit, but looked nothing like the bright and shining young agent who started work this morning. He was haggard, drained and Peter went to him, wrapping his arms around him, holding him close.
“I’m sorry, I am so goddamned sorry.”
“For what?”
“This is my fault – I should have listened to you.” The thought of what might have happened sent an icy shaft of fear through him. “I could have lost you because I was too stubborn, too stupidly proud.”
Neal finally relaxed, letting go and leaning into him. “Yeah, but you’re a smart guy. You learn from your mistakes.”
And just like that, there was forgiveness. Peter breathed in deep, letting Neal’s familiar scent fill his lungs. “You okay?”
“Yeah, now.” But Neal didn’t let go of him. “You know what I was thinking when I pulled my gun?” He didn’t wait for Peter to answer. “What the instructor at Quantico told us: ‘Never pull your gun unless you’re prepared to kill someone. Don’t shoot to wound, shoot to kill.’ If Meeker hadn’t stopped, I might have had to kill him.”
He held Neal just a little tighter. Neal lifted his head and looked into his eyes; Peter was taken aback by the pain, the vulnerability there. He was too accustomed to thinking of Neal as invincible. But he wasn’t. His partner, the love of his life, was as frail as any other human.
Stunned, raw and as needy, Peter kissed him. He could taste the sourness of fear and tried to give Neal back some of the sweetness, the joy that they had celebrated just a few days earlier.
They made their way into the bedroom, and Peter stopped short. There was a closed suitcase on the bed and a duffle bag on the floor. “Neal?”
“I wasn’t going to leave before you came home – but I couldn’t stay here.”
Peter wasn’t angry, just sad and upset with himself. “Yeah, I understand completely.”
It didn’t taken Peter long to pack a few suits and other necessities; they were out of the building and in a town car in less than an hour. Neal took his bags down first, Peter at his back and the process was repeated with the roles reversed. It felt like they were leaving a war zone.
Neal didn’t relax until the car crossed the 59th Street Bridge and they got caught in crosstown traffic. Peter’s hand rested on top of his, and he was grateful for that simple physical connection. The car finally broke free of the traffic and they were at their destination in a few short minutes.
131 Riverside Drive was a universe away from the building off of Ditmars Boulevard and even though Neal hadn’t spent many nights here – just when he had needed to work until the early hours of the morning – it still felt more like home than the apartment in Queens. He wasn’t a snob, and rightfully, he should have rejected anything that had the slightest connection to Vincent Adler, but something about this place spoke to him, made him want to stay and never leave.
The doorman, sporting a red coat with brightly polished buttons and a name tag that said “Alvin”, rushed to open the car door.
“Mr. Caffrey – I got your message, the apartment’s ready for you.”
Neal smiled, grateful.
“It was a little too late to get a full grocery order, but the basics are there. Coffee, milk, juice, some fresh fruit. If you’d like, I’ll leave a note to have a dozen bagels delivered in the morning …”
He kept talking as he took their bags – nearly grabbing Peter’s out of his hand – and didn’t stop until they were inside the twelfth-floor apartment. He would have taken the luggage up to their bedroom, but enough was enough. Neal pressed a generous tip and stifled a grin as Alvin all but bowed to them and handed Neal the spare set of keys.
“Nice place,” Peter commented as he wandered around the living room.
“Do you think you could be happy here?” Neal held his breath on Peter’s answer.
“I still have my reservations –”
Neal’s heart sank.
“But those are my problems and I’ll work through them. Regardless,” Peter held out his hand to him.
Neal took it and let himself be drawn into his lover’s arms. “I just want you to be happy; I don’t want this to make you miserable.” He kissed Peter’s neck, his jaw, finally his lips.
“You are my home and you make me very happy.” Peter kissed him back, gentle at first, then with the hunger that Neal loved and never failed to respond to. His mouth was invaded, but Peter was a welcome conqueror.
He mewled, rubbing himself against Peter – wanting, always wanting, always needing this - the roughness, the urgency. His hands worked their way under Peter’s suit jacket, pulling at his shirt, getting tangled in the leather straps of his shoulder rig. Peter held him still, cupping his head, his fingers rough and firm against his skull.
“Need you, now. Need you naked.”
Peter let go of him long enough for them both to strip. Need, desire rode him so hard that Neal couldn’t think of anything but his skin against Peter’s as he tossed his jacket aside, pulled off his own shoulder harness, ripped off his tie. He toed off his shoes and before he could get his pants off, Peter had pushed him back against the wall, pinning him there with his hips while he stripped, too.
“We’re going to christen this place and we’re going to do it in every damned room.” Peter growled as he pulled Neal’s pants open then shoved his own down. Their cocks rode against each other, their mingled pre-come the only lube they needed.
Neal wrapped a leg around Peter, his strong thigh pulling them even closer. He reveled in the harshness of this coupling, riding Peter like he was creature made just for his own pleasure. The friction was gorgeous, just on the right side of pain as Neal wrapped his hand around their cocks, stroking and pulling in desperate urgency.
Peter’s head was pressed into his neck, his grunting, straining breaths another goad, and instead of kissing him, Neal bit down on his neck, hard. Peter came in a hot, almost scalding rush, against his belly. The desperate frotting slowed to something richer, more sensual as Peter rubbed himself against Neal’s still aching erection.
“Make me come, please.”
Peter laughed; a breathy and delighted exhalation. “Oh, yes - I’m going to make you come until you’re blind from it.”
Neal whimpered and leaned back against the wall as Peter went to his knees, kissing his belly, licking the come and sweat, his tongue teasing the taut skin at the edge of his pubes, avoiding his aching cock. The torment was perfect and excruciating, a most refined torture and Neal whimpered again. Peter blew a stream of hot air across the head of his cock; it jerked harder against his belly. Neal thrust his hips forward, as if he were trying to copulate with the air.
“Peter… I need you.”
Maybe it was those last three words that made Peter stop teasing him. He took as much of Neal’s cock into his mouth as he could, trying to give as much pleasure as he could. It was sloppy, without the finesse that Peter usually displayed, but Neal didn’t care. He was too aroused to appreciate any sort of artistry. Peter tried to deep-throat him and gagged, but he wouldn’t let Neal pull back, he just kept going for more and more until the heat and the pressure and the sensation of tongue and lips and hands and yes - even teeth - drove him over the edge.
Neal’s world became an infinity of brilliance as his orgasm erupted. Peter caught him as his knees gave out and the both ended up on the floor.
“You okay?” Peter cradled him in his arms, and Neal never felt safer.
“Mmmm.” He buried his face in Peter’s neck, nuzzling against the crescent-shaped bruise his teeth had left.
Neal wasn’t sure how long they remained on the floor - it could have been a few minutes or a few hours. The time passed in a daze of post-orgasmic bliss.
“Is there a bed or are we going to spend the night on the floor?”
“There’s a bed upstairs.” Neal wasn’t sure he wanted to move.
“Come on.” Peter got to his feet, pulled his pants over his hips and zipped up. “Come on,” he repeated and held out a hand. Neal grasped it and let Peter help him upright. Except that he was caught up in his own come-damp clothing.
“Lean on me.” Peter held him still and managed to get everything straightened out.
Neal clung to him; he was still a little dizzy - the day and its highs and lows had taken its toll. He had to smile when he spotted his gun and holster, tangled with Peter’s and their jackets. “We’d get thrown out of the Academy for such careless firearms handling.” He bent over to pick them up and nearly ended up back on the floor.
“You don’t know how to listen, Caffrey, do you?” Peter growled as he steadied him. “I’ve got this.” Peter scooped up the clothing and weapons and shoulder rigs. “Now, where’s our bedroom?”
The master bedroom was on the duplex’s second floor - almost as large as their entire apartment in Long Island City.
Peter whistled in appreciation.
“Like it?”
“What’s not to like?” Peter went over to the bank of windows and looked out – Riverside Park was dark, but they were on a high enough floor that the river traffic and the necklace of lights on the George Washington Bridge were visible. “Definitely a better view than the Park n’ Lock on Ditmars.”
Neal went to take care of their clothes and couldn’t help but grimace at the mess he - well, he and Peter - had made of them. He took off his shirt; cuff links and tie bar went into the leather valet on the dresser. The shirt itself was a lost cause, which was a pity since it was brand new. He had to smile at that thought. Was it only a few hours ago that he was fighting for his life?
There was a small safe in the closet - not as convenient as the gun safe at the other apartment, but it would have to do for the night. He removed the clips from both his and Peter’s firearms and winced when he saw that he’d never re-engaged the safety after his encounter with Meeker.
He came out of the closet, naked as the day he was born. Peter was still standing at the window and from the curve of his shoulders, Neal could tell that he was brooding. They’d known each other long enough that he understood that it was best to let Peter have his quiet moment. Neal set the alarm clock, went to the bathroom and took a quick shower.
Peter was still standing at the window when Neal came out. The time for brooding was over and he wrapped his arms around Peter’s waist and leaned his head against his shoulders. “Come on, let’s get some sleep.”
“Yeah - it’s been a day, hasn’t it?” Peter turned around in his arms and rested against him. Neal could feel the weariness radiating from him.
Just as Peter had taken care of him before, Neal took care of Peter, stripping him to his skin. He pulled back the bedcovers and pushed Peter down. “Time for sleep. Tomorrow will be here soon enough.” He got into bed, on the same side of the bed he had been sleeping on since college. No matter the address, this was just the way things were.
Peter pulled him close and Neal turned to him, finding the comfort and peace he never wanted to be without.
The scent of good coffee worked its way into Peter’s sleeping consciousness and he opened his eyes. Neal was there, so close that his smile filled Peter’s entire field of vision.
“Good morning.”
Peter blinked, chasing away his sleep-wrought confusion. Neal pressed a soft kiss on Peter’s lips, then held a cup of coffee under his nose. The fragrant brew smelled almost as good Neal, fresh from the shower. He sat up and drained the cup. It was as perfect as any coffee he ever tasted, and a splendid way to wake up. “What time is it?”
Neal took the cup and sat down on the edge of the bed. “A little after six. You’ve got some time yet.”
Peter groaned and stretched and tossed back the covers. “No, not really. I’ve got a meeting at eight with an informant at Pederson Weller Kline - he’s supposed to bring me proof of insider trading activity at the firm.” He looked at Neal, a picture of sartorial elegance in a navy pinstriped suit, ice-blue power tie and pristine white shirt. “You okay?”
“Yeah - I guess.”
“You were a bit restless last night.”
“My brain wouldn’t turn off - I kept thinking about what could have happened.” Neal’s smile became strained. “I would have killed him.”
“Don’t think about it like that. You did what you were trained to do. Meeker really is nothing more than a grown-up version of a playground bully - the minute you showed that you were stronger, more powerful, he backed down.”
“I’m not so sure - Philip Kramer never tried to smash an iron bar into anyone’s head.”
Peter chuckled. “Neal - it’s over. We’re safe, we’ll never see the SOB again, okay?” He rested a hand on Neal’s shoulder, trying to ease his tension.
Neal finally sighed, “Okay. But we’re going to have to go back - we’ve got to clean out the apartment, get the rest of our stuff.”
“Don’t worry about that - I’ll take care of it. You don’t have to go back there.”
“You?”
“Yeah me. Don’t be so skeptical.” Peter was going to call his dad and see if he could get a few guys from his crew to help get everything packed up and moved out. “Trust me.”
It didn’t take long for him to shower, shave and dress, even though he stopped to admire the bruise Neal’s teeth had left on his neck. He pulled his tie tight against his collar, sorry he had to hide it.
Peter followed his nose - the scent of more coffee took him into the kitchen. Neal was leaning against a counter, mug in one hand, New York Times in the other.
There was half a pot left. Peter poured himself another cup and snagged the sports section, not that there was any joy in Mudville. Peter and his dad had missed Opening Day, a Burke tradition, but the way the Yankees were playing, it didn’t matter. Might as well be a Mets fan.
They stood there, leaning against the counter because the kitchen had no furniture. It was a beautiful space, with dark wood cabinets, lots of modern appliances and if he wasn’t mistaken, the countertops were the same freakishly expensive material that his mother had wanted to use when she had the kitchen redone. Peter couldn’t see the ratty table and chairs that they had in the old place (and wasn’t it funny, how after just one night here, the apartment they shared for more than three years was the “old place”) fitting in here. Hell, all of the furniture in that place was probably destined for a Dumpster. None of it was the least bit suitable for any place in this ZIP code.
“Whatever you are thinking can’t be too pleasant.” Neal folded up his section of the newspaper and put his cup in the sink.
Peter deflected, “Just about all the crap I’ve got to wade through with this case.” He rinsed out his cup and Neal’s, putting both of them on the counter. “And by the way, thanks for the translations –”
“Shit – with everything, I completely forgot to tell you.”
As they left the apartment, Neal told him about the smoking gun he found. Peter was skeptical. “Probies don’t solve cases on their first days – not even stars like you.”
Neal rolled his eyes and ignored his compliment. “That’s what Hughes said, too. But when I showed him …”
Peter listened and the skepticism gave way to amazement and the tiniest touch of resentment. Neal must have read some of that on his face, or from his body language. They boarded the subway and as the train picked up speed, Neal grew quiet.
He realized that he was being a total ass – he wouldn’t have felt like this if Language Services had translated the document. “Good work, Neal.”
Neal’s face lit up at this compliment. “Thanks. Hughes told me to concentrate on getting the rest of the orders translated. I’ll try to finish them today or tomorrow.”
“You know that once it gets around that you’re polylingual, you’re going to be inundated with requests. You’ll wish that you’d be asked to fetch coffee, instead.”
“There’s a lot of translation work? A lot of foreign stuff?”
“Yeah.” They talked about the globalization of the financial markets until the train pulled into the City Hall station, just a few blocks away from the FBI building. Once they reached the street, Neal turned right, heading for the office. Peter watched him until he disappeared into the crowd, before heading towards Chinatown for his meeting.
Neal wondered if he should say anything about what happened last night to Agent Hughes, drawing his weapon on a civilian was a big deal and if word got back to the Bureau... While he was concerned about what might happen if he didn’t report it, Neal was more worried about what would happen if he did. Because someone was bound to ask why Anthony Meeker hated him enough to try and bash his brains in, and Neal wasn’t at all prepared for the inevitable disclosures that would follow.
So he figured that keeping quiet would be best – if Hughes did find out, Neal would plead ignorance of the rules, take a rap on the knuckles and move on.
Throughout the early morning, he kept his head down, working on the translations for Peter. It was a tedious process and more than once he snuck a look at the Sullivan S&L file, even though Hughes downgraded the priority.
Agents had started to migrate to the conference room for the regular morning meeting when Peter returned. There was a satisfied look on his face, which meant that his informant delivered. Neal couldn’t wait to hear about it – he couldn’t wait to see Peter shine.
He grabbed his notes, a pad and pen and headed to the conference room. Even though there were seats available today, Neal understood hierarchy. Until invited otherwise, he’d stand against the wall.
The routine was the same as yesterday’s; Agent Hughes went around the room, grilling each agent about the progress they’d made on open cases. It was Peter’s turn, finally, and yes – he had come up aces with his informant.
“Good work, Agent Burke. Since you just got back, Caffrey hasn’t had the chance to brief you on what he found last night. Agent Caffrey?”
While Neal thoroughly enjoyed the title, he didn’t relish being the center of attention, particularly of this group. But he wasn’t Neal George Caffrey for nothing. He’d presented arguments before the New York Court of Appeals and these agents had nothing on the seven august judges who grilled him.
He ordered his thoughts and repeated the information he’d already told Peter, who took notes, nodded and thanked him.
Agent Grainger gave him a suspicious look, but it was Agent Franklin who asked, “And how many languages are you fluent in, Caffrey?”
Neal noticed that his title was deliberately omitted. He was also mindful of Peter’s warning that he’d become inundated with translation work if he wasn’t careful. That didn’t stop him from telling the truth. “I’m fluent in six, seven if you count Russian, but my accent is terrible and I don’t have any idiom.” There were a few doubtful sneers on some of the agents’ faces and Neal figured, why the hell not. “My Portuguese as passable, as is my command of Romanian. And if you ever need a new translation of Beowulf or Caedamon’s Hymn, I know enough Old West Saxon to help you out.”
The room went silent and Neal found himself in a stare-down contest with Jack Franklin. The older agent gave him a small smile, nodded his head and broke eye-contact, conceding the victory.
Someone coughed and Agent Hughes picked up the threads of the meeting as if nothing had happened. Neal felt a little sick inside. He might have won this round, but he never realized that he was at war.
It was like watching a train wreck, a disaster he was powerless to stop. Jack’s tone was calculated to set Neal’s back up – there was nothing he hated more than having his abilities questioned. Maybe it was because he was younger than his peers, maybe it was because he was always above the curve, smarter than almost anyone else in the room. Since they were kids, Neal had always been exceptional, but he had always been able to charm his way out of any resentment that caused.
Not today. Neal got angry and lost just enough control to screw himself over. Peter might have done the same thing if confronted by a sneering idiot. Except that Jack wasn’t a bad guy – just a little too self-invested.
The meeting broke, and Peter gathered his stuff. He was going to have to have a very public tête-à-tête with Neal about the Diahatsu memos, his first real interaction with Neal at the office.
He was settled at his desk, keeping a hopefully discreet eye on Neal when someone yanked at his shirt collar.
“Whoo-hoo! Someone got more than a little action last night.” It was Grainger and she was looking at his neck. He must have loosened his tie as he normally did at the office, forgetting about the bite mark that Neal had left there last night.
Peter brushed away her hands and pulled the knot close, embarrassed. Grainger parked her shapely ass on his desk, crossed her spectacular legs (hell, he could still admire the female form), and gave him a speculative grin. “Had no idea you were seeing anyone, Burke.”
He shrugged.
“Oh, so it’s like that, you dog.” Amy’s legs bobbed up and down. “Was she good?”
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.” Peter doubted that would satisfy her curiosity. He was right.
“Come on, you’ve got a glorious hickey on your neck and you’re not going share? Don’t be such a damn saint, Peter.” She snickered at her own witticism.
Peter thought of all the ways he could answer her. He could lie, he could deflect, or he could tell the truth. He opted for the last. “The sex was … spectacular.”
Someone gasped. It was Neal, file in hand and a flaming blush across his cheeks.
“Aww, you embarrassed the new probie.” Amy got up and went over to Neal, who had his head down and lips between his teeth. Peter knew that he was trying not to burst out laughing; he just happened to look shy and mortified.
Amy swooped in for the kill, or so she thought. “Tell me, probie – have you ever had spectacular sex?”
Neal looked everywhere but at him.
“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue? You had no problems speaking up for yourself this morning.” She was relentless and Peter felt a little sorry for Neal.
He stepped in and put an end to the harassment. “Stop needling the kid, it’s his second day.”
“You’re a soft touch, Peter. Probie needs to be able to stand up for himself.” Amy flounced over to the kitchenette, leaving him relatively alone with Neal.
“Here’s the next batch of translations for Dihatsu Trading.” Neal held out the folder. “No smoking gun in this set, but you may want to take a look at these.” He fanned out a few pages. “There’s a pattern here.”
Neal walked him through what he found, but Peter was having a hard time paying attention. He was having a hard time, period. Seeing Neal like this, so perfectly competent, was arousing as hell. It was like that time he watched Neal cross-examine a witness, he got rock-hard sitting on a hard bench in a public courtroom.
Right now, the little shit knew exactly what was happening. He didn’t look at Peter’s crotch, he didn’t smile or smirk, but his eyes were sparkling.
Peter felt the back of his neck begin to burn, his whole face go hot. Neal bent down, just a little closer and Peter would swear he could smell his arousal, too.
“Spectacular?”
“Yeah, absolutely spectacular.”
Neal’s pupils dilated, the black almost swallowing the blue. If there was any place in this office where they could be guaranteed just ten minutes of privacy …
“Hey, Burke – I think I’ve got a lead on my witness. He may have gone to ground on Staten Island.” Jack Sullivan interrupted the moment, and Peter didn’t know whether he should thank or curse the man.
Neal stepped away and went back to his desk. Peter studiously avoided looking at him.
“Staten Island? You sure?” He retrieved his weapon from the lockbox in his desk, shrugged into his jacket. The cut was long enough to disguise his rapidly deflating erection.
He’d deal with Neal tonight. They’d both enjoy it.
Tags:
- character: bancroft,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: ofc,
- character: omc,
- character: peter burke,
- character: reese hughes,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: domesticity,
- genre: romance,
- genre: slash,
- kink: frotting,
- kink: handcuffs,
- kink: nipple play,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- wc verse: wonderful years,
- year: 2013
