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elrhiarhodanTitle: Fortune's Just a One-Night Stand – Part Two
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Mozzie, Elizabeth Mitchell, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones, Vincent Adler, Daniel Picah, mention of other canon characters in minor non-canon settings.
Pairings: Peter/Neal, Neal/Daniel, Peter/Adler, Adler/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Prostitution, rape, Domination/submission, dubious consent, fuck-or-die scenario, use of gender-specific insults
Word Count: ~56,000
Beta Credit:jrosemary, theatregirl7299 and hoosierbitch
Summary: In some alternate universe, Peter Burke is a wealthy and bored financial advisor and discovers that one of his clients, Elizabeth Mitchell, is using her event planning business to launder profits from an escort service catering to the wealthy gay elite in New York. Instead of turning her in, he asks her to hire him. Neal Caffrey has been recently released from a four-year sentence for bond forgery and learns that his girlfriend, Kate has married his old boyfriend, Matthew Keller and they’ve taken off for parts unknown. Determined not to return to prison, Neal turns to his friend, Mozzie, for help. Moz knows a guy – or in this case – a gal who’s willing to hire Neal. As an escort.
PART ONE - ON LJ | ON DW
____________________________________________
“Diana, did you hear who got out of Sing-Sing last week?” Clinton Jones didn’t bother to knock. He just barged into her office and flopped down in the single guest chair.
“Yeah, I did. The Bureau of Prisons sent me the Release Notice. Four years and it feels like it was just yesterday we were in the courtroom, listening to Caffrey’s sentencing.”
“Well, that was only three years and about six months ago – he was credited for time served.”
“Long enough.”
“We chased the son of a bitch for three years, only to see the US Attorney blow the case. He should have gotten twenty years. Instead he walked on almost every charge.” Clinton wasn’t bitter or vindictive, just stating the facts.
“Have to be grateful that Caffrey was such an arrogant little shit. If he hadn’t approached me at the bank where he had cashed that bond – “
“And given you that lime sucker.”
“And that, we wouldn’t have gotten a conviction on the bond forgery charge either.” Diana leaned back and gave her fellow agent a thoughtful look. “How long do think it’s going to be before we’re after him again.”
“We? Count me out – I’m in charge of bank fraud and money laundering now. You’re the expert on art crimes.”
“Caffrey’s a Renaissance thief, you know that. He’ll be on your radar soon enough.”
“Maybe he’s already on yours.” Clinton handed her a copy of today’s New York Times, the paper folded to display a very specific article. “Did you hear about the theft of the Thayer from the Lampson Gallery. Slash-and-grab last night. Could be that Caffrey’s decided to get back in the game.”
Diana scanned the article. “This isn’t his M.O. He’d be more likely to replace the painting with one of his forgeries instead of leaving an empty frame. Caffrey’s too much of an art aficionado to risk the damage a slash-and-grab might cause. But still, if he were desperate…”
“NYPD are on the case, but probably wouldn’t object to a little interdepartmental cooperation, especially if you could deliver a suspect all nicely gift-wrapped. It’s being handled out of Major Case.” Clinton gave her that look.
“Just because I dated Dana Shattuck a few years ago doesn’t mean I can expect any special favors.”
“Doesn’t mean anything, except that she’s a good cop and doesn’t have a stick up her ass when it comes to things like jurisdiction and letting the FBI take the lead.”
“Hmm.” Diana thought about it. “Do we have any idea where Caffrey went after Sing-Sing.”
“Nope. He served his time, no need to register with anyone. I guess you could check the ICE database to see if he’s used a passport.”
“Who knows what alias he’s traveling under? I’m sure we didn’t burn all of them.” She sighed. “Probably should interview the gallery manager, talk to the cops on the case before we jump the gun and call this a ‘Caffrey’.”
“Again, stop with the ‘we’ – I’m just here to deliver the news, not spend the next three years chasing after James Bonds again.”
Diana laughed and shooed Clinton out of her office. They had has been good friends as well as friendly rivals at the Academy, vying for the top honors and stayed in contact through their probationary years. When a slot had opened up here in New York’s White Collar division a decade ago, Diana had jumped at the chance to work with her old friend.
They rose through the ranks together, until Clinton was given charge of a money laundering task force, an assignment that lead to a major promotion. He was the head the unit’s bank fraud division and had a staff of ten agents. Which was only fair, since Diana had gotten the lion’s share of attention and approbation after she arrested Neal Caffrey, con man, forger and art thief.
Despite the years she spent chasing the man, the frustration of constantly missing him – often by mere minutes, interviewing his victims – many of whom didn’t even realize they’d been robbed, she liked Neal Caffrey.
He was smart. More than smart, really. If there was such a thing, he was the ideal criminal, eschewing violence, creative in his execution, selective in his targets. He never stole anything from anyone who’d be seriously hurt by the loss and while that wasn’t an excuse for stealing, it did say something about the quality of Caffrey’s character.
She perused the article that Clinton gave her. This didn’t feel like Caffrey, but it wouldn’t hurt to check it out, see if she could track down her old nemesis. Prison had a way of changing people, usually not for the better.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It was still early and tavern where Elizabeth had arranged to meet Neal was quiet. A few men were at the bar, watching a college football game, but the most of the booths and tables were empty.
“So, how did it go?” Elizabeth didn’t bother being coy or casual.
Neal smiled at her, a shit-eating grin as fake as a three-dollar bill. “Like a dream. Your client was most satisfied.”
“I know.”
Neal raised an eyebrow at that. “Don’t tell me you send out surveys.”
“No, but that could be an interesting marketing tool.” They both laughed. “Actually, your date last night wasn’t really a client.”
“Not a client? What do you mean? He was a freebie?”
“No, he was a test.”
Neal frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“You really don’t think I was going to give you an assignment and risk my business without making sure you really could do the job.”
She wasn’t surprised that Neal looked pissed. But she was surprised at how quickly the expression changed to one of satisfaction.
“And I passed with flying colors, right.”
“Hmm, you passed. But not necessarily with flying colors.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to let Peter explain.” The shock on Neal’s face was worth the exorbitant cost of the suite at the hotel, Peter’s own nightly rate, and the money she had to reimburse him for “Nick’s” tip. She stood up and signaled. Peter had been waiting at the bar and joined them.
Peter kissed her cheek nodded at Neal, but called him Nick. Neal just stared at Peter, unblinking.
“Since we’re all one big happy family, proper introductions are in order. Peter Burke, meet Neal Caffrey.” When neither man moved, she gave Peter a little shove. “Shake hands and play nice.”
Neal was a little too grudging as he offered his hand, but Peter was polite as he took it before sitting down next to her.
“El tells me that you had some complaints?”
Elizabeth laughed to herself. Neal was like a cat that got caught in the rain, all ruffled fur and attitude.
Peter raised an eyebrow and Neal’s belligerence. “No complaints.” He turned to look at her. “What did you tell him?”
“Not a lot, I figured it would be best to come from you.”
“Ah, okay.” Peter turned his attention back to Neal. “I wasn’t expecting to be impressed.”
Thankfully, Neal dialed back the hostility and asked a genuine question. “You try out all of El’s new employees?”
“Not all – but she makes it worth my time when I do.”
“So, were you impressed?”
El watched Peter and Neal. Their interaction was fascinating, and she got a germ of an idea. Better to wait and see where and how this went before developing it.
“Yes.”
“But you weren’t completely satisfied.” Neal leaned forward, by all appearances, completely engaged.
“I think you know just how satisfied I was, Neal.”
El was delighted by the flush to Neal’s cheeks, one that was – to a lesser extent – mirrored on Peter’s.
“So, what was your problem?”
Peter sighed and grimaced, searching for words. He looked at her. “This would be a lot easier to do if you weren’t sitting here. Sorry”
“Nothing to apologize for, but I’m not going anywhere. This is my business, remember?”
“Okay.” He turned back to Neal. “I have nothing but praise for you – for Nick Halden – for the first part of the evening. You stumbled a bit, but I was deliberately hard on you. I was trying to trip you up. You recovered nicely and the rest of the night in the bar was …” Peter let out a huff of laughter, shaking his head. “Was one of the most enjoyable work nights I’ve had in a very long time. Believe me, if I was a real client, I’d book you for drinks and dinner ever Friday night.”
Oh, this was wonderful. It was all Elizabeth could do to keep from clapping in joy.
Neal blush deepened at Peter’s praise. “But afterwards? In your room, you weren’t impressed? You weren’t satisfied.”
Peter didn’t rise to the bait. “You were magnificent. And that’s the problem.”
“I don’t understand.”
Peter looked at his hands, discomfited. “You let me control the scene; you let me do just what I wanted.”
El couldn’t help herself and interrupted, “And what was that?”
“None of your business.” El frowned at his sharp reply. Peter didn’t even look at her. But he was right; this really wasn’t her business, as she so often said. She needed to know if Neal could perform, she didn’t need to know the specifics.
“Then what did I do wrong?”
El was as confused as Neal.
“You gave too much of yourself, Neal. You can’t afford to become that emotionally invested in a client.”
Neal blinked and licked his lips. “Maybe I’m just that good, to make you believe that.”
“And maybe this is the first time you’ve be paid for sex.”
Peter kept his voice low, but Elizabeth looked around, hoping that no one overheard them. “Boys, please.”
Peter scrubbed his face. “Look, I’ve got that thing tonight and I’m exhausted. Neal – or whatever he chooses to call himself – will be an asset for you. Hire him, don’t hire him – it’s your choice.” He started to slide out of the booth, but Elizabeth grabbed his arm.
“I’m not done with you.”
Peter stilled at the steel in her voice. Neal had the good sense to look cowed.
“What?”
“I think the two of you would be good for each other.”
“Huh?”
“Neal – he’s in need of some guidance. You – I get the feeling you’re more than ready to quit. Maybe he can give you back some of your spark.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
One of things he had always admired about Elizabeth Mitchell was how perceptive she was. It made her stand out in a field crowded with bored, wealthy women with too much time on their hands and husbands willing to pay to keep them busy. She could see what her clients – on both sides of her business – needed and provided it before they even understood what they wanted.
She also saw him way too clearly; she always had, even from the beginning.
Which was why he shouldn’t have been surprised that Elizabeth could tell that he was almost to the end of his rope. But he couldn’t see how this guy, Neal Caffrey, could do anything about that. He looked over to Neal, wondering just what he thought about Elizabeth’s statement, but his expression was opaque.
El continued, like a bull in a china shop. “Peter – Neal’s going to need a place to stay and you’ve got plenty of room in that classic six.”
“Wait, wait – you live in a classic six and you work as an escort?” Neal blurted out.
“Shh – not so loud.” Peter wanted to kill Elizabeth, for so many reasons. “Yes I do. It was an investment a few decades ago. And why am I even telling you this?” He tried to leave, but again, Elizabeth held him back.
“Peter, listen to me. Neal’s in a bind, his living situation is only temporary.”
“And why’s that?”
Neal answered, “I’m staying with a friend. He’s not too … well, comfortable with having long term guests.”
“And what makes you that think I would be?”
El, damn her, just kept the hits coming. “Because you’re lonely. And you like Neal.”
He turned on her. “I don’t need you to interfere with my life. Another word and someone’s going to be scrambling for an escort tonight.” He glared at Neal. “And I don’t think your charity case here is going to fit the bill. He’s not Garrett Fowler’s type.”
This time, he shook off Elizabeth’s hand and got up. “I wish you luck, Neal Caffrey. Just take my advice and don’t wear your heart on your sleeve so much.”
He stalked out, angry like he hadn’t been in a long time. The problem was that he liked Neal Caffrey, or Nick Halden, or whoever the fuck he was. The guy was just his type – as Elizabeth had told him. Smart, interesting, with a core of wildness that made Peter want to lock him up in a cell or a bedroom and keep him safe.
The thought of having Neal living under his roof was so damn enticing and that was the problem. It shouldn’t be this easy – nothing worth having was, and despite everything, Peter wasn’t even sure he wanted Neal. That brought him to a halt. No – he wanted Neal, but he wasn’t sure he should. And that was pretty damn fucked up.
The bar El arranged for their little meeting was a few blocks from his apartment on 79h Street, just off of York Avenue. The mostly residential neighborhood was quiet; the loudest sound was the leaves rustling in the evening breeze. Peter could also hear footsteps – quick – coming up behind him, and out of habit, he stepped aside to let whoever was approaching pass.
But it wasn’t some jogger, but Neal Caffrey, who was trying to run him down. “Hey – “
Peter wasn’t in the mood to give him any quarter. “What do you want?”
“Just – “ Neal bent over, hands on his thighs, trying to catch his breath. “Just wanted to apologize. I didn’t say anything to Elizabeth about needing a place to stay. – I had no idea…”
Peter shook his head, whatever anger he’d been carrying drained away. “You really have no place to stay?”
“Well, Mozzie isn’t going to kick me to the curb, but he’ll make my life less than pleasant until I move out. He says that they’re called safe houses for a reason – and that they aren’t meant for long term stays.”
Against his will, Peter was intrigued. “Your friend sounds a little, well …”
“Weird? Yeah, that’s Moz in a word. But he doesn’t have a drop of malice in him. He’s just a little set in his ways.”
Peter started to walk, then waited for Neal – who hadn’t moved. “Well, come on. I’ve been thinking about getting a puppy, but you might do just as well.”
Neal grinned, his eyes glowing in the light from the streetlamp. “I’m better than a puppy – I’m already housebroken.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Early December
“Neal?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you give me a hand?”
Neal finished tying his bow tie, shrugged into his tuxedo jacket and went to Peter, who was in his bedroom, struggling with his cufflinks. “God damn it. The cleaners over-starched the cuffs again. I don’t know why I bother…”
“Because they look good. Here, hold on.” Neal took the bit of gold and worked it through the cuffs. Yes, Mr. Ping’s had used too much starch, but Peter was being stubborn, trying to force the cufflink through the tight hole. “There, all done.”
Peter’s bow tie wasn’t done either, and without waiting for permission, he tied it. Feeling remarkably like a valet, he picked up Peter’s jacket and held it out for him, brushing away a few imaginary flecks of lint. Any excuse to touch the man.
It was a few weeks before Christmas, and both he and Peter were working almost every evening (although Neal had put his foot down and told El that after ten straight nights, he was off for the weekend). Sometimes they even were working at the same event, like tonight’s Christmas Gala for the New York City Ballet. Not that it mattered; they weren’t travelling together and would have little contact throughout the evening.
It was a strange relationship. At first, Neal figured that Elizabeth had given Peter the low-down on the low points in Neal’s life. That he was a convicted felon fresh out of Sing-Sing. That he did hard time in a maximum security prison for a White Collar crime because he was too slippery to keep in a cushy Club Fed facility. But it didn’t take long to realize that she hadn’t told Peter.
A few days after Neal had moved in, he checked with Elizabeth. She told him, “He didn’t ask, and frankly, unless you want me to tell him, I won’t.”
Neal figured, as long as they were friends – just friends – there was no need for Peter to know about his less-than-savory past. But if things progressed, this was a secret he couldn’t keep.
And they were friends, even though the first time they met ended in one of the most incredible sexual experiences of his life. While Neal would have been delighted to take that as a jumping off point to a deeper relationship, Peter preferred to act was like it never happened. He treated him with a blend of exasperation and off-hand affection, which Neal soaked up in lieu of what he really wanted.
Neal, always willing to take a mile when the inch was given, spent as much time in Peter’s company as he could. Most non-working evenings were spent watching Peter do whatever he did when he wasn’t squiring around a client – sometimes watching a ball game, sometimes reading, sometimes doing his real-world work, because yes, Peter Burke was still a CPA and a financial planner with a very select group of clients.
Peter didn’t notice (or maybe he pretended not to notice) how obsessed he was. And Neal didn’t press; he waited, he planned, he observed.
And what he saw confused him. Peter was, by all accounts, a very wealthy man and didn’t need to work. By the end of the first week after he moved in, Neal had picked the locks on the desk and filing cabinets and discovered a contradiction. Peter Burke was the heir to a respectable real estate fortune. His father (“worked in construction”) had been a builder who rode the post-War real estate boom to the top before selling everything. Peter himself had been employed at some of the most prestigious accounting firms in the world. While they had all gone bust, Peter had been paid well and lived frugally.
So why was he doing as a paid escort and sex worker? The best Neal could figure out was that Peter Burke suffered from a massive case of ennui.
“You ready?”
“I think so.” Neal checked himself in Peter’s bedroom mirror, adjusting the jacket of his Tom Ford tuxedo. He looked good. As perfect as model on a runway, as one client had told him a few nights ago. He knew he was handsome, false modesty was pointless, and he knew how to give his clients just what they wanted, just what they paid for. There was no repeat of what happened the night Nick Halden let Peter Cullinan make love to him.
Peter laughed at his preening, “Yes, you’re beautiful, but you’re going to keep Mr. Wonderful waiting.”
Neal sighed. His client tonight was anything but Mr. Wonderful. On paper, Daniel Picah should have been a perfect match for Neal. He was wealthy, an art collector who spread his money around a little too freely. But he was difficult to spend time with, and Neal had wanted to tell Elizabeth that she should consider dropping him.
When pressed, Neal couldn’t give a reason, other than the man drove him crazy. El said that wasn’t good enough, but she gave him an extra five percent for his trouble and just kept on booking him. She was probably charging Dan an additional ten percent for her trouble. In the months he’d been working for her, Neal learned that Elizabeth Mitchell was a business woman first, last and always.
Neal didn’t say anything about Dan to Peter, though. From the first, Peter had made it clear that they didn’t talk about clients, except in the most general of terms. So Neal took to calling Dan “Mr. Wonderful” and left it at that.
He took two coats out of the closet and handed Peter’s to him.
It was drizzling when they got to the street, the decorative holiday lights reflecting festively in the puddles. There were two cars waiting, one was Daniel’s Rolls, the other a more anonymous stretch Cadillac. Before heading off, Neal touched Peter’s arm. “See you later? Usual place?” After nights when they both worked, they’d taken to meeting at an all-night coffee shop and headed home together.
Peter nodded. “Yeah. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Do I ever?”
Peter walked off, his answer a chuckle.
Neal went over to the Rolls, and the driver, wearing a ridiculous traditional uniform, complete with peaked cap and leather driving gloves, opened the door for him. Daniel was waiting inside, all smiles and wet, hungry lips. He pounced on him before the driver shut the door. “I’ve missed you, Nick.”
Neal let Dan gently maul him and reminded himself that this client was harmless, just annoying. He was grateful, though, that the trip to the Palace Hotel was relatively brief. There was only so much he could take tonight.
The gala was in full swing by the time they arrived; bold face names were walking the red carpet, society photographers and paparazzi vying for the best shots of the beautiful people. Daniel wasn’t one of them and Neal tried to keep his face away from the cameras.
Daniel kept a possessive arm around his waist as he greeted people he barely knew. Neal remained the consummate companion, smiling and nodding, giving Dan affectionate looks, reassuring him that these people appreciated him for more than his money. The man relaxed enough to let Neal go over to the bar and get them both drinks.
There was a short line and Neal leaned against the bar, people watching, keeping an eye out for his date (and for Peter, to be honest), when he heard a familiar voice ordering a familiar drink.
“Two vodka martinis, Ketel One, if you please.”
The hair on the back of his neck stood up and Neal was frozen in place. At least his back was to the mirror behind the bar and with any luck, he could be just another anonymous brunet in a tuxedo. But luck wasn’t with him tonight. As the bartender was mixing the drink, someone bumped into the man who ordered it, pushing him against Neal.
Neal tried to keep his head down, but he was still recognized.
“Well, well, Neal Caffrey. I don’t know if I should be surprised or appalled to find you here.”
He acknowledged the speaker. “Vincent.” That was it.
“Come now, Neal – or would you prefer ‘Nicholas’? Are you always so cold to old friends?”
“We were never friends.”
“That’s not how I remember it, Nick.” Adler leaned in and Neal’s head was filled with the too-strong scent of his expensive cologne. He whispered, “Do you think I’d let someone who wasn’t my friend suck my dick?”
Neal swallowed and whispered back, “The way I remember it, you had to pay me before I opened my mouth. That’s not how friendship works.”
Adler just laughed; a nasty, threatening chuckle. “True, you were always a bit of a whore. I never stopped wondering what it would take to break you. Now that you’re back in New York, I may just have to find out.”
The bartender let Adler know his drinks were ready, and Vincent tossed a fifty into the tip jar. He left without another word. Neal tried to track his progress across the room, but Daniel barged into his field of vision. Neal plastered a smile on his face and tried to put Vincent out of his mind. “Sorry – there was a line. I’ll get us those drinks now.”
“Oh, never mind – there’s someone here, someone incredible! We have to meet him.” Daniel started to drag him away, but Neal hooked his arm around Dan’s waist, gently coaching him into a less impetuous flight.
“Who are you introducing me to? An old friend?”
“Oh, no – not a friend at all. Someone I’ve been dying to meet forever. Vincent Adler – the art collector. Did you know that he was one of the founding members of the Antiquities Recovery Project? I have a Go Yoshihiro sword – I think it may quite possibly be the Honjo Masamune that once belonged to the first Shogun and was stolen during the American Occupation. I wonder if Mr. Adler would be interested in having it repatriated? I paid over two hundred thousand dollars for it and could use the tax write off …”
Dan droned on and on, while Neal let him steer them around the room, looking for the hopefully elusive Vincent Adler. Neal didn’t relish another encounter with his old employer, not so soon, and certainly not in Daniel Picah’s company.
Hope was in vain, as absent as his luck. The doors had opened to the dining room and Dan spotted Vincent. Nothing Neal did could slow him down.
“Is anyone sitting here?” Dan didn’t wait for an answer as he pulled out the chair next to Adler. “I’ve so wanted to meet you. By the way, I’m Daniel Picah – you may have heard of me?” In his customary fashion, Dan rambled on, not letting Vincent or anyone else answer. “And, oh, this is my companion, Nick Halden. Nick – this is Vincent Adler – I so admire his work with the Antiquities Recovery Project …”
Neal bit the inside of his lip to keep from groaning at Dan’s terrible manners. He caught Adler’s eyes, and remembered – all too unwillingly – why he once admired this man. Vincent listened patiently for about ten seconds before deliberately turning away, giving them the cold shoulder. Daniel, typical, clueless, hapless, just kept talking.
Neal reached out, laying a hand on his arm, to distract him, but stopped, horrified. A man approached the table, taking the seat on the other side of Adler. It was Peter.
In all the time that Neal had worked for Adler, all the hours spent with him – in and out of the office, in and out of his bed – he had never seen an expression as open, as admiring, as besotted as the one he wore now. Vincent was looking at Peter – his Peter – like he was the very reason for his heart to keep beating.
Daniel finally realized that he no longer had Adler’s attention and noticed Peter. His face was transformed by almost-childlike glee. “I know you, right? Weren’t you my financial advisor?”
While Adler did a double-take, Peter, to his credit, didn’t seem the least bit fazed. Neal wondered if it was because he’d been at this game for so long, meeting up with another type of client was inevitable.
“Daniel, how are you? It’s been a few years.” Peter nodded.
Of course, Daniel had to launch into his spiel about the sword, completely oblivious to everything else. That was until Vincent stood up and whispered something in Peter’s ear. Peter looked around the table, his eyes resting briefly on Neal before moving on.
“If you’ll excuse us, we are actually supposed to be seated with some of the dancers from the company.” He held out his hand to Daniel. “It’s been good to see you again, and I’ll be in touch.”
“Yes, yes – of course.” Daniel reached out to take Peter’s hand, in the process knocking over a glass of red wine.
The wait staff hurried over to clean up the mess and Peter made his escape. Neal almost envied him.
The evening was interminable, the food mediocre, and Neal keep drinking in hopes of losing consciousness before Daniel’s endless chatter gave him an aneurysm. He knew the odds of escaping the evening without a trip back to his client’s apartment were minimal. Dan liked sex almost as much as he liked talking.
Just before dessert was served, Neal excused himself for the men’s room. Despite his best efforts, he hadn’t drunk enough to do anything more than fill his bladder. Even with four years of enforced sobriety, he couldn’t get truly drunk on wine. Just mildly buzzed at best.
He relieved himself and was washing his hands when the last person he wanted to see appeared in the mirror behind him. Fuck.
“It’s good to see you using all your talents, Neal. Do you like being a prostitute?”
Neal wiped his hands and kept his mouth shut.
But Vincent wasn’t inclined to let him escape. A hand on his shoulder stopped him. He could have shrugged it off, but something – maybe old memories – maybe new desire, kept him still. Adler pressed against him and even through his jacket, Neal could feel the other man’s cock leap against the crack of his ass. He hated it, but his dick – never particularly discerning – responded.
In the mirror, their eyes locked. Unable to move, unable to look away, Neal watched Vincent unbutton his jacket, then the shirt buttons across his chest, easing his cool hand underneath the fabric.
“You’re such a whore. You let that idiot Picah fuck you, you’d let anyone fuck you if they’ve got the cash. You always did.” Adler’s fingers found his nipple and pinched it. “You love this, you love giving it up for a few bucks. When you were in prison, how much did your ass cost?” He kept tormenting that bit of flesh, pulling and twisting. Neal hated it, hated himself more for how much it aroused him.
“You’re such a delicious fuck.” Vincent rocked against him, keeping up a steady stream of filth. “You love this, you bitch. All those nights in prison, did you jerk yourself off thinking about the things I used to do to you?” Adler whispered, low and nasty. “Did any of those cons, when they grunted over your ass, make you feel half this good?”
Neal wanted to tell Adler that whatever sex he had in prison was ten times better than getting fucked by him, but the words stuck in his throat. Vincent’s other hand was at his belt, opening his fly, dragging his cock out.
“You’re nothing more than a cunt, to be used and thrown away. Just like Kate.”
That should have been a trigger for Neal; he should have been able to marshal some anger, but … nothing except reluctant desire. All he could concentrate on was the feel of Adler’s cool palm cradling his hot cock, his thumb digging in under his foreskin, stroking…
And then a moment of spinning dizziness. One second he was standing at the sink, the next, Vincent maneuvered them into a toilet stall, the door slamming shut behind them. Neal whimpered as those cool, terrible hands left him to engage the lock.
“You slut, you whore – you want this.”
Neal whimpered again. He did. He would have fallen to his knees if Vincent wanted that. Instead, he pushed him against the marble wall, the smooth stone icy against his over-heated cheek. One hand wormed its way back under his clothing, finding his other nipple; the other hand yanked his pants and briefs down past his hips.
He felt Adler’s cock, hard and hot, prodding him between his ass and Neal whispered “No.”
“You really think I’d fuck you bare? You’re used goods, Neal.”
Neal wanted to fight back, he wanted to make this end, but he couldn’t. Whether it was true desire or the old need that Adler stirred in him, he couldn’t say. All his knew was that he was going to let himself be used, and he would enjoy it. The way he always had with Vincent, and the way he always would.
Adler’s cock rode between his buttocks, slicked by nothing more than the man’s precome and Neal’s sweat. Vincent was still tormenting his tit, his thumbnail digging into the flesh. But his other hand was braced against the wall, letting Neal’s cock rut against the cool marble.
Neal wasn’t sure who was moaning, but the sounds were loud and they echoed off all the hard surfaces. He didn’t care because the pleasure was too sweet and too dreadful, and all of a sudden, he was coming, spilling out onto the wall, staining his shirt and jacket. Vincent came to, with a hard grunt, his hot semen splashing over Neal’s ass and lower back.
He leaned against the wall, too weak-kneed to stand on his own.
“Here you go, Neal. You’ve earned this, at least.” Vincent shoved something between the crack of his ass.
Neal remained motionless, not turning as the stall door opened and Adler left. He listened to the water run, then the outer door open and shut. He was alone as he cleaned himself, pulling Alder’s cash out of his ass and flushed it down the toilet. He finished dressing. The come stains were mostly on the shirt, not the jacket, and the wetness was unpleasant against his hot skin.
He left the stall and stared at himself in the mirror – back where he was just a few short minutes ago. Neal washed his hands again, combed his fingers through his hair, buttoned his jacket, bolted back to the stall and vomited.
Neal emptied his stomach until his body hurt from the dry heaves. He realized that there was no way he could go back out there, sit with Daniel through the rest of this endless evening and then have sex with the man.
Not tonight, not after this. All he wanted to do was go home and forget the world existed, for it to be tomorrow when he could forget that this happened.
He washed up yet again and returned to the dining room. Someone was at the dais, talking about the virtues of supporting the New York ballet scene. Neal couldn’t give a damn. He sat down and took a drink of whatever was in the glass in front of him, thankfully it was water.
The speaker finally shut up and the evening was done. Neal sat there, too weary and too heartsick to move.
“Nick, you okay?” Daniel touched his shoulder and he tried not to flinch.
He couldn’t lie. “I don’t think so.” Neal swallowed hard. Even the water he had sipped was making him ill. “I need to get out of here. I’m sorry.”
Daniel, for the first time in Neal’s acquaintance, seemed aware of someone else’s distress. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
“Dan – “
“Your home. I know that I’m a self-centered ass most of the time, but I can see that you’re sick and you need to get to bed.”
Neal was never as grateful for another person’s kindness as he was right now. “I’ll call Elizabeth, tell her to refund your fee for tonight.”
“Oh, hush. I got just what I paid her for. And I got to meet Vincent Adler. When you were in the can, his friend came over with Adler’s business card and told me to call and set up an appointment. He’s definitely interested in the sword. So – this was a great night. We’ll celebrate when you’re feeling better.”
Daniel retrieved their coats and by the time they made it to the hotel lobby, the Rolls was waiting. His good behavior lasted the entire twenty minute ride back to Yorkville. “Feel better soon, Nick. I’ll call Elizabeth in the morning and tell her what a great time I had, so don’t worry, okay?
“Yeah, okay. And Dan – you’re a good guy.”
At the unexpected compliment, the man’s face lit up like a kid’s on Christmas morning. “So are you, Nick. So are you.”
Neal made it up to the apartment. Tonight it felt like home. He went to the bathroom and stripped with little regard for the expensive tuxedo. Right now, he never wanted to see it again. The water was just shy of scalding when he got into the shower, and Neal didn’t know if he’d ever feel clean again.
Instead of trying to forget about what happened, he forced himself to remember every moment, every sensation. His feelings for Adler had always been confused. From the first there was a wary fascination, like prey might be fascinated by the predator stalking it, then disgust even as he kept crawling back to the man’s bed.
He didn’t love Adler; he certainly didn’t like him, and whatever respect he once gave him became tinged with contempt. But there was something in Neal that responded to him, it was like a switch would go off in his brain at a certain command, a tone of voice, a look.
When he started working for Vincent, he was too young, too inexperienced to realize what it was. But he soon learned, and learned well. Too well, it seemed.
Neal rinsed and turned off the water. He wrapped himself in a towel, retrieved his cell phone, but left his suit and shirt in a pile on the bathroom floor, too tired, too ill to care. He was supposed to meet Peter at two-thirty, when they were both done with their respective assignments – or more appropriately – assignations. Walking into his bedroom, he sent Peter a text, tossed the towel onto a chair and climbed into bed. The sheets were cool against his skin, the room was dark and finally his brain stilled.
END PART TWO - GO TO PART THREE - ON LJ | ON DW
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Mozzie, Elizabeth Mitchell, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones, Vincent Adler, Daniel Picah, mention of other canon characters in minor non-canon settings.
Pairings: Peter/Neal, Neal/Daniel, Peter/Adler, Adler/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Prostitution, rape, Domination/submission, dubious consent, fuck-or-die scenario, use of gender-specific insults
Word Count: ~56,000
Beta Credit:
jrosemary, theatregirl7299 and hoosierbitch Summary: In some alternate universe, Peter Burke is a wealthy and bored financial advisor and discovers that one of his clients, Elizabeth Mitchell, is using her event planning business to launder profits from an escort service catering to the wealthy gay elite in New York. Instead of turning her in, he asks her to hire him. Neal Caffrey has been recently released from a four-year sentence for bond forgery and learns that his girlfriend, Kate has married his old boyfriend, Matthew Keller and they’ve taken off for parts unknown. Determined not to return to prison, Neal turns to his friend, Mozzie, for help. Moz knows a guy – or in this case – a gal who’s willing to hire Neal. As an escort.
PART ONE - ON LJ | ON DW
“Diana, did you hear who got out of Sing-Sing last week?” Clinton Jones didn’t bother to knock. He just barged into her office and flopped down in the single guest chair.
“Yeah, I did. The Bureau of Prisons sent me the Release Notice. Four years and it feels like it was just yesterday we were in the courtroom, listening to Caffrey’s sentencing.”
“Well, that was only three years and about six months ago – he was credited for time served.”
“Long enough.”
“We chased the son of a bitch for three years, only to see the US Attorney blow the case. He should have gotten twenty years. Instead he walked on almost every charge.” Clinton wasn’t bitter or vindictive, just stating the facts.
“Have to be grateful that Caffrey was such an arrogant little shit. If he hadn’t approached me at the bank where he had cashed that bond – “
“And given you that lime sucker.”
“And that, we wouldn’t have gotten a conviction on the bond forgery charge either.” Diana leaned back and gave her fellow agent a thoughtful look. “How long do think it’s going to be before we’re after him again.”
“We? Count me out – I’m in charge of bank fraud and money laundering now. You’re the expert on art crimes.”
“Caffrey’s a Renaissance thief, you know that. He’ll be on your radar soon enough.”
“Maybe he’s already on yours.” Clinton handed her a copy of today’s New York Times, the paper folded to display a very specific article. “Did you hear about the theft of the Thayer from the Lampson Gallery. Slash-and-grab last night. Could be that Caffrey’s decided to get back in the game.”
Diana scanned the article. “This isn’t his M.O. He’d be more likely to replace the painting with one of his forgeries instead of leaving an empty frame. Caffrey’s too much of an art aficionado to risk the damage a slash-and-grab might cause. But still, if he were desperate…”
“NYPD are on the case, but probably wouldn’t object to a little interdepartmental cooperation, especially if you could deliver a suspect all nicely gift-wrapped. It’s being handled out of Major Case.” Clinton gave her that look.
“Just because I dated Dana Shattuck a few years ago doesn’t mean I can expect any special favors.”
“Doesn’t mean anything, except that she’s a good cop and doesn’t have a stick up her ass when it comes to things like jurisdiction and letting the FBI take the lead.”
“Hmm.” Diana thought about it. “Do we have any idea where Caffrey went after Sing-Sing.”
“Nope. He served his time, no need to register with anyone. I guess you could check the ICE database to see if he’s used a passport.”
“Who knows what alias he’s traveling under? I’m sure we didn’t burn all of them.” She sighed. “Probably should interview the gallery manager, talk to the cops on the case before we jump the gun and call this a ‘Caffrey’.”
“Again, stop with the ‘we’ – I’m just here to deliver the news, not spend the next three years chasing after James Bonds again.”
Diana laughed and shooed Clinton out of her office. They had has been good friends as well as friendly rivals at the Academy, vying for the top honors and stayed in contact through their probationary years. When a slot had opened up here in New York’s White Collar division a decade ago, Diana had jumped at the chance to work with her old friend.
They rose through the ranks together, until Clinton was given charge of a money laundering task force, an assignment that lead to a major promotion. He was the head the unit’s bank fraud division and had a staff of ten agents. Which was only fair, since Diana had gotten the lion’s share of attention and approbation after she arrested Neal Caffrey, con man, forger and art thief.
Despite the years she spent chasing the man, the frustration of constantly missing him – often by mere minutes, interviewing his victims – many of whom didn’t even realize they’d been robbed, she liked Neal Caffrey.
He was smart. More than smart, really. If there was such a thing, he was the ideal criminal, eschewing violence, creative in his execution, selective in his targets. He never stole anything from anyone who’d be seriously hurt by the loss and while that wasn’t an excuse for stealing, it did say something about the quality of Caffrey’s character.
She perused the article that Clinton gave her. This didn’t feel like Caffrey, but it wouldn’t hurt to check it out, see if she could track down her old nemesis. Prison had a way of changing people, usually not for the better.
It was still early and tavern where Elizabeth had arranged to meet Neal was quiet. A few men were at the bar, watching a college football game, but the most of the booths and tables were empty.
“So, how did it go?” Elizabeth didn’t bother being coy or casual.
Neal smiled at her, a shit-eating grin as fake as a three-dollar bill. “Like a dream. Your client was most satisfied.”
“I know.”
Neal raised an eyebrow at that. “Don’t tell me you send out surveys.”
“No, but that could be an interesting marketing tool.” They both laughed. “Actually, your date last night wasn’t really a client.”
“Not a client? What do you mean? He was a freebie?”
“No, he was a test.”
Neal frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“You really don’t think I was going to give you an assignment and risk my business without making sure you really could do the job.”
She wasn’t surprised that Neal looked pissed. But she was surprised at how quickly the expression changed to one of satisfaction.
“And I passed with flying colors, right.”
“Hmm, you passed. But not necessarily with flying colors.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to let Peter explain.” The shock on Neal’s face was worth the exorbitant cost of the suite at the hotel, Peter’s own nightly rate, and the money she had to reimburse him for “Nick’s” tip. She stood up and signaled. Peter had been waiting at the bar and joined them.
Peter kissed her cheek nodded at Neal, but called him Nick. Neal just stared at Peter, unblinking.
“Since we’re all one big happy family, proper introductions are in order. Peter Burke, meet Neal Caffrey.” When neither man moved, she gave Peter a little shove. “Shake hands and play nice.”
Neal was a little too grudging as he offered his hand, but Peter was polite as he took it before sitting down next to her.
“El tells me that you had some complaints?”
Elizabeth laughed to herself. Neal was like a cat that got caught in the rain, all ruffled fur and attitude.
Peter raised an eyebrow and Neal’s belligerence. “No complaints.” He turned to look at her. “What did you tell him?”
“Not a lot, I figured it would be best to come from you.”
“Ah, okay.” Peter turned his attention back to Neal. “I wasn’t expecting to be impressed.”
Thankfully, Neal dialed back the hostility and asked a genuine question. “You try out all of El’s new employees?”
“Not all – but she makes it worth my time when I do.”
“So, were you impressed?”
El watched Peter and Neal. Their interaction was fascinating, and she got a germ of an idea. Better to wait and see where and how this went before developing it.
“Yes.”
“But you weren’t completely satisfied.” Neal leaned forward, by all appearances, completely engaged.
“I think you know just how satisfied I was, Neal.”
El was delighted by the flush to Neal’s cheeks, one that was – to a lesser extent – mirrored on Peter’s.
“So, what was your problem?”
Peter sighed and grimaced, searching for words. He looked at her. “This would be a lot easier to do if you weren’t sitting here. Sorry”
“Nothing to apologize for, but I’m not going anywhere. This is my business, remember?”
“Okay.” He turned back to Neal. “I have nothing but praise for you – for Nick Halden – for the first part of the evening. You stumbled a bit, but I was deliberately hard on you. I was trying to trip you up. You recovered nicely and the rest of the night in the bar was …” Peter let out a huff of laughter, shaking his head. “Was one of the most enjoyable work nights I’ve had in a very long time. Believe me, if I was a real client, I’d book you for drinks and dinner ever Friday night.”
Oh, this was wonderful. It was all Elizabeth could do to keep from clapping in joy.
Neal blush deepened at Peter’s praise. “But afterwards? In your room, you weren’t impressed? You weren’t satisfied.”
Peter didn’t rise to the bait. “You were magnificent. And that’s the problem.”
“I don’t understand.”
Peter looked at his hands, discomfited. “You let me control the scene; you let me do just what I wanted.”
El couldn’t help herself and interrupted, “And what was that?”
“None of your business.” El frowned at his sharp reply. Peter didn’t even look at her. But he was right; this really wasn’t her business, as she so often said. She needed to know if Neal could perform, she didn’t need to know the specifics.
“Then what did I do wrong?”
El was as confused as Neal.
“You gave too much of yourself, Neal. You can’t afford to become that emotionally invested in a client.”
Neal blinked and licked his lips. “Maybe I’m just that good, to make you believe that.”
“And maybe this is the first time you’ve be paid for sex.”
Peter kept his voice low, but Elizabeth looked around, hoping that no one overheard them. “Boys, please.”
Peter scrubbed his face. “Look, I’ve got that thing tonight and I’m exhausted. Neal – or whatever he chooses to call himself – will be an asset for you. Hire him, don’t hire him – it’s your choice.” He started to slide out of the booth, but Elizabeth grabbed his arm.
“I’m not done with you.”
Peter stilled at the steel in her voice. Neal had the good sense to look cowed.
“What?”
“I think the two of you would be good for each other.”
“Huh?”
“Neal – he’s in need of some guidance. You – I get the feeling you’re more than ready to quit. Maybe he can give you back some of your spark.”
One of things he had always admired about Elizabeth Mitchell was how perceptive she was. It made her stand out in a field crowded with bored, wealthy women with too much time on their hands and husbands willing to pay to keep them busy. She could see what her clients – on both sides of her business – needed and provided it before they even understood what they wanted.
She also saw him way too clearly; she always had, even from the beginning.
Which was why he shouldn’t have been surprised that Elizabeth could tell that he was almost to the end of his rope. But he couldn’t see how this guy, Neal Caffrey, could do anything about that. He looked over to Neal, wondering just what he thought about Elizabeth’s statement, but his expression was opaque.
El continued, like a bull in a china shop. “Peter – Neal’s going to need a place to stay and you’ve got plenty of room in that classic six.”
“Wait, wait – you live in a classic six and you work as an escort?” Neal blurted out.
“Shh – not so loud.” Peter wanted to kill Elizabeth, for so many reasons. “Yes I do. It was an investment a few decades ago. And why am I even telling you this?” He tried to leave, but again, Elizabeth held him back.
“Peter, listen to me. Neal’s in a bind, his living situation is only temporary.”
“And why’s that?”
Neal answered, “I’m staying with a friend. He’s not too … well, comfortable with having long term guests.”
“And what makes you that think I would be?”
El, damn her, just kept the hits coming. “Because you’re lonely. And you like Neal.”
He turned on her. “I don’t need you to interfere with my life. Another word and someone’s going to be scrambling for an escort tonight.” He glared at Neal. “And I don’t think your charity case here is going to fit the bill. He’s not Garrett Fowler’s type.”
This time, he shook off Elizabeth’s hand and got up. “I wish you luck, Neal Caffrey. Just take my advice and don’t wear your heart on your sleeve so much.”
He stalked out, angry like he hadn’t been in a long time. The problem was that he liked Neal Caffrey, or Nick Halden, or whoever the fuck he was. The guy was just his type – as Elizabeth had told him. Smart, interesting, with a core of wildness that made Peter want to lock him up in a cell or a bedroom and keep him safe.
The thought of having Neal living under his roof was so damn enticing and that was the problem. It shouldn’t be this easy – nothing worth having was, and despite everything, Peter wasn’t even sure he wanted Neal. That brought him to a halt. No – he wanted Neal, but he wasn’t sure he should. And that was pretty damn fucked up.
The bar El arranged for their little meeting was a few blocks from his apartment on 79h Street, just off of York Avenue. The mostly residential neighborhood was quiet; the loudest sound was the leaves rustling in the evening breeze. Peter could also hear footsteps – quick – coming up behind him, and out of habit, he stepped aside to let whoever was approaching pass.
But it wasn’t some jogger, but Neal Caffrey, who was trying to run him down. “Hey – “
Peter wasn’t in the mood to give him any quarter. “What do you want?”
“Just – “ Neal bent over, hands on his thighs, trying to catch his breath. “Just wanted to apologize. I didn’t say anything to Elizabeth about needing a place to stay. – I had no idea…”
Peter shook his head, whatever anger he’d been carrying drained away. “You really have no place to stay?”
“Well, Mozzie isn’t going to kick me to the curb, but he’ll make my life less than pleasant until I move out. He says that they’re called safe houses for a reason – and that they aren’t meant for long term stays.”
Against his will, Peter was intrigued. “Your friend sounds a little, well …”
“Weird? Yeah, that’s Moz in a word. But he doesn’t have a drop of malice in him. He’s just a little set in his ways.”
Peter started to walk, then waited for Neal – who hadn’t moved. “Well, come on. I’ve been thinking about getting a puppy, but you might do just as well.”
Neal grinned, his eyes glowing in the light from the streetlamp. “I’m better than a puppy – I’m already housebroken.”
Early December
“Neal?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you give me a hand?”
Neal finished tying his bow tie, shrugged into his tuxedo jacket and went to Peter, who was in his bedroom, struggling with his cufflinks. “God damn it. The cleaners over-starched the cuffs again. I don’t know why I bother…”
“Because they look good. Here, hold on.” Neal took the bit of gold and worked it through the cuffs. Yes, Mr. Ping’s had used too much starch, but Peter was being stubborn, trying to force the cufflink through the tight hole. “There, all done.”
Peter’s bow tie wasn’t done either, and without waiting for permission, he tied it. Feeling remarkably like a valet, he picked up Peter’s jacket and held it out for him, brushing away a few imaginary flecks of lint. Any excuse to touch the man.
It was a few weeks before Christmas, and both he and Peter were working almost every evening (although Neal had put his foot down and told El that after ten straight nights, he was off for the weekend). Sometimes they even were working at the same event, like tonight’s Christmas Gala for the New York City Ballet. Not that it mattered; they weren’t travelling together and would have little contact throughout the evening.
It was a strange relationship. At first, Neal figured that Elizabeth had given Peter the low-down on the low points in Neal’s life. That he was a convicted felon fresh out of Sing-Sing. That he did hard time in a maximum security prison for a White Collar crime because he was too slippery to keep in a cushy Club Fed facility. But it didn’t take long to realize that she hadn’t told Peter.
A few days after Neal had moved in, he checked with Elizabeth. She told him, “He didn’t ask, and frankly, unless you want me to tell him, I won’t.”
Neal figured, as long as they were friends – just friends – there was no need for Peter to know about his less-than-savory past. But if things progressed, this was a secret he couldn’t keep.
And they were friends, even though the first time they met ended in one of the most incredible sexual experiences of his life. While Neal would have been delighted to take that as a jumping off point to a deeper relationship, Peter preferred to act was like it never happened. He treated him with a blend of exasperation and off-hand affection, which Neal soaked up in lieu of what he really wanted.
Neal, always willing to take a mile when the inch was given, spent as much time in Peter’s company as he could. Most non-working evenings were spent watching Peter do whatever he did when he wasn’t squiring around a client – sometimes watching a ball game, sometimes reading, sometimes doing his real-world work, because yes, Peter Burke was still a CPA and a financial planner with a very select group of clients.
Peter didn’t notice (or maybe he pretended not to notice) how obsessed he was. And Neal didn’t press; he waited, he planned, he observed.
And what he saw confused him. Peter was, by all accounts, a very wealthy man and didn’t need to work. By the end of the first week after he moved in, Neal had picked the locks on the desk and filing cabinets and discovered a contradiction. Peter Burke was the heir to a respectable real estate fortune. His father (“worked in construction”) had been a builder who rode the post-War real estate boom to the top before selling everything. Peter himself had been employed at some of the most prestigious accounting firms in the world. While they had all gone bust, Peter had been paid well and lived frugally.
So why was he doing as a paid escort and sex worker? The best Neal could figure out was that Peter Burke suffered from a massive case of ennui.
“You ready?”
“I think so.” Neal checked himself in Peter’s bedroom mirror, adjusting the jacket of his Tom Ford tuxedo. He looked good. As perfect as model on a runway, as one client had told him a few nights ago. He knew he was handsome, false modesty was pointless, and he knew how to give his clients just what they wanted, just what they paid for. There was no repeat of what happened the night Nick Halden let Peter Cullinan make love to him.
Peter laughed at his preening, “Yes, you’re beautiful, but you’re going to keep Mr. Wonderful waiting.”
Neal sighed. His client tonight was anything but Mr. Wonderful. On paper, Daniel Picah should have been a perfect match for Neal. He was wealthy, an art collector who spread his money around a little too freely. But he was difficult to spend time with, and Neal had wanted to tell Elizabeth that she should consider dropping him.
When pressed, Neal couldn’t give a reason, other than the man drove him crazy. El said that wasn’t good enough, but she gave him an extra five percent for his trouble and just kept on booking him. She was probably charging Dan an additional ten percent for her trouble. In the months he’d been working for her, Neal learned that Elizabeth Mitchell was a business woman first, last and always.
Neal didn’t say anything about Dan to Peter, though. From the first, Peter had made it clear that they didn’t talk about clients, except in the most general of terms. So Neal took to calling Dan “Mr. Wonderful” and left it at that.
He took two coats out of the closet and handed Peter’s to him.
It was drizzling when they got to the street, the decorative holiday lights reflecting festively in the puddles. There were two cars waiting, one was Daniel’s Rolls, the other a more anonymous stretch Cadillac. Before heading off, Neal touched Peter’s arm. “See you later? Usual place?” After nights when they both worked, they’d taken to meeting at an all-night coffee shop and headed home together.
Peter nodded. “Yeah. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Do I ever?”
Peter walked off, his answer a chuckle.
Neal went over to the Rolls, and the driver, wearing a ridiculous traditional uniform, complete with peaked cap and leather driving gloves, opened the door for him. Daniel was waiting inside, all smiles and wet, hungry lips. He pounced on him before the driver shut the door. “I’ve missed you, Nick.”
Neal let Dan gently maul him and reminded himself that this client was harmless, just annoying. He was grateful, though, that the trip to the Palace Hotel was relatively brief. There was only so much he could take tonight.
The gala was in full swing by the time they arrived; bold face names were walking the red carpet, society photographers and paparazzi vying for the best shots of the beautiful people. Daniel wasn’t one of them and Neal tried to keep his face away from the cameras.
Daniel kept a possessive arm around his waist as he greeted people he barely knew. Neal remained the consummate companion, smiling and nodding, giving Dan affectionate looks, reassuring him that these people appreciated him for more than his money. The man relaxed enough to let Neal go over to the bar and get them both drinks.
There was a short line and Neal leaned against the bar, people watching, keeping an eye out for his date (and for Peter, to be honest), when he heard a familiar voice ordering a familiar drink.
“Two vodka martinis, Ketel One, if you please.”
The hair on the back of his neck stood up and Neal was frozen in place. At least his back was to the mirror behind the bar and with any luck, he could be just another anonymous brunet in a tuxedo. But luck wasn’t with him tonight. As the bartender was mixing the drink, someone bumped into the man who ordered it, pushing him against Neal.
Neal tried to keep his head down, but he was still recognized.
“Well, well, Neal Caffrey. I don’t know if I should be surprised or appalled to find you here.”
He acknowledged the speaker. “Vincent.” That was it.
“Come now, Neal – or would you prefer ‘Nicholas’? Are you always so cold to old friends?”
“We were never friends.”
“That’s not how I remember it, Nick.” Adler leaned in and Neal’s head was filled with the too-strong scent of his expensive cologne. He whispered, “Do you think I’d let someone who wasn’t my friend suck my dick?”
Neal swallowed and whispered back, “The way I remember it, you had to pay me before I opened my mouth. That’s not how friendship works.”
Adler just laughed; a nasty, threatening chuckle. “True, you were always a bit of a whore. I never stopped wondering what it would take to break you. Now that you’re back in New York, I may just have to find out.”
The bartender let Adler know his drinks were ready, and Vincent tossed a fifty into the tip jar. He left without another word. Neal tried to track his progress across the room, but Daniel barged into his field of vision. Neal plastered a smile on his face and tried to put Vincent out of his mind. “Sorry – there was a line. I’ll get us those drinks now.”
“Oh, never mind – there’s someone here, someone incredible! We have to meet him.” Daniel started to drag him away, but Neal hooked his arm around Dan’s waist, gently coaching him into a less impetuous flight.
“Who are you introducing me to? An old friend?”
“Oh, no – not a friend at all. Someone I’ve been dying to meet forever. Vincent Adler – the art collector. Did you know that he was one of the founding members of the Antiquities Recovery Project? I have a Go Yoshihiro sword – I think it may quite possibly be the Honjo Masamune that once belonged to the first Shogun and was stolen during the American Occupation. I wonder if Mr. Adler would be interested in having it repatriated? I paid over two hundred thousand dollars for it and could use the tax write off …”
Dan droned on and on, while Neal let him steer them around the room, looking for the hopefully elusive Vincent Adler. Neal didn’t relish another encounter with his old employer, not so soon, and certainly not in Daniel Picah’s company.
Hope was in vain, as absent as his luck. The doors had opened to the dining room and Dan spotted Vincent. Nothing Neal did could slow him down.
“Is anyone sitting here?” Dan didn’t wait for an answer as he pulled out the chair next to Adler. “I’ve so wanted to meet you. By the way, I’m Daniel Picah – you may have heard of me?” In his customary fashion, Dan rambled on, not letting Vincent or anyone else answer. “And, oh, this is my companion, Nick Halden. Nick – this is Vincent Adler – I so admire his work with the Antiquities Recovery Project …”
Neal bit the inside of his lip to keep from groaning at Dan’s terrible manners. He caught Adler’s eyes, and remembered – all too unwillingly – why he once admired this man. Vincent listened patiently for about ten seconds before deliberately turning away, giving them the cold shoulder. Daniel, typical, clueless, hapless, just kept talking.
Neal reached out, laying a hand on his arm, to distract him, but stopped, horrified. A man approached the table, taking the seat on the other side of Adler. It was Peter.
In all the time that Neal had worked for Adler, all the hours spent with him – in and out of the office, in and out of his bed – he had never seen an expression as open, as admiring, as besotted as the one he wore now. Vincent was looking at Peter – his Peter – like he was the very reason for his heart to keep beating.
Daniel finally realized that he no longer had Adler’s attention and noticed Peter. His face was transformed by almost-childlike glee. “I know you, right? Weren’t you my financial advisor?”
While Adler did a double-take, Peter, to his credit, didn’t seem the least bit fazed. Neal wondered if it was because he’d been at this game for so long, meeting up with another type of client was inevitable.
“Daniel, how are you? It’s been a few years.” Peter nodded.
Of course, Daniel had to launch into his spiel about the sword, completely oblivious to everything else. That was until Vincent stood up and whispered something in Peter’s ear. Peter looked around the table, his eyes resting briefly on Neal before moving on.
“If you’ll excuse us, we are actually supposed to be seated with some of the dancers from the company.” He held out his hand to Daniel. “It’s been good to see you again, and I’ll be in touch.”
“Yes, yes – of course.” Daniel reached out to take Peter’s hand, in the process knocking over a glass of red wine.
The wait staff hurried over to clean up the mess and Peter made his escape. Neal almost envied him.
The evening was interminable, the food mediocre, and Neal keep drinking in hopes of losing consciousness before Daniel’s endless chatter gave him an aneurysm. He knew the odds of escaping the evening without a trip back to his client’s apartment were minimal. Dan liked sex almost as much as he liked talking.
Just before dessert was served, Neal excused himself for the men’s room. Despite his best efforts, he hadn’t drunk enough to do anything more than fill his bladder. Even with four years of enforced sobriety, he couldn’t get truly drunk on wine. Just mildly buzzed at best.
He relieved himself and was washing his hands when the last person he wanted to see appeared in the mirror behind him. Fuck.
“It’s good to see you using all your talents, Neal. Do you like being a prostitute?”
Neal wiped his hands and kept his mouth shut.
But Vincent wasn’t inclined to let him escape. A hand on his shoulder stopped him. He could have shrugged it off, but something – maybe old memories – maybe new desire, kept him still. Adler pressed against him and even through his jacket, Neal could feel the other man’s cock leap against the crack of his ass. He hated it, but his dick – never particularly discerning – responded.
In the mirror, their eyes locked. Unable to move, unable to look away, Neal watched Vincent unbutton his jacket, then the shirt buttons across his chest, easing his cool hand underneath the fabric.
“You’re such a whore. You let that idiot Picah fuck you, you’d let anyone fuck you if they’ve got the cash. You always did.” Adler’s fingers found his nipple and pinched it. “You love this, you love giving it up for a few bucks. When you were in prison, how much did your ass cost?” He kept tormenting that bit of flesh, pulling and twisting. Neal hated it, hated himself more for how much it aroused him.
“You’re such a delicious fuck.” Vincent rocked against him, keeping up a steady stream of filth. “You love this, you bitch. All those nights in prison, did you jerk yourself off thinking about the things I used to do to you?” Adler whispered, low and nasty. “Did any of those cons, when they grunted over your ass, make you feel half this good?”
Neal wanted to tell Adler that whatever sex he had in prison was ten times better than getting fucked by him, but the words stuck in his throat. Vincent’s other hand was at his belt, opening his fly, dragging his cock out.
“You’re nothing more than a cunt, to be used and thrown away. Just like Kate.”
That should have been a trigger for Neal; he should have been able to marshal some anger, but … nothing except reluctant desire. All he could concentrate on was the feel of Adler’s cool palm cradling his hot cock, his thumb digging in under his foreskin, stroking…
And then a moment of spinning dizziness. One second he was standing at the sink, the next, Vincent maneuvered them into a toilet stall, the door slamming shut behind them. Neal whimpered as those cool, terrible hands left him to engage the lock.
“You slut, you whore – you want this.”
Neal whimpered again. He did. He would have fallen to his knees if Vincent wanted that. Instead, he pushed him against the marble wall, the smooth stone icy against his over-heated cheek. One hand wormed its way back under his clothing, finding his other nipple; the other hand yanked his pants and briefs down past his hips.
He felt Adler’s cock, hard and hot, prodding him between his ass and Neal whispered “No.”
“You really think I’d fuck you bare? You’re used goods, Neal.”
Neal wanted to fight back, he wanted to make this end, but he couldn’t. Whether it was true desire or the old need that Adler stirred in him, he couldn’t say. All his knew was that he was going to let himself be used, and he would enjoy it. The way he always had with Vincent, and the way he always would.
Adler’s cock rode between his buttocks, slicked by nothing more than the man’s precome and Neal’s sweat. Vincent was still tormenting his tit, his thumbnail digging into the flesh. But his other hand was braced against the wall, letting Neal’s cock rut against the cool marble.
Neal wasn’t sure who was moaning, but the sounds were loud and they echoed off all the hard surfaces. He didn’t care because the pleasure was too sweet and too dreadful, and all of a sudden, he was coming, spilling out onto the wall, staining his shirt and jacket. Vincent came to, with a hard grunt, his hot semen splashing over Neal’s ass and lower back.
He leaned against the wall, too weak-kneed to stand on his own.
“Here you go, Neal. You’ve earned this, at least.” Vincent shoved something between the crack of his ass.
Neal remained motionless, not turning as the stall door opened and Adler left. He listened to the water run, then the outer door open and shut. He was alone as he cleaned himself, pulling Alder’s cash out of his ass and flushed it down the toilet. He finished dressing. The come stains were mostly on the shirt, not the jacket, and the wetness was unpleasant against his hot skin.
He left the stall and stared at himself in the mirror – back where he was just a few short minutes ago. Neal washed his hands again, combed his fingers through his hair, buttoned his jacket, bolted back to the stall and vomited.
Neal emptied his stomach until his body hurt from the dry heaves. He realized that there was no way he could go back out there, sit with Daniel through the rest of this endless evening and then have sex with the man.
Not tonight, not after this. All he wanted to do was go home and forget the world existed, for it to be tomorrow when he could forget that this happened.
He washed up yet again and returned to the dining room. Someone was at the dais, talking about the virtues of supporting the New York ballet scene. Neal couldn’t give a damn. He sat down and took a drink of whatever was in the glass in front of him, thankfully it was water.
The speaker finally shut up and the evening was done. Neal sat there, too weary and too heartsick to move.
“Nick, you okay?” Daniel touched his shoulder and he tried not to flinch.
He couldn’t lie. “I don’t think so.” Neal swallowed hard. Even the water he had sipped was making him ill. “I need to get out of here. I’m sorry.”
Daniel, for the first time in Neal’s acquaintance, seemed aware of someone else’s distress. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
“Dan – “
“Your home. I know that I’m a self-centered ass most of the time, but I can see that you’re sick and you need to get to bed.”
Neal was never as grateful for another person’s kindness as he was right now. “I’ll call Elizabeth, tell her to refund your fee for tonight.”
“Oh, hush. I got just what I paid her for. And I got to meet Vincent Adler. When you were in the can, his friend came over with Adler’s business card and told me to call and set up an appointment. He’s definitely interested in the sword. So – this was a great night. We’ll celebrate when you’re feeling better.”
Daniel retrieved their coats and by the time they made it to the hotel lobby, the Rolls was waiting. His good behavior lasted the entire twenty minute ride back to Yorkville. “Feel better soon, Nick. I’ll call Elizabeth in the morning and tell her what a great time I had, so don’t worry, okay?
“Yeah, okay. And Dan – you’re a good guy.”
At the unexpected compliment, the man’s face lit up like a kid’s on Christmas morning. “So are you, Nick. So are you.”
Neal made it up to the apartment. Tonight it felt like home. He went to the bathroom and stripped with little regard for the expensive tuxedo. Right now, he never wanted to see it again. The water was just shy of scalding when he got into the shower, and Neal didn’t know if he’d ever feel clean again.
Instead of trying to forget about what happened, he forced himself to remember every moment, every sensation. His feelings for Adler had always been confused. From the first there was a wary fascination, like prey might be fascinated by the predator stalking it, then disgust even as he kept crawling back to the man’s bed.
He didn’t love Adler; he certainly didn’t like him, and whatever respect he once gave him became tinged with contempt. But there was something in Neal that responded to him, it was like a switch would go off in his brain at a certain command, a tone of voice, a look.
When he started working for Vincent, he was too young, too inexperienced to realize what it was. But he soon learned, and learned well. Too well, it seemed.
Neal rinsed and turned off the water. He wrapped himself in a towel, retrieved his cell phone, but left his suit and shirt in a pile on the bathroom floor, too tired, too ill to care. He was supposed to meet Peter at two-thirty, when they were both done with their respective assignments – or more appropriately – assignations. Walking into his bedroom, he sent Peter a text, tossed the towel onto a chair and climbed into bed. The sheets were cool against his skin, the room was dark and finally his brain stilled.
Tags:
- character: clinton jones,
- character: daniel picah,
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: mozzie,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: peter burke,
- character: sara ellis,
- character: vincent adler,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: case fic,
- genre: emotional trauma,
- genre: first time,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: neal as artist,
- genre: romance,
- kink: d/s,
- kink: dirty talk,
- kink: dub-con/non-con,
- kink: fuck-or-die,
- kink: leather,
- kink: nipple play,
- kink: prostitution,
- pairing: neal/adler,
- pairing: peter/adler,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- white collar,
- written for: wcpairings,
- year: 2013
