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elrhiarhodanTitle: Red Velvet - Part Three of Nine
Notes: See Master Post - On LJ | On DW
El had wished Neal luck when he left the bakery that evening. After the contracts came through, after they’d both read and signed and sent them back, Neal just looked at her with those puppy dog eyes, just waiting for her to give him permission to go see Peter. He didn’t need her blessing or her permission, but she gave them anyway. She thought about telling him what she knew about the man (of course she’d told him about their first meeting all those years ago) – that he’d been dating someone who’d been cheating on him. But somehow, it just didn’t feel right, like she was spreading malicious gossip. Whatever happened, happened a long time ago and only Peter and his former partner knew the truth of the matter.
She kissed Neal on the cheek, feeling more like his mother or older sister than the occasional lover, and pushed him out the door. He was taking a very special pastry over to Peter’s (who hadn’t ordered his usual cupcakes). She was just a little jealous that he had an excuse to spend some quality time with the object of his desire. And that thought gave her pause.
Was Reese Hughes really the object of her desire?
Beanpole tall, with a slight paunch, snow white and thinning hair atop a face that made no apologies for the years it had seen; the senior partner of Hughes, Burke wasn’t her typical choice for a romantic entanglement. But there was something about him that made her pause, made her blood run a little hot. Okay, maybe more than a little hot.
And when she thought about it, did she really have a type? People would look at her and Neal and remark about what a perfect couple they were. And wouldn’t their children be stunning? Except that Neal was her dear friend, with a lot of yummy side benefits, but El knew that she wasn’t really what Neal wanted (nor was Sara or Kate or the scant handful other women he’d been out with over the years).
Then there was Mozzie. Sweet, every-so-slightly crazy Mozzie. She didn’t know what she’d do without him. He was brilliant and gentle and she worried that he could be so easily hurt. And so magnificent in bed. He made her laugh and he made her come (sometimes at the same time). He didn’t love her, though. He liked her, he admired her, he would go to the ends of the earth for her if she asked him to, but his heart belonged elsewhere.
That suited El just fine.
She puttered around her apartment, putting the dishes away, sorting through the accumulated mail, wondering if she should bother with dinner or maybe just pop a movie in the DVD player and make some popcorn. It seemed kind of pathetic for a Friday night, except that she was exhausted and tomorrow was still a work day. Invoices and ordering and call-backs. She needed to find a back-up driver because she wasn’t subbing for Mozzie again and she had a feeling that Neal wasn’t going to have too many free evenings in the foreseeable future.
Which meant that she should probably also add a backup baker to the list, too, one who’d work on weekends. When she started Desserts After Dark, she figured it would be a short-lived experiment – riding the crest of the cupcake craze – and she wasn’t going to over-staff. That was five years ago, and now it represented a full half of her income. Corporate events and weddings were still her bread and butter, but she could see the day when all her focus would be on the sweets side of the business, and Neal couldn’t do everything.
El didn’t know if that worried or pleased her. She liked the event planning side of her business, it was where her roots were, but if it divided her focus, she – and her business – could end up in trouble.
And then she had to laugh. She knew she had a bad habit of worrying about problems years down the line. Like the building where the bakery was. She was only in the third year of a ten-year lease, and she worried that the price of the renewal would push her out of business.
No, tonight was not going to be a night for worrying. Tonight was a night for celebration. She just secured a contract with a new client that could send her business skyrocketing. She should go out dancing, or something. Moz was out making deliveries and wouldn’t be free until the early hours. She thought about calling one of her old friends, Dana, but she’d recently separated from her husband and preferred to spend the evening drowning her sorrows and downing margaritas rather than dancing the night away.
Or, and the wicked, wicked thought occurred to her, she could call Reese Hughes. The contracts were signed and delivered. There’d be no conflict of interest. He might not be the type to hit the discos, but she wouldn’t be averse to a few drinks and some good conversation at a quiet bar. Without giving herself a chance to back out, she fetched Reese’ card from her wallet and dialed the cellphone number printed on it.
Life was all about taking chances, wasn’t it?
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter was a snuggler, an octopus. One leg was slung over his thighs, an arm was draped across his waist, and his chin was tucked on Neal’s shoulder. By rights, he should have been antsy, eager to escape the tangle of another human being. He had always hated it when his bed partners wanted to cuddle. Even El knew that the only thing he liked to hold onto was an ancient feather pillow, more dust than down.
But this morning, Neal found himself relishing Peter’s closeness, the heat and mass of his body, the musk of sex, even the warmth of his breath against his neck. Peter’s cock, already a little tumescent, was nestled between the cheeks of his ass, and although he was a little sore, a little tender from the unaccustomed use, Neal wondered if they could go another round. Or two.
He rubbed against Peter and was rewarded when the other man’s cock twitched.
“Mmmm.” Peter held him a little tighter and rolled his hips against him. “Nice.” Peter's hand moved a little further south and cupped Neal's cock. His thumb swept lazily across the tip, the light calluses delicious against the sensitive skin. They rocked back and forth, so gently, so slowly that Neal wasn’t sure if Peter was awake or if he thought he was dreaming.
His pleasure, when it finally peaked, was more like a sigh than a climax. Peter’s hold loosened and Neal, almost reluctantly, rolled away. But not all that far. It was still early and he let sleep claim him again.
The smell of coffee and the unaccustomed warmth of sunlight across his face woke him an untold number of hours later. Neal blinked and winced at the brightness, not even sure where he was.
“Good morning.”
He rolled over. Peter was sitting on the bench at the foot of the bed, dressed in what had to be the most ragged Harvard University sweatshirt in existence. His hair was plastered with sweat and quite incongruously, he was holding a tiny, delicate china cup (probably the source of the delicious aroma).
“Morning?”
“Yeah, it’s still morning. For a few more hours.”
Neal looked around and saw the bedside clock. It read 9:17. He threw back the covers and sat up. His body felt deliciously well used. He would have preferred to linger in bed, maybe go another round or two with Peter before spending the rest of the day recovering. But he couldn’t, he had obligations.
“You have to be somewhere?” Peter asked with studied diffidence.
“Unfortunately, I’ve got to get to the bakery. There are pastries to be made.”
“You work on Saturdays?”
“Most of them. We don’t deliver on Sunday, but there’s usually an event that El’s managing that’ll need some sweets.”
“Ah.” Peter seemed disappointed. He picked up a small thermos and another cup, “Want some coffee.”
“That smells like Italian roast.”
“Freshly ground.”
Neal didn’t care that he was naked. He took the cup and hoped it tasted half as good as it smelled. It didn’t. It tasted twice as good. He finished the cup and sighed. “If I didn’t tell you last night that you were a god amongst men, I am so sorry for the omission.”
Peter blushed and his smile sent Neal’s heart racing. It was sweet and a touch bashful.
Neal finished the rest of the espresso and gave Peter back the cup. “I really do need to get to work. Mind if I shower?”
“No, not at all. I washed your clothes, by the way.” Peter gestured to a pile on the dresser. “Hope you don’t mind.”
Neal blinked. How is it that this man wasn’t someone’s husband? He almost asked Peter that but instead thanked him with a kiss.
Peter’s eyes were dark with arousal when Neal pulled back. He asked, more of a growl than a polite question. “Mind if I join you? I went for a run this morning.”
Which explained the sweaty hair and clothes barely fit for public display. Neal thought he looked delicious and given what just passed between them, he had every expectation that they’d have sex in the shower. “I couldn’t think of any better way to start my day.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“El, you home? I’ve brought breakfast!” Moz used his key and let himself into El’s Fort Greene duplex. “I’ve got bagel and herb tofu spread, freshly made from that place you like.” There was no answer, but she was definitely home. He could see the lights on upstairs, and her shoes and handbag were on the living room floor. “El?”
Not waiting for an answer, he starting to make coffee.
He heard a door open – if he wasn’t mistaken by the distinctive squeak – it was her bedroom door. El called down from the top of the steps. “Moz? What are you doing here?”
“I thought we’d have breakfast together.” He called back as he took out plates and knives and napkins. No need for forks with the bagels. He emptied the bag – in addition to the bagels and “cream cheese,” there was a bottle of freshly made mango-carrot-kiwi juice, a box of unsweetened Almond Dream, and a small container of half-and-half for El, since she didn’t completely share his aversion to cow lactation products.
“Umm, Moz, sweetie – this isn’t a good time.”
“El?” He finally looked up. El was standing there wrapped in a kimono that matched her eyes, her hair mussed, her face still bearing traces of yesterday’s cosmetics, and if his eyes didn’t deceive him, a small, oval bruise on her neck. A hickey.
He didn’t have to ask what was going on. It was pretty obvious. “Ah, you’re not alone.”
She bit her lip, looking all too adorably repentant. “I’m sorry, Moz.”
He took a deep breath, letting his hurt do battle with his sense of fairness and justice. Hurt was easily defeated. He smiled. “Nothing to be sorry about, we’re free agents. No commitments other than friendship, right?”
She nodded. “Yeah, we’re friends. Always.”
Moz pulled off his glasses, wiped them and put them back on. He hated doing that – a tick, a tell, a nervous gesture that he couldn’t control. And yet, he had nothing to be nervous about. “I guess this is a good a time as any to tell you that The Vulture’s back in town?”
El gave him a puzzled look. “Who?”
“Sally. Remember her?”
That got a gratifying reaction. “Mozzie, that’s a terrible thing to call your ex-wife.”
“Not quite my ex, not yet and maybe not ever. And besides, it’s not an insult, it’s her nom de guerre. She’s going to be lecturing on information transparency in the age of cyber-security at the New School next month.”
“And you think you can patch things up?”
“Don’t know if I want to go that far, since she lives most of the year in California, and I’m not allowed back, even though the BHA has been dead for almost twenty years. But it’s not to say that I wouldn’t mind taking care of her physical security while she’s here, if you know what I mean.”
El wrapped her robe a little tighter around her body, which only served to highlight those luscious breasts. “Yes, Moz, I certainly get the double entendre.”
Moz went back into the kitchen and contemplated the breakfast he wasn’t going to be sharing. “I’ll leave you the bagels, the juice and the cream, but you don’t mind if I take the tofu spread and the almond milk?”
“No, Moz – not at all.”
She kissed his cheek and he had to smile. El was one of those very special people he never wanted to lose. Her presence in his life didn’t start and end in bed.
“See you Monday?” She asked.
“Without fail.” He wondered if he should give her back her key, but decided not to. Or at least, not yet. Things might not work out with whoever was in her bed right now, and besides, Moz figured there was no point in giving it back. Elizabeth knew that keys were just a formality with him. “Enjoy your weekend, El.”
He found himself on the sidewalk, blinking against the late morning sunlight, without the faintest idea about what to do with the rest of his day. Moz perked up when he remembered that Gina was working today. Luckily, he had A.B. Tattersall’s latest in his bag. Maybe she’d sit with him when she took her break. There was something to be said about a courtship conducted over a mutual appreciate of genre fiction.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“Breakfast?” Peter watched Neal get dressed and it occurred to him that he could spend the rest of his life like this. It was a stray thought, one he was quick to dismiss. For all that he lived a quiet life, he wasn’t a man given to domesticity and after a decade of living alone, he wouldn’t know a damn thing about how to get on with someone every single day.
“What’s the matter?” Neal must have seen something in his face.
Peter just smiled and asked again, “Breakfast? The most important meal of the day, you know.”
Neal looked torn. “I’m going to have to pass – I’m running late as it is.” He checked the time on his phone and grimaced. “You have any idea how long it will take to get a cab if I call now?”
“Cab?”
“I don’t own a car. The subway’s good enough, but the bakery’s not on the local line here. I’d have to go all the way over to Atlantic Avenue and then catch the Carnarsie line. On a Saturday morning, it’s quicker and easier to take a cab.”
Peter didn’t think before asking, “Want a lift? I’ve got a few errands to run this morning in that area, so it wouldn’t be a problem.” It was a small lie; he could just as easily get what he needed locally, no reason – other than spending a few more minutes with Neal – to head into Williamsburg.
“You wouldn’t mind?” Neal’s smile, the way his eyes glowed, was well worth whatever inconvenience it would be to go to East Williamsburg.
“Not at all, I wouldn’t have offered if I minded. Besides, you could give me a tour.”
“There’s not much to see. It’s an industrial facility in an industrial section.”
“But you make my cupcakes there, and you know what those cupcakes mean to me.” Peter teased and hoped he didn’t come across as weird.
Apparently not. Neal let out a shout of laughter. “All right, I’ll show you around. Who knows, you might even find a few extras to take home with you.”
“That’s a dangerous thing to off a man who’s got an admitted addiction,” he joked.
“Well, now you can come pick them up, you don’t have to wait for a delivery.”
“Or you could just deliver them yourself.” Again, Peter spoke without thinking.
"Yes, I certainly could." Neal's smile was sweetness itself. "I'm ready whenever you are."
The drive to East Williamsburg took about twenty minutes. Peter was mildly troubled by the industrial quality of the neighborhood. Most of the buildings were decorated with graffiti and sported razor wire and high security fences. "Don't tell me you walk to and from the subway in the middle of the night.”
Neal looked at him like he was a little crazy. Maybe he was. “I’m a grown man, Peter, and this isn’t the 1970s. The area might be industrial, but it’s not a crime-riddled sink hole. I can take care of myself.”
“Okay, okay. Just …”
“You’re concerned and that’s sweet.”
Peter stopped in front of a gate and Neal got out of the car to open the gate. Peter drove through and followed Neal around to the back. He had to admit that maybe he’d overreacted. The loading area was spotless, no graffiti, no loose trash.
He followed Neal inside.
Neal took him into a large, empty kitchen. “So – this is it. Not really all that exciting.”
Peter looked around. There were a lot of ovens and a lot of very clean surfaces. Yes, he’d have to agree with Neal, not very exciting. “I sort of feel like a kid who accidentally wandered behind the scenes at Disneyworld. Or Dorothy when she found out who the Wizard really was.”
“Aww, I’ve killed the magic?”
Peter shrugged, feeling all kinds of silly over the letdown.
“Maybe this will make you feel better?” Neal had opened a glass case and took out one of his famous red velvet cupcakes. “It’s not a gateau, but I know how much you like them.”
“Almost as much as I like you.” Again, the words were spoken without thought. It felt far too soon to make that declaration, and yet it didn’t feel wrong at all. Peter was grateful, though, that Neal had used the word “like” and not “love.” That would have been ridiculous.
But Neal didn’t seem to find anything odd in the sentiment. “Good, because I’d hate to come in second behind my own baked goods.”
They stood there awkwardly for a moment or two, Peter with his hands shoved in his pockets, Neal holding the cupcake. He gave Peter a wry grin. “Shall I box this up?”
“Yeah, that would be great.”
“I know you said that you’ve got some errands this morning …” Neal handed him a small red and gold box. “And hanging around, watching me bake for the next few hours probably isn’t going to be highlight of your weekend, but if you’re not doing anything tonight, would you like to have dinner with me?”
Neal ended on a nervous, breathless rush and something cracked open inside Peter. He never thought that Neal was some smooth operator or a sexy player just out for a good time, but he had always seemed a hell of a lot more self-assured that Peter ever was or ever would be. His anxious hesitancy was unbelievably charming. “Yeah, I would – absolutely. Where would you like to go?”
Neal surprised him again. “Would you like to have dinner at my place – I’d love to cook for you.”
“Really? I’d think after working in the kitchen all day, you’d want some time away from this.” Peter gestured around the room.
“No, not really. Baking is science, cooking is art, and I don’t get a chance to cook as much as I used to. My landlady had hired me as a private chef when I first met her, but the past year or so, she’s been traveling more than she’s been home. It’s not a lot of fun cooking for myself, so I end up eating pretty basic stuff. I’d love to make dinner for you.”
“Only if you’re sure. We can go out.” Peter didn’t know why he was arguing the point. Neal wanted to see him again, he really wanted to. Tonight.
“I’m definitely sure.”
The light in Neal’s eyes made Peter want to stay, watch him work, and maybe take advantage of the vast quantity of horizontal surfaces here.
“Okay then. I should let you get to work.” He turned to go, feeling aroused and awkward.
“Umm, Peter?” Neal grabbed the back of his shirt. “You’ve forgotten a few things.”
He was confused and looked down at his hands, holding the box with the cupcake. What else did he need? “I did? I have?”
“Yup. I think you’ll need my address – unless you’ve already done a background check on me?” Neal didn’t seem especially distressed by that idea. Or maybe he was just kidding and didn’t realize that Peter had such resources.
“No, no – of course not.” He sort of felt like a fool. “So, where do you live?”
“79 Riverside Drive.”
The address seemed vaguely familiar, but all he said was, “I have friends who live on Riverside. It’s a nice neighborhood.”
“It is. I like it a lot. How does eight o’clock sound?”
“Good – should I bring a bottle of something?”
Neal thought for a minute. “How about a nice white, maybe?”
Peter nodded. “Will do. See you at eight.” He turned to go again.
Neal grabbed him again.
“What did I forget this time?”
Neal grinned. “This.” Even though Peter was twenty pounds heavier and six inches taller, Neal had the advantage of surprise as he hauled him close and planted a kiss on his lips. Peter didn’t even think about resisting – why should he? Neal’s fingers curled around the back of his head, cupping his skull; his nails scraping against his skin was one of the most erotic experiences in his life. His lips parted and Neal’s tongue stole in like a sneak thief.
Peter might have dropped the cupcake box and taken control except that Neal ended the kiss with a small nip on his lower lip and stepped back. It was gratifying to see that Neal was breathing just as heavily as he was. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes glowing and Peter strongly resisted the urge to start something they’d both enjoy finishing.
“I’ve got to go … unless I’ve forgotten something else?”
“No – I don’t think so. See you tonight.”
“Can’t wait.”
Neal stood there, smiling and Peter just about floated off on a cloud of pure happiness.
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There’s no fool like an old fool. Reese listened to Elizabeth talking with someone downstairs. A man, who apparently knew her well enough to have a key and thought nothing of letting himself into her home. As he listened, he wondered just what he thought he was doing – starting something with such a young and vibrant woman. In the cool light of morning, it felt ridiculous.
But last night, it was anything but that. Elizabeth Mitchell had called him, out of the blue, and asked him if he’d like to have a drink with her. He didn’t think twice about accepting her offer, and mentioned that Clint Holmes was playing at the Carlyle. Would she be interested?
Elizabeth laughed and the sound was one of pure pleasure. Of course she’d love to go, jazz was one of her favorite types of music. He had felt a little foolish, waiting for Elizabeth in the lobby, but the light in her eyes when she saw him erased those doubts. She argued with him about paying the cover charge – since she was the one to ask him out. Reese countered that he’d been the one to suggest the venue, and besides he was an old-fashioned kind of guy.
“But not so old-fashioned to be horrified when a woman asks you out?” Elizabeth’s question was pert, her smile a touch mischievous.
“I’m here, how horrified could I be?” Reese had hoped he sounded amused but wondered if he came off like a prig. He’d never considered himself an object of desire and even if he wasn’t old quite enough to collect social security, he had never been the type of man beautiful women sought out for companionship. Too tall, too stern, too humorless. That’s what his ex-wife, Gail, said about him. Although Reese could never figure out how “too tall” fit into that collection of negative qualities. He couldn’t do a damn thing about his height.
Elizabeth didn’t seem to mind that he towered over her. She didn’t find him too stern and certainly not humorless. He could still hear her laugher when he told her some silly story about his early days at the FBI. He didn’t think she was playing him – the firm had already given her company the contract. There was nothing she’d gain by asking him out.
Or by sleeping with him.
He kept listening, trying to make sense of the conversation, but the voices were too distant and neither Elizabeth nor her visitor seemed particularly upset about anything. After a minute or so, Reese heard the front door open and close, then silence. Then footsteps as Elizabeth came back upstairs.
She stood at the doorway, framed by the light from the hall. “Sorry about that, Reese. I wasn’t expecting any visitors.”
“Your friend wasn’t expecting you to have company.” He wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that. “Does he usually come over for breakfast?” Reese wanted to ask, “Does he often stay for breakfast?”
Elizabeth came back into the bedroom and untied her robe. “Moz is Moz, he’s not one for respecting socially-imposed borders.”
Reese didn’t know what that meant. But since Elizabeth was getting back into bed with him, he figured it didn’t matter.
“He did bring fresh bagels, though.”
“And he doesn’t mind that he’s not the one sharing them with you?”
Elizabeth made herself comfortable, tucking herself under his arm. “No, not at all. We’ve never been exclusive. Besides, he’s crushing on a waitress at his favorite diner and his wife’s going to be in town in the fall. He’ll be fine.”
“Ah.” That was the only thing he could think of saying.
“It’s early yet, how about we … take advantage of it?” She wriggled delicately against him.
Putting aside his apprehensions, Reese kissed her in the sweet spot behind her jaw. “I think that sounds like a splendid idea.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal fussed over the pot of mussels, inspecting each one, making sure it was perfect. He was happy in a way he hadn’t been in a very long time. It was like all the parts of the universe were spinning at just the right speed, in just the right order.
Thinking back, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt like this. Energized, but content. Anticipation was bubbling like champagne in his veins, but so was satisfaction. He was a mass of contradictions, but didn’t mind that at all.
Peter Burke was doing this to. He still couldn’t believe he had the balls to look up the man’s address and go over there. And bring him cake. And spill his guts about The Greatest Cake.
And kiss him.
The memory of what they did on the couch, in bed, in the shower – hell, that kiss at the bakery – distracted him. Neal felt himself get hard and looking down, he had to smile at the bulge under his apron.
But it was more than sex, spectacular as it was. From the moment he’d laid eyes on the man in that conference room, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’s met his fate.
Neal paused at that realization. No, not possible.
He barely knew Peter Burke. He’d only meet the man, what, thirty-six hours ago? Definitely not possible.
And yet his heart asked, But why not?
Because, because he didn’t – and Neal’s brain sort of stuttered at the words – fall in love with someone like that. He wasn’t a romantic, he wasn’t impulsive.
Stop lying to yourself.
Okay, so he was something of a romantic and he wasn’t one to restrain too many of his impulses.
Standing there, in one of June’s kitchens (there were five in the house, not including the efficiency in his apartment), a half-crushed clove of garlic under his knife, Neal waited for the panic to set in. And waited.
But it didn’t. The only thing he felt was a crazy sort of peaceful resignation, that everyone else – his failed relationships with Gordon and Matthew, the flings with Vincent, Sara, Kate, even El, were just warm-up acts for the rest of his life. A life he wanted to spend with Peter Burke.
Neal smiled and went back to chopping. He was going to make Peter a dinner he’d never forget, a meal that would tease his senses, linger in his memory, one that he’s recall at the odd moments of his life and when he did, Neal would be there to remember it with him.
It wasn’t lost on Neal that mussels and fries – moules-frites – wasn’t the most romantic of dishes. It was a little messy, a little pungent, but it was a meal that Peter would enjoy far more than some overly fussy presentation. There was Prosciutto de Parma and perfectly ripe Canary melon for starters, and for dessert, he was going to surprise Peter. No cupcakes, no elaborate torte or rich confection. Something simple, something memorable – freshly made madeleine cookies and Meyer lemon and strawberry semifreddo.
He finished the preparation. All the aromatics were chopped, the potatoes par-fried, the mussels cleaned and everything else ready to go. Neal checked the clock, it was a little after seven. Just enough time to get everything upstairs and take a quick shower.
Under the hot spray, Neal couldn’t stop thinking about the shower he’d taken with Peter this morning – how Peter handled him so expertly, bringing him to the edge of ecstasy again and again before letting him come. He couldn’t stop thinking about how the water cascaded over him as he knelt at Peter’s feet and sucked that beautiful cock.
But he didn’t jerk off. No – he didn’t want to waste his desire. It would keep and be better for the waiting.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
Peter had grabbed the first parking spot he saw in Neal’s neighborhood, at Riverside and 79th street, and walked the few blocks north. He stopped in front of the address Neal had given him, and shook his head in disbelief. Now he knew why the address had seemed so familiar. June Ellington lived here. She and her late husband were old friends of his and some the very first clients he’d taken on after he’d left the FBI.
Small world didn’t even begin to describe the connection here. A few years ago, shortly after Byron had died, June told him that she was taking on a lodger, someone she’d met when she had tried to sell a few of Byron’s suits. The young man had shown an extraordinary appreciation for custom tailoring and they’d gotten to talking.
He’d be working as her private chef, and his wages would be offset in his rent. Peter had counseled against that, not only was it was a tax law nightmare, letting a complete stranger live in her private home seemed downright foolish.
“But that’s why I have you, Peter.” June told him in those elegant and implacable tones. “You’ll run a background check.” He did and had found nothing remarkable in the report, nothing that would indicate that June’s prospective tenant was a psychopath looking to take advantage of an old woman. She overrode Peter’s other concerns and rented her fourth floor suite to the man at a significantly below-market rate. He just signed and accepted that June was her own woman and would defer to no one.
Now, carrying a few bottles of wine – a Sauvignon blanc – anticipating dinner and further developments in this new relationship, Peter tried to remember anything else that was in the report. The best he could come up with was that June’s tenant had graduated with honors from the CIA, which stuck in his head because he’d done a double take. In this instance, the CIA was the Culinary Institute of America, not the spy agency. There might have been something about a failed business in the report, but Peter couldn’t be sure. Regardless, he was not going to pull the file and take a look.
No, absolutely not.
A maid answered the door and took the wine bottles from him. He told her he was here to see Neal and she showed him into the front parlor. Neal was waiting, smiling and as gorgeous as he remembered. He was wearing a dark green shirt that made his eyes glow. Quite a few times over the past few hours, Peter had convinced himself that there was no way the reality of Neal Caffrey matched his memory. He was wrong, of course.
June was there too, as elegant as ever. Clearly, from the puzzled expression on her face, she was surprised to see him here. “Peter?”
Neal looked from him to June before stating the obvious. “You two know each other?”
“Peter’s not only my accountant, but a very dear friend.” June didn’t elaborate as she reached out and hugged him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “It’s good to see you, but it’s been too long. I think our paths last crossed at the gala at the Met for reopening of the European Paintings wing.”
Peter hugged her back. “Yes, that was what, three months ago? Far too long.”
“Time does fly. But I can’t believe you’re seeing Neal. He didn’t mention your name when he told me he had a dinner date with – how did he put it? A god come to earth.”
Peter blinked and cast a quick glance at Neal, who was blushing.
She added, with a devilish chuckle, “Well, if you like them tall and all muscly, maybe you are just that.”
Peter didn’t know whether to laugh or not. “Umm, thanks?”
June, deliberately oblivious, continued, “Well, I’m going to leave you two to your date.” She admonished Neal, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” and floated out of the room on a cloud of Givenchy.
Neal stood there, still blushing, hands in his pockets.
Peter had to ask, “A god come to earth?”
The up from under look Neal gave him was scorching. “Yeah, and you have a problem with that?”
“No, and come here.” Peter pulled Neal towards him and kissed him like it had been months and not hours since they parted.
The sound Neal made as their lips met – a cross between a purr and a growl – almost made Peter forget they were in the front parlor. Almost, but not quite.
He pulled away reluctantly. “Dinner?”
“Yeah, dinner.” Neal shook his head and laughed. “You really make me lose my head.”
“I could say the same.”
Neal took his hand and led him upstairs – with just a brief diversion to pick up the wine bottles.
In the apartment, Neal shook his head in bemusement. “I can’t get over that you and June know each other. It’s actually a little creepy. You and June, you and Elizabeth.”
The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. “Yeah – I had forgotten about El. The world is small – but not that small.
He walked around the apartment. “You know, once upon a time, this space had been Byron Ellington’s art studio. He was one of the most well-respected painters of the mid-Twentieth century.”
“Yes – June had told me. She said that it had been the gathering place for artists and musicians trying to keep alive the cultural traditions of the Harlem Renaissance.”
Peter nodded. “It worked for a while – until Byron’s best friend, Ford Toman, stole a fortune from them. He was Byron’s manager, and not only was he selling Byron’s work and never paying him, he had access to all of their finances.”
“June said that she and Byron were betrayed by someone she’d trusted with her life, but she never told me the details. It didn’t feel right to pry; June looked so lost when she told me.”
“Ford’s betrayal had devastated them. That’s how we met. The man had been implicated in some dodgy real estate scams I was investigating. As I started digging, I discovered that he’d been using money from the sale of Byron’s artwork to cover the losses, and as those losses mounted, Ford started emptying the Ellington’s accounts. It took everything that Byron and June had to rebuild their lives. In the end, the cost was too high. Byron died – a heart attack – the night before a major retrospective of his career opened at the Guggenheim.”
Neal shook his head. “I have to wonder how June could ever bring herself to trust a stranger, to trust me like she has.”
“She’s an exceptional woman.”
“Very.” Neal kissed him again. “And thank you for being there to help her.”
Peter shoved his hands in his pockets, a little embarrassed. Neal pretended not to notice as he started fussing in the small kitchen area.
Peter took the time to look around the space. It had been a few years since he’d had been up here, and it looked nothing like his memories. Gone were the racks of canvases in various stages of completion, the easels and the posing stand for the life model. Probably the only thing that remained from those days was the wine rack filled with exceptional vintages. The scents of linseed oil and gesso and the ever-present perfume of good quality weed were replaced with the aroma of garlic and tomato sauce and a faint hint of the ocean.
“Smells good,” Peter commented.
“Hope you like mussels.” Neal asked, oblivious to his reverie. “I never even thought to ask if you had a shellfish allergy.” He turned back to Peter, wooden spoon in hand, a mildly worried expression on his face.
“Nope, no allergy and I love them.”
“And fries?”
“You’re making me moules-frites? Even better. Haven’t had that since the last time I was in Brussels.”
“Isn’t it the national dish of Belgium? Or is that waffles?”
“No, it’s pretty much mussels and fries.” Of all the topics of conversation.
Neal set the pot on the stove to simmer. He opened one of the bottles of wine and asked, “When were you in Belgium?”
“About twelve years ago. It was for a case.”
“Back when you were an FBI agent?”
“Yeah.”
Neal handed him a glass and gestured towards the terrace. “It’s a nice night, I thought maybe we’d dine al fresco.”
He followed Neal through the French doors, standing next to him at the railing. “What a view, I’ve always thought this was the best ones in Manhattan.”
“I guess you’ve been here before?”
“Yeah – after Ford, after everything collapsed for Bryon and June, I kept in touch. They seemed like people I needed to know, I needed to keep in my life.”
“Was that how you became their accountant?”
“Pretty much. When things got difficult at the Bureau after Reese retired, I became a little self-destructive.” Peter didn’t want to tell Neal – not now – about his failed relationship.
“Self-destructive? No, I can’t see you like that.”
“I was. I started drinking. Not a lot, but more than I should have.” When Neal gave him – and his wine glass – a troubled look, Peter was quick to dismiss his concerns. “No, I’m not an alcoholic, but my drinking was on the verge of interfering with my job. And I was beginning to hate my job so much that I didn’t care.”
Neal turned around, so his back was to the city and he faced Peter.
Peter looked up; it was just becoming dark overhead. “June and Byron – they gave me a refuge. This was a place to come and be myself. They never judged me, they didn’t care that I was gay. Hell, they tried to fix me up with some of their friends. As bad as things were for them for a while, they never closed their hearts or their minds.” Peter leaned on the balustrade, watching the sun begin to set behind the city skyline. “June was the one who told me that I needed to leave. That I needed to find a new path for my life. Because the one I was on was going to kill me. She told me to grab onto Reese’s offer and never let go.”
“That must have been hard – giving up something you’d worked for so long.”
“I think it was the hardest thing I ever did, turning in my badge. I felt like a failure.”
Neal put down his wineglass and wrapped his fingers around his wrist, his thumb caressing Peter’s pulse point. “You are anything but a failure. You’ve scripted a second act for yourself that’s better, richer, more satisfying than most people’s first act.”
Peter turned his hand and captured Neal’s fingers. “Thank you. And I know that now, and I’m grateful to have had that opportunity. But it took a long time for me to realize that – for me to become comfortable in my skin again. And talking about second acts – you’ve rebuilt your own life pretty well, too.”
Neal’s smile was wry. “And amazingly, we own both our second acts to June and Byron.”
“Yeah.”
“Makes you wonder…”
“About?”
“Whether we were destined to meet. You and June – you’d have visited her here eventually. Or I’d have gone with her to some event you were at.”
Peter turned the idea over in his mind. “It’s kind of scary, when you think about it.”
Neal moved a step closer; they were touching from thigh to chest. “It’s fate. Karma. Destiny. Wheels and gears spinning around, bringing us together.”
Peter threaded his fingers through Neal’s curls and brought him close for a kiss. And he couldn’t help but think, I hope they don’t break us apart, too.
Go to Part Four - On LJ | On DW
Notes: See Master Post - On LJ | On DW
El had wished Neal luck when he left the bakery that evening. After the contracts came through, after they’d both read and signed and sent them back, Neal just looked at her with those puppy dog eyes, just waiting for her to give him permission to go see Peter. He didn’t need her blessing or her permission, but she gave them anyway. She thought about telling him what she knew about the man (of course she’d told him about their first meeting all those years ago) – that he’d been dating someone who’d been cheating on him. But somehow, it just didn’t feel right, like she was spreading malicious gossip. Whatever happened, happened a long time ago and only Peter and his former partner knew the truth of the matter.
She kissed Neal on the cheek, feeling more like his mother or older sister than the occasional lover, and pushed him out the door. He was taking a very special pastry over to Peter’s (who hadn’t ordered his usual cupcakes). She was just a little jealous that he had an excuse to spend some quality time with the object of his desire. And that thought gave her pause.
Was Reese Hughes really the object of her desire?
Beanpole tall, with a slight paunch, snow white and thinning hair atop a face that made no apologies for the years it had seen; the senior partner of Hughes, Burke wasn’t her typical choice for a romantic entanglement. But there was something about him that made her pause, made her blood run a little hot. Okay, maybe more than a little hot.
And when she thought about it, did she really have a type? People would look at her and Neal and remark about what a perfect couple they were. And wouldn’t their children be stunning? Except that Neal was her dear friend, with a lot of yummy side benefits, but El knew that she wasn’t really what Neal wanted (nor was Sara or Kate or the scant handful other women he’d been out with over the years).
Then there was Mozzie. Sweet, every-so-slightly crazy Mozzie. She didn’t know what she’d do without him. He was brilliant and gentle and she worried that he could be so easily hurt. And so magnificent in bed. He made her laugh and he made her come (sometimes at the same time). He didn’t love her, though. He liked her, he admired her, he would go to the ends of the earth for her if she asked him to, but his heart belonged elsewhere.
That suited El just fine.
She puttered around her apartment, putting the dishes away, sorting through the accumulated mail, wondering if she should bother with dinner or maybe just pop a movie in the DVD player and make some popcorn. It seemed kind of pathetic for a Friday night, except that she was exhausted and tomorrow was still a work day. Invoices and ordering and call-backs. She needed to find a back-up driver because she wasn’t subbing for Mozzie again and she had a feeling that Neal wasn’t going to have too many free evenings in the foreseeable future.
Which meant that she should probably also add a backup baker to the list, too, one who’d work on weekends. When she started Desserts After Dark, she figured it would be a short-lived experiment – riding the crest of the cupcake craze – and she wasn’t going to over-staff. That was five years ago, and now it represented a full half of her income. Corporate events and weddings were still her bread and butter, but she could see the day when all her focus would be on the sweets side of the business, and Neal couldn’t do everything.
El didn’t know if that worried or pleased her. She liked the event planning side of her business, it was where her roots were, but if it divided her focus, she – and her business – could end up in trouble.
And then she had to laugh. She knew she had a bad habit of worrying about problems years down the line. Like the building where the bakery was. She was only in the third year of a ten-year lease, and she worried that the price of the renewal would push her out of business.
No, tonight was not going to be a night for worrying. Tonight was a night for celebration. She just secured a contract with a new client that could send her business skyrocketing. She should go out dancing, or something. Moz was out making deliveries and wouldn’t be free until the early hours. She thought about calling one of her old friends, Dana, but she’d recently separated from her husband and preferred to spend the evening drowning her sorrows and downing margaritas rather than dancing the night away.
Or, and the wicked, wicked thought occurred to her, she could call Reese Hughes. The contracts were signed and delivered. There’d be no conflict of interest. He might not be the type to hit the discos, but she wouldn’t be averse to a few drinks and some good conversation at a quiet bar. Without giving herself a chance to back out, she fetched Reese’ card from her wallet and dialed the cellphone number printed on it.
Life was all about taking chances, wasn’t it?
Peter was a snuggler, an octopus. One leg was slung over his thighs, an arm was draped across his waist, and his chin was tucked on Neal’s shoulder. By rights, he should have been antsy, eager to escape the tangle of another human being. He had always hated it when his bed partners wanted to cuddle. Even El knew that the only thing he liked to hold onto was an ancient feather pillow, more dust than down.
But this morning, Neal found himself relishing Peter’s closeness, the heat and mass of his body, the musk of sex, even the warmth of his breath against his neck. Peter’s cock, already a little tumescent, was nestled between the cheeks of his ass, and although he was a little sore, a little tender from the unaccustomed use, Neal wondered if they could go another round. Or two.
He rubbed against Peter and was rewarded when the other man’s cock twitched.
“Mmmm.” Peter held him a little tighter and rolled his hips against him. “Nice.” Peter's hand moved a little further south and cupped Neal's cock. His thumb swept lazily across the tip, the light calluses delicious against the sensitive skin. They rocked back and forth, so gently, so slowly that Neal wasn’t sure if Peter was awake or if he thought he was dreaming.
His pleasure, when it finally peaked, was more like a sigh than a climax. Peter’s hold loosened and Neal, almost reluctantly, rolled away. But not all that far. It was still early and he let sleep claim him again.
The smell of coffee and the unaccustomed warmth of sunlight across his face woke him an untold number of hours later. Neal blinked and winced at the brightness, not even sure where he was.
“Good morning.”
He rolled over. Peter was sitting on the bench at the foot of the bed, dressed in what had to be the most ragged Harvard University sweatshirt in existence. His hair was plastered with sweat and quite incongruously, he was holding a tiny, delicate china cup (probably the source of the delicious aroma).
“Morning?”
“Yeah, it’s still morning. For a few more hours.”
Neal looked around and saw the bedside clock. It read 9:17. He threw back the covers and sat up. His body felt deliciously well used. He would have preferred to linger in bed, maybe go another round or two with Peter before spending the rest of the day recovering. But he couldn’t, he had obligations.
“You have to be somewhere?” Peter asked with studied diffidence.
“Unfortunately, I’ve got to get to the bakery. There are pastries to be made.”
“You work on Saturdays?”
“Most of them. We don’t deliver on Sunday, but there’s usually an event that El’s managing that’ll need some sweets.”
“Ah.” Peter seemed disappointed. He picked up a small thermos and another cup, “Want some coffee.”
“That smells like Italian roast.”
“Freshly ground.”
Neal didn’t care that he was naked. He took the cup and hoped it tasted half as good as it smelled. It didn’t. It tasted twice as good. He finished the cup and sighed. “If I didn’t tell you last night that you were a god amongst men, I am so sorry for the omission.”
Peter blushed and his smile sent Neal’s heart racing. It was sweet and a touch bashful.
Neal finished the rest of the espresso and gave Peter back the cup. “I really do need to get to work. Mind if I shower?”
“No, not at all. I washed your clothes, by the way.” Peter gestured to a pile on the dresser. “Hope you don’t mind.”
Neal blinked. How is it that this man wasn’t someone’s husband? He almost asked Peter that but instead thanked him with a kiss.
Peter’s eyes were dark with arousal when Neal pulled back. He asked, more of a growl than a polite question. “Mind if I join you? I went for a run this morning.”
Which explained the sweaty hair and clothes barely fit for public display. Neal thought he looked delicious and given what just passed between them, he had every expectation that they’d have sex in the shower. “I couldn’t think of any better way to start my day.”
“El, you home? I’ve brought breakfast!” Moz used his key and let himself into El’s Fort Greene duplex. “I’ve got bagel and herb tofu spread, freshly made from that place you like.” There was no answer, but she was definitely home. He could see the lights on upstairs, and her shoes and handbag were on the living room floor. “El?”
Not waiting for an answer, he starting to make coffee.
He heard a door open – if he wasn’t mistaken by the distinctive squeak – it was her bedroom door. El called down from the top of the steps. “Moz? What are you doing here?”
“I thought we’d have breakfast together.” He called back as he took out plates and knives and napkins. No need for forks with the bagels. He emptied the bag – in addition to the bagels and “cream cheese,” there was a bottle of freshly made mango-carrot-kiwi juice, a box of unsweetened Almond Dream, and a small container of half-and-half for El, since she didn’t completely share his aversion to cow lactation products.
“Umm, Moz, sweetie – this isn’t a good time.”
“El?” He finally looked up. El was standing there wrapped in a kimono that matched her eyes, her hair mussed, her face still bearing traces of yesterday’s cosmetics, and if his eyes didn’t deceive him, a small, oval bruise on her neck. A hickey.
He didn’t have to ask what was going on. It was pretty obvious. “Ah, you’re not alone.”
She bit her lip, looking all too adorably repentant. “I’m sorry, Moz.”
He took a deep breath, letting his hurt do battle with his sense of fairness and justice. Hurt was easily defeated. He smiled. “Nothing to be sorry about, we’re free agents. No commitments other than friendship, right?”
She nodded. “Yeah, we’re friends. Always.”
Moz pulled off his glasses, wiped them and put them back on. He hated doing that – a tick, a tell, a nervous gesture that he couldn’t control. And yet, he had nothing to be nervous about. “I guess this is a good a time as any to tell you that The Vulture’s back in town?”
El gave him a puzzled look. “Who?”
“Sally. Remember her?”
That got a gratifying reaction. “Mozzie, that’s a terrible thing to call your ex-wife.”
“Not quite my ex, not yet and maybe not ever. And besides, it’s not an insult, it’s her nom de guerre. She’s going to be lecturing on information transparency in the age of cyber-security at the New School next month.”
“And you think you can patch things up?”
“Don’t know if I want to go that far, since she lives most of the year in California, and I’m not allowed back, even though the BHA has been dead for almost twenty years. But it’s not to say that I wouldn’t mind taking care of her physical security while she’s here, if you know what I mean.”
El wrapped her robe a little tighter around her body, which only served to highlight those luscious breasts. “Yes, Moz, I certainly get the double entendre.”
Moz went back into the kitchen and contemplated the breakfast he wasn’t going to be sharing. “I’ll leave you the bagels, the juice and the cream, but you don’t mind if I take the tofu spread and the almond milk?”
“No, Moz – not at all.”
She kissed his cheek and he had to smile. El was one of those very special people he never wanted to lose. Her presence in his life didn’t start and end in bed.
“See you Monday?” She asked.
“Without fail.” He wondered if he should give her back her key, but decided not to. Or at least, not yet. Things might not work out with whoever was in her bed right now, and besides, Moz figured there was no point in giving it back. Elizabeth knew that keys were just a formality with him. “Enjoy your weekend, El.”
He found himself on the sidewalk, blinking against the late morning sunlight, without the faintest idea about what to do with the rest of his day. Moz perked up when he remembered that Gina was working today. Luckily, he had A.B. Tattersall’s latest in his bag. Maybe she’d sit with him when she took her break. There was something to be said about a courtship conducted over a mutual appreciate of genre fiction.
“Breakfast?” Peter watched Neal get dressed and it occurred to him that he could spend the rest of his life like this. It was a stray thought, one he was quick to dismiss. For all that he lived a quiet life, he wasn’t a man given to domesticity and after a decade of living alone, he wouldn’t know a damn thing about how to get on with someone every single day.
“What’s the matter?” Neal must have seen something in his face.
Peter just smiled and asked again, “Breakfast? The most important meal of the day, you know.”
Neal looked torn. “I’m going to have to pass – I’m running late as it is.” He checked the time on his phone and grimaced. “You have any idea how long it will take to get a cab if I call now?”
“Cab?”
“I don’t own a car. The subway’s good enough, but the bakery’s not on the local line here. I’d have to go all the way over to Atlantic Avenue and then catch the Carnarsie line. On a Saturday morning, it’s quicker and easier to take a cab.”
Peter didn’t think before asking, “Want a lift? I’ve got a few errands to run this morning in that area, so it wouldn’t be a problem.” It was a small lie; he could just as easily get what he needed locally, no reason – other than spending a few more minutes with Neal – to head into Williamsburg.
“You wouldn’t mind?” Neal’s smile, the way his eyes glowed, was well worth whatever inconvenience it would be to go to East Williamsburg.
“Not at all, I wouldn’t have offered if I minded. Besides, you could give me a tour.”
“There’s not much to see. It’s an industrial facility in an industrial section.”
“But you make my cupcakes there, and you know what those cupcakes mean to me.” Peter teased and hoped he didn’t come across as weird.
Apparently not. Neal let out a shout of laughter. “All right, I’ll show you around. Who knows, you might even find a few extras to take home with you.”
“That’s a dangerous thing to off a man who’s got an admitted addiction,” he joked.
“Well, now you can come pick them up, you don’t have to wait for a delivery.”
“Or you could just deliver them yourself.” Again, Peter spoke without thinking.
"Yes, I certainly could." Neal's smile was sweetness itself. "I'm ready whenever you are."
The drive to East Williamsburg took about twenty minutes. Peter was mildly troubled by the industrial quality of the neighborhood. Most of the buildings were decorated with graffiti and sported razor wire and high security fences. "Don't tell me you walk to and from the subway in the middle of the night.”
Neal looked at him like he was a little crazy. Maybe he was. “I’m a grown man, Peter, and this isn’t the 1970s. The area might be industrial, but it’s not a crime-riddled sink hole. I can take care of myself.”
“Okay, okay. Just …”
“You’re concerned and that’s sweet.”
Peter stopped in front of a gate and Neal got out of the car to open the gate. Peter drove through and followed Neal around to the back. He had to admit that maybe he’d overreacted. The loading area was spotless, no graffiti, no loose trash.
He followed Neal inside.
Neal took him into a large, empty kitchen. “So – this is it. Not really all that exciting.”
Peter looked around. There were a lot of ovens and a lot of very clean surfaces. Yes, he’d have to agree with Neal, not very exciting. “I sort of feel like a kid who accidentally wandered behind the scenes at Disneyworld. Or Dorothy when she found out who the Wizard really was.”
“Aww, I’ve killed the magic?”
Peter shrugged, feeling all kinds of silly over the letdown.
“Maybe this will make you feel better?” Neal had opened a glass case and took out one of his famous red velvet cupcakes. “It’s not a gateau, but I know how much you like them.”
“Almost as much as I like you.” Again, the words were spoken without thought. It felt far too soon to make that declaration, and yet it didn’t feel wrong at all. Peter was grateful, though, that Neal had used the word “like” and not “love.” That would have been ridiculous.
But Neal didn’t seem to find anything odd in the sentiment. “Good, because I’d hate to come in second behind my own baked goods.”
They stood there awkwardly for a moment or two, Peter with his hands shoved in his pockets, Neal holding the cupcake. He gave Peter a wry grin. “Shall I box this up?”
“Yeah, that would be great.”
“I know you said that you’ve got some errands this morning …” Neal handed him a small red and gold box. “And hanging around, watching me bake for the next few hours probably isn’t going to be highlight of your weekend, but if you’re not doing anything tonight, would you like to have dinner with me?”
Neal ended on a nervous, breathless rush and something cracked open inside Peter. He never thought that Neal was some smooth operator or a sexy player just out for a good time, but he had always seemed a hell of a lot more self-assured that Peter ever was or ever would be. His anxious hesitancy was unbelievably charming. “Yeah, I would – absolutely. Where would you like to go?”
Neal surprised him again. “Would you like to have dinner at my place – I’d love to cook for you.”
“Really? I’d think after working in the kitchen all day, you’d want some time away from this.” Peter gestured around the room.
“No, not really. Baking is science, cooking is art, and I don’t get a chance to cook as much as I used to. My landlady had hired me as a private chef when I first met her, but the past year or so, she’s been traveling more than she’s been home. It’s not a lot of fun cooking for myself, so I end up eating pretty basic stuff. I’d love to make dinner for you.”
“Only if you’re sure. We can go out.” Peter didn’t know why he was arguing the point. Neal wanted to see him again, he really wanted to. Tonight.
“I’m definitely sure.”
The light in Neal’s eyes made Peter want to stay, watch him work, and maybe take advantage of the vast quantity of horizontal surfaces here.
“Okay then. I should let you get to work.” He turned to go, feeling aroused and awkward.
“Umm, Peter?” Neal grabbed the back of his shirt. “You’ve forgotten a few things.”
He was confused and looked down at his hands, holding the box with the cupcake. What else did he need? “I did? I have?”
“Yup. I think you’ll need my address – unless you’ve already done a background check on me?” Neal didn’t seem especially distressed by that idea. Or maybe he was just kidding and didn’t realize that Peter had such resources.
“No, no – of course not.” He sort of felt like a fool. “So, where do you live?”
“79 Riverside Drive.”
The address seemed vaguely familiar, but all he said was, “I have friends who live on Riverside. It’s a nice neighborhood.”
“It is. I like it a lot. How does eight o’clock sound?”
“Good – should I bring a bottle of something?”
Neal thought for a minute. “How about a nice white, maybe?”
Peter nodded. “Will do. See you at eight.” He turned to go again.
Neal grabbed him again.
“What did I forget this time?”
Neal grinned. “This.” Even though Peter was twenty pounds heavier and six inches taller, Neal had the advantage of surprise as he hauled him close and planted a kiss on his lips. Peter didn’t even think about resisting – why should he? Neal’s fingers curled around the back of his head, cupping his skull; his nails scraping against his skin was one of the most erotic experiences in his life. His lips parted and Neal’s tongue stole in like a sneak thief.
Peter might have dropped the cupcake box and taken control except that Neal ended the kiss with a small nip on his lower lip and stepped back. It was gratifying to see that Neal was breathing just as heavily as he was. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes glowing and Peter strongly resisted the urge to start something they’d both enjoy finishing.
“I’ve got to go … unless I’ve forgotten something else?”
“No – I don’t think so. See you tonight.”
“Can’t wait.”
Neal stood there, smiling and Peter just about floated off on a cloud of pure happiness.
There’s no fool like an old fool. Reese listened to Elizabeth talking with someone downstairs. A man, who apparently knew her well enough to have a key and thought nothing of letting himself into her home. As he listened, he wondered just what he thought he was doing – starting something with such a young and vibrant woman. In the cool light of morning, it felt ridiculous.
But last night, it was anything but that. Elizabeth Mitchell had called him, out of the blue, and asked him if he’d like to have a drink with her. He didn’t think twice about accepting her offer, and mentioned that Clint Holmes was playing at the Carlyle. Would she be interested?
Elizabeth laughed and the sound was one of pure pleasure. Of course she’d love to go, jazz was one of her favorite types of music. He had felt a little foolish, waiting for Elizabeth in the lobby, but the light in her eyes when she saw him erased those doubts. She argued with him about paying the cover charge – since she was the one to ask him out. Reese countered that he’d been the one to suggest the venue, and besides he was an old-fashioned kind of guy.
“But not so old-fashioned to be horrified when a woman asks you out?” Elizabeth’s question was pert, her smile a touch mischievous.
“I’m here, how horrified could I be?” Reese had hoped he sounded amused but wondered if he came off like a prig. He’d never considered himself an object of desire and even if he wasn’t old quite enough to collect social security, he had never been the type of man beautiful women sought out for companionship. Too tall, too stern, too humorless. That’s what his ex-wife, Gail, said about him. Although Reese could never figure out how “too tall” fit into that collection of negative qualities. He couldn’t do a damn thing about his height.
Elizabeth didn’t seem to mind that he towered over her. She didn’t find him too stern and certainly not humorless. He could still hear her laugher when he told her some silly story about his early days at the FBI. He didn’t think she was playing him – the firm had already given her company the contract. There was nothing she’d gain by asking him out.
Or by sleeping with him.
He kept listening, trying to make sense of the conversation, but the voices were too distant and neither Elizabeth nor her visitor seemed particularly upset about anything. After a minute or so, Reese heard the front door open and close, then silence. Then footsteps as Elizabeth came back upstairs.
She stood at the doorway, framed by the light from the hall. “Sorry about that, Reese. I wasn’t expecting any visitors.”
“Your friend wasn’t expecting you to have company.” He wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that. “Does he usually come over for breakfast?” Reese wanted to ask, “Does he often stay for breakfast?”
Elizabeth came back into the bedroom and untied her robe. “Moz is Moz, he’s not one for respecting socially-imposed borders.”
Reese didn’t know what that meant. But since Elizabeth was getting back into bed with him, he figured it didn’t matter.
“He did bring fresh bagels, though.”
“And he doesn’t mind that he’s not the one sharing them with you?”
Elizabeth made herself comfortable, tucking herself under his arm. “No, not at all. We’ve never been exclusive. Besides, he’s crushing on a waitress at his favorite diner and his wife’s going to be in town in the fall. He’ll be fine.”
“Ah.” That was the only thing he could think of saying.
“It’s early yet, how about we … take advantage of it?” She wriggled delicately against him.
Putting aside his apprehensions, Reese kissed her in the sweet spot behind her jaw. “I think that sounds like a splendid idea.”
Neal fussed over the pot of mussels, inspecting each one, making sure it was perfect. He was happy in a way he hadn’t been in a very long time. It was like all the parts of the universe were spinning at just the right speed, in just the right order.
Thinking back, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt like this. Energized, but content. Anticipation was bubbling like champagne in his veins, but so was satisfaction. He was a mass of contradictions, but didn’t mind that at all.
Peter Burke was doing this to. He still couldn’t believe he had the balls to look up the man’s address and go over there. And bring him cake. And spill his guts about The Greatest Cake.
And kiss him.
The memory of what they did on the couch, in bed, in the shower – hell, that kiss at the bakery – distracted him. Neal felt himself get hard and looking down, he had to smile at the bulge under his apron.
But it was more than sex, spectacular as it was. From the moment he’d laid eyes on the man in that conference room, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’s met his fate.
Neal paused at that realization. No, not possible.
He barely knew Peter Burke. He’d only meet the man, what, thirty-six hours ago? Definitely not possible.
And yet his heart asked, But why not?
Because, because he didn’t – and Neal’s brain sort of stuttered at the words – fall in love with someone like that. He wasn’t a romantic, he wasn’t impulsive.
Stop lying to yourself.
Okay, so he was something of a romantic and he wasn’t one to restrain too many of his impulses.
Standing there, in one of June’s kitchens (there were five in the house, not including the efficiency in his apartment), a half-crushed clove of garlic under his knife, Neal waited for the panic to set in. And waited.
But it didn’t. The only thing he felt was a crazy sort of peaceful resignation, that everyone else – his failed relationships with Gordon and Matthew, the flings with Vincent, Sara, Kate, even El, were just warm-up acts for the rest of his life. A life he wanted to spend with Peter Burke.
Neal smiled and went back to chopping. He was going to make Peter a dinner he’d never forget, a meal that would tease his senses, linger in his memory, one that he’s recall at the odd moments of his life and when he did, Neal would be there to remember it with him.
It wasn’t lost on Neal that mussels and fries – moules-frites – wasn’t the most romantic of dishes. It was a little messy, a little pungent, but it was a meal that Peter would enjoy far more than some overly fussy presentation. There was Prosciutto de Parma and perfectly ripe Canary melon for starters, and for dessert, he was going to surprise Peter. No cupcakes, no elaborate torte or rich confection. Something simple, something memorable – freshly made madeleine cookies and Meyer lemon and strawberry semifreddo.
He finished the preparation. All the aromatics were chopped, the potatoes par-fried, the mussels cleaned and everything else ready to go. Neal checked the clock, it was a little after seven. Just enough time to get everything upstairs and take a quick shower.
Under the hot spray, Neal couldn’t stop thinking about the shower he’d taken with Peter this morning – how Peter handled him so expertly, bringing him to the edge of ecstasy again and again before letting him come. He couldn’t stop thinking about how the water cascaded over him as he knelt at Peter’s feet and sucked that beautiful cock.
But he didn’t jerk off. No – he didn’t want to waste his desire. It would keep and be better for the waiting.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
Peter had grabbed the first parking spot he saw in Neal’s neighborhood, at Riverside and 79th street, and walked the few blocks north. He stopped in front of the address Neal had given him, and shook his head in disbelief. Now he knew why the address had seemed so familiar. June Ellington lived here. She and her late husband were old friends of his and some the very first clients he’d taken on after he’d left the FBI.
Small world didn’t even begin to describe the connection here. A few years ago, shortly after Byron had died, June told him that she was taking on a lodger, someone she’d met when she had tried to sell a few of Byron’s suits. The young man had shown an extraordinary appreciation for custom tailoring and they’d gotten to talking.
He’d be working as her private chef, and his wages would be offset in his rent. Peter had counseled against that, not only was it was a tax law nightmare, letting a complete stranger live in her private home seemed downright foolish.
“But that’s why I have you, Peter.” June told him in those elegant and implacable tones. “You’ll run a background check.” He did and had found nothing remarkable in the report, nothing that would indicate that June’s prospective tenant was a psychopath looking to take advantage of an old woman. She overrode Peter’s other concerns and rented her fourth floor suite to the man at a significantly below-market rate. He just signed and accepted that June was her own woman and would defer to no one.
Now, carrying a few bottles of wine – a Sauvignon blanc – anticipating dinner and further developments in this new relationship, Peter tried to remember anything else that was in the report. The best he could come up with was that June’s tenant had graduated with honors from the CIA, which stuck in his head because he’d done a double take. In this instance, the CIA was the Culinary Institute of America, not the spy agency. There might have been something about a failed business in the report, but Peter couldn’t be sure. Regardless, he was not going to pull the file and take a look.
No, absolutely not.
A maid answered the door and took the wine bottles from him. He told her he was here to see Neal and she showed him into the front parlor. Neal was waiting, smiling and as gorgeous as he remembered. He was wearing a dark green shirt that made his eyes glow. Quite a few times over the past few hours, Peter had convinced himself that there was no way the reality of Neal Caffrey matched his memory. He was wrong, of course.
June was there too, as elegant as ever. Clearly, from the puzzled expression on her face, she was surprised to see him here. “Peter?”
Neal looked from him to June before stating the obvious. “You two know each other?”
“Peter’s not only my accountant, but a very dear friend.” June didn’t elaborate as she reached out and hugged him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “It’s good to see you, but it’s been too long. I think our paths last crossed at the gala at the Met for reopening of the European Paintings wing.”
Peter hugged her back. “Yes, that was what, three months ago? Far too long.”
“Time does fly. But I can’t believe you’re seeing Neal. He didn’t mention your name when he told me he had a dinner date with – how did he put it? A god come to earth.”
Peter blinked and cast a quick glance at Neal, who was blushing.
She added, with a devilish chuckle, “Well, if you like them tall and all muscly, maybe you are just that.”
Peter didn’t know whether to laugh or not. “Umm, thanks?”
June, deliberately oblivious, continued, “Well, I’m going to leave you two to your date.” She admonished Neal, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” and floated out of the room on a cloud of Givenchy.
Neal stood there, still blushing, hands in his pockets.
Peter had to ask, “A god come to earth?”
The up from under look Neal gave him was scorching. “Yeah, and you have a problem with that?”
“No, and come here.” Peter pulled Neal towards him and kissed him like it had been months and not hours since they parted.
The sound Neal made as their lips met – a cross between a purr and a growl – almost made Peter forget they were in the front parlor. Almost, but not quite.
He pulled away reluctantly. “Dinner?”
“Yeah, dinner.” Neal shook his head and laughed. “You really make me lose my head.”
“I could say the same.”
Neal took his hand and led him upstairs – with just a brief diversion to pick up the wine bottles.
In the apartment, Neal shook his head in bemusement. “I can’t get over that you and June know each other. It’s actually a little creepy. You and June, you and Elizabeth.”
The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. “Yeah – I had forgotten about El. The world is small – but not that small.
He walked around the apartment. “You know, once upon a time, this space had been Byron Ellington’s art studio. He was one of the most well-respected painters of the mid-Twentieth century.”
“Yes – June had told me. She said that it had been the gathering place for artists and musicians trying to keep alive the cultural traditions of the Harlem Renaissance.”
Peter nodded. “It worked for a while – until Byron’s best friend, Ford Toman, stole a fortune from them. He was Byron’s manager, and not only was he selling Byron’s work and never paying him, he had access to all of their finances.”
“June said that she and Byron were betrayed by someone she’d trusted with her life, but she never told me the details. It didn’t feel right to pry; June looked so lost when she told me.”
“Ford’s betrayal had devastated them. That’s how we met. The man had been implicated in some dodgy real estate scams I was investigating. As I started digging, I discovered that he’d been using money from the sale of Byron’s artwork to cover the losses, and as those losses mounted, Ford started emptying the Ellington’s accounts. It took everything that Byron and June had to rebuild their lives. In the end, the cost was too high. Byron died – a heart attack – the night before a major retrospective of his career opened at the Guggenheim.”
Neal shook his head. “I have to wonder how June could ever bring herself to trust a stranger, to trust me like she has.”
“She’s an exceptional woman.”
“Very.” Neal kissed him again. “And thank you for being there to help her.”
Peter shoved his hands in his pockets, a little embarrassed. Neal pretended not to notice as he started fussing in the small kitchen area.
Peter took the time to look around the space. It had been a few years since he’d had been up here, and it looked nothing like his memories. Gone were the racks of canvases in various stages of completion, the easels and the posing stand for the life model. Probably the only thing that remained from those days was the wine rack filled with exceptional vintages. The scents of linseed oil and gesso and the ever-present perfume of good quality weed were replaced with the aroma of garlic and tomato sauce and a faint hint of the ocean.
“Smells good,” Peter commented.
“Hope you like mussels.” Neal asked, oblivious to his reverie. “I never even thought to ask if you had a shellfish allergy.” He turned back to Peter, wooden spoon in hand, a mildly worried expression on his face.
“Nope, no allergy and I love them.”
“And fries?”
“You’re making me moules-frites? Even better. Haven’t had that since the last time I was in Brussels.”
“Isn’t it the national dish of Belgium? Or is that waffles?”
“No, it’s pretty much mussels and fries.” Of all the topics of conversation.
Neal set the pot on the stove to simmer. He opened one of the bottles of wine and asked, “When were you in Belgium?”
“About twelve years ago. It was for a case.”
“Back when you were an FBI agent?”
“Yeah.”
Neal handed him a glass and gestured towards the terrace. “It’s a nice night, I thought maybe we’d dine al fresco.”
He followed Neal through the French doors, standing next to him at the railing. “What a view, I’ve always thought this was the best ones in Manhattan.”
“I guess you’ve been here before?”
“Yeah – after Ford, after everything collapsed for Bryon and June, I kept in touch. They seemed like people I needed to know, I needed to keep in my life.”
“Was that how you became their accountant?”
“Pretty much. When things got difficult at the Bureau after Reese retired, I became a little self-destructive.” Peter didn’t want to tell Neal – not now – about his failed relationship.
“Self-destructive? No, I can’t see you like that.”
“I was. I started drinking. Not a lot, but more than I should have.” When Neal gave him – and his wine glass – a troubled look, Peter was quick to dismiss his concerns. “No, I’m not an alcoholic, but my drinking was on the verge of interfering with my job. And I was beginning to hate my job so much that I didn’t care.”
Neal turned around, so his back was to the city and he faced Peter.
Peter looked up; it was just becoming dark overhead. “June and Byron – they gave me a refuge. This was a place to come and be myself. They never judged me, they didn’t care that I was gay. Hell, they tried to fix me up with some of their friends. As bad as things were for them for a while, they never closed their hearts or their minds.” Peter leaned on the balustrade, watching the sun begin to set behind the city skyline. “June was the one who told me that I needed to leave. That I needed to find a new path for my life. Because the one I was on was going to kill me. She told me to grab onto Reese’s offer and never let go.”
“That must have been hard – giving up something you’d worked for so long.”
“I think it was the hardest thing I ever did, turning in my badge. I felt like a failure.”
Neal put down his wineglass and wrapped his fingers around his wrist, his thumb caressing Peter’s pulse point. “You are anything but a failure. You’ve scripted a second act for yourself that’s better, richer, more satisfying than most people’s first act.”
Peter turned his hand and captured Neal’s fingers. “Thank you. And I know that now, and I’m grateful to have had that opportunity. But it took a long time for me to realize that – for me to become comfortable in my skin again. And talking about second acts – you’ve rebuilt your own life pretty well, too.”
Neal’s smile was wry. “And amazingly, we own both our second acts to June and Byron.”
“Yeah.”
“Makes you wonder…”
“About?”
“Whether we were destined to meet. You and June – you’d have visited her here eventually. Or I’d have gone with her to some event you were at.”
Peter turned the idea over in his mind. “It’s kind of scary, when you think about it.”
Neal moved a step closer; they were touching from thigh to chest. “It’s fate. Karma. Destiny. Wheels and gears spinning around, bringing us together.”
Peter threaded his fingers through Neal’s curls and brought him close for a kiss. And he couldn’t help but think, I hope they don’t break us apart, too.
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Tags:
- character: clinton jones,
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: june ellington,
- character: matthew keller,
- character: mozzie,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: ofc,
- character: omc,
- character: peter burke,
- character: reese hughes,
- character: sara ellis,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: domesticity,
- genre: fluff,
- genre: food,
- genre: friendship,
- genre: het,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: romance,
- genre: slash,
- pairing: elizabeth/mozzie,
- pairing: elizabeth/neal,
- pairing: elizabeth/reese,
- pairing: neal/kate,
- pairing: neal/keller,
- pairing: neal/sara,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- white collar,
- written for: wcbb,
- year: 2013
no subject
Date: 2013-09-22 05:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-09-24 02:32 pm (UTC)