elrhiarhodan

A Life More Ordinary – Part Two

Elizabeth had set a pot of water on the stove and turned on the burner. She figured that Peter would be back with the dog in about twenty minutes, just enough time for the water to come to a boil and the spaghetti to cook. She was making it easy on herself, nothing more complicated than a box of pasta and some decent sauce from a jar rounded out with a couple of meatballs she pulled out of the freezer. One of the benefits of working with caterers – they were always pushing good food on her, and her freezer was filled to the brim with their gourmet offerings.

She’d just opened a bottle of Bordeaux to let it breathe when the phone rang. It was Peter and she got a little worried. "Hon? Everything all right?"

"Everything’s fine, nothing to worry about."

There was something in her husband’s voice that made her doubt that. "Really?"

"Okay – not really. Satch and I decided to take a walk over to Neal’s office."

El was almost afraid to hear where this was going. "And?"

"He had an emergency – I don’t know the details – but it doesn’t seem like it went well. Would you mind if I had him come back to our place? He looks like he could use a little TLC."

That was her husband, the tough-as-nails FBI agent with the heart of mush. "You didn’t have to ask, hon. We were going to have dinner with Neal tonight anyway."

"But you were angry that he stood us up."

"Apparently he had a good reason." She had been angry at Neal, and then angry at herself for being angry. Their relationship with the man was complicated and far more fraught than she ever expected. Or wanted, if she had to admit to herself. And still, she couldn’t help but worry about Neal, she couldn’t stop wanting to make him part of their lives. "Bring him home and don’t let him argue with you about it. We’ll feed him, ply him with wine, and if he needs it, he can take the spare bedroom."

"I’ll do my best."

"You always do." El knew that Peter wouldn’t force Neal to come in, that wasn’t his way. Especially given Neal’s history. She, on the other hand, didn’t have such a soft heart.

"We should be home in about ten minutes, okay?"

"Can’t wait." El stared at the phone for a moment after Peter disconnected. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe that Neal had an emergency that kept him from their date, or that he couldn’t call. It was just, well, after the snub he’d given her, pretending to have a pre-existing relationship with that little bald guy, she found herself rethinking her desire to include him in the life she had with Peter.

She put the phone down, put away those thoughts and put the pasta into the boiling water. She added another few meatballs to the dish, put that into the microwave, checked that the sauce wasn’t burning, added another place setting on the dining table and thought about waiting for them out on the front porch. If Peter couldn’t get Neal to come in, maybe she could guilt him into it.

No, that was bad idea.

She was slightly ashamed at herself. One moment, she was questioning whether she really wanted to have Neal Caffrey in her life and ultimately her bed, and the next, she was thinking about coercing him into dinner. Her inconsistency troubled her.

El checked the pot, turned it onto a low simmer, poured herself a glass of wine, and headed outside. Just to enjoy the October evening like thousands of other Brooklynites. Relaxing on one’s front stoop with a glass of wine, watching the moon rise, listening to the leaves rustle and the birds give one of their last evening performances before they left for warmer climes.

There was nothing wrong with that, was there?

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Moz let himself into Neal’s brownstone. He’d been on the lecture circuit for the better part of a month – Bern, Helsinki, Oxford, Cambridge, then back to Bern. He hated being away from Neal for so long, even though he’d left his friend for longer periods of time, and in much more dire circumstances.

It seemed like Neal was on the precipice of something good, but he was too scared to take the leap. Not that Mozzie blamed Neal for his caution. After what Keller had did to him, he was right to be wary, especially since Peter Burke was a Suit. Not that he’d ever equate Peter Burke with Matthew Keller. That son of a bitch had been a bad Suit and even now, Moz regretted letting him live.

Last summer, when Neal first told him about the Burkes, he had called on the assistance of a few old friends. Well, one old friend and ever-current amour, Sallie. Their paths had crossed and re-crossed many times over the decades. He’d supplied her with the necessary chemicals to thoroughly destroy whatever data storage unit needed to be destroyed; she’d helped him get access to certain restricted databases. They screwed each other raw whenever they got the chance.

Sallie had been the one who got him the data he needed to bring down Keller. Not only had she hacked into the FBI databases, She had also created a back door into Keller’s own computers and cell phones and kept a trace on him via the network of traffic and private security cameras around the city. When Moz had asked her to get some data on Neal’s potential lovers, she hadn’t hesitated.

It hadn’t taken much to get him the information he needed about Peter Burke, who was nothing like Matthew Keller. Burke was the definition of a decent man, a mensch as some of his friends might say. His FBI jacket bore a dozen citations for bravery, including letters of commendation from the Director himself. He ran a good ship, was known throughout the Bureau as much for his extremely high closure and conviction rate as for his reputation as a fair boss and an excellent mentor.

Other than his tendency to overrun the department budget for operations expenses, only red flag Moz could find was an unexplained transfer, early in his career. He had moved from Organized Crime to White Collar, but there was no promotion in rank or adjustment to his pay grade. Trying to read between the lines, Moz could only suspect that Burke might have pissed off a superior and needed to get out of an unpleasant situation. Agents of his caliber didn’t make lateral transfers, they got promoted.

At the time, Moz toyed with the idea of asking Sallie to dig deeper, to correlate operations for that organized crime unit at the time of Burke’s transfer. She warned him that a more thorough search might trigger a few alarms. Moz wasn’t afraid of the Suits, but he decided to let it go. The transfer was so long ago that it was probably irrelevant to the man he was now.

Not that any of the information Sallie gave him mattered, at least as far as giving Neal some peace of mind, since he never even looked at the fruits of her labors. For months, Neal had held the Burkes at bay, but eventually decided to trust them. He eventually told them the whole sickening story, or at least the parts that he knew about.

The irony was that that slight shadow on Burke’s record was a most startling and disturbing coincidence. Matthew Keller was a street agent and Peter Burke had been his handler for a while. Neal had told him that Peter had caught Keller abusing an underage prostitute and reported it, only to see that report buried and his rising career in Organized Crime interrupted by a lateral transfer to White Collar.

Moz didn’t like coincidences. Albert Einstein might have said that they were God’s way of staying anonymous, but Moz was an atheist and a scientist and coincidences were problems that lacked a definite causal connection.

The month before he left for Europe, Moz had watched the Burkes woo Neal – they were gentle and patient. Well, Peter was. That firecracker of a wife – the woman who so thoroughly tore Neal to shreds in the liquor store – seemed more wary than patient. Moz wondered if she was still angry with his friend.

Neal’s house was quiet. It had the empty feeling a place can get at the end of a long day – not like it was abandoned, but that it was waiting too long. The pile of mail in the entryway was small – nothing more than what had been delivered today. Moz figured – actually hoped – that Neal was out with the Burkes. Having dinner, maybe a movie, maybe something more.

Neal’s absence was all the better for him. He could unpack, reacclimate himself to the time zone and raid Neal’s wine collection.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"You have no idea how sorry I am about tonight."

Peter took his arm and turned so they were facing each other. "Neal, stop apologizing."

Neal heard Peter’s works, but he couldn’t stop himself. "I was all set to leave. I’d been looking forward to our dinner all week."

"It’s all right. These things happen."

"I know – but I should have …"

Peter cut him off. "You’re a medical professional, right?"

Neal nodded.

"You provide emergency services?"

"Yes, but…"

"You had an emergency. There was no one there to assist you. You had no time. Your patient was your first priority. There is nothing to be sorry about. We’re not upset, we’re not angry. We were worried, but that’s all."

He swallowed and kept his eyes on the sidewalk. He tried to take Peter’s words at face value, but it was so damn hard. Neal knew he was shaky and overwrought and having a hard time distinguishing tonight’s failure from all the times that Matthew had punished him.

"Neal."

He kept looking at the sidewalk.

"Neal – look at me."

It was an effort, but he lifted his head. There was something in Peter’s tone that made him want to obey. Not out of fear, but from respect. He’d felt this way before, and it had terrified him. Peter’s gaze, however, was anything but stern and demanding. He looked like he was about to cry, too.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Okay, okay. It’s okay. I’m okay." Actually, he was a mess, but suddenly less of a mess and a bit more in control of himself.

Peter smiled at him. "Good. Now, I’ve called El and she’s added a place for you at the table. Probably just going to be something simple, is that all right?"

"You haven’t eaten yet?" And with that, his anxiety soared again. "Sorry."

Peter didn’t answer, he just continued to look at him with one eyebrow raised and a touch of exasperation in the twist of his lips.

"Was Elizabeth very angry when I didn’t show up?"

"No, absolutely not. She was just worried."

Neal could sense that there was something more to it than that. He knew he still had a ways to go to get completely back into her good graces. She might have been willing to forgive him, but unlike Peter, there was still a lot of reserve in her manner and she seemed more inclined to let her husband push forward with their relationship.

"You’re joining us for dinner, right?" Peter was asking him, but he clearly wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

Neal shrugged. "If you want."

"I want. We want."

"Okay, then I want to, too."

Peter let go of his arm, which left him chilled. Not for the first time, Neal had noticed that Peter was like a furnace and there was a small, unafraid part of him that wondered just how delicious it would be to wake up next to him on a frigid winter morning.

Satchmo barked at both of them and Peter laughed. "Someone is telling us we need to get a move on."

Neal reached out and scratched the dog’s head. He was rewarded first with a swipe of a tongue, then an armful of warm yellow fur as Satch tried to reach his face.

"Down, boy." Peter tugged at the leash, pulling the dog back and down to the ground, making him sit. Satchmo sat, but barked at them again. "Sorry – he’d got a few bad habits. Jumping onto people he likes is one of them. Wish I could get him to stop."

"Actually, you’re handling it right." They started walking again. "You’re stopping the behavior as it occurs and you show him that you’re the head of his ‘pack’. You don’t want to break his spirit."

Peter gave him a sharp look. "No, that’s the last thing I want to do."

They soon reached the Burkes’ house, and Satchmo started barking again. With good reason, his other owner was sitting on the top step, waiting for them, wrapped in a bulky sweater and a wine glass in her hand.

Elizabeth smiled down at them. "I was just about to go in, my butt was getting cold." She opened the front door and Peter let go of Satchmo’s leash as the dog ran up the stairs and inside. Neal watched the other man follow his dog, and he seemed to be moving a little stiffer than usual.

At the top of the steps, Peter turned and gestured, "Come on, dinner smells like it’s ready."

Neal didn’t move. He hated being so indecisive, so fragile. So fucking weak.

Elizabeth came down the steps and held out a hand. "Come on, it’s Date Night. Let’s have our date."

The cold place in him warmed a fraction, then another fraction. He took her hand and let her lead him into the house.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter kept an eye on Neal through the meal. He reminded him of a dog that used to haunt the neighborhood where he grew up.

The poor thing had no tags, it was skin and bones, and ran as soon as he got close. His parents, loving but practical, told him not to feed it, he’d only be sorry when the dog eventually ran off for good.

But Peter hadn’t listened and every morning he’d put out a bowl with a small amount of the dog food he bought with his allowance. He was eight years old and he got fifty cents a week for doing chores. His mother and father had always made it clear that he could spend his money anyway he wanted, but that money had to last him a week. The candy store didn’t tempt him and he’d been saving for a new baseball glove, but feeding that dog seemed more important. He took three dollars out of his piggy bank and went with his mom to the A&P, and bought a twenty-pound bag of Purina Dog Chow.

He’d put out the bowl and sit on the back steps, waiting for the dog to approach. Most mornings, his mom would have to drag him away and push him onto the school bus. But the food was always gone when he got home. He did the same thing in the evenings, doing his spelling and math homework and watching for the poor mutt.

Eight year-old Peter was patient, and his patience paid off. It took three months of careful coaxing, but before just the cold weather set in, the dog was eating from the bowl under Peter’s feet. Another few weeks, and he was letting Peter pet him.

By Thanksgiving, the dog had his own little house in the backyard (which Peter had helped his dad to build), a bright red leather collar with two tags, one telling the world that he was Maximilian Burke and belonged to Peter Burke, and the other announcing that he had been inoculated against rabies. By Christmas, Maximilian Burke (or simply, Max B), was sleeping at the foot of Peter’s bed, his head resting on the brand new baseball glove Santa had left for him.

The forty-eight year-old Peter felt pretty much the same as his eight year old self. He knew that the prize would be worth the wait, and he’d wait as long as he had to.

"More wine?" Elizabeth interrupted his musings.

Peter shook his head. "I’m a lightweight these days. Another glass and I’ll probably pass out before finishing the dishes."

"Can’t have that." El offered to refill Neal’s glass.

"Sure – if anything, I’m the opposite of a lightweight. And I could use it, after tonight."

Peter had made a point not to ask Neal what had happened, and after fifteen years of marriage, Elizabeth picked up his signals and hadn’t asked either – least until now. She split the remainder of the bottle between Neal’s glass and hers, and simply asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal took a sip of wine. It was a decent enough Bordeaux, although Mozzie probably would have held his nose before swallowing it. "I was just about to turn off the lights and leave when someone started banging on the door …"

Slowly, taking deliberate care to avoiding unnecessarily gruesome details, he told the Burkes what happened. By the time he’d finished, the three of them were crying. Neal didn’t remember moving from the dining table to couch, but he could remember being surrounded by heat and whispered words of compassion.

At some point, half of the heat – the Elizabeth-shaped half – was replaced by a more furry sort of warmth as Elizabeth got up. Satchmo had jumped onto the couch and curled up against his back. Neal rested his aching head on Peter’s shoulder, content in the simple physical closeness. As pillows went, it certainly wasn’t soft, but the steady beat of a pulse under his ear and Peter’s clean, masculine scent chased away the lingering horrors. He felt himself drifting and for the first time in way too many years, he just let himself go, without a care for his physical safety.

The room wasn’t completely dark when he opened his eyes. The reading lamp next to an easy chair was on, casting a soft light on the man sitting in that chair. There was a book opened on his lap, and a pair of half-glasses perched on the end of his nose and Neal thought he’d never seen anything quite so beautiful. He moved and the weight on his legs – Satchmo, of course – shifted and the tags on his collar jingled.

Peter looked up and smiled. "You okay?"

"Sorry – I guess I just …" Neal sat up and instantly regretted it. His head was pounding.

"Here." Peter picked up something – a bottle of water – and opened it before handing it over. "I figured you might need this." He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small bottle. "And these."

Neal took the water and the Advil with gratitude. "I’m sorry …"

"Caffrey, enough with the apologies."

Neal was about to say "I’m sorry" again but stopped himself. "What time is it?"

Peter checked his watch. "It’s a little after two. You’ve been asleep for about four hours."

Neal stood up and quickly sat back down. "Damn, I haven’t been this hung over in a long time." There had been nights – too many nights – after Moz had set him free, that he drank enough to pass out, enough to forget for a night, just what he had become. He didn’t want that anymore.

Peter looked at him over the rim of his glasses, and despite his hangover, Neal felt a spark of arousal. Peter’s next words didn’t do a damn thing for his peace of mind or the state of his body.

"I don’t want you to even suggest heading home. I know that you don’t live that far away, but El and I would be a lot happier if you stayed in the guest room tonight."

Truthfully, it wasn’t just the words, but the stern but caring way they were delivered that sent another frisson of desire through him.

"Come on." Peter stood and held a hand out. The dizziness wasn’t that bad this time but as Peter led him over to the stairs, Neal clung to him; not really out of necessity. Unfortunately, Peter let go once Neal gripped the bannister. "You don’t want me helping you up the stairs, unless you’d enjoy ending up in a pile at the bottom."

Guilt replaced desire. He’d honestly forgotten that Peter had been shot and almost killed, that until a few months ago, he walked with a cane. "Sorry." And then, "Sorry about the ‘sorry’."

Peter laughed, and he was standing so close behind him that Neal could feel the warmth of his breath on his ear. "Don’t worry about it."

Neal hauled himself up the stairs and Peter pointed him towards the guest bedroom. "Do you want a pair of sweats to sleep in?"

He answered without a second thought. "Nah, I can manage for the night."

"I’ll leave towels for you in the bathroom, and don’t be in a rush to get up. El has a thing – some baby shower in Great Neck – and she’ll probably be up and gone before sunrise, but I plan on sleeping in."

Neal hadn’t gotten as far as the morning. His immediate plans consisted of getting undressed, face-planting himself on what he hoped would be comfortable bed, and not moving until his bladder dictated otherwise. "Sounds good to me." He looked into the guest room he was about to occupy. The bed looked exceedingly comfortable. And almost startlingly large. "I’d wish you good night, but it’s well into morning."

Peter laughed again, and to Neal’s shock, he leaned over and pressed a brief kiss against his lips. He issued one last command, "Get some rest," before disappearing into the other bedroom.

Neal stood there, confounded.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

As he’d told Neal, Elizabeth had gotten up a little before dawn – about seven AM this time of year – and been out before Peter could do anything more than hmm his pleasure at her goodbye kiss.

It was close to nine by time he opened his eyes again. The house was quiet, but there was something different about it, too. Peter remembered and smiled. There was another human heart beating underneath the roof.

Neal.

Energized, Peter got out of bed and stretched. And winced as the muscles in his leg and his chest pulled against the mass of scar tissue. He limped his way across the room and into the hall and wondered if he’d ever stop feeling like an old man the first thing in the morning.

Satchmo was sleeping outside the closed door of the guest bedroom and he lifted his head and thumped his tail against the floor at the sight of his master. Since El had him out and fed him, Satch seemed content to stay put and Peter had to smile. He wished that the dog was this sedentary after the sun had set. It was pretty damn inconvenient to have a dog that was a night owl.

Peter took care of his morning business and swapped the ratty old gym shorts he slept in for a slightly less ragged pair he wore for exercising. A few years after he and El bought this house, they had the third floor completely gutted, converting the three tiny bedrooms into a single space that served as his office and the repository for their mostly unused exercise equipment. Over the years, they’d joked that the Nautilus machine saw more duty as a place to hang off-season clothes and the treadmill did better service as a bookcase.

But once he started physical therapy, both machines were put back into daily use. He desperately needed to rebuild strength and stamina in his legs if he was ever going to be certified for field work.

Until the shooting, Peter had been mostly a jogger, but he preferred to hit the pavement a few mornings a week instead of using the treadmill. Friends told him that he wasting his time doing that when he could multitask and spend an hour catching up on world affairs, the local news, or even the television shows he’d missed the night before. But Peter multitasked enough in other areas of his life. He had liked the feeling of fresh air, the changing scenery, learning and relearning the neighborhood through the seasons.

But jogging like that was still on the list of prohibited activities. He could do an hour at a reasonable walking clip on the treadmill, wearing the right shoes, in a perfectly controlled environment where he’d have no chance of tripping and injuring himself. The treadmill was about stamina. Using the Nautilus was about building up strength, and that was where he was headed this morning.

He did his stretches first, because the one time he hadn’t, he’d been in agony for days, set the machine to the proper weight load, and started working out. He didn’t want music or an audiobook or the radio to distract him, preferring to give the process his full attention.

But this morning, as much as he tried, he found himself distracted by the problem still asleep in the guest bedroom.

Neal Caffrey. Neal Caffrey. Neal Caffrey.

The name echoed in syncopation with the gentle clack of the weights as they rose and fell. The man had seemed so wrecked last night, so shattered, and it had taken all Peter’s willpower not to just take charge and whisk him out of his office. But his patience had been rewarded, somewhat, when Neal opened up and told them what happened. Peter couldn’t help but grieve with him over that poor dog – such a terrible and senseless waste.

In the cool morning light, Peter supposed that this was progress. Neal trusted them enough to share, to let himself be comforted. Watching Neal sleep on the couch last night had further stirred his deeply protective instincts, the ones that had first blossomed when Neal told them what he’d gone through with Keller and the years of abuse he’d suffered. For the last two months, Peter had tried to keep them suppressed. He was too afraid that he’d come across as controlling, stifling, over-protective. But watching Neal, thinking about Neal’s behavior throughout the evening, he felt as if he’d learned something important about him.

Neal was submissive; for him obedience was instinctive.

Back when he and El first started exploring polyamory, they visited a couple of clubs. They weren’t so much looking for partners, but trying to understand their own sexuality. Those visits had only confirmed what Peter suspected about himself. That he was pretty damn vanilla in terms of kink, but when it came to sex he was unremittingly dominant, preferring to take charge and remain in control.

Actually, that was true with almost everything.

Almost was the operative word there, since he worked in an environment that required observance of a strict command structure. But the FBI suited him, as it was a meritocracy as much as a bureaucracy – for the most part recognizing and rewarding excellence – and his promotions over the years had provided a berth that suited him perfectly.

That almost was also qualified within these four walls, too. Elizabeth was just as dominant as he was. He didn’t know if that meant they were extremely compatible, since opposites were supposed to attract. It could be that he didn’t need to exert his will with his wife, since she worked in tandem with him. Maybe that was why they gravitated towards polyamory, seeking partners that were not necessarily submissive, but complemented both of their personalities.

Which brought Peter’s thoughts back to Neal. His realization troubled him. It seemed like a situation that could so easily be abused.

Over the past few months, Peter had been careful never to order Neal to do anything. Where he would, with anyone else, make a casual demand, with Neal, everything was couched in the most careful of requests. Far too cognizant of Neal’s history, he had toned down his natural inclination to command.

That flew out the window last night. Elizabeth insisted that Neal come in for dinner. He all but issued an order for Neal to stay the night, and the man didn’t blink, didn’t make the slightest effort to resist, even though his house was less than a five minute walk away. That moment, when Neal let him lead him to the staircase, almost frightened Peter. It would be so easy to make Neal into something that existed as an extension of his will.

Peter stopped in the middle of a rep and almost laughed. He didn’t want Neal as anything but what he was. Smart, sensitive, charming, and a man with a tremendous amount of strength and free will. He didn’t want a slave, he didn’t want a submissive. He knew people who enjoyed that lifestyle, he knew how difficult it was for both parties in the relationship, but that wasn’t his scene. It wasn’t El’s either.

What really scared Peter was the thought that he could do that to Neal without him realizing it, that it would be simple to ease Neal into that life. The concept nauseated him – stealing another human being’s free will without his consent. He would be no better than the bastard that almost destroyed him.

Or maybe worse.

He finished the set and paused for a breather. His leg ached, a lot more today than it had yesterday. He rubbed at the scar, distracted from the problem that was Neal Caffrey. He hated to touch the scar tissue. It repulsed him – the unnatural smoothness, the ropy indentations where he was cut so many times. All of these sensations reminded him that he wasn’t the man he used to be and he’d never be that man again.

But that wasn’t an excuse to give up. He started the next set of reps, not thinking about Neal Caffrey, not thinking about everything he lost. Peter instead concentrated on the fact that he was alive, he had both of his legs and most days, he could walk completely unaided.

He didn’t think about the possibility that he’d never be cleared for field duty and would spend the rest of his career riding a desk.

No, he definitely didn’t think about that, because that thought was unbearable.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal woke slowly. The bed was unfamiliar, so was the light. He laid there for a moment, remembering the details.

The sadness of yesterday’s loss was muted, distant. That was okay. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel anything, but the night’s sleep did a lot to restore his common sense and training. That poor Setter had been too injured to save, and had she not been so close to term, he probably wouldn’t have tried to save her litter.

Yes, it still hurt, but it wasn’t raw and the feelings of failure and futility didn’t come flooding back.

Neal got out of bed and checked the time. It was well after nine and time to get up. Last night, he’d briefly regretted declining Peter’s offer of sleepwear, but then he realized that the man and his wife were actively courting him and they probably had no issues about him climbing naked between the sheets in their guest bedroom.

Under any other circumstance, he would have slept in his boxer-briefs – and in fact had planned to, except that the blood that soaked through the surgical gown and scrubs had also stained his underwear. There was no way he was going to sleep in those. And there was no way he was going to put them back on this morning.

Which meant going commando; unless he could borrow a pair from Peter. That seemed way too intimate, but then, so was wearing borrowed sweat pants.

Standing naked in the Burkes’ guest bedroom wasn’t going to solve anything. Neal put on his pants, wadded up the briefs and shoved them in his pocket.

Opening the bedroom door, he found Satchmo keeping guard. The dog sat up but otherwise made no attempt to move.

Neal grinned. "Is there a toll I have to pay?" The Lab looked up and, in the way that only canines could, he smiled at him. Neal scratched the dog’s head and was rewarded with a lick across his palm, but he still didn’t move.

More amused than exasperated, Neal asked, "Well?"

The dog sighed and gave him a look that Neal could only interpret as "if I have to" before getting to his feet and trotting downstairs.

As Peter had promised last night, Neal found a pile of towels in the bathroom. He doffed his pants and took a very brief but very hot shower, washing away the last of yesterday’s distress.

Dried and dressed, Neal went in search of his host. There was a strange, rhythmic clanking sound coming from the third floor and he followed the noise.

Like the house he was renting, the third floor had been gutted and opened up. Ellen had made hers into the master suite, adding a much-needed second bathroom. The Burkes didn’t go for such an extensive renovation. The space was open, but minimally furnished. A desk with computer equipment, a couch that looked almost as old as he was, a bunch of plastic storage bins, and some exercise equipment. The last explained the noise. Peter was hard at work on a weight machine.

Neal watched and enjoyed the watching. Peter was shirtless, his skin glowing with sweat. Even though he was working his legs, his whole body was involved. Muscles bunched in his abdomen as he held the position, his biceps flexed slightly against the strain. Neal had always been more of a swimmer and runner than a gym rat, but he could appreciate the effort that Peter was putting into his workout.

Neal must have made a sound – maybe a moan of disappointment – when Peter finally stopped, because he turned to him. And whatever aesthetic pleasure he’d been taking from Peter’s efforts turned to something else. Shock mostly. Peter without his shirt and in the bright morning that hid nothing, was …

Bullet-ridden.

Neal knew that Peter had been shot, almost from the moment they met. Peter had even told him that someone had shot him six times, point blank, and that it was a miracle of science that he survived. But seeing those scars puckering the smooth skin – one way too close to Peter’s heart – brought home just how close to dying this man had been.

"If you think these are disgusting, you might want to avert your eyes."

"What?"

"I know they’re pretty ugly." Peter shrugged and with deliberate carelessness, draped a towel over his shoulders, hiding the scars. "The ones on my leg are a lot uglier."

Peter walked – or more precisely, limped – towards him, and was trying to leave the room. Neal wasn’t letting him pass. "I don’t think they are ugly. They don’t disgust me. Not at all."

Peter didn’t believe him. "No? That was an interesting expression on your face."

"Then you need better reading glasses, because you’ve misread my mind."

"Oh?"

Neal could see that Peter’s challenging expression was hiding a world of hurt. "I was horrified at the visible evidence of how close you came to dying. Of your life ending before I met you." That hadn’t exactly been his thought a few moments ago, but now it was so profoundly disturbing that Neal almost became grief stricken. "Our paths would never have crossed."

Peter seemed to accept his words, his lips quirking up in a slight smile. "Yeah – and of all the things my dying would have caused, that would have been the most tragic …"

Neal cut him off. "Don’t joke. That’s not funny."

Peter’s eyes darkened with emotion. "I wasn’t joking, Caffrey."

Someday, Neal was going to have to tell Peter just what it did to him when he called him that. But for now, he settled for being just a trifle less brave. Neal reached out and shifted the towel off of Peter’s shoulders. It dropped to the floor and his fingers traced the scars: the two shallow indentations on Peter’s chest, then the deeper one on his left shoulder, finally drifting across his sternum to the deep scoring on his right bicep. "You never told me how you were shot, what happened."

Peter shook his head. "No – I didn’t."

"If you don’t want to tell me…"

"No – it’s just that I don’t – " Peter cut himself off. "I, well – " He cut himself off again and shook his head in frustration. "Let me take a shower and we’ll talk over breakfast, okay?"

"Okay. But before you go, just one thing." Neal stepped closer, the closest he’d been to a near-naked man in more years than he’d cared to contemplate. "So you don’t ever think that your scars disgust me." Neal pressed his lips against each of the scars in turn; his lips and tongue savoring the salty dew on Peter’s flesh. "And this is something I’ve wanted to do since the moment we met." Neal kissed Peter again, this time at the base of his throat, on the mole that graced his suprasternal notch.

Through the first four kisses, Peter hadn’t moved, hadn’t seemed to breathe, but with this kiss – which was one of pure desire – he groaned and wrapped his arms around him. Neal pressed another kiss onto Peter’s flesh, just below the jawline, and then another at the corner of his mouth. He might have concluded this voyage of exploration at a natural destination, but Peter – who was obviously aroused – pulled back and growled. "Don’t start something we can’t finish now."

Neal shook his head. "Can’t finish?"

Peter cupped his cheek, his thumb sweeping across his lips. "Not yet. El and I – we have a pact. When we start a new relationship, we have a moment of full disclosure before we take this step."

"Ah – that is wise." The words seemed a little trite and off-hand, but Neal could see the wisdom in it. Hadn’t Peter defined polyamory as "consensual non-monogamy"?

"It is – and even though El wants you, too, I don’t want her to feel like we’ve taken any steps without her."

"No, of course not." Neal was well aware of how fragile his standing was with Elizabeth Burke. "So – until we, or you, talk with Elizabeth – kissing only?"

At that, Peter kissed his laughter into him. "Caffrey – you’re going to be the death of me, you know that?"

"God forbid!" Neal didn’t even want to think of that, even in jest.

"Now, do me a favor and go downstairs and let the dog out. I’ll shower, we’ll have breakfast, and I’ll give you the whole story, if you want to hear it."

"Only if you want to tell me." Neal could tell that this was a difficult topic for Peter.

"Yeah, I do."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter was glad that Neal walked down the stairs ahead of him. He was moving slower than his usual glacial pace this morning. The scar tissue was pulling and the damaged tendons were protesting, and for some reason, his knee, which had been spared damage from the bullet and the subsequent surgeries, was popping every time he flexed it. He needed to keep a firm grip on the railing to avoid pitching forward.

Neal was on the ground floor and heading towards the back of the house before Peter made it to the second floor landing.

There had been a moment there, when Neal had kissed him, when his body reacted like he was sixteen and copping a feel of Donna Corcoran’s braless tit underneath the bleachers. He got hard as a rock, instantly. But that arousal didn’t survive the journey down a single flight of stairs.

Peter made it to the bathroom, it was still warm and the mirror partially steamed over from Neal’s own shower. The towel he had left for Neal was folded neatly on top of the hamper. That courteous touch pleased Peter immeasurably. They’d rarely had partners who were slobs, but they also expected – no, required – a certain amount of respect.

The hot water felt good on his aching body, good enough that when Peter started replaying the scene with Neal in his head, his cock responded like it had before. Under the pounding of the shower spray, Peter took himself in hand. Until a few months ago, physical arousal had been impossible to achieve, and even now, seemed like such a miracle that he’d been reluctant to waste it on himself.

But acting on this desire – with the man downstairs – had to be postponed, even if just for the length of the day. And was this really wasting it? He took himself in hand, relishing the weighty, meaty feel of his cock, how it throbbing with life.

Under the hot water, he started stroking. Peter let his mind drift back to that scene, giving free rein to his imagination. In his fantasy, he didn’t step back, he didn’t tell Neal they had to stop. No, in his fantasy, he gently pushed Neal to the floor and threaded his fingers through the man’s hair, pulling his face to his groin. In his fantasy, Neal mouthed his cock through the sweaty gym shorts, rubbing his cheek against his cloth-covered hardness, before using his teeth to pull the fabric down.

In his fantasy, Neal swallowed him whole and held him in his throat for far longer than anyone could, before letting his cock slide back over his tongue. But Neal didn’t let go all the way, capturing the bulbous head, humming his pleasure before finally releasing it.

Peter fucked his fist, imagining how he would rub his cock all over Neal’s face. His pleasure began to peak and then Peter did something he never thought of doing to himself before. He let go of his balls and touched the mole at the base of his throat, remembering the feel of Neal’s lips there. The light brush of his fingers against that odd bit of flesh was like a bolt of electricity, and he came so hard that the edges of his vision whited out and he almost fell into the wall.

The hot water finally started to run out and Peter ended his shower.

GO TO PART THREE: ON DW | ON LJ