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elrhiarhodanTitle: If the Soul Doesn’t Sing (Just One Life) – Part IV
Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kanarek13, Artwork Post
Author:elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, June Ellington, Garrett Fowler, Reese Hughes, Matthew Keller, Mozzie, Clinton Jones, Diana Berrigan, mention of Kate Moreau, mention of Elizabeth Burke, mention of Satchmo, mention of Terrance Pratt, mention of James Bennett, original characters
Pairings: Pre-story Peter/Elizabeth, pre-story Peter/Hughes; Neal/Keller, Peter/Neal
Spoilers: Mention of canon events at the end of In the Wind (S4.16)
Warnings : Non-canon deaths of canon characters (all off-camera and pre-story): Elizabeth Burke, Satchmo, Kate Moreau, OMC
Word Count: Total ~50,000 / Part IV – 8,000
Beta Credit:coffeethyme4me, sinfulslasher
Summary: Neal is an Archon, a ‘guardian angel’, who has been watching over the soul of Peter Burke for millennia. He’s learned that Peter’s soul will not be reborn into a new life, and cannot bear the thought that he will continue for eternity without Peter. So he decides to take the forbidden path: become mortal and spend the rest of his days watching over Peter and caring for him.
But he will need to make a sacrifice, and he will need to learn how to Fall.
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Of course Neal knew about Reese and Peter.
He knew everything about Peter and his romantic entanglements – in this and every other life. But he also knew that Reese was more than just an entanglement. The relationship between the two men was deeply complex – they had been mentor and trainee, boss and subordinate. They were still very close friends. And, for a very brief space of time, they’d been lovers.
Neal had seen the whole thing, of course – from its awkward first moments to the sweet, bitter and very practical ending. But Peter was inclined to talk, and Neal always wanted to encourage that. So he put the box of papers back down, got them both fresh bottles of beer and sat down on the couch. He schooled his expression into one of careful curiosity and waited for Peter to start.
“I guess the place to start is the beginning, right?” Peter seemed so nervous and unsure of himself – so unlike the man he’d gotten to know so well these past few weeks, to know in ways that he’d never been able to from his perch above a mirror pool.
Neal just watched Peter, willing him to let the words flow.
Peter sighed and paced a bit, before sitting down next to him. “It’s not like I’m embarrassed or anything. It’s just awkward to talk about.” He wiped his hands on his thighs, scratched his scalp, and then wiped his hands again. “And you’re sort of a captive audience. I can’t help but feel guilty. You let me talk and talk – even when it’s irrelevant. You don’t complain. Hell, you can’t complain. Sometimes I wonder …”
Neal felt so damn sorry for Peter, he wished he could just tell him that he knew everything, but of course he couldn’t take that disastrous step. But he could give some comfort. Peter might not think twice of tugging and pulling on him, but Neal was always very careful when he initiated physical comfort. There was always that spark between them, something he was afraid he couldn’t control. He slowly lowered his hand over Peter’s, squeezing it gently, trying to imbue all his love, his concern, to give as much comfort as he could.
It seemed to work. Peter settled against the back of the couch and relaxed. Neal let go, reluctantly.
“I was a probie – that is a probationary agent – and it was the end of my first year out of the Academy. Being in Manhattan was like a dream come true. Working for Reese, who was a legend even back then, was better than that. He was a good boss, he didn’t treat any of the probies like glorified gofers who existed to make photocopies and fetch coffee. He gave us real work to do, real assignments on real cases. He listened to us when we spoke and he never let any of the senior agents give us shit.”
Peter seemed lost in the nostalgia, but Neal was patient until he picked up the threads of his story again.
“I had a boyfriend at the time.” Peter looked at him, expecting some sort of response.
Neal did his best to convey confusion – he really had no idea what the problem was.
“You’re not freaked out about the ‘boyfriend’ thing?”
Ahh. Now he understood. He just shrugged and shook his head.
“A lot of people would. They’re not comfortable with bisexuality. They think bisexuals – we – are just looking to score wherever we can, or are just in denial. A fucking nasty stereotype and I am really glad it doesn’t matter to you.”
Neal wanted to touch Peter again, but more than just squeeze his hand. He wanted to hug him, to let him know how much he understood.
“Anyway – it was Christmastime and Jason and I were supposed to go to Florida for the week. Sit on the beach and do nothing more strenuous than get a decent tan. Except that Jason dumped my ass the day before the trip. He told me he’d found someone a little less boring and ordinary.”
Neal, of course, had seen the whole thing. Had watched and ached for Peter, who truthfully hadn’t been all that heartbroken when his partner had written him a check for the cost of the trip, collected his stuff and walked out of Peter’s life.
“I suppose you’re wondering what this has to do with Reese, right?”
Neal nodded, although he knew the answer.
“Anyway, I was bummed – I think more because I was looking forward to the sun and sand than because Jason dumped me. There was a bar in Chelsea – not a pick-up joint, but an honest-to-god bar where I could get a beer and burger and read a newspaper or a book and not be bothered. It was a place to go when you don’t want to be alone, but you don’t want to talk with anyone, either, you know what I mean?”
Neal nodded again, since some response was called for.
“So – it’s my vacation and instead of getting on a plane to Miami Beach, I’m sitting at a table in a gay bar on West Twenty-First Street, with a beer and a copy of the latest Tom Clancy, and I look up and I see Reese. It was weird – he’d been out on leave for about ten days and all of a sudden I see him at the bar. It looked like he was getting into it with the bartender, a nice enough guy. I probably should have minded my own business, but I went over to see what was wrong…”
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At some point, Peter had gotten up and started to pace back and forth across the room, finding it easier to talk when he was moving. According to the clock, he’d been talking non-stop for over an hour and it felt like he was no closer to the end of the story than he was when he’d started talking.
But the telling felt good, and he couldn’t help but see the parallels between what he’d done for Reese all those years ago and what Neal was doing for him now.
“I know I said that Reese and I were lovers, and I can imagine what you’re thinking – that we’d gotten drunk that night and fell into bed. That Reese needed someone to hold and I was there.”
Neal, of course, didn’t say anything, but he gave Peter a curious look.
“That wasn’t what happened. That would have been wrong and damaging to both of us. I told you about this because – well – I wanted you to know what type of man Reese is. Can you see that?”
Neal nodded and leaned forward, waiting for the next part of the story.
“We had dinner on Christmas Eve and I ended up staying at Reese’s apartment that night. He had told me that since he was a practicing atheist and Aaron had been agnostic and barely kept the rituals of his people, Christmas was meaningless to him, but it just seemed wrong to leave him alone. I went home in the morning and used the day as an opportunity to return the Pederson files to the office. We didn’t see each other again until after New Year’s.”
Peter started to pace again. He was telling Neal things he hadn’t talked about in so long. Of course he’d told El, before they were married; it was something she needed to know. Sharing this piece of his past with Neal seemed to carry the same importance.
“When I got back to work after my vacation, Reese was back, too. Or I should say, ‘Agent Hughes’. Whatever happened during those days before Christmas had nothing to do with the FBI, and he was – first and foremost – my supervising agent. He treated me exactly like he had before, with the same gruff and demanding kindness that he had for every agent under his watch.
“About two weeks into the New Year, at a routine staff meeting, he asked me if I’d made any progress on the Pederson case. That was all he said – nothing about tracking down the secretary. I hadn’t expected to be called on and I pretty much made an ass out of myself, but Hughes saved me, asking if I had any leads to follow up, if there were any personnel that hadn’t been interviewed.”
Peter smiled at the memory of his younger self and glanced over at Neal, who was smiling, too. But then, Neal usually was smiling – yet there was something else in this one, a feeling of kinship and understanding.
“Yeah, he threw me a slow one – right down the middle – and I hit it right on the sweet spot. Anyway, I don’t need to bore you with the details of the case. But it turned out that Pederson’s temporary secretary, Rachel Turner, was the granddaughter of a Russian mobster - Vassily Petrov. Her mother had married a westerner and she was no longer considered part of the ‘family’. But Rachel seemed to have developed a relationship with her grandfather, and she was the one, not Pederson, who was the conduit for the insider information. We were able to flip her, but we still needed to get inside her organization to bring down the big players. Hughes found out that I was fluent in Russian and the next thing I knew, I was going undercover with him.”
Peter had to comment on the skeptical look in Neal’s eyes. At least he thought it was skepticism. It could have been concern or compassion. The late afternoon light made it difficult to read his face. “Yeah, I know that probies don’t go undercover. But I wasn’t going alone. Hughes had an established alias as a Russian oligarch, so he approached Petrov with the story that he was looking to hide some assets in the U.S. I was supposed to be background, muscle, keep my mouth shut and my eyes open. It should have been easy – just an intelligence gathering operation at a seedy tearoom in Brighton Beach.”
Despite the odd light in the room, Peter could read the question, ‘but what happened?’ on Neal’s face as easily as a headline on the Post.
“It turned out that the secretary wasn’t as flipped as we’d thought she was. She’d gotten a message to her twin brother, Anton, who was more than a little crazy. He'd been working for the Petrovs but the grandfather never acknowledged him as family. The bastard grabbed Reese as we were leaving – he wanted to make a big show of taking down an FBI agent, which was a damn stupid move. I was held up for a few seconds; Petrov’s guards were giving me the business about my gun.
“He was screaming that he’d show everyone that he’s got the biggest yáytsa in the organization – that’s balls in Russian – and he was going to execute an FBI agent right there, on Coney Island Avenue, in broad daylight. He had a gun at Reese’s head and – ” Peter took a deep breath, “and I could see his finger squeezing the trigger. None of Petrov’s guards were going to interfere. I drew on the bastard, I had a clear head shot, but head shots are dicey things.” Almost irrelevantly, Peter added, “We’re trained to aim for the torso – for the area of greatest mass.”
The last of the November daylight was gone; Peter turned on the lamp next to the couch and sat down, the memories exhausting him.
“Reese kept still. He knew if he struggled, I’d lose the shot. He also trusted me to do what needed to be done. So I did. I shot Anton Turner between the eyes. I killed him.”
The memory of the young man lying on a frozen street, blood oozing out of the hole in his forehead, still had the power to make him sick. Which was only right.
“Someone must have called the police, because I remembered hearing sirens. Petrov’s guards disappeared and Reese and I were left to clean up the mess. And it was one hell of a mess. We’d inadvertently stepped into an active NYPD investigation. They’d kept us under lock and key for hours afterwards, then I had to deal with the inevitable OPR reports. I think it was close to one in the morning before I was released. I remember walking out of the FBI building and not knowing how the hell I was going to get home. It’s hard to get a cab in that neighborhood at that hour. Next thing I know, Reese is there and he’s pulling me towards an FBI pool car. He’d gotten someone to take both of us home.”
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Continue to Part V
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Artist:
kanarek13, Artwork PostAuthor:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, June Ellington, Garrett Fowler, Reese Hughes, Matthew Keller, Mozzie, Clinton Jones, Diana Berrigan, mention of Kate Moreau, mention of Elizabeth Burke, mention of Satchmo, mention of Terrance Pratt, mention of James Bennett, original characters
Pairings: Pre-story Peter/Elizabeth, pre-story Peter/Hughes; Neal/Keller, Peter/Neal
Spoilers: Mention of canon events at the end of In the Wind (S4.16)
Warnings : Non-canon deaths of canon characters (all off-camera and pre-story): Elizabeth Burke, Satchmo, Kate Moreau, OMC
Word Count: Total ~50,000 / Part IV – 8,000
Beta Credit:
coffeethyme4me, sinfulslasher Summary: Neal is an Archon, a ‘guardian angel’, who has been watching over the soul of Peter Burke for millennia. He’s learned that Peter’s soul will not be reborn into a new life, and cannot bear the thought that he will continue for eternity without Peter. So he decides to take the forbidden path: become mortal and spend the rest of his days watching over Peter and caring for him.
But he will need to make a sacrifice, and he will need to learn how to Fall.
Of course Neal knew about Reese and Peter.
He knew everything about Peter and his romantic entanglements – in this and every other life. But he also knew that Reese was more than just an entanglement. The relationship between the two men was deeply complex – they had been mentor and trainee, boss and subordinate. They were still very close friends. And, for a very brief space of time, they’d been lovers.
Neal had seen the whole thing, of course – from its awkward first moments to the sweet, bitter and very practical ending. But Peter was inclined to talk, and Neal always wanted to encourage that. So he put the box of papers back down, got them both fresh bottles of beer and sat down on the couch. He schooled his expression into one of careful curiosity and waited for Peter to start.
“I guess the place to start is the beginning, right?” Peter seemed so nervous and unsure of himself – so unlike the man he’d gotten to know so well these past few weeks, to know in ways that he’d never been able to from his perch above a mirror pool.
Neal just watched Peter, willing him to let the words flow.
Peter sighed and paced a bit, before sitting down next to him. “It’s not like I’m embarrassed or anything. It’s just awkward to talk about.” He wiped his hands on his thighs, scratched his scalp, and then wiped his hands again. “And you’re sort of a captive audience. I can’t help but feel guilty. You let me talk and talk – even when it’s irrelevant. You don’t complain. Hell, you can’t complain. Sometimes I wonder …”
Neal felt so damn sorry for Peter, he wished he could just tell him that he knew everything, but of course he couldn’t take that disastrous step. But he could give some comfort. Peter might not think twice of tugging and pulling on him, but Neal was always very careful when he initiated physical comfort. There was always that spark between them, something he was afraid he couldn’t control. He slowly lowered his hand over Peter’s, squeezing it gently, trying to imbue all his love, his concern, to give as much comfort as he could.
It seemed to work. Peter settled against the back of the couch and relaxed. Neal let go, reluctantly.
“I was a probie – that is a probationary agent – and it was the end of my first year out of the Academy. Being in Manhattan was like a dream come true. Working for Reese, who was a legend even back then, was better than that. He was a good boss, he didn’t treat any of the probies like glorified gofers who existed to make photocopies and fetch coffee. He gave us real work to do, real assignments on real cases. He listened to us when we spoke and he never let any of the senior agents give us shit.”
Peter seemed lost in the nostalgia, but Neal was patient until he picked up the threads of his story again.
“I had a boyfriend at the time.” Peter looked at him, expecting some sort of response.
Neal did his best to convey confusion – he really had no idea what the problem was.
“You’re not freaked out about the ‘boyfriend’ thing?”
Ahh. Now he understood. He just shrugged and shook his head.
“A lot of people would. They’re not comfortable with bisexuality. They think bisexuals – we – are just looking to score wherever we can, or are just in denial. A fucking nasty stereotype and I am really glad it doesn’t matter to you.”
Neal wanted to touch Peter again, but more than just squeeze his hand. He wanted to hug him, to let him know how much he understood.
“Anyway – it was Christmastime and Jason and I were supposed to go to Florida for the week. Sit on the beach and do nothing more strenuous than get a decent tan. Except that Jason dumped my ass the day before the trip. He told me he’d found someone a little less boring and ordinary.”
Neal, of course, had seen the whole thing. Had watched and ached for Peter, who truthfully hadn’t been all that heartbroken when his partner had written him a check for the cost of the trip, collected his stuff and walked out of Peter’s life.
“I suppose you’re wondering what this has to do with Reese, right?”
Neal nodded, although he knew the answer.
“Anyway, I was bummed – I think more because I was looking forward to the sun and sand than because Jason dumped me. There was a bar in Chelsea – not a pick-up joint, but an honest-to-god bar where I could get a beer and burger and read a newspaper or a book and not be bothered. It was a place to go when you don’t want to be alone, but you don’t want to talk with anyone, either, you know what I mean?”
Neal nodded again, since some response was called for.
“So – it’s my vacation and instead of getting on a plane to Miami Beach, I’m sitting at a table in a gay bar on West Twenty-First Street, with a beer and a copy of the latest Tom Clancy, and I look up and I see Reese. It was weird – he’d been out on leave for about ten days and all of a sudden I see him at the bar. It looked like he was getting into it with the bartender, a nice enough guy. I probably should have minded my own business, but I went over to see what was wrong…”
“Sir?”
Hughes looked over at him and Peter was shocked at the man’s gray pallor and bloodshot eyes. “Fuck, Burke – what the hell are you doing here?”
Peter shrugged. “Having a beer and a burger. Taking it easy.” He tilted his head towards the booth he’d just abandoned. On the table, the paperback was turned over to hold the page and the plate with the remains of his burger and fries was pushed to one side.
The older man growled, “You’re supposed to be on vacation.”
“I am.”
“Heard you were going to Florida.” Hughes seemed extraordinarily aggressive, almost angry.
“My trip was cancelled. Decided to just stay home.” Peter shifted his stance, relaxing against the bar and cutting off the view of the all-too-curious bartender. “I’m surprised to see you here. Agent Wentworth said you had to take emergency leave. Everything okay?”
Hughes flushed, but his eyes narrowed. “That’s none of your business, Burke.” He turned back to the bar and tapped his fist against it, trying to summon the bartender. It finally hit Peter. His boss was drunk. Hughes was holding his liquor well enough, but he was definitely drunk.
“Sir – I think you’ve had enough.” He gently tried to tug the older man away from the bar. “Come on, let’s sit down.” As he pulled Hughes along, Peter wondered if he was committing career suicide.
Surprisingly, Hughes acquiesced to Peter’s manhandling and slid into the booth. Peter sat down across from him and waited for him to say something. The silence stretched thin and Peter couldn’t take it anymore. “Sir, are you all right?”
Hughes gave him a funny smile. “I think, under the circumstances, you should drop the ‘sir’. This isn’t the right kind of bar for that type of title.”
A hot flush burned across Peter’s cheeks. He couldn’t believe his boss had just made a BDSM joke.
Hughes apologized. “Sorry – that was out of line.”
Peter shrugged, smiled and was bitten by the god of mischief. “To tell the truth, in those places, I’d prefer to be the one called ‘sir’.”
Hughes laughed, a smile briefly illuminating his dour expression. “Yes, I can see that you would.”
“Then what should I call you?” ‘Agent Hughes’ felt as out of place as ‘sir.’ And just plain ‘Hughes’ seemed disrespectful.
“At this moment, ‘Reese’ will do.”
The line had been clearly drawn and Peter was relieved. What happened here had nothing to do with the office, the Bureau. He could speak freely. “Are you okay, Reese?”
Reese sighed and seemed to collapse into himself. “I’ve been better.”
“Can I help?”
“You are such a knight in shining armor, Peter Burke. Bet you helped old ladies cross the street and rescued kittens caught in trees.”
Peter didn’t react to the bitter contempt in those words. “You’re not an old lady or a kitten.”
“No, I’m not.”
Peter knew that you couldn’t help people who didn’t want to be helped and decided that he’d done enough. He picked up his book and started to read, expecting Reese to leave.
But the man didn’t. “You ever lose anyone you loved, Burke?”
Peter looked up at the question. He didn’t even weigh his answer. “I didn’t really love him, but my boyfriend just left me for someone he found a lot more exciting. And had a bigger wallet.”
“That’s not the kind of loss I mean.”
Peter finally understood. “Okay. No – not like that.” Both his parents were still alive, and thank god, none of his boyfriends had gotten sick, nor had any girlfriends for that matter. Not that he’d ever really loved any of them.
“You’re lucky.” At that, Reese fell silent again.
But he seemed to be – for lack of a better word – receptive to Peter’s questions. “Who?”
Reese looked at his hands. “My partner, or as the newspapers would say, my ‘longtime companion,’ Aaron.”
“I’m sorry.” Peter said the words but they were so inadequate.
“We beat everything, we’d even forced them to accept us, but we couldn’t beat time.”
“Sir?” Peter bit his lip, he couldn’t help the word.
Reese sighed. “If I’m going to tell you, I need a Scotch. Neat.” He went to pull out his wallet, but Peter waved him off.
He got up and went to the bar to order.
The bartender gave him a worried look. “Your friend’s been in here for the better part of the last two days. I don’t think he needs any more to drink.”
“I’ll make sure he’s okay. Just make it his usual, and mine, too.”
Peter came back with the Scotch and his own bottle of beer. He pushed the shot glass over to Reese. “Make it last. You’re cut off after this.”
Reese glared at him but didn’t comment.
Peter took a sip and waited.
Reese just held the glass, turning it carefully, but didn’t take a drink. “Aaron and I started at Quantico together. We were friends. Rivals, too – first and second, second and first – didn’t matter. But he probably should have been first in everything. The discrimination wasn’t all that subtle and they held him to a higher standard than the other trainees.”
Peter wasn’t sure what type of discrimination Reese was talking about.
Reese explained. “Aaron was Jewish – he was his parents’ fourth child and the only one who lived to adulthood. His three siblings were killed in the concentration camps, but his mother and father survived and emigrated. He was born here.”
“You were together since the Academy?” At twenty-eight, Peter had a hard time imagining anyone being together for that long, his parents notwithstanding. And then he thought about having to hide a relationship for that long, too. The FBI wasn’t like the military, at least since 1975, there was no official policy, but until recently, it was impossible to be both gay and an FBI agent, unless you were Hoover.
“No. Not until we were both years out of our probationary assignments.” Reese sat, still holding the glass of Scotch, lost in the memory. He shook himself. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, Burke.”
“It’s ‘Peter’. If I’m calling you Reese, you can return the favor.”
The corner of Reese’s mouth tilted up in a mockery of a smile. He finally took a sip of the drink. “Peter it is.”
“You’re telling me because you need to tell someone.”
“Yeah, I guess. Aaron and I were partners – and the brass knew about it. There were rumblings, especially after Frank Buttino was fired. But I had offers – there were other agencies which needed certain skills and didn’t care who I fucked. I may still take one of those offers.”
Peter wondered just what those skills were, but he knew better than to ask. “What happened to Aaron?”
Reese downed the rest of his Scotch. “He died. A week ago.”
“How?” Peter was almost afraid of the answer.
“Pancreatic cancer. We thought he had a bad case of indigestion – that he’d had too much to eat at Thanksgiving. But it wasn’t that, and now he’s dead. Four weeks. He’s gone after four fucking weeks.”
Peter swallowed hard. He could barely imagine this man’s grief.
“I can’t go home. He’s everywhere I look. I can’t stand it.”
Peter heard the desperation in Reese’s voice and he came to a decision. “Then don’t – I’ve got some space. You can bunk with me for a few days. Until you're ready to deal with it.”
“Seriously, Burke?”
“It’s Peter. And yes, seriously.” Again, he had to wonder if he was committing career suicide.
But to his shock, Reese nodded slowly. “Then I’d appreciate that. But finish your beer, I think I’d like to just sit here for a while.”
Peter pointedly looked at the empty glass on the table.
“And no, I don’t want another. Not now.”
“Okay.” He looked at Reese, who had leaned back against the booth and closed his eyes. Peter picked up his paperback but found it hard to lose himself in the derring-do of Jack Ryan with his boss sitting across from him. He looked up after a few dozen pages, surprised to see Reese asleep. He finished the beer, got up and paid the tab – both his own and Reese’s – and went to the men’s room to rid himself of the processed brew.
One of the bar’s regulars, a guy Peter didn’t particularly like, was standing next to him at the urinal. “Didn’t figure you for a prune chaser.”
Since punching a man while he was peeing was kind of contrary to his personal code of honor, Peter held his temper. “Watch your mouth.”
“Come on – you’re really going to go home with that fossil? Hope he’s got a defibrillator next to the Viagra.”
Peter finished peeing and seriously reconsidered his position on slugging the guy. Instead, he looked down and sneered. “I guess your mind’s as small as your dick.”
Another guy, a few stalls down, overheard and snorted in laughter.
Peter zipped up, flushed and went to the sink to wash up. Reese was standing at the door and Peter wondered how much he’d heard.
Enough apparently that, despite his grief, he had a devilish look in his eye. He touched Peter’s shoulder and said, “Wait for me, okay?”
Peter smiled back and winked. “Sure.” He never found out just what Reese said to Tiny Dick, but the man rushed past Peter, who was waiting by the front door, his face pale and looking like he’d just been told the date and hour of his death. Reese followed a minute or two later, looking a lot better than he had when Peter first saw him.
“My apartment’s on Eighteenth Street, near Tenth.” The neighborhood wasn’t all that residential or all that safe, to be honest, but it was dirt cheap. He had a decent sized two-bedroom with a view of the broken down elevated train tracks for the long-abandoned West Side line. There were rumors about turning them [the tracks] into some kind of park, but he figured that would never happen. At least not in his lifetime.
As they walked, Peter tried to remember if his sheets were clean – or at least if he had clean ones in the closet. He figured that he’d give Reese his bed and he’d sleep on the couch. For all that he had a two-bedroom apartment; the second bedroom functioned solely as storage space. He’d been meaning to clear out the boxes and set it up as an office and maybe a guest room, but hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
There was a bitterly cold wind coming off the Hudson River. A few stray dogs trotted past them and the sounds of a nasty argument drifted down from someone’s open window. Peter winced, wondering what Reese was thinking about him. He was a New Yorker, and if there was anything that defined a New Yorker, it was the location of his real estate.
But Reese didn’t seem to mind. Peter figured that his thoughts were occupied by other, less irrelevant things. His place was at the top of a four-story walk up and Peter mentally crossed his fingers that he’d at least taken out the trash.
He opened the three locks that secured the door and took a deep breath. No, the place didn’t smell from last night’s Chinese food. He flipped on the light and stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. “Um – let me take care of a few things. You can, umm, relax.” Peter gestured to the couch and winced as he saw the mess of files on the coffee table. Files that he wasn’t supposed to bring home, for all that they were for the cold-ish case that he’d been assigned to review.
Reese nodded and his eyes followed Peter’s. But he didn’t comment on the files; he just took off his jacket and sat down.
Peter excused himself and headed into his bedroom, rapidly stripping the sheets from the bed and putting on the clean, but wrinkled ones he pulled from the laundry basket in the corner, all the while telling himself he was a dozen kinds of crazy. Who the hell offers their boss a place to stay? If the man really didn’t want to go home, he could certainly get a hotel room. This was New York City; there was no shortage of hotels.
But Peter somehow knew that, for a grieving man, an anonymous hotel room might be worse than going home. Reese had been in that bar for a reason. The same reason that he’d let him intervene at the bar, that he told him what had happened to his partner. That he was here. Because he couldn’t bear to be alone.
Peter took out an unopened package of pajamas from his bureau – his mother had sent them a few years back. They really weren’t his style. But he’d leave them for Reese, who could wear them if he wanted.
Peter stepped back, looked at the bed, and then did a little cleaning up or – to be more accurate – shoved his sneakers and running gear into the closet. Five months at Quantico had cured him of any lingering tendencies towards slob-hood, but he was still a guy. He grabbed the clean towels from the laundry basket, folded and put them into the bathroom with a spare razor and toothbrush, and finally rejoined Reese, who was – naturally – looking at the files on the coffee table.
“Umm – ” Peter rubbed at the back of his neck, hoping like hell that the line that had been drawn at the bar was still in place. That Reese – Agent Hughes – wouldn’t chew him out for this breech of procedure. Technically, the files were just FOUO, For Official Use Only, and weren’t classified or sensitive, but there were good reasons why agents – especially probationary agents – weren’t supposed to take files home with them.
“Just looking at your notes on the old Pederson securities case. Good point about checking with the secretary. I’m surprised that the original case agent hadn’t.”
“Rachel Turner wasn’t Pederson’s full time secretary, sir.” Peter bit his lip, but the ‘sir’ felt right, since they were talking about a case. “She worked at the firm as a floater, filling in for clerical staff all over the place.”
“Which meant that she had access to data from a whole bunch of different traders. Again – this was sloppy work by the original case agent. It should have been picked up immediately, not three years after the fact.”
Peter sat down and they talked about the case for what seemed like ten or fifteen minutes, but in truth it was closer to an hour. He was shocked that it was close to one in the morning when he looked at his watch. He couldn’t stifle a yawn now that he knew what time it was; it seemed that all he wanted to do was go to sleep.
Reese closed the file he was holding. “I’m keeping you from your bed. If you have an extra blanket, the couch will be fine.”
“No – you can have the bed. I just put clean linens on it.”
“Peter – ”
“Reese, please take the bed. You look like you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in days.”
Reese scrubbed at his face. “I should tell you you’re an idiot to give up your bed, but I don’t think I can. I really appreciate this.”
Peter nodded his acknowledgment and pointed the way to the bedroom. “Sleep well.”
He waited until the other man finished with the bathroom and then took care of his own nightly rituals, putting on the old Quantico tee shirt and running shorts he normally slept in. When the light went out in the bedroom, Peter pulled out an old afghan, stretched out on the couch and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Typical December morning light – fitful and gray – filled the living room when Peter woke up. He blinked, looked at his watch, and was surprised to see that it was well after nine. The smell of coffee teased his nostrils and he remembered everything from last night. His unexpected guest must be awake and in the kitchen.
Peter wiped the grit from his eyes, got up, and went to see what Reese was doing.
The man was dressed – in yesterday’s clothes, of course – but his hair was damp and Peter could see that he’d shaved. The kitchen was tiny and they awkwardly moved around each other as Peter fetched his coffee cup from the drain board and filled it. They repeated the dance as Peter reached into the fridge for the milk. He took a sip and the caffeine hit his bloodstream, completing the chemistry needed to get his brain functioning.
“Good morning, Peter.”
Peter looked up at Reese, who was now leaning against the sink, watching him with an unreadable expression. He felt like he was under a microscope and was surprisingly unnerved. He managed to mutter “Morning” before attacking the contents of his cup.
How the hell had the man managed to make such good coffee? He’d had the machine for years and it either produced something akin to used motor oil or barely brown water. He reached for the pot and poured another cup, all but inhaling that one, too.
He almost made a comment about keeping Reese around, if just for the magic he’d wrought with his damn coffee maker, but remembered just why he was here in his apartment on a Saturday morning, two days before Christmas. He swallowed and tried not to be self-conscious in his worn out shorts and t-shirt.
“Go get dressed, Peter. The least I can do is buy you breakfast.”
Peter nodded and squeezed out of his kitchen and went into the bedroom to grab some clean clothes. He wasn’t all that surprised to find the bed neatly made; the pajamas he’d left out had been carefully folded and left at the foot of the bed.
His shower was one of the fastest he’d ever taken and, since it was Saturday, he didn’t bother with a shave. Looking out the window, Peter grimaced at the steady drizzle. At least it wasn’t snow.
Fully dressed and feeling a hell of a lot less disoriented, he went into the living room. Reese was back at the Pederson files and Peter couldn’t stop feeling worried about their presence. “I know I shouldn’t have brought them home … ”
Reese looked up, a slightly exasperated look on his face. “No, you shouldn’t have. But it’s not like I can write you up. I’d have to explain what I was doing in your apartment.”
Peter was struck by the absurdity of the situation. The settlement in the Buttino case meant that the FBI would no longer discharge or otherwise discipline gay and lesbian employees because of their sexual orientation. But there were still fraternization rules, and offering your supervising agent a bed for the night – even if the offer was made out of compassion – was probably something that would be deeply frowned upon.
“I’ll get the files back to the office on Monday.”
“Good idea.”
Peter’s stomach rumbled and he clamped a hand over it, hoping that Reese hadn’t heard the embarrassing noise.
He had, but rather than comment, Reese asked, “Anyplace around here that you’d recommend for breakfast?”
“There’s a bagel place on the corner of Ninth and Twenty-Third.”
The wind blew the cold drizzle in their faces and Peter actually found himself wishing for snow. It had to be better that this stinging icy crap.
The place was filled with the typical Saturday morning crowd and they waited a few minutes for a table.
Something occurred to Peter as he was eating and he spoke without considering the ramifications. “Do you need help with …” He swallowed before continuing, “Aaron’s stuff?”
Reese wiped his mouth and gave Peter a considering look. “Are you offering?”
He nodded. “I have the time. Would be happy to help if you want.”
“I think that’s why I don’t want to go home. I can’t deal with it by myself.” Reese stared at his coffee.
“I remembered what you said about Aaron’s family.”
Reese sighed. “Yeah. His parents are long gone; no one else survived the camps. For a lot of reasons, he didn’t remain part of his people’s community, which was a shame. We didn’t have a lot of close friends, to tell you the truth.”
Peter had expected that Reese lived nearby; the bar where he’d found him was a place favored by locals. But he didn’t – his apartment was all the way uptown, in a pre-War building in Fort Washington, within walking distance from the Cloisters.
He ended up spending the better part of the weekend helping Reese sort through his partner’s clothes and shoes, packing up what Reese wanted to save, arranging for pickups for what was being donated.
In the process, Peter learned a lot about the daily life of two people completely devoted to each other, but not blind to the other’s foibles. At some point on Saturday, Reese opened up about Aaron, and Peter let him talk, just listening to the older man ramble. There were moments of anger and frustration, but there was joy and happiness, too.
He slept on the couch Saturday night, but went home to his apartment on Sunday for a quick shower and a clean set of clothes early Sunday morning, making it back before Reese was awake.
A little after six on Sunday night, just as Peter tied off the last bag of clothing, Reese made an not-so-idle comment. “Aaron would have had a word for what you’ve done for us. A mitzvah.”
Peter had heard the word before, but he wasn’t sure what it meant in this context.
Reese explained. “It means ‘an act of human kindness’.”
Peter shrugged, embarrassed. “I just …”
Reese walked over to the window and stared out at the cold, wet darkness. The neighborhood was decorated for both Christmas and Chanukah, the lights creating a pleasing rainbow that glinted and glimmered in the rain. “Go home, Peter. Enjoy your Christmas Eve. I’ll be fine.”
Peter wasn’t so sure about that. Christmas was a hard day to spend alone, and he could only imagine how much harder it would be if you were grieving. “How about dinner, first? We both have to eat.”
Hughes looked over at him and Peter was shocked at the man’s gray pallor and bloodshot eyes. “Fuck, Burke – what the hell are you doing here?”
Peter shrugged. “Having a beer and a burger. Taking it easy.” He tilted his head towards the booth he’d just abandoned. On the table, the paperback was turned over to hold the page and the plate with the remains of his burger and fries was pushed to one side.
The older man growled, “You’re supposed to be on vacation.”
“I am.”
“Heard you were going to Florida.” Hughes seemed extraordinarily aggressive, almost angry.
“My trip was cancelled. Decided to just stay home.” Peter shifted his stance, relaxing against the bar and cutting off the view of the all-too-curious bartender. “I’m surprised to see you here. Agent Wentworth said you had to take emergency leave. Everything okay?”
Hughes flushed, but his eyes narrowed. “That’s none of your business, Burke.” He turned back to the bar and tapped his fist against it, trying to summon the bartender. It finally hit Peter. His boss was drunk. Hughes was holding his liquor well enough, but he was definitely drunk.
“Sir – I think you’ve had enough.” He gently tried to tug the older man away from the bar. “Come on, let’s sit down.” As he pulled Hughes along, Peter wondered if he was committing career suicide.
Surprisingly, Hughes acquiesced to Peter’s manhandling and slid into the booth. Peter sat down across from him and waited for him to say something. The silence stretched thin and Peter couldn’t take it anymore. “Sir, are you all right?”
Hughes gave him a funny smile. “I think, under the circumstances, you should drop the ‘sir’. This isn’t the right kind of bar for that type of title.”
A hot flush burned across Peter’s cheeks. He couldn’t believe his boss had just made a BDSM joke.
Hughes apologized. “Sorry – that was out of line.”
Peter shrugged, smiled and was bitten by the god of mischief. “To tell the truth, in those places, I’d prefer to be the one called ‘sir’.”
Hughes laughed, a smile briefly illuminating his dour expression. “Yes, I can see that you would.”
“Then what should I call you?” ‘Agent Hughes’ felt as out of place as ‘sir.’ And just plain ‘Hughes’ seemed disrespectful.
“At this moment, ‘Reese’ will do.”
The line had been clearly drawn and Peter was relieved. What happened here had nothing to do with the office, the Bureau. He could speak freely. “Are you okay, Reese?”
Reese sighed and seemed to collapse into himself. “I’ve been better.”
“Can I help?”
“You are such a knight in shining armor, Peter Burke. Bet you helped old ladies cross the street and rescued kittens caught in trees.”
Peter didn’t react to the bitter contempt in those words. “You’re not an old lady or a kitten.”
“No, I’m not.”
Peter knew that you couldn’t help people who didn’t want to be helped and decided that he’d done enough. He picked up his book and started to read, expecting Reese to leave.
But the man didn’t. “You ever lose anyone you loved, Burke?”
Peter looked up at the question. He didn’t even weigh his answer. “I didn’t really love him, but my boyfriend just left me for someone he found a lot more exciting. And had a bigger wallet.”
“That’s not the kind of loss I mean.”
Peter finally understood. “Okay. No – not like that.” Both his parents were still alive, and thank god, none of his boyfriends had gotten sick, nor had any girlfriends for that matter. Not that he’d ever really loved any of them.
“You’re lucky.” At that, Reese fell silent again.
But he seemed to be – for lack of a better word – receptive to Peter’s questions. “Who?”
Reese looked at his hands. “My partner, or as the newspapers would say, my ‘longtime companion,’ Aaron.”
“I’m sorry.” Peter said the words but they were so inadequate.
“We beat everything, we’d even forced them to accept us, but we couldn’t beat time.”
“Sir?” Peter bit his lip, he couldn’t help the word.
Reese sighed. “If I’m going to tell you, I need a Scotch. Neat.” He went to pull out his wallet, but Peter waved him off.
He got up and went to the bar to order.
The bartender gave him a worried look. “Your friend’s been in here for the better part of the last two days. I don’t think he needs any more to drink.”
“I’ll make sure he’s okay. Just make it his usual, and mine, too.”
Peter came back with the Scotch and his own bottle of beer. He pushed the shot glass over to Reese. “Make it last. You’re cut off after this.”
Reese glared at him but didn’t comment.
Peter took a sip and waited.
Reese just held the glass, turning it carefully, but didn’t take a drink. “Aaron and I started at Quantico together. We were friends. Rivals, too – first and second, second and first – didn’t matter. But he probably should have been first in everything. The discrimination wasn’t all that subtle and they held him to a higher standard than the other trainees.”
Peter wasn’t sure what type of discrimination Reese was talking about.
Reese explained. “Aaron was Jewish – he was his parents’ fourth child and the only one who lived to adulthood. His three siblings were killed in the concentration camps, but his mother and father survived and emigrated. He was born here.”
“You were together since the Academy?” At twenty-eight, Peter had a hard time imagining anyone being together for that long, his parents notwithstanding. And then he thought about having to hide a relationship for that long, too. The FBI wasn’t like the military, at least since 1975, there was no official policy, but until recently, it was impossible to be both gay and an FBI agent, unless you were Hoover.
“No. Not until we were both years out of our probationary assignments.” Reese sat, still holding the glass of Scotch, lost in the memory. He shook himself. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, Burke.”
“It’s ‘Peter’. If I’m calling you Reese, you can return the favor.”
The corner of Reese’s mouth tilted up in a mockery of a smile. He finally took a sip of the drink. “Peter it is.”
“You’re telling me because you need to tell someone.”
“Yeah, I guess. Aaron and I were partners – and the brass knew about it. There were rumblings, especially after Frank Buttino was fired. But I had offers – there were other agencies which needed certain skills and didn’t care who I fucked. I may still take one of those offers.”
Peter wondered just what those skills were, but he knew better than to ask. “What happened to Aaron?”
Reese downed the rest of his Scotch. “He died. A week ago.”
“How?” Peter was almost afraid of the answer.
“Pancreatic cancer. We thought he had a bad case of indigestion – that he’d had too much to eat at Thanksgiving. But it wasn’t that, and now he’s dead. Four weeks. He’s gone after four fucking weeks.”
Peter swallowed hard. He could barely imagine this man’s grief.
“I can’t go home. He’s everywhere I look. I can’t stand it.”
Peter heard the desperation in Reese’s voice and he came to a decision. “Then don’t – I’ve got some space. You can bunk with me for a few days. Until you're ready to deal with it.”
“Seriously, Burke?”
“It’s Peter. And yes, seriously.” Again, he had to wonder if he was committing career suicide.
But to his shock, Reese nodded slowly. “Then I’d appreciate that. But finish your beer, I think I’d like to just sit here for a while.”
Peter pointedly looked at the empty glass on the table.
“And no, I don’t want another. Not now.”
“Okay.” He looked at Reese, who had leaned back against the booth and closed his eyes. Peter picked up his paperback but found it hard to lose himself in the derring-do of Jack Ryan with his boss sitting across from him. He looked up after a few dozen pages, surprised to see Reese asleep. He finished the beer, got up and paid the tab – both his own and Reese’s – and went to the men’s room to rid himself of the processed brew.
One of the bar’s regulars, a guy Peter didn’t particularly like, was standing next to him at the urinal. “Didn’t figure you for a prune chaser.”
Since punching a man while he was peeing was kind of contrary to his personal code of honor, Peter held his temper. “Watch your mouth.”
“Come on – you’re really going to go home with that fossil? Hope he’s got a defibrillator next to the Viagra.”
Peter finished peeing and seriously reconsidered his position on slugging the guy. Instead, he looked down and sneered. “I guess your mind’s as small as your dick.”
Another guy, a few stalls down, overheard and snorted in laughter.
Peter zipped up, flushed and went to the sink to wash up. Reese was standing at the door and Peter wondered how much he’d heard.
Enough apparently that, despite his grief, he had a devilish look in his eye. He touched Peter’s shoulder and said, “Wait for me, okay?”
Peter smiled back and winked. “Sure.” He never found out just what Reese said to Tiny Dick, but the man rushed past Peter, who was waiting by the front door, his face pale and looking like he’d just been told the date and hour of his death. Reese followed a minute or two later, looking a lot better than he had when Peter first saw him.
“My apartment’s on Eighteenth Street, near Tenth.” The neighborhood wasn’t all that residential or all that safe, to be honest, but it was dirt cheap. He had a decent sized two-bedroom with a view of the broken down elevated train tracks for the long-abandoned West Side line. There were rumors about turning them [the tracks] into some kind of park, but he figured that would never happen. At least not in his lifetime.
As they walked, Peter tried to remember if his sheets were clean – or at least if he had clean ones in the closet. He figured that he’d give Reese his bed and he’d sleep on the couch. For all that he had a two-bedroom apartment; the second bedroom functioned solely as storage space. He’d been meaning to clear out the boxes and set it up as an office and maybe a guest room, but hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
There was a bitterly cold wind coming off the Hudson River. A few stray dogs trotted past them and the sounds of a nasty argument drifted down from someone’s open window. Peter winced, wondering what Reese was thinking about him. He was a New Yorker, and if there was anything that defined a New Yorker, it was the location of his real estate.
But Reese didn’t seem to mind. Peter figured that his thoughts were occupied by other, less irrelevant things. His place was at the top of a four-story walk up and Peter mentally crossed his fingers that he’d at least taken out the trash.
He opened the three locks that secured the door and took a deep breath. No, the place didn’t smell from last night’s Chinese food. He flipped on the light and stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. “Um – let me take care of a few things. You can, umm, relax.” Peter gestured to the couch and winced as he saw the mess of files on the coffee table. Files that he wasn’t supposed to bring home, for all that they were for the cold-ish case that he’d been assigned to review.
Reese nodded and his eyes followed Peter’s. But he didn’t comment on the files; he just took off his jacket and sat down.
Peter excused himself and headed into his bedroom, rapidly stripping the sheets from the bed and putting on the clean, but wrinkled ones he pulled from the laundry basket in the corner, all the while telling himself he was a dozen kinds of crazy. Who the hell offers their boss a place to stay? If the man really didn’t want to go home, he could certainly get a hotel room. This was New York City; there was no shortage of hotels.
But Peter somehow knew that, for a grieving man, an anonymous hotel room might be worse than going home. Reese had been in that bar for a reason. The same reason that he’d let him intervene at the bar, that he told him what had happened to his partner. That he was here. Because he couldn’t bear to be alone.
Peter took out an unopened package of pajamas from his bureau – his mother had sent them a few years back. They really weren’t his style. But he’d leave them for Reese, who could wear them if he wanted.
Peter stepped back, looked at the bed, and then did a little cleaning up or – to be more accurate – shoved his sneakers and running gear into the closet. Five months at Quantico had cured him of any lingering tendencies towards slob-hood, but he was still a guy. He grabbed the clean towels from the laundry basket, folded and put them into the bathroom with a spare razor and toothbrush, and finally rejoined Reese, who was – naturally – looking at the files on the coffee table.
“Umm – ” Peter rubbed at the back of his neck, hoping like hell that the line that had been drawn at the bar was still in place. That Reese – Agent Hughes – wouldn’t chew him out for this breech of procedure. Technically, the files were just FOUO, For Official Use Only, and weren’t classified or sensitive, but there were good reasons why agents – especially probationary agents – weren’t supposed to take files home with them.
“Just looking at your notes on the old Pederson securities case. Good point about checking with the secretary. I’m surprised that the original case agent hadn’t.”
“Rachel Turner wasn’t Pederson’s full time secretary, sir.” Peter bit his lip, but the ‘sir’ felt right, since they were talking about a case. “She worked at the firm as a floater, filling in for clerical staff all over the place.”
“Which meant that she had access to data from a whole bunch of different traders. Again – this was sloppy work by the original case agent. It should have been picked up immediately, not three years after the fact.”
Peter sat down and they talked about the case for what seemed like ten or fifteen minutes, but in truth it was closer to an hour. He was shocked that it was close to one in the morning when he looked at his watch. He couldn’t stifle a yawn now that he knew what time it was; it seemed that all he wanted to do was go to sleep.
Reese closed the file he was holding. “I’m keeping you from your bed. If you have an extra blanket, the couch will be fine.”
“No – you can have the bed. I just put clean linens on it.”
“Peter – ”
“Reese, please take the bed. You look like you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in days.”
Reese scrubbed at his face. “I should tell you you’re an idiot to give up your bed, but I don’t think I can. I really appreciate this.”
Peter nodded his acknowledgment and pointed the way to the bedroom. “Sleep well.”
He waited until the other man finished with the bathroom and then took care of his own nightly rituals, putting on the old Quantico tee shirt and running shorts he normally slept in. When the light went out in the bedroom, Peter pulled out an old afghan, stretched out on the couch and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Typical December morning light – fitful and gray – filled the living room when Peter woke up. He blinked, looked at his watch, and was surprised to see that it was well after nine. The smell of coffee teased his nostrils and he remembered everything from last night. His unexpected guest must be awake and in the kitchen.
Peter wiped the grit from his eyes, got up, and went to see what Reese was doing.
The man was dressed – in yesterday’s clothes, of course – but his hair was damp and Peter could see that he’d shaved. The kitchen was tiny and they awkwardly moved around each other as Peter fetched his coffee cup from the drain board and filled it. They repeated the dance as Peter reached into the fridge for the milk. He took a sip and the caffeine hit his bloodstream, completing the chemistry needed to get his brain functioning.
“Good morning, Peter.”
Peter looked up at Reese, who was now leaning against the sink, watching him with an unreadable expression. He felt like he was under a microscope and was surprisingly unnerved. He managed to mutter “Morning” before attacking the contents of his cup.
How the hell had the man managed to make such good coffee? He’d had the machine for years and it either produced something akin to used motor oil or barely brown water. He reached for the pot and poured another cup, all but inhaling that one, too.
He almost made a comment about keeping Reese around, if just for the magic he’d wrought with his damn coffee maker, but remembered just why he was here in his apartment on a Saturday morning, two days before Christmas. He swallowed and tried not to be self-conscious in his worn out shorts and t-shirt.
“Go get dressed, Peter. The least I can do is buy you breakfast.”
Peter nodded and squeezed out of his kitchen and went into the bedroom to grab some clean clothes. He wasn’t all that surprised to find the bed neatly made; the pajamas he’d left out had been carefully folded and left at the foot of the bed.
His shower was one of the fastest he’d ever taken and, since it was Saturday, he didn’t bother with a shave. Looking out the window, Peter grimaced at the steady drizzle. At least it wasn’t snow.
Fully dressed and feeling a hell of a lot less disoriented, he went into the living room. Reese was back at the Pederson files and Peter couldn’t stop feeling worried about their presence. “I know I shouldn’t have brought them home … ”
Reese looked up, a slightly exasperated look on his face. “No, you shouldn’t have. But it’s not like I can write you up. I’d have to explain what I was doing in your apartment.”
Peter was struck by the absurdity of the situation. The settlement in the Buttino case meant that the FBI would no longer discharge or otherwise discipline gay and lesbian employees because of their sexual orientation. But there were still fraternization rules, and offering your supervising agent a bed for the night – even if the offer was made out of compassion – was probably something that would be deeply frowned upon.
“I’ll get the files back to the office on Monday.”
“Good idea.”
Peter’s stomach rumbled and he clamped a hand over it, hoping that Reese hadn’t heard the embarrassing noise.
He had, but rather than comment, Reese asked, “Anyplace around here that you’d recommend for breakfast?”
“There’s a bagel place on the corner of Ninth and Twenty-Third.”
The wind blew the cold drizzle in their faces and Peter actually found himself wishing for snow. It had to be better that this stinging icy crap.
The place was filled with the typical Saturday morning crowd and they waited a few minutes for a table.
Something occurred to Peter as he was eating and he spoke without considering the ramifications. “Do you need help with …” He swallowed before continuing, “Aaron’s stuff?”
Reese wiped his mouth and gave Peter a considering look. “Are you offering?”
He nodded. “I have the time. Would be happy to help if you want.”
“I think that’s why I don’t want to go home. I can’t deal with it by myself.” Reese stared at his coffee.
“I remembered what you said about Aaron’s family.”
Reese sighed. “Yeah. His parents are long gone; no one else survived the camps. For a lot of reasons, he didn’t remain part of his people’s community, which was a shame. We didn’t have a lot of close friends, to tell you the truth.”
Peter had expected that Reese lived nearby; the bar where he’d found him was a place favored by locals. But he didn’t – his apartment was all the way uptown, in a pre-War building in Fort Washington, within walking distance from the Cloisters.
He ended up spending the better part of the weekend helping Reese sort through his partner’s clothes and shoes, packing up what Reese wanted to save, arranging for pickups for what was being donated.
In the process, Peter learned a lot about the daily life of two people completely devoted to each other, but not blind to the other’s foibles. At some point on Saturday, Reese opened up about Aaron, and Peter let him talk, just listening to the older man ramble. There were moments of anger and frustration, but there was joy and happiness, too.
He slept on the couch Saturday night, but went home to his apartment on Sunday for a quick shower and a clean set of clothes early Sunday morning, making it back before Reese was awake.
A little after six on Sunday night, just as Peter tied off the last bag of clothing, Reese made an not-so-idle comment. “Aaron would have had a word for what you’ve done for us. A mitzvah.”
Peter had heard the word before, but he wasn’t sure what it meant in this context.
Reese explained. “It means ‘an act of human kindness’.”
Peter shrugged, embarrassed. “I just …”
Reese walked over to the window and stared out at the cold, wet darkness. The neighborhood was decorated for both Christmas and Chanukah, the lights creating a pleasing rainbow that glinted and glimmered in the rain. “Go home, Peter. Enjoy your Christmas Eve. I’ll be fine.”
Peter wasn’t so sure about that. Christmas was a hard day to spend alone, and he could only imagine how much harder it would be if you were grieving. “How about dinner, first? We both have to eat.”
At some point, Peter had gotten up and started to pace back and forth across the room, finding it easier to talk when he was moving. According to the clock, he’d been talking non-stop for over an hour and it felt like he was no closer to the end of the story than he was when he’d started talking.
But the telling felt good, and he couldn’t help but see the parallels between what he’d done for Reese all those years ago and what Neal was doing for him now.
“I know I said that Reese and I were lovers, and I can imagine what you’re thinking – that we’d gotten drunk that night and fell into bed. That Reese needed someone to hold and I was there.”
Neal, of course, didn’t say anything, but he gave Peter a curious look.
“That wasn’t what happened. That would have been wrong and damaging to both of us. I told you about this because – well – I wanted you to know what type of man Reese is. Can you see that?”
Neal nodded and leaned forward, waiting for the next part of the story.
“We had dinner on Christmas Eve and I ended up staying at Reese’s apartment that night. He had told me that since he was a practicing atheist and Aaron had been agnostic and barely kept the rituals of his people, Christmas was meaningless to him, but it just seemed wrong to leave him alone. I went home in the morning and used the day as an opportunity to return the Pederson files to the office. We didn’t see each other again until after New Year’s.”
Peter started to pace again. He was telling Neal things he hadn’t talked about in so long. Of course he’d told El, before they were married; it was something she needed to know. Sharing this piece of his past with Neal seemed to carry the same importance.
“When I got back to work after my vacation, Reese was back, too. Or I should say, ‘Agent Hughes’. Whatever happened during those days before Christmas had nothing to do with the FBI, and he was – first and foremost – my supervising agent. He treated me exactly like he had before, with the same gruff and demanding kindness that he had for every agent under his watch.
“About two weeks into the New Year, at a routine staff meeting, he asked me if I’d made any progress on the Pederson case. That was all he said – nothing about tracking down the secretary. I hadn’t expected to be called on and I pretty much made an ass out of myself, but Hughes saved me, asking if I had any leads to follow up, if there were any personnel that hadn’t been interviewed.”
Peter smiled at the memory of his younger self and glanced over at Neal, who was smiling, too. But then, Neal usually was smiling – yet there was something else in this one, a feeling of kinship and understanding.
“Yeah, he threw me a slow one – right down the middle – and I hit it right on the sweet spot. Anyway, I don’t need to bore you with the details of the case. But it turned out that Pederson’s temporary secretary, Rachel Turner, was the granddaughter of a Russian mobster - Vassily Petrov. Her mother had married a westerner and she was no longer considered part of the ‘family’. But Rachel seemed to have developed a relationship with her grandfather, and she was the one, not Pederson, who was the conduit for the insider information. We were able to flip her, but we still needed to get inside her organization to bring down the big players. Hughes found out that I was fluent in Russian and the next thing I knew, I was going undercover with him.”
Peter had to comment on the skeptical look in Neal’s eyes. At least he thought it was skepticism. It could have been concern or compassion. The late afternoon light made it difficult to read his face. “Yeah, I know that probies don’t go undercover. But I wasn’t going alone. Hughes had an established alias as a Russian oligarch, so he approached Petrov with the story that he was looking to hide some assets in the U.S. I was supposed to be background, muscle, keep my mouth shut and my eyes open. It should have been easy – just an intelligence gathering operation at a seedy tearoom in Brighton Beach.”
Despite the odd light in the room, Peter could read the question, ‘but what happened?’ on Neal’s face as easily as a headline on the Post.
“It turned out that the secretary wasn’t as flipped as we’d thought she was. She’d gotten a message to her twin brother, Anton, who was more than a little crazy. He'd been working for the Petrovs but the grandfather never acknowledged him as family. The bastard grabbed Reese as we were leaving – he wanted to make a big show of taking down an FBI agent, which was a damn stupid move. I was held up for a few seconds; Petrov’s guards were giving me the business about my gun.
“He was screaming that he’d show everyone that he’s got the biggest yáytsa in the organization – that’s balls in Russian – and he was going to execute an FBI agent right there, on Coney Island Avenue, in broad daylight. He had a gun at Reese’s head and – ” Peter took a deep breath, “and I could see his finger squeezing the trigger. None of Petrov’s guards were going to interfere. I drew on the bastard, I had a clear head shot, but head shots are dicey things.” Almost irrelevantly, Peter added, “We’re trained to aim for the torso – for the area of greatest mass.”
The last of the November daylight was gone; Peter turned on the lamp next to the couch and sat down, the memories exhausting him.
“Reese kept still. He knew if he struggled, I’d lose the shot. He also trusted me to do what needed to be done. So I did. I shot Anton Turner between the eyes. I killed him.”
The memory of the young man lying on a frozen street, blood oozing out of the hole in his forehead, still had the power to make him sick. Which was only right.
“Someone must have called the police, because I remembered hearing sirens. Petrov’s guards disappeared and Reese and I were left to clean up the mess. And it was one hell of a mess. We’d inadvertently stepped into an active NYPD investigation. They’d kept us under lock and key for hours afterwards, then I had to deal with the inevitable OPR reports. I think it was close to one in the morning before I was released. I remember walking out of the FBI building and not knowing how the hell I was going to get home. It’s hard to get a cab in that neighborhood at that hour. Next thing I know, Reese is there and he’s pulling me towards an FBI pool car. He’d gotten someone to take both of us home.”
Agent Hughes was back to being ‘Reese’ when he’d told Peter that he was going uptown and would stay the night at his apartment.
Peter didn’t argue. He couldn’t remember ever being this tired, not even the time he stayed up for thirty-six hours straight writing his final term paper at Harvard, not after completing the endurance tests at Quantico. This was more than a mental or physical exhaustion. It was an exhaustion of the soul.
He’d killed another human being. He had ended someone’s life with his gun.
Thinking about the body on the street, a neat round hole in his head, his eyes wide open, sightless, made him sick. “Stop. Stop the car.”
The driver pulled over. Peter rushed out and retched into a trash can. He started and he couldn’t stop, clinging to the metal frame. He felt his knees give out, his arms were shaking and he would have fallen over but for the strong arms that were suddenly wrapped around him.
“I’ve got you, Peter. I’ve got you.”
He retched one more time, took a deep breath and waited for the nausea to hit him again, but it didn’t. Reese handed him his handkerchief and Peter wiped his mouth gratefully. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Reese continued to hold him until Peter was able to walk back to the car.
This time, Reese got into the back seat with him and Peter was struck by the intense desire to just rest his head against the other man’s shoulder and sleep. Maybe he did, because it seemed like barely a minute had passed when the car came to a stop in front of Reese’s apartment building.
Peter struggled to get out of the car, feeling woozy and sick again.
Reese pressed him back against the seat. “There’s no rush. Just take your time.”
Peter wanted to disagree. The agent who was driving probably wanted to get home. “I’m okay.” He managed to get his feet out of the car, then his whole body. The night air was bracing and it smelled like snow. Peter wouldn’t mind snow at all, a blanket of white to cover the dirt, to hush and silence the world for a little while. He breathed deeply, the fog in his head clearing a little more.
The window next to the driver was closed and Peter tapped on it. The driver rolled down the window, and he was surprised to see it was Mitchell Watson, a senior agent who headed the Organized Crime task force. Peter felt like an idiot, but he thanked the man for going out of his way to take him here.
“No, thank you, Agent Burke. You saved a life today. Don’t forget that.”
Peter stepped back as if he’d been slapped. In the midst of everything, that was something he’d forgotten.
Agent Watson rolled up the window and, as Reese tugged him over to the sidewalk, the black sedan pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the early morning traffic.
Peter didn’t say anything as Reese led him up to his apartment. He didn’t protest or struggle as the man stripped him and pushed him into a hot shower. He stood under the cascading water, letting it wash away the sickness and the trauma. But it couldn’t wash away the memory of Anton Turner lying dead on the street.
He stayed in the shower until he felt dizzy. Through the patterned glass door, he could see Reese standing there, holding a towel, waiting for him. Peter turned off the water and, with no shame or embarrassment, he stepped out of the shower. Reese looked him in the eye as he wrapped the towel around him, then handed him another one for his hair.
“There’s a clean toothbrush and a robe. Don’t rush.” Reese left the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
Peter couldn’t remember being quite as grateful to anyone for anything as he was to Reese for this small kindness: not for the ride home, not for the shower, not even for the towel, but for the damn toothbrush. His mouth tasted like vomit and he wanted to cry.
He took a deep breath and managed to gain some control over his emotions. Of all the foolish things to get weepy over – a damned toothbrush. Peter sighed. He looked at himself in the mirror and was shocked. He was twenty-eight, but the man reflected back seemed to be twice that age.
He looked away, focusing instead on the toothbrush, absently noting that Reese seemed to prefer cinnamon-flavored toothpaste, which did an excellent job of cleaning the sour taste out of his mouth.
The promised robe was long and plush and never worn. A few weeks ago, when he’d helped Reese clear out Aaron’s clothes, there was one item that Reese had insisted on keeping – a tatty old bathrobe. He’d told Peter, in dry tones that didn’t really mask the underlying emotion, that it had been a joke between them. For a decade and a half, he’d bitched about his partner’s disgusting old robe and every few years, he’d given him a new one, which Aaron would promptly stick in the back of the closet, where it would hang, unworn and unloved.
The robe that Peter put on was one of those. He felt a little weird about wearing a gift to a dead man, but maybe that was better than feeling like a murderer.
Reese was waiting for him in the living room, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He’d taken off his jacket and his cuffs were unbuttoned, but he still looked every inch the ASAC, until Peter noticed how the man’s hands were shaking.
“Umm, thank you – for this.” Peter brushed a hand against the robe before shoving his own shaking hands into the pockets.
“It’s the least I can do.” Reese put the glass down and very deliberately walked away from it. “The first time I shot and killed someone, my ASAC took me to the nearest bar and helped me work my way through a fifth of gin. Told me I did a good job, ridding the world of a worthless piece of scum. Except that that ‘worthless piece of scum’ was a twenty year old college kid getting squeezed by his uncle to join the family business. I don’t think the boy had ever held a gun before.”
Peter wasn’t sure if he believed Reese, that this wasn’t some story designed to make him feel better. He wasn’t sure if he cared. “Can I have a glass of gin? I don’t know if I could make it through a fifth, though.”
“No. Drinking isn’t going to fix what happened, oblivion won’t change what you did. You killed someone in defense of another. You did what you were trained to do, what you were supposed to do. You did your job and you didn’t flinch.”
“Then why do I feel like crap?”
Reese didn’t pull his punches. “Because you’re supposed to. You killed someone. It’s supposed to hurt.”
Peter made his way over to the couch, almost too exhausted to stay on his feet. Reese intercepted him.
“No, come on – not here.”
Peter balked. “The couch is fine. I’ve slept on it before.”
“Peter, let me return the favor, okay?”
All he wanted was to get horizontal, to put his head down and not move for a week. To fall into the oblivion of sleep and forget that he’d killed someone. He’d done his job, but someone was dead because of him. The bleak thoughts continued to spiral as Reese tugged him towards the bedroom.
“Come on, just a few more steps.”
The bed looked like heaven and Peter didn’t care that he was naked when he shucked the robe and climbed under the covers.
Peter rolled onto his side, tucking an arm under his head. His brain tried to form words, his mouth tried to thank Reese, but he couldn’t seem to express anything more than a yawn.
“Sleep, Peter.” Reese turned off the light and left.
As exhausted as he was, he should have fallen asleep immediately, but of course he couldn’t. In the warm darkness, all Peter could see was Anton Turner, one arm wrapped around Reese’s throat, holding a gun to his head and screaming, “I’m going to kill him, and you’re all going to watch.”
Peter could see the fear in Reese’s eyes, and resignation that this might very well be his time to die. But there was trust, too.
In the darkness, Peter was back on that dingy, windswept boulevard in Brighton Beach and his arms were shaking and he knew that if he pulled the trigger, he’d more than likely kill Reese than kill the man holding the gun on him.
As he lay there, holding onto himself, Peter remembered something. Inexplicably, a feather – a large white feather – drifted across his field of vision and everything in him slowed down and steadied. He could see Turner’s finger tighten on the trigger, he could see the drops of sweat on his forehead and he found the stillness in him to do what needed to be done.
He pulled the trigger.
Sleep must have claimed him, because this had to be a dream. It wasn’t Anton Turner lying on the street with a hole in his head, it wasn’t Reese. It was him – he was the dead man, eyes open and sightless in the bleak winter sunshine, and there were feathers everywhere, covering him like a blanket.
“Peter!”
He opened his eyes and the darkness evaporated in a burst of light. He was confused and disoriented in the unfamiliar room. His eyes finally adjusted to the brightness. Reese was standing at the side of the bed and Peter grabbed his wrist. He needed an anchor, something to hold him in this reality. “Are we dead?”
“No, Peter, we’re very much alive.”
“What happened?”
“You had a nightmare, you were screaming. Were you dreaming about the shooting?”
Peter nodded. “I was the one who was dead – I remember shooting Turner, but it was me on the ground.” He tried to make himself let go of Reese’s hand, but his fingers wouldn’t obey.
Reese didn’t seem to care. He moved closer and sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this. I know I said you were doing your job, but you’re still a damn probie.”
“I’m twenty-eight.”
“And that doesn’t mean squat.”
“I’m not a kid.”
“No, you’re not, but you’re not a seasoned agent either. I know who you are, Peter Burke. And who you aren’t. You’re not someone who joined the Bureau looking for guns and glory. You became an FBI agent because you wanted to make a difference. Don’t let what happened yesterday change that.”
Peter nodded, but he couldn’t shake the sense of confusion, the anxiety, the feeling that nothing was ever going to be right again.
Reese tried to tug his hand free, but Peter still wouldn’t let go. “Peter –”
Peter licked his lips. “Don’t go. I don’t want to be alone.” He hated how needy he sounded, and he was probably making the biggest mistake of his life. But something in Reese’s face softened. There was compassion, but more than that. It wasn’t really desire, but a need, a hunger for the closeness of another human being.
Peter didn’t argue. He couldn’t remember ever being this tired, not even the time he stayed up for thirty-six hours straight writing his final term paper at Harvard, not after completing the endurance tests at Quantico. This was more than a mental or physical exhaustion. It was an exhaustion of the soul.
He’d killed another human being. He had ended someone’s life with his gun.
Thinking about the body on the street, a neat round hole in his head, his eyes wide open, sightless, made him sick. “Stop. Stop the car.”
The driver pulled over. Peter rushed out and retched into a trash can. He started and he couldn’t stop, clinging to the metal frame. He felt his knees give out, his arms were shaking and he would have fallen over but for the strong arms that were suddenly wrapped around him.
“I’ve got you, Peter. I’ve got you.”
He retched one more time, took a deep breath and waited for the nausea to hit him again, but it didn’t. Reese handed him his handkerchief and Peter wiped his mouth gratefully. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Reese continued to hold him until Peter was able to walk back to the car.
This time, Reese got into the back seat with him and Peter was struck by the intense desire to just rest his head against the other man’s shoulder and sleep. Maybe he did, because it seemed like barely a minute had passed when the car came to a stop in front of Reese’s apartment building.
Peter struggled to get out of the car, feeling woozy and sick again.
Reese pressed him back against the seat. “There’s no rush. Just take your time.”
Peter wanted to disagree. The agent who was driving probably wanted to get home. “I’m okay.” He managed to get his feet out of the car, then his whole body. The night air was bracing and it smelled like snow. Peter wouldn’t mind snow at all, a blanket of white to cover the dirt, to hush and silence the world for a little while. He breathed deeply, the fog in his head clearing a little more.
The window next to the driver was closed and Peter tapped on it. The driver rolled down the window, and he was surprised to see it was Mitchell Watson, a senior agent who headed the Organized Crime task force. Peter felt like an idiot, but he thanked the man for going out of his way to take him here.
“No, thank you, Agent Burke. You saved a life today. Don’t forget that.”
Peter stepped back as if he’d been slapped. In the midst of everything, that was something he’d forgotten.
Agent Watson rolled up the window and, as Reese tugged him over to the sidewalk, the black sedan pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the early morning traffic.
Peter didn’t say anything as Reese led him up to his apartment. He didn’t protest or struggle as the man stripped him and pushed him into a hot shower. He stood under the cascading water, letting it wash away the sickness and the trauma. But it couldn’t wash away the memory of Anton Turner lying dead on the street.
He stayed in the shower until he felt dizzy. Through the patterned glass door, he could see Reese standing there, holding a towel, waiting for him. Peter turned off the water and, with no shame or embarrassment, he stepped out of the shower. Reese looked him in the eye as he wrapped the towel around him, then handed him another one for his hair.
“There’s a clean toothbrush and a robe. Don’t rush.” Reese left the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
Peter couldn’t remember being quite as grateful to anyone for anything as he was to Reese for this small kindness: not for the ride home, not for the shower, not even for the towel, but for the damn toothbrush. His mouth tasted like vomit and he wanted to cry.
He took a deep breath and managed to gain some control over his emotions. Of all the foolish things to get weepy over – a damned toothbrush. Peter sighed. He looked at himself in the mirror and was shocked. He was twenty-eight, but the man reflected back seemed to be twice that age.
He looked away, focusing instead on the toothbrush, absently noting that Reese seemed to prefer cinnamon-flavored toothpaste, which did an excellent job of cleaning the sour taste out of his mouth.
The promised robe was long and plush and never worn. A few weeks ago, when he’d helped Reese clear out Aaron’s clothes, there was one item that Reese had insisted on keeping – a tatty old bathrobe. He’d told Peter, in dry tones that didn’t really mask the underlying emotion, that it had been a joke between them. For a decade and a half, he’d bitched about his partner’s disgusting old robe and every few years, he’d given him a new one, which Aaron would promptly stick in the back of the closet, where it would hang, unworn and unloved.
The robe that Peter put on was one of those. He felt a little weird about wearing a gift to a dead man, but maybe that was better than feeling like a murderer.
Reese was waiting for him in the living room, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He’d taken off his jacket and his cuffs were unbuttoned, but he still looked every inch the ASAC, until Peter noticed how the man’s hands were shaking.
“Umm, thank you – for this.” Peter brushed a hand against the robe before shoving his own shaking hands into the pockets.
“It’s the least I can do.” Reese put the glass down and very deliberately walked away from it. “The first time I shot and killed someone, my ASAC took me to the nearest bar and helped me work my way through a fifth of gin. Told me I did a good job, ridding the world of a worthless piece of scum. Except that that ‘worthless piece of scum’ was a twenty year old college kid getting squeezed by his uncle to join the family business. I don’t think the boy had ever held a gun before.”
Peter wasn’t sure if he believed Reese, that this wasn’t some story designed to make him feel better. He wasn’t sure if he cared. “Can I have a glass of gin? I don’t know if I could make it through a fifth, though.”
“No. Drinking isn’t going to fix what happened, oblivion won’t change what you did. You killed someone in defense of another. You did what you were trained to do, what you were supposed to do. You did your job and you didn’t flinch.”
“Then why do I feel like crap?”
Reese didn’t pull his punches. “Because you’re supposed to. You killed someone. It’s supposed to hurt.”
Peter made his way over to the couch, almost too exhausted to stay on his feet. Reese intercepted him.
“No, come on – not here.”
Peter balked. “The couch is fine. I’ve slept on it before.”
“Peter, let me return the favor, okay?”
All he wanted was to get horizontal, to put his head down and not move for a week. To fall into the oblivion of sleep and forget that he’d killed someone. He’d done his job, but someone was dead because of him. The bleak thoughts continued to spiral as Reese tugged him towards the bedroom.
“Come on, just a few more steps.”
The bed looked like heaven and Peter didn’t care that he was naked when he shucked the robe and climbed under the covers.
Peter rolled onto his side, tucking an arm under his head. His brain tried to form words, his mouth tried to thank Reese, but he couldn’t seem to express anything more than a yawn.
“Sleep, Peter.” Reese turned off the light and left.
As exhausted as he was, he should have fallen asleep immediately, but of course he couldn’t. In the warm darkness, all Peter could see was Anton Turner, one arm wrapped around Reese’s throat, holding a gun to his head and screaming, “I’m going to kill him, and you’re all going to watch.”
Peter could see the fear in Reese’s eyes, and resignation that this might very well be his time to die. But there was trust, too.
In the darkness, Peter was back on that dingy, windswept boulevard in Brighton Beach and his arms were shaking and he knew that if he pulled the trigger, he’d more than likely kill Reese than kill the man holding the gun on him.
As he lay there, holding onto himself, Peter remembered something. Inexplicably, a feather – a large white feather – drifted across his field of vision and everything in him slowed down and steadied. He could see Turner’s finger tighten on the trigger, he could see the drops of sweat on his forehead and he found the stillness in him to do what needed to be done.
He pulled the trigger.
Sleep must have claimed him, because this had to be a dream. It wasn’t Anton Turner lying on the street with a hole in his head, it wasn’t Reese. It was him – he was the dead man, eyes open and sightless in the bleak winter sunshine, and there were feathers everywhere, covering him like a blanket.
“Peter!”
He opened his eyes and the darkness evaporated in a burst of light. He was confused and disoriented in the unfamiliar room. His eyes finally adjusted to the brightness. Reese was standing at the side of the bed and Peter grabbed his wrist. He needed an anchor, something to hold him in this reality. “Are we dead?”
“No, Peter, we’re very much alive.”
“What happened?”
“You had a nightmare, you were screaming. Were you dreaming about the shooting?”
Peter nodded. “I was the one who was dead – I remember shooting Turner, but it was me on the ground.” He tried to make himself let go of Reese’s hand, but his fingers wouldn’t obey.
Reese didn’t seem to care. He moved closer and sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this. I know I said you were doing your job, but you’re still a damn probie.”
“I’m twenty-eight.”
“And that doesn’t mean squat.”
“I’m not a kid.”
“No, you’re not, but you’re not a seasoned agent either. I know who you are, Peter Burke. And who you aren’t. You’re not someone who joined the Bureau looking for guns and glory. You became an FBI agent because you wanted to make a difference. Don’t let what happened yesterday change that.”
Peter nodded, but he couldn’t shake the sense of confusion, the anxiety, the feeling that nothing was ever going to be right again.
Reese tried to tug his hand free, but Peter still wouldn’t let go. “Peter –”
Peter licked his lips. “Don’t go. I don’t want to be alone.” He hated how needy he sounded, and he was probably making the biggest mistake of his life. But something in Reese’s face softened. There was compassion, but more than that. It wasn’t really desire, but a need, a hunger for the closeness of another human being.
Tags:
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: garrett fowler,
- character: james bennett,
- character: june ellington,
- character: kate moreau,
- character: matthew keller,
- character: mozzie,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: peter burke,
- character: reese hughes,
- character: satchmo,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: backstory,
- genre: domesticity,
- genre: emotional trauma,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: transformation,
- genre: wing fic,
- kanarek13 warms my heart,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- wc verse: just one life,
- white collar,
- written for: wcrbb,
- year: 2014
