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elrhiarhodanTitle: After Rain
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Mozzie, Blake, Sir Francis Walsingham, Queen Elizabeth Tudor, Peter/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Bathing, Shaving, Misuse of Elizabethan Clothing
Word Count: ~6000
Beta Credit:sinfulslasher
Summary: Set in the Gloriana ‘verse – an Elizabethan A/U where Peter works as an agent of Queen Elizabeth’s First Secretary, Lord Francis Walsingham. It’s late in Gloriana’s reign and Peter is commanded to join the English army and guard the coast against the Spanish invaders. Neal must stay in London, and work as Walsingham’s spy. Their parting is long and difficult, but there is much comfort to be had on the return home.
A/N: Forjoy2190 for the very first night of Fic-Can-Ukah 2014. She asked for “After the Rain Stopped” in the Gloriana’verse.
__________________
Late June, 1588
It had been an unnaturally cold spring, and it would likely be a cold summer too. On the morrow, one half of the household’s heart would leave for the south coast of England, and the other half would decamp to the Tudor Court at Whitehall.
Word had come that the Spanish were preparing to invade, that King Philip had launched a mighty Armada which was now sailing to fair England’s shores. Unless the English Fleet turned the Armada back, it would land and foreign soldiers would sweep across England, to rid her of her heretic Queen and the obscenity that was Protestantism. It would be worse than Bloody Mary and her burnings. Philip would bring the Inquisition, and the fair skies of England, from Cornwall to York, would be black with the smoke from the auto-da-fè. Instead of voices raised in songs of joy and merriment, the air would be filled with the screams of those tortured in the twisted and gruesome “acts of faith.”
The Spanish had to be stopped.
Peter, although now Baron Carlisle and in high favor with the Queen, had been summoned to Whitehall by Walsingham as if he were still a mere agent of the Crown. His orders were both clear and shadowed. On the face of it, Peter was to muster along with the Earl of Leicester and many other nobles to help lead a great force of men to the coast – an army charged with repelling the Spanish invaders. But his true mission was to watch Lord Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, who’d flirted with treason (and Gloriana’s heart) for the best part of four decades. For a myriad of reasons, Walsingham did not trust the aging courtier and worried that he’d tempt the Queen into some folly – or worse. Peter was to keep an eye on Dudley and report back to Walsingham of any suspicions he might have.
Peter thought this order was ridiculous in the extreme. Dudley was a sick old man and it was clear his time upon this Earth was drawing to a close. It was likely he might not survive the journey to the coast, let alone have the strength to command England’s army. But Peter was – to the very marrow of his bones – a loyal Englishman. He had no real choice but to go where Walsingham commanded. Protecting his Queen and his country was an obligation beyond mere duty. It was written into the very motto of his earthly honors – fidelity – bravery – integrity.
Neal had not been happy to be left behind. In fact, he’d been furious. They’d argued for days, and all Neal would keep saying was, “My place is at your side, Master.”
Which was true. Neal’s place was at his side, in his bed, in his heart. “And I’ve told you, Walsingham wants you at Court. He said that a man of your special skills was required.”
“I am not one of his agents to be moved around like pieces on a chess board.”
“Actually, you are. We all are, Neal.”
Neal was in no mood to be ordered around, and he replied with the truculence of a spoiled child, “I want to come with you.”
Equally annoyed at the situation, Peter let his temper snap. “Really? You really want to travel on horseback for days? Weeks, even? This is the most miserable summer in living memory – more like November than June. You’ll be cold and wet and discomforted, and likely, you’d not stop complaining from the moment we’d leave the house until the moment we returned.”
Neal’s face went hard at Peter’s words, and he stormed out of the room. Peter knew that he was overstating his case. Neal might enjoy all the comforts that life could provide, and he was as averse to dirt as a cat was to water, but that didn’t mean he was soft or lazy or unable to withstand hardship.
Peter instructed one of the household servants to finish his packing and went in search of the man he loved. He didn’t have to look too hard. Neal was in the courtyard, standing under the arbor, watching the rain fall and getting wet in the process.
“It’s been twenty years since you brought me here, Peter. Do you realize that? The length of my life has doubled since you’d paid for my release. I can barely remember who I was before I came here.”
Peter put his hand on Neal’s shoulder and drew him close. “You’re not so different – maybe less inclined to felonious behavior – but you still send my heart racing and make me quake in my boots on a regular basis. You will ever be the man I love.”
Neal turned and rested his head against Peter’s shoulders. In counterpoint to the gently falling rain, Peter could hear Neal whisper, over and over again, “Don’t leave me behind. Don’t go. Don’t go.”
“I don’t want to, but I have to.” He held Neal, stroking his back, feeling the muscles tremble under the damp velvet. Neal at two-score and five was as strong and fit as he’d been as a young reprobate. In fact, Neal was likely more suited for the harsh realities of life with an army on the move than he was. He’d been feeling his years of late – there was stiffness in his joints, his eyesight was not as keen as it used to be, his hair not as thick, and worse – there was a certain slowing down of things, though not of the desire.
“I don’t understand why I can’t go with you? I am yours, you know. I belong to you. I belong at your side.”
Peter chuckled. Twenty years ago, he’d purchased Neal’s freedom from the Fleet Prison and took an indenture for a term of four years to repay that debt. Neal had repeatedly tested the strength of Peter’s will during those years, working for him, with him, and on occasion, against him (but never against the Queen). When it came time to release Neal from his servitude, he’d discovered that Neal had secretly altered the terms of his arrangement. Instead of taking his freedom and running, Neal Caffrey had pledged himself to him for the rest of his life. Neal took great delight in calling him “Master” – at least in the privacy of their home – but there was no one that was less likely to belong to another person.
“I will miss you, but you are needed here. Walsingham trusts you as he trusts me, and he knows he can rely on the skill with people and contacts you have within the Court.”
“That’s a nice way of saying I have friends in low places.”
“You do. And even if they are more inclined to thievery than I am comfortable with, they’ve proven their worth. To you, to me, and to Her Majesty.”
“What was it that Walsingham said? ‘There is no crime short of murder that cannot be excused if it helps preserve the great Gloriana’.”
“Something like that. The First Secretary is rather single-minded when it comes to the Queen.”
They stood under the arbor, both of them getting wet as they watched the rain fall, the steady downpour stripping the petals off the roses. There was something that Peter needed to do. “Come with me, Neal.”
They went into Peter’s study, the scene of so many important moments in their intertwined lives. He went to the locked chest and opened it with the key he always carried, and took out a sheaf of papers.
“If you’re going to give me back my Articles of Indenture, Peter, we’ve already been through that.”
Underneath the humor, he could hear the anxiety in Neal’s voice. Not worry that he’d be sent away. After a score of years together, there was little short of death that could separate them. But death was not just now a possibility. It was a reality. Even if the fleet managed to keep the Spanish from invading, there was always pestilence and disease – foes that could not be defeated by canon and sword and musket. Peter needed to be prepared for these eventualities.
“I’ve made preparations. In case I – ”
Neal held up a hand to ward off Peter’s words. “Don’t – don’t say it, don’t think it. You will go and come back, do you hear me?”
Peter had to smile; from Neal’s lips to God’s ears. “I most certainly will do everything in my earthly power to come back. But it does not hurt to be prepared. If something should happen, you need to know a few things." He spread out the papers on the desk. Many of them had seals attesting to the validity of their contents. He picked up the longest document. “This is my Will – you are my heir.”
“No! That’s not – ”
Peter cut him off. “Not what, Neal? Not right?”
“No, not possible. You can’t name me as your heir.”
“Not of the title I hold – that is true. I have no children, so the Carlisle peerage will pass back to the Crown on my death, but the lands and properties will be yours upon my death. The Queen herself has acknowledged your rights.”
Neal turned pale. “Her Majesty knows about us?”
Peter shrugged. “She knows your value and importance to me. I asked for this boon and she granted it without question.” Peter did not bother to tell Neal that his lady wife – although they’d been long estranged – had eased his path. And it was quite likely that Walsingham knew the exact nature of his relationship with Neal. Knew and likely endorsed.
“But I am still your servant, Peter. How can an indentured servant have any rights to inherit?”
“Neal, the alterations you made to your Articles have no legal effect. Your indenture ended sixteen years past,” Peter said gently. “You are not my servant. You are my friend. And I know that you are nobly born, no matter how much you'd prefer to deny that truth.”
Neal didn’t say anything, but flung himself out of his chair and paced the room like one of the lions pacing his cage in the Royal Menagerie. “I don’t want this.”
“But I want this. I need to know you’re taken care of. You have no family, Neal.”
“I have you.” Neal stopped and stood at the fireplace.
“And if I don’t come back? What will happen to you?”
“I can manage. I did – before.”
Peter shook his head. “Didn’t you just say you don’t remember the man you were?”
“I don’t want to be your heir.”
“But you are – I have to make certain, before I leave, that you’ll be provided for. Can you give me that surcease so I can depart with a calm heart?”
“You’re using my love for you against me.” Neal cut to the heart of the matter. But he no longer sounded angry, just sad and accepting.
Peter got up and went to Neal, wrapping him in a fierce embrace. “We both have jobs to do. Work that will keep us separate for a while. I’ve done what I’ve done out of love.” He rested his head against Neal’s curls, still perfectly dark, despite the gray in his beard. “Let us not argue.”
Neal sighed, a touch weary. “I love you and I can’t bear the thought of us parted for so long. Damn the Spanish.”
Peter had to laugh. “Yes, damn the Spanish. They are invading just to discommode us.
Neal murmured some fairly creative invective and made some intriguing but likely anatomically impossible suggestions about what the Duke of Parma could do with King Philip. Peter tucked his fingers under Neal’s chin and tipped his face up, kissing those beautiful lips. “This will be our last night together for a while, let us make some memories.”
Again, deep anguish darkened Neal’s eyes, but he did not argue. Peter took his hand and led him through the manse, to his bed chamber. Young Blake, who had been promoted to Peter’s steward after Hughes had passed away almost ten years prior, was still packing the last few things that he’d need for his journey. Two small traveling trunks were waiting by the door and a pair of saddle bags was still on the settle by the fireplace. Blake was in the process of stowing some items into those bags when they entered the room. The man, no longer so young, smiled at them and left without a word.
Peter pulled Neal towards to bed, fumbling with the laces on the back of his doublet. They’d become tight and uncooperative from the damp. He grumbled, “Od's balls, Caffrey. Why are you wearing such difficult garb?”
“Because you like how I look in it.” Neal stepped free of Peter’s embrace and turned to face the bed, presenting his back to his lover. “Master, is this not easier?” He leaned forward, resting his palms on the coverlet and lifting his ass in the air.
“Oh, certainly. And more enticing, too.” Peter palmed that beautiful ass before pulling free the laces that secured the velvet and leather doublet. The laces that held the sleeves in place were quickly undone and, more to annoy Neal than anything, Peter tossed the garment onto the floor.
And certainly, Neal reacted just as Peter had predicted. “Hey!” He moved to rescue his clothing, but Peter held him in place, a hand at the small of his back pressing him into the mattress.
“You’re not going anywhere. Not until I say so.”
Neal laughed, playful desire gaining the upper hand over his distress at their imminent parting. “And I thought I was a free man?”
“You are, only to the extent I say you are. That is how it is between us.” Peter lifted Neal’s hips and searched for the tapes that held Neal’s hose in place. “Your wardrobe is too complicated. I wish you’d wear breeches – this would be so much easier.”
“But you like my limbs. I see you watching me.”
“I do, but I like fucking you, too.”
Neal lifted his hips, likely to aid Peter in his quest to disrobe him, but the contact of those firm buttocks against his cock was making the endeavor a little pointless. Peter felt his control slipping in ways it hadn’t since he was a beardless boy. Peter commanded, “Don’t move.”
Disobedient as ever, Neal repeated the action, grinding his ass into Peter’s loins.
“Stop it!”
“Make me.”
Peter growled, “If you don’t stop, you’ll be sorry. When you ride into London, you’re going to remember me with every hoof beat.”
“Good!”
“Caffrey –” He gripped Neal’s hips, trying to keep him still. Their bed sport often had an element of punishment in it. Neal took immense pleasure in provoking Peter into disciplining him – sometimes with his riding crop and just as often with his hand. Peter enjoyed the act, too. It satisfied him in ways that he was loathe to explain. Unlike his peers, he wasn’t a man who had ever laid a hand on his dependents. Maybe because he could remember his humble upbringing. His father had been a laborer – albeit one of great skill and intelligence – and while he’d made a decent living, other than an aging maid of all work and a simple-minded potboy, there were no servants to bully. It had also seemed patently unfair to exercise one’s strength against another who had no right or say or means to fight back.
But Neal was different. Of course he was, and not because they were lovers. There was something about Neal – from the first time their paths had crossed – that made Peter want to impose his will upon him, in the most physical means possible. It hadn’t been sex, initially. He’d still been mourning the loss of his wife, Elizabeth, to Gloriana’s glittering court, and he wouldn’t allow himself to think upon such congress – not with another woman, with a man, or even his own fist.
He was a man though, and a score of years ago, he had had strong appetites that eventually overcame his grief at the disintegration of his marriage. He hadn’t taken his pleasures with whores or even the willing women who’d crossed his path when he was on Walsingham’s business, but his mind had wandered, his eyes watched and eventually he found a target for his lust.
Peter Burke was, on occasion, given to contemplation of what might have been, and there were moments when he’d wondered what would have become of his life if he hadn’t rescued Neal from the Fleet. Neal would have rotten in prison, his debt never paid – that was for certain – but his own life would surely have taken a different path. No high honors, no peerage or gratitude from Her Majesty. Likely as not, his life would have ended years ago, in some dank London alleyway, trying and failing to execute some commission for Walsingham.
His hands loosened their punishing grip on Neal’s hips and lingered for a moment before flipping Neal over.
“Peter?”
“Like this, Neal. This time, like this.” He wanted to see Neal’s face, see the love in his eyes, the ever-present wonder and joy in the pleasure of their coupling. His hands swept upwards, pulling Neal’s fine linen shirt free, exposing his perfect torso – like some ancient ivory sculpture – to his hungry gaze.
Neal reached out and grabbed him, pulling at his jerkin and growling his own frustrations when the garment refused to come undone.
“Peace, Neal – peace.” Peter straightened and pulled the leather over-garment and his own linen shirt off. He let Neal pull him into his arms and they tangled together, kissing hotly, desperately. This would be the last time they were together for a long while and, despite his earlier counsel to Neal, Peter did not want to think that this would be their last time. They would survive their separation and would come back to this near-sacred place as if they’d never been parted.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Mid-September, 1588
Neal had, as Peter commanded, spent the summer at Whitehall, listening and watching and had reported to Walsingham on any suspicious doings he’d observed – and there weren’t many. His old friend from the Fleet, Mozzie, had kept him company. He’d pretended to be his servant – for what man of high birth and ambition did not have at least one? He’d drained Neal’s small wine cellar as easily has he’d emptied Neal’s purse, but he was good company during the lonely summer nights without Peter.
And while Moz did his best to draw Neal into mischief, Neal let himself be led only so far. He wasn’t sure how much Walsingham would exert himself on his behalf without Peter to explain away his misdeeds.
Summer was over, and if it wasn’t for the calendar, Neal would think it closer to All Saints’ Day than Michaelmas. The weather hadn’t changed much from when Peter had left in June – it was just wetter and colder.
Two weeks after word had come on the fleeting wings of joy of England’s great victory at sea – the Spanish had been routed at Gravelines, decimated by the fire ships in Dutch waters, and lastly by the bitter weather in the North Sea – Neal packed up and prepared to leave Whitehall for the more welcome confines of Grosvenor.
Mozzie had suggested that, instead, Neal take the opportunity to leave England and end his servitude for good. “After a score of years enslaved, don’t you think it’s time you’ve earned your freedom, mon frère?”
Neal just gave his friend a disgusted look. “I’ve been a free man for a long while. I am happy with my lot.” He didn’t need to explain his relationship with Peter. Not that he was sure that Moz knew what was really between the two of them.
And his friend kept pushing, getting more and more excited by the idea of new horizons. “But just think, we could sign on with Adler or Keller or Wilkes, great captains all. Become pirates!"
“Privateers, you mean. Those men have Letters of Marque; they are in service to the Queen.”
As he’d hoped, the very idea of a criminal enterprise blessed by the government deflated Moz’s zeal for sailing the high seas. “It is truly a sad day when even the most honest of criminals are corrupted with legitimacy. Besides, who really wants a life of watered down wine, sodomy and the lash?” Moz then chuckled and gave Neal a sly look. “Well, except for you – and there’s no need to take to the high seas for any of that when you have your friendship with Master Burke.”
Apparently Moz did know what lay between him and Peter.
Neal chuckled. “I am going home. You are welcome to stay here if you find life at court pleasing.” Moz had charmed his way into the beds of several women – all of whom had husbands who’d gone off to war.
Moz leaned forward in his chair and contemplated his next move on the ever-present chess board, ignoring Neal. “I just might. Safe and cheerful travels, my friend.”
Neal smiled, hefting his saddle bags. He’d drop a few coins in one of the court page’s hands to retrieve his trunks. There was no point in expecting Moz to actually do the work of a servant.
The timber and stone mansion in Grosvenor was a welcome sight, even in the gray and rainy half-light of early evening. Neal had sent word ahead that he’d be returning to the residence and there were candles lit in the front windows and bright torches burning on either side of the door. Blake stepped out and took his horse’s reins. Neal dismounted and asked, “Any word from milord?”
“No, Master Neal – nothing for this past sennight.” Neal could read the trouble in the man’s face – it echoed his own worry. The battle for England’s freedom had been won over a month past, and even the Queen had returned to London. But armies did move slower and the weather that had blessed the English fleet and kept the English coastline safe was also going to cause trouble for an army on the move, even when that move was back home.
He instructed Blake to make sure that all was kept in readiness for Peter’s return and made his way inside. The house welcomed him, as it had from the very first. He’d rarely been gone from this place for so many nights, although there had been times when Peter’s work had taken them to other parts of England.
But as welcoming as the manse was, it was still missing half its heart. Until Peter returned, Neal would not take joy from this homecoming.
Two days passed, the sun barely penetrating the heavy rain, and Neal’s mood – like that of the entire household – was just as dark. He’d sent a politely worded inquiry to Walsingham’s office, asking if he had heard from Lord Burke, and received a somewhat encouraging reply – that Baron Carlisle travelled in the Earl of Leicester’s train, which had been delayed for reasons relating to the Earl’s poor health.
A little before the noon hour – at least according to the candle mark – the clatter of iron shod hooves against the cobblestones shattered the hushed expectancy. Neal pushed aside the translation of Plato he’d been working on and ran to the front door. The entire household had gathered and Neal pushed his way past the myriad of servants to see who’d arrived.
It was Peter.
A wet, bedraggled, mud-spattered, and far too thin Peter. But it was Peter and Neal rejoiced. He didn’t let Blake or the head groom, Westley, or any of the link boys that the household now supported, help Peter dismount. He held Peter’s stirrup like some squire of old, and when Peter dismounted, Neal steadied him. Even in the weak light, he could see the toll the last few months had taken on his lover.
“Come, let’s get you inside.”
He tried to lead Peter towards their bedchamber, but Peter turned to the kitchen. “A bath. I need a bath. And then a meal. And then, sleep.”
Neal urged him towards their original destination. “We’ve been waiting for you. Everything you desire is this way.”
When Neal had commanded the household to make ready for the master’s return, it was not an instruction to clean away the cobwebs, but to have the master’s necessary luxuries waiting. Like the bath. The large copper tub that had been the scene of many delightful moments between him and Peter had been moved into the bedchamber. Gallons of hot water were on their way to fill that vessel. Neal understood to his very bones his master’s need for cleanliness - he understood and appreciated it.
Behind him were the footsteps of the household, maids and potboys carrying buckets of hot water. Blake would follow with a tray of savories to help satisfy Peter’s physical appetite. And Neal would satisfy the rest of those appetites, in whatever means his master desired.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter was so tired he could barely walk, let alone speak. He probably should have just found a convenient horizontal space and collapsed, but he was filthy. It had been months since he’d truly bathed - the buckets of barely heated water to be had in camp did not count as bathing. Even the more generous accommodations to be had on the road home did not extend to more than a pitcher and wash basin. His noble comrades-in-arms, who looked down on him for his lowly origins, probably wouldn’t even consider washing their hands after taking a shit, much less stripping to the skin and immersing themselves in hot water. The Queen might require her courtiers to bath at least once a fortnight, but out in the battlefield, there were no courtiers and there were no baths. Had it been a true summer, he might have washed in the river, but the intemperate climate left the rivers choked with ice, even in August.
So Peter had resolved that when he arrived home, the very first thing he would do was bathe. Even if it meant using the tub in the kitchen, surrounded by servants. Privacy was far less important than ridding himself of this foul stench. But Neal - blessed Neal - guided him towards the bedchamber, where the tub awaited. And as Neal removed the leather breeches and jerkin, then his stinking linen small clothes, the manor’s staff filled the tub with bucket after bucket of hot water.
He all but dove into it, and the pleasure he took from the caress of the liquid against his skin was akin to plunging into Neal’s hot and willing body. In truth, at this moment, it was better. “Ahhhh.”
Peter rested his weary body against the copper tub’s sloped back and let the heat begin to soothe the bone and muscle that had spent the better part of three months on horseback or flimsy camp cots. He closed his eyes and would have fallen asleep if not for the hands that began to wash him. Truth be told, not even the soft caress of linen and soap could bestir him from his ease. Neal washed every inch of his skin, his hand gentle and relentless. As the contents of the tub grew cool and cloudy, buckets were scooped out and fresh hot water added.
He closed his eyes and fell into the orgy of sensation. Neal washing his feet and legs, hands stroking the long muscles, massaging the tension away. His hands grew sly as they approached the junction of his thighs, the wash cloth abandoned as fingers and palms, laden with fragrant soap, explored his cock and balls and the crack of his anus. Enervated from the heat, he barely swelled in reaction, but when Neal's hands left his cods to travel upwards, his hips arched, seeking contact with those clever hands. The action was without thought and Peter realized he probably wouldn’t achieve anything close to a full cockstand, but this was Neal and he’d missed him.
Missed this.
All of a sudden, Neal was behind him, and his breath tickled his earlobe as he chuckled. “I’ve missed you, too, Master. I’ve missed touching you, serving you in so many ways.” His fingers trailed back down, through Peter’s pubes, and grasped his cock, slowly stroking him. His other hand, just as devilishly clever, was teasing one of his nipples. Neal was relentless in his pleasuring, and as tired as Peter was, his cock hardened and he moaned. Neal was close, so very close – his smoothly shaved cheek pressed hard against his own scruff-coated one. He could feel the heat of Neal’s breath as he panted, his own pleasure so evident.
Peter’s hips arched higher and higher, urging Neal to speed up his stroking, but the bastard was content to torment him, his wrist moving lazily up and down.
“Harder, Neal.” He tried to make it sound like a command, but the words came out like a breathy plea.
“Ah, but Master, I will splash the water and flood the room if I am more vigorous.” Neal’s lips formed the words as if they were kisses.
“Damme, I don’t care!”
Neal laughed, and the sound was like another stroking hand. Peter groaned and turned his head, trying to capture Neal’s mouth. In that, he succeeded. They kissed and it was like they were warriors fighting for dominance. Peter could not remember if he’d ever felt quite like this – so taken over, so controlled.
And then all thought fled as Neal’s fingers pinched hard, tugging at his nipple, the edge of his nail catching him just so. And Neal’s fist, squeezing and stroking with perfect understanding, coaxing every bit of pleasure out of him.
He climaxed and the world turned white.
Peter had no idea how long he lay there, insensate to anything but the rippling shocks of pleasure, but eventually the pleasure receded and he became aware of Neal’s hands on his body. Now, they were diligent in their attention to cleansing. He sighed with a different kind of pleasure as a bucket of water was carefully poured over his head and fingers scrubbed at his hair and scalp. It was likely he purred like one of the kitchen cats. Another bucket was emptied and then he felt Neal’s absence. But Peter wasn’t concerned. He could hear a soft whooshing noise – a razor against a leather strop – and then another equally familiar sound, that of a brush against a metal cup, from somewhere behind him.
“Time to return you to a more civilized state, Master.”
Peter leaned his head back against the curved rim of the tub and sighed again with pleasure as a soft brush daubed soapy foam across his cheeks. The foam was followed by a steady hand wielding a razor. Neal was efficient, and while Peter wanted him to linger, the bath water was cooling.
A hot towel wiped away the shaving foam and bits of beard, and Peter opened his eyes to see Neal standing over him, water flecking his naked torso. He held out a hand.
“Come, Master, food and then bed.
It took much effort, but Peter heaved himself upright, water splashing across the stone floor. He rested a hand on Neal’s shoulder for balance as he climbed out of the tub. Neal led him towards the fireplace and carefully dried him. Peter watched, almost detached, as Neal knelt before him, wiping the water off his calves and thighs, from his cods and cock, which gave – quite unbelievably – a hopeful twitch before returning to its exhausted, quiescent state. For a score of years, Neal had done this for him, had taken joy in this type of servitude. More than anything, this was what coming home meant.
All too soon, the last of the water was wiped away, a warm robe wrapped around him, and Peter was settled in a deep armchair. His stomach rumbled with hunger and it must have been audible. Neal huffed a small chuckle and said, “Now we feed your other appetites.” The bedchamber door opened and servants came in, depositing plates of food on the sideboard next to the fireplace. A small table was put before him and then the servants left.
“Cider or beer, Master?”
“What, no wine?”
“Not now – you are exhausted and I am loathe to carry you to the bed if you get wine-sleepy.”
“Wine-sleepy? When have you ever needed to carry me to bed from drinking too much wine?” Peter’s minor outrage at the very suggestion was tempered by the tremendous yawn that erupted from somewhere around his toes.
Neal just looked at him.
“Very well, then cider.”
Neal filled a mug and handed him a plate of food. “Eat, Master.”
More for form’s sake, Peter grumbled, “You’ve become too good at giving me orders, Caffrey.”
“Eat.”
And so he did. After too many days and nights surviving on the barely edible – because her Majesty wisely prohibited the army from taking crops and animals from the farms they’d marched past – Peter wondered if he’d ever feel satiated again. But in truth, he managed but a few mouthfuls of the tender lamb his cook had prepared. He was simply too tired to eat. If it was not for the vow he’d made to never sleep sitting up again, he’d take his rest here, by the fire.
Neal must have noticed his weariness. He took the plate and mug and set them aside, before easing Peter to his feet. “Come, let’s get you to bed.”
“Mmm, yes. To bed.”
Neal wrapped an arm around his waist and guided him across the chamber to the tester bed. He let Neal remove the robe and help him slid under the covers. Neal hovered a moment at the side of the bed and then leaned over to kiss him. “Welcome home, Peter. I’ve missed you.”
Peter reached up, cupping his hand around Neal’s cheek. “No more than I’ve missed you.”
“Sleep, I’ll be here when you wake.” Neal looked as if he was going to retreat from the room, but Peter wasn’t having that.
“I will rest better with you in my arms.” He grabbed Neal’s hand and yanked. Neal fell unresisting across him and Peter reveled in the other man’s skin, his scent, his weight and presence, pleasures he’d too long been denied. “Sleep with me, please.”
Neal sat up, removed his shoes and managed to shimmy out of his hose and breeches before joining him under the covers, warm and naked. Peter wrapped his arms around him and sighed with happiness. England was safe, he was home, and Neal Caffrey loved and cared for him.
What more could a man want?
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal wasn’t surprised he slept. He’d spent too many nights longing for Peter’s arms to rest easy. And the past few days and nights, worrying and waiting for Peter’s return, had taken their toll. Peter was here, back where he belonged, and if Neal had anything to say, they’d never be parted – even for a night – again.
He rolled over so his back was against Peter’s chest, Peter’s strong arm draped across his waist, Peter’s cock nestled between the crack in his ass. There was no better way to take his rest than like this. But he couldn’t fall back into slumber. Just outside the window, birds were singing as if they were greeting a new day. And maybe they were. The sun, which had been hidden behind a deep veil of storm clouds for months, was finally making her presence known.
Peter was home, and the rain had stopped.
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Mozzie, Blake, Sir Francis Walsingham, Queen Elizabeth Tudor, Peter/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Bathing, Shaving, Misuse of Elizabethan Clothing
Word Count: ~6000
Beta Credit:
sinfulslasher Summary: Set in the Gloriana ‘verse – an Elizabethan A/U where Peter works as an agent of Queen Elizabeth’s First Secretary, Lord Francis Walsingham. It’s late in Gloriana’s reign and Peter is commanded to join the English army and guard the coast against the Spanish invaders. Neal must stay in London, and work as Walsingham’s spy. Their parting is long and difficult, but there is much comfort to be had on the return home.
A/N: For
joy2190 for the very first night of Fic-Can-Ukah 2014. She asked for “After the Rain Stopped” in the Gloriana’verse. Late June, 1588
It had been an unnaturally cold spring, and it would likely be a cold summer too. On the morrow, one half of the household’s heart would leave for the south coast of England, and the other half would decamp to the Tudor Court at Whitehall.
Word had come that the Spanish were preparing to invade, that King Philip had launched a mighty Armada which was now sailing to fair England’s shores. Unless the English Fleet turned the Armada back, it would land and foreign soldiers would sweep across England, to rid her of her heretic Queen and the obscenity that was Protestantism. It would be worse than Bloody Mary and her burnings. Philip would bring the Inquisition, and the fair skies of England, from Cornwall to York, would be black with the smoke from the auto-da-fè. Instead of voices raised in songs of joy and merriment, the air would be filled with the screams of those tortured in the twisted and gruesome “acts of faith.”
The Spanish had to be stopped.
Peter, although now Baron Carlisle and in high favor with the Queen, had been summoned to Whitehall by Walsingham as if he were still a mere agent of the Crown. His orders were both clear and shadowed. On the face of it, Peter was to muster along with the Earl of Leicester and many other nobles to help lead a great force of men to the coast – an army charged with repelling the Spanish invaders. But his true mission was to watch Lord Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, who’d flirted with treason (and Gloriana’s heart) for the best part of four decades. For a myriad of reasons, Walsingham did not trust the aging courtier and worried that he’d tempt the Queen into some folly – or worse. Peter was to keep an eye on Dudley and report back to Walsingham of any suspicions he might have.
Peter thought this order was ridiculous in the extreme. Dudley was a sick old man and it was clear his time upon this Earth was drawing to a close. It was likely he might not survive the journey to the coast, let alone have the strength to command England’s army. But Peter was – to the very marrow of his bones – a loyal Englishman. He had no real choice but to go where Walsingham commanded. Protecting his Queen and his country was an obligation beyond mere duty. It was written into the very motto of his earthly honors – fidelity – bravery – integrity.
Neal had not been happy to be left behind. In fact, he’d been furious. They’d argued for days, and all Neal would keep saying was, “My place is at your side, Master.”
Which was true. Neal’s place was at his side, in his bed, in his heart. “And I’ve told you, Walsingham wants you at Court. He said that a man of your special skills was required.”
“I am not one of his agents to be moved around like pieces on a chess board.”
“Actually, you are. We all are, Neal.”
Neal was in no mood to be ordered around, and he replied with the truculence of a spoiled child, “I want to come with you.”
Equally annoyed at the situation, Peter let his temper snap. “Really? You really want to travel on horseback for days? Weeks, even? This is the most miserable summer in living memory – more like November than June. You’ll be cold and wet and discomforted, and likely, you’d not stop complaining from the moment we’d leave the house until the moment we returned.”
Neal’s face went hard at Peter’s words, and he stormed out of the room. Peter knew that he was overstating his case. Neal might enjoy all the comforts that life could provide, and he was as averse to dirt as a cat was to water, but that didn’t mean he was soft or lazy or unable to withstand hardship.
Peter instructed one of the household servants to finish his packing and went in search of the man he loved. He didn’t have to look too hard. Neal was in the courtyard, standing under the arbor, watching the rain fall and getting wet in the process.
“It’s been twenty years since you brought me here, Peter. Do you realize that? The length of my life has doubled since you’d paid for my release. I can barely remember who I was before I came here.”
Peter put his hand on Neal’s shoulder and drew him close. “You’re not so different – maybe less inclined to felonious behavior – but you still send my heart racing and make me quake in my boots on a regular basis. You will ever be the man I love.”
Neal turned and rested his head against Peter’s shoulders. In counterpoint to the gently falling rain, Peter could hear Neal whisper, over and over again, “Don’t leave me behind. Don’t go. Don’t go.”
“I don’t want to, but I have to.” He held Neal, stroking his back, feeling the muscles tremble under the damp velvet. Neal at two-score and five was as strong and fit as he’d been as a young reprobate. In fact, Neal was likely more suited for the harsh realities of life with an army on the move than he was. He’d been feeling his years of late – there was stiffness in his joints, his eyesight was not as keen as it used to be, his hair not as thick, and worse – there was a certain slowing down of things, though not of the desire.
“I don’t understand why I can’t go with you? I am yours, you know. I belong to you. I belong at your side.”
Peter chuckled. Twenty years ago, he’d purchased Neal’s freedom from the Fleet Prison and took an indenture for a term of four years to repay that debt. Neal had repeatedly tested the strength of Peter’s will during those years, working for him, with him, and on occasion, against him (but never against the Queen). When it came time to release Neal from his servitude, he’d discovered that Neal had secretly altered the terms of his arrangement. Instead of taking his freedom and running, Neal Caffrey had pledged himself to him for the rest of his life. Neal took great delight in calling him “Master” – at least in the privacy of their home – but there was no one that was less likely to belong to another person.
“I will miss you, but you are needed here. Walsingham trusts you as he trusts me, and he knows he can rely on the skill with people and contacts you have within the Court.”
“That’s a nice way of saying I have friends in low places.”
“You do. And even if they are more inclined to thievery than I am comfortable with, they’ve proven their worth. To you, to me, and to Her Majesty.”
“What was it that Walsingham said? ‘There is no crime short of murder that cannot be excused if it helps preserve the great Gloriana’.”
“Something like that. The First Secretary is rather single-minded when it comes to the Queen.”
They stood under the arbor, both of them getting wet as they watched the rain fall, the steady downpour stripping the petals off the roses. There was something that Peter needed to do. “Come with me, Neal.”
They went into Peter’s study, the scene of so many important moments in their intertwined lives. He went to the locked chest and opened it with the key he always carried, and took out a sheaf of papers.
“If you’re going to give me back my Articles of Indenture, Peter, we’ve already been through that.”
Underneath the humor, he could hear the anxiety in Neal’s voice. Not worry that he’d be sent away. After a score of years together, there was little short of death that could separate them. But death was not just now a possibility. It was a reality. Even if the fleet managed to keep the Spanish from invading, there was always pestilence and disease – foes that could not be defeated by canon and sword and musket. Peter needed to be prepared for these eventualities.
“I’ve made preparations. In case I – ”
Neal held up a hand to ward off Peter’s words. “Don’t – don’t say it, don’t think it. You will go and come back, do you hear me?”
Peter had to smile; from Neal’s lips to God’s ears. “I most certainly will do everything in my earthly power to come back. But it does not hurt to be prepared. If something should happen, you need to know a few things." He spread out the papers on the desk. Many of them had seals attesting to the validity of their contents. He picked up the longest document. “This is my Will – you are my heir.”
“No! That’s not – ”
Peter cut him off. “Not what, Neal? Not right?”
“No, not possible. You can’t name me as your heir.”
“Not of the title I hold – that is true. I have no children, so the Carlisle peerage will pass back to the Crown on my death, but the lands and properties will be yours upon my death. The Queen herself has acknowledged your rights.”
Neal turned pale. “Her Majesty knows about us?”
Peter shrugged. “She knows your value and importance to me. I asked for this boon and she granted it without question.” Peter did not bother to tell Neal that his lady wife – although they’d been long estranged – had eased his path. And it was quite likely that Walsingham knew the exact nature of his relationship with Neal. Knew and likely endorsed.
“But I am still your servant, Peter. How can an indentured servant have any rights to inherit?”
“Neal, the alterations you made to your Articles have no legal effect. Your indenture ended sixteen years past,” Peter said gently. “You are not my servant. You are my friend. And I know that you are nobly born, no matter how much you'd prefer to deny that truth.”
Neal didn’t say anything, but flung himself out of his chair and paced the room like one of the lions pacing his cage in the Royal Menagerie. “I don’t want this.”
“But I want this. I need to know you’re taken care of. You have no family, Neal.”
“I have you.” Neal stopped and stood at the fireplace.
“And if I don’t come back? What will happen to you?”
“I can manage. I did – before.”
Peter shook his head. “Didn’t you just say you don’t remember the man you were?”
“I don’t want to be your heir.”
“But you are – I have to make certain, before I leave, that you’ll be provided for. Can you give me that surcease so I can depart with a calm heart?”
“You’re using my love for you against me.” Neal cut to the heart of the matter. But he no longer sounded angry, just sad and accepting.
Peter got up and went to Neal, wrapping him in a fierce embrace. “We both have jobs to do. Work that will keep us separate for a while. I’ve done what I’ve done out of love.” He rested his head against Neal’s curls, still perfectly dark, despite the gray in his beard. “Let us not argue.”
Neal sighed, a touch weary. “I love you and I can’t bear the thought of us parted for so long. Damn the Spanish.”
Peter had to laugh. “Yes, damn the Spanish. They are invading just to discommode us.
Neal murmured some fairly creative invective and made some intriguing but likely anatomically impossible suggestions about what the Duke of Parma could do with King Philip. Peter tucked his fingers under Neal’s chin and tipped his face up, kissing those beautiful lips. “This will be our last night together for a while, let us make some memories.”
Again, deep anguish darkened Neal’s eyes, but he did not argue. Peter took his hand and led him through the manse, to his bed chamber. Young Blake, who had been promoted to Peter’s steward after Hughes had passed away almost ten years prior, was still packing the last few things that he’d need for his journey. Two small traveling trunks were waiting by the door and a pair of saddle bags was still on the settle by the fireplace. Blake was in the process of stowing some items into those bags when they entered the room. The man, no longer so young, smiled at them and left without a word.
Peter pulled Neal towards to bed, fumbling with the laces on the back of his doublet. They’d become tight and uncooperative from the damp. He grumbled, “Od's balls, Caffrey. Why are you wearing such difficult garb?”
“Because you like how I look in it.” Neal stepped free of Peter’s embrace and turned to face the bed, presenting his back to his lover. “Master, is this not easier?” He leaned forward, resting his palms on the coverlet and lifting his ass in the air.
“Oh, certainly. And more enticing, too.” Peter palmed that beautiful ass before pulling free the laces that secured the velvet and leather doublet. The laces that held the sleeves in place were quickly undone and, more to annoy Neal than anything, Peter tossed the garment onto the floor.
And certainly, Neal reacted just as Peter had predicted. “Hey!” He moved to rescue his clothing, but Peter held him in place, a hand at the small of his back pressing him into the mattress.
“You’re not going anywhere. Not until I say so.”
Neal laughed, playful desire gaining the upper hand over his distress at their imminent parting. “And I thought I was a free man?”
“You are, only to the extent I say you are. That is how it is between us.” Peter lifted Neal’s hips and searched for the tapes that held Neal’s hose in place. “Your wardrobe is too complicated. I wish you’d wear breeches – this would be so much easier.”
“But you like my limbs. I see you watching me.”
“I do, but I like fucking you, too.”
Neal lifted his hips, likely to aid Peter in his quest to disrobe him, but the contact of those firm buttocks against his cock was making the endeavor a little pointless. Peter felt his control slipping in ways it hadn’t since he was a beardless boy. Peter commanded, “Don’t move.”
Disobedient as ever, Neal repeated the action, grinding his ass into Peter’s loins.
“Stop it!”
“Make me.”
Peter growled, “If you don’t stop, you’ll be sorry. When you ride into London, you’re going to remember me with every hoof beat.”
“Good!”
“Caffrey –” He gripped Neal’s hips, trying to keep him still. Their bed sport often had an element of punishment in it. Neal took immense pleasure in provoking Peter into disciplining him – sometimes with his riding crop and just as often with his hand. Peter enjoyed the act, too. It satisfied him in ways that he was loathe to explain. Unlike his peers, he wasn’t a man who had ever laid a hand on his dependents. Maybe because he could remember his humble upbringing. His father had been a laborer – albeit one of great skill and intelligence – and while he’d made a decent living, other than an aging maid of all work and a simple-minded potboy, there were no servants to bully. It had also seemed patently unfair to exercise one’s strength against another who had no right or say or means to fight back.
But Neal was different. Of course he was, and not because they were lovers. There was something about Neal – from the first time their paths had crossed – that made Peter want to impose his will upon him, in the most physical means possible. It hadn’t been sex, initially. He’d still been mourning the loss of his wife, Elizabeth, to Gloriana’s glittering court, and he wouldn’t allow himself to think upon such congress – not with another woman, with a man, or even his own fist.
He was a man though, and a score of years ago, he had had strong appetites that eventually overcame his grief at the disintegration of his marriage. He hadn’t taken his pleasures with whores or even the willing women who’d crossed his path when he was on Walsingham’s business, but his mind had wandered, his eyes watched and eventually he found a target for his lust.
Peter Burke was, on occasion, given to contemplation of what might have been, and there were moments when he’d wondered what would have become of his life if he hadn’t rescued Neal from the Fleet. Neal would have rotten in prison, his debt never paid – that was for certain – but his own life would surely have taken a different path. No high honors, no peerage or gratitude from Her Majesty. Likely as not, his life would have ended years ago, in some dank London alleyway, trying and failing to execute some commission for Walsingham.
His hands loosened their punishing grip on Neal’s hips and lingered for a moment before flipping Neal over.
“Peter?”
“Like this, Neal. This time, like this.” He wanted to see Neal’s face, see the love in his eyes, the ever-present wonder and joy in the pleasure of their coupling. His hands swept upwards, pulling Neal’s fine linen shirt free, exposing his perfect torso – like some ancient ivory sculpture – to his hungry gaze.
Neal reached out and grabbed him, pulling at his jerkin and growling his own frustrations when the garment refused to come undone.
“Peace, Neal – peace.” Peter straightened and pulled the leather over-garment and his own linen shirt off. He let Neal pull him into his arms and they tangled together, kissing hotly, desperately. This would be the last time they were together for a long while and, despite his earlier counsel to Neal, Peter did not want to think that this would be their last time. They would survive their separation and would come back to this near-sacred place as if they’d never been parted.
Mid-September, 1588
Neal had, as Peter commanded, spent the summer at Whitehall, listening and watching and had reported to Walsingham on any suspicious doings he’d observed – and there weren’t many. His old friend from the Fleet, Mozzie, had kept him company. He’d pretended to be his servant – for what man of high birth and ambition did not have at least one? He’d drained Neal’s small wine cellar as easily has he’d emptied Neal’s purse, but he was good company during the lonely summer nights without Peter.
And while Moz did his best to draw Neal into mischief, Neal let himself be led only so far. He wasn’t sure how much Walsingham would exert himself on his behalf without Peter to explain away his misdeeds.
Summer was over, and if it wasn’t for the calendar, Neal would think it closer to All Saints’ Day than Michaelmas. The weather hadn’t changed much from when Peter had left in June – it was just wetter and colder.
Two weeks after word had come on the fleeting wings of joy of England’s great victory at sea – the Spanish had been routed at Gravelines, decimated by the fire ships in Dutch waters, and lastly by the bitter weather in the North Sea – Neal packed up and prepared to leave Whitehall for the more welcome confines of Grosvenor.
Mozzie had suggested that, instead, Neal take the opportunity to leave England and end his servitude for good. “After a score of years enslaved, don’t you think it’s time you’ve earned your freedom, mon frère?”
Neal just gave his friend a disgusted look. “I’ve been a free man for a long while. I am happy with my lot.” He didn’t need to explain his relationship with Peter. Not that he was sure that Moz knew what was really between the two of them.
And his friend kept pushing, getting more and more excited by the idea of new horizons. “But just think, we could sign on with Adler or Keller or Wilkes, great captains all. Become pirates!"
“Privateers, you mean. Those men have Letters of Marque; they are in service to the Queen.”
As he’d hoped, the very idea of a criminal enterprise blessed by the government deflated Moz’s zeal for sailing the high seas. “It is truly a sad day when even the most honest of criminals are corrupted with legitimacy. Besides, who really wants a life of watered down wine, sodomy and the lash?” Moz then chuckled and gave Neal a sly look. “Well, except for you – and there’s no need to take to the high seas for any of that when you have your friendship with Master Burke.”
Apparently Moz did know what lay between him and Peter.
Neal chuckled. “I am going home. You are welcome to stay here if you find life at court pleasing.” Moz had charmed his way into the beds of several women – all of whom had husbands who’d gone off to war.
Moz leaned forward in his chair and contemplated his next move on the ever-present chess board, ignoring Neal. “I just might. Safe and cheerful travels, my friend.”
Neal smiled, hefting his saddle bags. He’d drop a few coins in one of the court page’s hands to retrieve his trunks. There was no point in expecting Moz to actually do the work of a servant.
The timber and stone mansion in Grosvenor was a welcome sight, even in the gray and rainy half-light of early evening. Neal had sent word ahead that he’d be returning to the residence and there were candles lit in the front windows and bright torches burning on either side of the door. Blake stepped out and took his horse’s reins. Neal dismounted and asked, “Any word from milord?”
“No, Master Neal – nothing for this past sennight.” Neal could read the trouble in the man’s face – it echoed his own worry. The battle for England’s freedom had been won over a month past, and even the Queen had returned to London. But armies did move slower and the weather that had blessed the English fleet and kept the English coastline safe was also going to cause trouble for an army on the move, even when that move was back home.
He instructed Blake to make sure that all was kept in readiness for Peter’s return and made his way inside. The house welcomed him, as it had from the very first. He’d rarely been gone from this place for so many nights, although there had been times when Peter’s work had taken them to other parts of England.
But as welcoming as the manse was, it was still missing half its heart. Until Peter returned, Neal would not take joy from this homecoming.
Two days passed, the sun barely penetrating the heavy rain, and Neal’s mood – like that of the entire household – was just as dark. He’d sent a politely worded inquiry to Walsingham’s office, asking if he had heard from Lord Burke, and received a somewhat encouraging reply – that Baron Carlisle travelled in the Earl of Leicester’s train, which had been delayed for reasons relating to the Earl’s poor health.
A little before the noon hour – at least according to the candle mark – the clatter of iron shod hooves against the cobblestones shattered the hushed expectancy. Neal pushed aside the translation of Plato he’d been working on and ran to the front door. The entire household had gathered and Neal pushed his way past the myriad of servants to see who’d arrived.
It was Peter.
A wet, bedraggled, mud-spattered, and far too thin Peter. But it was Peter and Neal rejoiced. He didn’t let Blake or the head groom, Westley, or any of the link boys that the household now supported, help Peter dismount. He held Peter’s stirrup like some squire of old, and when Peter dismounted, Neal steadied him. Even in the weak light, he could see the toll the last few months had taken on his lover.
“Come, let’s get you inside.”
He tried to lead Peter towards their bedchamber, but Peter turned to the kitchen. “A bath. I need a bath. And then a meal. And then, sleep.”
Neal urged him towards their original destination. “We’ve been waiting for you. Everything you desire is this way.”
When Neal had commanded the household to make ready for the master’s return, it was not an instruction to clean away the cobwebs, but to have the master’s necessary luxuries waiting. Like the bath. The large copper tub that had been the scene of many delightful moments between him and Peter had been moved into the bedchamber. Gallons of hot water were on their way to fill that vessel. Neal understood to his very bones his master’s need for cleanliness - he understood and appreciated it.
Behind him were the footsteps of the household, maids and potboys carrying buckets of hot water. Blake would follow with a tray of savories to help satisfy Peter’s physical appetite. And Neal would satisfy the rest of those appetites, in whatever means his master desired.
Peter was so tired he could barely walk, let alone speak. He probably should have just found a convenient horizontal space and collapsed, but he was filthy. It had been months since he’d truly bathed - the buckets of barely heated water to be had in camp did not count as bathing. Even the more generous accommodations to be had on the road home did not extend to more than a pitcher and wash basin. His noble comrades-in-arms, who looked down on him for his lowly origins, probably wouldn’t even consider washing their hands after taking a shit, much less stripping to the skin and immersing themselves in hot water. The Queen might require her courtiers to bath at least once a fortnight, but out in the battlefield, there were no courtiers and there were no baths. Had it been a true summer, he might have washed in the river, but the intemperate climate left the rivers choked with ice, even in August.
So Peter had resolved that when he arrived home, the very first thing he would do was bathe. Even if it meant using the tub in the kitchen, surrounded by servants. Privacy was far less important than ridding himself of this foul stench. But Neal - blessed Neal - guided him towards the bedchamber, where the tub awaited. And as Neal removed the leather breeches and jerkin, then his stinking linen small clothes, the manor’s staff filled the tub with bucket after bucket of hot water.
He all but dove into it, and the pleasure he took from the caress of the liquid against his skin was akin to plunging into Neal’s hot and willing body. In truth, at this moment, it was better. “Ahhhh.”
Peter rested his weary body against the copper tub’s sloped back and let the heat begin to soothe the bone and muscle that had spent the better part of three months on horseback or flimsy camp cots. He closed his eyes and would have fallen asleep if not for the hands that began to wash him. Truth be told, not even the soft caress of linen and soap could bestir him from his ease. Neal washed every inch of his skin, his hand gentle and relentless. As the contents of the tub grew cool and cloudy, buckets were scooped out and fresh hot water added.
He closed his eyes and fell into the orgy of sensation. Neal washing his feet and legs, hands stroking the long muscles, massaging the tension away. His hands grew sly as they approached the junction of his thighs, the wash cloth abandoned as fingers and palms, laden with fragrant soap, explored his cock and balls and the crack of his anus. Enervated from the heat, he barely swelled in reaction, but when Neal's hands left his cods to travel upwards, his hips arched, seeking contact with those clever hands. The action was without thought and Peter realized he probably wouldn’t achieve anything close to a full cockstand, but this was Neal and he’d missed him.
Missed this.
All of a sudden, Neal was behind him, and his breath tickled his earlobe as he chuckled. “I’ve missed you, too, Master. I’ve missed touching you, serving you in so many ways.” His fingers trailed back down, through Peter’s pubes, and grasped his cock, slowly stroking him. His other hand, just as devilishly clever, was teasing one of his nipples. Neal was relentless in his pleasuring, and as tired as Peter was, his cock hardened and he moaned. Neal was close, so very close – his smoothly shaved cheek pressed hard against his own scruff-coated one. He could feel the heat of Neal’s breath as he panted, his own pleasure so evident.
Peter’s hips arched higher and higher, urging Neal to speed up his stroking, but the bastard was content to torment him, his wrist moving lazily up and down.
“Harder, Neal.” He tried to make it sound like a command, but the words came out like a breathy plea.
“Ah, but Master, I will splash the water and flood the room if I am more vigorous.” Neal’s lips formed the words as if they were kisses.
“Damme, I don’t care!”
Neal laughed, and the sound was like another stroking hand. Peter groaned and turned his head, trying to capture Neal’s mouth. In that, he succeeded. They kissed and it was like they were warriors fighting for dominance. Peter could not remember if he’d ever felt quite like this – so taken over, so controlled.
And then all thought fled as Neal’s fingers pinched hard, tugging at his nipple, the edge of his nail catching him just so. And Neal’s fist, squeezing and stroking with perfect understanding, coaxing every bit of pleasure out of him.
He climaxed and the world turned white.
Peter had no idea how long he lay there, insensate to anything but the rippling shocks of pleasure, but eventually the pleasure receded and he became aware of Neal’s hands on his body. Now, they were diligent in their attention to cleansing. He sighed with a different kind of pleasure as a bucket of water was carefully poured over his head and fingers scrubbed at his hair and scalp. It was likely he purred like one of the kitchen cats. Another bucket was emptied and then he felt Neal’s absence. But Peter wasn’t concerned. He could hear a soft whooshing noise – a razor against a leather strop – and then another equally familiar sound, that of a brush against a metal cup, from somewhere behind him.
“Time to return you to a more civilized state, Master.”
Peter leaned his head back against the curved rim of the tub and sighed again with pleasure as a soft brush daubed soapy foam across his cheeks. The foam was followed by a steady hand wielding a razor. Neal was efficient, and while Peter wanted him to linger, the bath water was cooling.
A hot towel wiped away the shaving foam and bits of beard, and Peter opened his eyes to see Neal standing over him, water flecking his naked torso. He held out a hand.
“Come, Master, food and then bed.
It took much effort, but Peter heaved himself upright, water splashing across the stone floor. He rested a hand on Neal’s shoulder for balance as he climbed out of the tub. Neal led him towards the fireplace and carefully dried him. Peter watched, almost detached, as Neal knelt before him, wiping the water off his calves and thighs, from his cods and cock, which gave – quite unbelievably – a hopeful twitch before returning to its exhausted, quiescent state. For a score of years, Neal had done this for him, had taken joy in this type of servitude. More than anything, this was what coming home meant.
All too soon, the last of the water was wiped away, a warm robe wrapped around him, and Peter was settled in a deep armchair. His stomach rumbled with hunger and it must have been audible. Neal huffed a small chuckle and said, “Now we feed your other appetites.” The bedchamber door opened and servants came in, depositing plates of food on the sideboard next to the fireplace. A small table was put before him and then the servants left.
“Cider or beer, Master?”
“What, no wine?”
“Not now – you are exhausted and I am loathe to carry you to the bed if you get wine-sleepy.”
“Wine-sleepy? When have you ever needed to carry me to bed from drinking too much wine?” Peter’s minor outrage at the very suggestion was tempered by the tremendous yawn that erupted from somewhere around his toes.
Neal just looked at him.
“Very well, then cider.”
Neal filled a mug and handed him a plate of food. “Eat, Master.”
More for form’s sake, Peter grumbled, “You’ve become too good at giving me orders, Caffrey.”
“Eat.”
And so he did. After too many days and nights surviving on the barely edible – because her Majesty wisely prohibited the army from taking crops and animals from the farms they’d marched past – Peter wondered if he’d ever feel satiated again. But in truth, he managed but a few mouthfuls of the tender lamb his cook had prepared. He was simply too tired to eat. If it was not for the vow he’d made to never sleep sitting up again, he’d take his rest here, by the fire.
Neal must have noticed his weariness. He took the plate and mug and set them aside, before easing Peter to his feet. “Come, let’s get you to bed.”
“Mmm, yes. To bed.”
Neal wrapped an arm around his waist and guided him across the chamber to the tester bed. He let Neal remove the robe and help him slid under the covers. Neal hovered a moment at the side of the bed and then leaned over to kiss him. “Welcome home, Peter. I’ve missed you.”
Peter reached up, cupping his hand around Neal’s cheek. “No more than I’ve missed you.”
“Sleep, I’ll be here when you wake.” Neal looked as if he was going to retreat from the room, but Peter wasn’t having that.
“I will rest better with you in my arms.” He grabbed Neal’s hand and yanked. Neal fell unresisting across him and Peter reveled in the other man’s skin, his scent, his weight and presence, pleasures he’d too long been denied. “Sleep with me, please.”
Neal sat up, removed his shoes and managed to shimmy out of his hose and breeches before joining him under the covers, warm and naked. Peter wrapped his arms around him and sighed with happiness. England was safe, he was home, and Neal Caffrey loved and cared for him.
What more could a man want?
Neal wasn’t surprised he slept. He’d spent too many nights longing for Peter’s arms to rest easy. And the past few days and nights, worrying and waiting for Peter’s return, had taken their toll. Peter was here, back where he belonged, and if Neal had anything to say, they’d never be parted – even for a night – again.
He rolled over so his back was against Peter’s chest, Peter’s strong arm draped across his waist, Peter’s cock nestled between the crack in his ass. There was no better way to take his rest than like this. But he couldn’t fall back into slumber. Just outside the window, birds were singing as if they were greeting a new day. And maybe they were. The sun, which had been hidden behind a deep veil of storm clouds for months, was finally making her presence known.
Peter was home, and the rain had stopped.
Tags:
- character: blake the probie,
- character: mozzie,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: peter burke,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: domesticity,
- genre: historical a/u,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: slash,
- kink: bathing,
- kink: clothes/clothes porn,
- kink: cuddling,
- kink: dirty talk,
- kink: kissing,
- kink: nipple play,
- kink: shaving,
- kink: wet,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- wc verse: gloriana,
- written for: fic-can-ukah,
- year: 2014
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no subject
Date: 2014-12-17 12:28 am (UTC)As soon as I get myself under control, I'm digging in.
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Date: 2014-12-17 12:40 am (UTC)Beautiful. Thank you for this treat :D
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Date: 2014-12-17 01:07 am (UTC)The description of Neal's clothes and of course, shaving porn, is fantastic.
Brava
no subject
Date: 2014-12-17 04:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-17 04:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-17 04:29 am (UTC)As usual you perfectly captured the tone, the language and the cadence of 16th century England.
And, I love this Peter and this Neal, bound to each other in so many ways, honor, duty and love. I am a very happy bear.
no subject
Date: 2014-12-17 08:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-18 04:43 pm (UTC)LOL. Love this 'verse, love this particular installment. I've steered clear of all WC fic in recent weeks because I've not had time to catch any of the final season yet (am hoping to remedy that over the holidays), but couldn't resist this one.
no subject
Date: 2014-12-18 05:32 pm (UTC)Poignant - Peter Burke was, on occasion, given to contemplation of what might have been, and there were moments when he’d wondered what would have become of his life if he hadn’t rescued Neal from the Fleet. Neal would have rotten in prison, his debt never paid – that was for certain – but his own life would surely have taken a different path. No high honors, no peerage or gratitude from Her Majesty. Likely as not, his life would have ended years ago, in some dank London alleyway, trying and failing to execute some commission for Walsingham.- Peter realizing how much rescuing Neal saved both of them.
no subject
Date: 2014-12-26 11:08 am (UTC)