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elrhiarhodanTitle: Torch Song – Part One of Seven
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Artist:kaylashay
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, June Ellington, Clinton Jones, Diana Berrigan, Elizabeth Mitchell, Mozzie, Julian Larsen, Garrett Fowler, Reese Hughes, Kyle Bancroft, Evan Leary, Chloe Woods, Amanda Callaway, Phillip Kramer; Peter/Neal, Elizabeth/Mozzie
Word Count: ~56,000
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Expressions of homophobia, transphobia, past reference to a physically and emotionally abusive relationship. Please see more extensive notes in the Master Post on my Journal.
Beta Credit:sinfulslasher, who, once again, was absolutely heroic in her work on this epic. Also, deepest thanks to my good friends and constant cheerleaders, theatregirl7299 and miri_thompson, whose endless encouragement helped me every step of the way.
Summary: An alternate universe partially based on the characters and location in "Upper West Side Story", but with a twist - of the "Victor/Victoria" kind. Neal Caffrey teaches European History, but has an interesting and potentially career-damaging gig at his godmother's nightclub. Enter Peter Burke, talent agent and an old friend of June's, who plays the fairy godmother role to the hilt.
Author’s Note: My deepest thanks to my artist,kaylashay, for being so patient with me. Her artwork inspired me with what I thought was a simple idea, but nothing, lately, is ever simple. I had so much fun writing this, I hope it lives up to the beautiful art she created.
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Tonight was a night that he should have been on his way home. After the week he'd had, he deserved an evening with no activity more strenuous than propping his feet up on an ottoman before a fire crackling in the hearth, with a glass of wine or a bottle of beer close at hand. Tonight, there'd be no music playing in the background – he deserved a little break from that. But he'd made a promise and Peter Burke was a man who kept his promises, no matter how tired and worn out he was.
Which was why, on a rainy Thursday night a little before ten, he was in a limo slowly making its way through traffic in the East Village instead of heading home to his penthouse condo overlooking Bryant Park.
Peter was scanning through some tedious paperwork and looked up just as the car turned onto Mercer Street.
"We're here, sir." The car came to a stop in front of his destination, Ellington's, the nightclub owned by one of his oldest friends, June.
Peter tipped the limo driver and ran to the door, barely avoiding a soaking as the heavens opened up. The club's lobby was surprisingly crowded for a mid-week evening and he had to wait a few minutes before handing his sopping umbrella and raincoat to the coat checker. The man gave him the numbered tag and brushed his fingers across Peter's palm in an attempt to flirt.
Peter smiled and shook his head in a gentle rejection. Despite his pencil thin mustache and soul patch, the coat check guy looked a little too close to jailbait for his tastes. Peter preferred his men to be men.
Ellington's was an old school nightclub with a stage and a six-piece jazz combo that performed nightly. The cocktails were basic, the menu non-existent. It was a place where people came, not to be seen, but to listen to good music. Clubs like Ellington's were becoming a rarity in Manhattan these days, when the young and well-heeled wanted to be entertained by celebrity chefs and rock-star mixologists, not musicians and singers.
June's late husband, Byron, had taken over the place from his father, who'd inherited it from his father. Three generations of Ellington men spent decades fighting with bigoted neighbors who didn't like the idea of a black man owning a club in the East Village. Byron, perhaps capitalizing on a surname shared with one of the truly great musicians of the twentieth century, did more than keep tradition alive. He made the place a hot spot for musicians who couldn't find any other place to perform in a city which seemed only interested in new sounds or ones that minted money. Ellington's was the place for jazz and blues before they became hip again, singers-song writers were still welcome, and there was nothing that Byron - and later on his widow, June - loved more than to give the stage to up and coming artists who needed a break.
Peter stifled a yawn and exchanged pleasantries with Paul, who'd been managing the front of the house for over twenty years. As an old friend of the owners and a powerful member of the music industry, Paul didn't even consider asking him to pay the cover charge. He made his way through the milling crowd, looking for June and, at the same time, wishing he was home, relaxing. He'd just had a hellacious week, flying out to the West Coast on Monday, holding marathon sessions with a major record label. He'd felt like he was battling sharks with just a dull knife and his wits when the snot-nosed lawyers for the recording company tried to renegotiate terms after one of his clients imploded her career via social media. Peter hated damage control, but it was an inevitable by-product of his life. After four days of playing hardball, he managed to save Alex's contract, and got on a flight home. When the plane landed at JFK and he checked his messages, there was one from June reminding him of his promise to see her newest sensation perform tonight.
And this was a promise he wanted to keep. Not only to hear the young singer that June said could be the hottest act since Diana Krall, but he wanted to catch up with his old friend, too. It had been at least six months since he'd seen June, and just because his life was like a roller coaster, that was no excuse.
"Another five minutes and you'd have been late." June greeted him with outstretched hands and a warm smile.
"Sorry – just got back from L.A. I came right from the airport."
June peered into his face. "You do look exhausted."
"I am, but not too tired to come see you. It's been too long." Peter leaned over and kissed June's cheek. "And you look wonderful."
"Flatterer."
"No – just the truth. Without you, I'd be nothing."
"I'm not so sure of that." She took him into the heart of the club. "Do you want a drink?"
"I'm working on fumes, and unless you want my snores drowning out the dulcet tones of your newest prodigy, I'd best stick with tonic water."
June signaled a waiter and gave him Peter's order. "Come, I reserved a table for you. The show is about to start."
Peter was grateful that the table that June led him to was towards the back, where the acoustics were best, but also where he could close his eyes and let the music wash over him. If he fell asleep, no one would be the wiser – unless he started to snore.
The server returned with his drink and June left to greet other guests. She was not only the club owner, but she was the voice and face of Ellington's, too. For close to forty years, she'd been introducing the acts. Peter remembered Byron telling him that he'd fallen in love with her speaking voice before he'd even seen her face.
The house lights dimmed and a single spot illuminated the stage. From behind the curtains, a clarinet and piano played the opening to Benny Goodman's "Limehouse Blues", which had been June's walk-on music for more than four decades. Watching from his seat, Peter thought she looked particularly good tonight. She teased the crowd, thanking them for braving the weather, and then broke into an impromptu rendition of "Stormy Weather."
For a while, Peter had worried about her, living alone in that big mansion uptown, but a few years back, her godson had moved in and his presence seemed to give her new life. Peter had a vague recollection of the godson; most of his memories were of a boy with bright blue eyes and a mass of dark brown curls. June and Byron had been inordinately proud of him, treating him like he was their own flesh and blood, footing the bill for private school – the same one that June and Byron had attended, and Peter had, too. They'd also paid for an undergraduate education at Harvard. Peter guessed the godson was now repaying their kindness and generosity. Or maybe he was just mooching.
She finished the song, and Peter joined in the enthusiastic appreciation of the crowd.
"Tonight, we continue a great tradition at Ellington's – 'New Artist Thursday' – and I don't need to remind you of all the great artists who got their start on a Thursday night like this. Our performer tonight is a unique talent, a voice that the words 'torch song' was made for. I give you, Nicole." June stepped to the side and the curtains slowly rose, revealing a column of liquid silver in the shape of a woman.
The house band played the opening strains of a classic melody, the clarinet filling in for the song's back-up voices. The column of silver cupped her hands around the mic and her voice filled the room.
I used to be lunatic from the gracious days
I used to be woebegone and so restless nights
My aching heart would bleed for you to see
Oh but now...
Nicole's voice soared, and the hair on the back of Peter's neck stood up; the music wrapped around him like a lover, enthralling him. He'd heard Annie Lennox perform No More I Love Yous live nearly twenty years ago, but it hadn't moved him like this. The lyrics – without the adornment that the pop star had added – were simple and sad and at the same time, so hopeful.
Peter had become so enraptured by the singer and her voice that it was a shock when the audience burst into rapturous applause, breaking the spell.
Nicole's next piece wasn't a song he recognized, at least not right away. It was moody and dark and it made him want to weep from the heartbreak. It told a tale of someone, alone and lonely, seeking meaningful companionship but only finding surcease in pick-ups and one night stands.
Peter found himself breathless, waiting on each note, each syllable, the rise and fall of the music's cadence. He'd been in the music business for almost a quarter-century and he'd never, ever, been this affected by a singer.
It was as if Nicole's voice was a magic spell, binding him to the seat and making him feel things he should never have felt. Not for a woman.
Peter's arousal was not only an embarrassment, it was appalling. He was fifty years old and for thirty of those years, he had a profound understanding of himself and his gayness. This reaction was inconceivable and he told himself that it was her talent, her voice, her exquisite musicianship that was doing this to him.
As the applause thundered and Nicole elegantly signaled her appreciation, Peter wondered if there was something called hetero-panic, because he was definitely panicking. And still, he couldn't bring himself to leave and put this feeling behind him, because Nicole had enough talent to be a superstar and he was too much of a businessman to walk away from an opportunity like this.
Maybe he'd take the coat check guy up on his offer and just fuck this feeling away.
Peter let Nicole's performance wash over him as he started building a plan to launch the singer into the stratosphere. In an era of pop stars with interchangeable voices and looks dictated by what was trending on Instagram, Nicole was going to stand out. Her voice was too deep and soulful for Top 40, and that was fine, because she wasn't Top 40 material. She was a hell of a lot better than the auto-tuned wonders that populated that genre. Thinking about it, Peter wondered if her selection of an Annie Lennox hit was good chance or deliberate, because he could see her as a performer in that vein, trading not on her sexuality, but on the power of her voice and her sheer physical presence.
As potent as her talent was, Peter knew he was going to have to work hard to make her the superstar he knew she could be.
At least he didn't have to worry about getting her out of any management or representation contracts. Only unrepresented talent was allowed to perform at Ellington's Thursday night shows. Over the years, Peter had cherry-picked the best of what June had offered, and while none of those talents had ended up with Grammys, they all had lucrative recording contracts and some even made gold records.
Nicole was not only going to continue his winning track record, she was going to run the board.
He listened to her perform Peggy Lee's I Enjoy Being a Girl and was again blown away. It wasn't just the range and power of her voice, but the emotions she conveyed; for this particular song, flirtatious good humor and a happy sexiness poured out of her that had the crowd laughing. The song came to an end and Nicole blew the crowd a kiss and bowed as the curtain dropped. Peter couldn't believe the act was over and as he got to his feet, June took the stage.
"Don't go anywhere; Nicole will be back for a second set that you don't want to miss." June singled the orchestra to play something light as she, too, left the stage.
Doing his best to ignore the lingering effects of his weird arousal, Peter wondered if he could get into the dressing rooms and talk with the singer before she started her second set. As he made his way through the milling audience, his cell phone buzzed.
The vibration was a very specific pattern, one that translated into Morse code for S-O-S. Texts from only two numbers had that ringtone assigned – his mother and Clinton Jones' emergency phone – and neither he couldn't ignore messages from.
He checked the text and it was bad.
Julian Larsen arrested. He's at 20th precinct
Peter sighed in disgust. Instead of going to sign a fabulous new talent, he was going to have to bail out an old has-been. He sent a reply.
Be there in 20 mins. Tell J to keep his mouth shut
Peter looked around the room and spotted June chatting with some guests and made her way over to her.
She smiled when she saw him. "Peter, tell me, what did you think of Nicole?"
"She's brilliant and I want to sign her."
"You need to stay for Nicole's second act."
He shook his head. "I can't – there's an emergency and I've got to go." He fished a business card out of his wallet and gave it to June. "Tell her to call me. But not until Monday – shit's going to hit the fan tonight and I probably won't resurface until then."
June frowned. "I can't give this to Nicole until you see the second act." She pushed the card back at him.
Peter gritted his teeth and shoved the card back into his jacket. Sometimes June could be difficult and protective of the talents she was nurturing, and he'd learned to respect that. "Okay. When will she be back on stage here?"
"Not until the end of June."
"It's only the end of March," Peter growled. His cell buzzed again, the same S-O-S that he couldn't ignore. "Okay – I have to go, but if you can get her to give me a private performance of this mysterious second act, that would be terrific. She's got an incredible voice and stage presence and I can make her into a star."
June gave him an enigmatic smile and said, "I'll see what can be arranged."
"Thank you, June. You are, as always, splendid." He gave her a brief hug before making a dash to the coat check. The 20th Precinct was all the way uptown, on the West Side, and only luck would get him there within the promised twenty minutes.
It was actually close to an hour before the cab dropped him off on 82nd Street. Clinton was sending texts, describing the evening's events in short bursts of one-hundred forty characters. He didn't want to call Peter, too concerned that he'd be overheard.
By the time Peter made his way past the front desk to the holding area, he had a pretty good picture of what had happened, and it was horrible.
To say the least.
♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫
As June made her way through the corridor behind the stage to the dressing rooms, she snagged her hosiery on some ancient piece of audio equipment and muttered an unladylike curse. For thirty-five years she'd been complaining about the condition of the backstage area, that it was a fire hazard, but despite her complaints, she had done nothing about it. There were always more important things to deal with.
Like tonight's performance.
She knocked on the dressing room door, right under the large gold star – which had long since lost its luster. The occupant called out, "Who is it?"
"It's me, June."
"Come in."
Neal was wearing a tee shirt and a pair of jeans. The silver lamé dress, "Nicole's" trademark, was hanging in a garment bag, ready to go home. Neal had removed most of the makeup, but his lips were still a shade brighter than their usual color and the remnants of his alter ego's heavy makeup were smudged under his eyes.
"How did I do?" Neal sounded worried, which June thought was so utterly charming. The man had no clue how powerful a performer he was.
"You were fantastic. You know you brought the house down, again. The place was packed, like it was a Saturday night and I had a major headliner on stage." Neal blushed and June hugged him. "You need to be more confident in your talent, Neal."
"I'm just a history teacher who occasionally dresses up and sings torch songs at my godmother's club."
"You may be a history teacher and I may be your godmother, but there's no 'just' about it. You're brilliant – you have a stage presence like I haven't seen since Diana Ross was belting it out uptown with the Supremes."
"Now I know you're joking." But Neal was smiling.
"Okay, then how about Adele before she became a star?" June reached up and rubbed a bit of the smudged mascara off Neal's cheek.
"Okay, that's a little more plausible."
She leaned back against the dressing table. "Any chance I can persuade you to take the stage again before the end of June?"
Neal shook his head emphatically. "You know my schedule. I only perform when I have vacation. It's Spring Break now, and until the semester's over, I won't have any free time."
"What about Memorial Day weekend?"
"That's only a Monday holiday and the club is closed on Monday. I perform on Thursdays and need a whole week of rehearsals. I just can't take off in the middle of the day and come downtown."
"What about if you performed on that Saturday? You could rehearse the weekend before."
Neal looked at her, a quizzical expression on his face. "What's the urgency?"
She licked her lips. "Someone was here tonight."
Neal sucked in his breath. "Someone? Someone like a recording executive?"
"Not quite. Someone better. A talent agent who was very interested in signing ‘Nicole" to an agency contract. Someone who has big plans for her.”
“Her? Your someone better didn’t stay for the second act?”
June lightly slapped Neal's shoulder. “No, he couldn’t. And don't get upset, but I refused to put him in contact with you until he sees the whole act.”
“Smart – this way he knows just what he’s getting.” Neal ran a hand through his hair and frowned at her. “But you know something, I’m not sure I even want to meet your friend. This –" He gestured around him. "- isn't supposed to be my life. "
"But it could be – and a lot more."
"It was a lark – you suggested my voice was more suited to a 1930s cabaret act and the next thing I know, I'm wearing a wig, falsies, silver lamé, and singing torch songs like I'm Karen Akers performing in The Purple Rose of Cairo, except that I'm actually Julie Andrews in Victor/Victoria, putting on a double act." Neal paused and took a deep breath.
"And what's wrong with that?" June understood Neal's reservations, but she believed in him, she believed that there was more to Neal's life than teaching history and grading papers.
"Nothing, but I don't want to start dreaming of things I'll never have or I shouldn't want." Neal smiled ruefully. "I've been down that path, and I don't want you to have to pick me up again. Besides, I love my life, I love teaching. I don't want to give that up."
June understood Neal’s reluctance. He’d been hurt too many times in his short life and it would be a crime to see him hurt again. “Then let’s play it by ear. If you can’t do it in May, then my friend will just have to wait for June.” She chuckled. “That pun was unintentional.”
Neal kissed her cheek. “Of course it was. Shall we go home?”
“Yes, I think that’s a very good idea. It’s late and I’m sure you could use a good night’s sleep.”
Neal shrugged into his coat, hefted the messenger bag that held everything that transformed him into “Nicole” and took the garment bag from the hook on the door. “It’s a good thing tomorrow is still vacation and I don’t have to be at school. Though the new headmaster – head mistress – would probably have my nuts if she knew what I was doing tonight.”
“She’s that bad?”
Neal grimaced. “Yeah.”
June left it at that as they made their way to the front of the club. The staff was efficient and all of the chairs were turned over on the tables, the floor vacuumed, and the glassware taken away for cleaning. Paul, the manager, held her coat.
“Your car is waiting, Miss June. I told Frederick to bring it around.”
“Thank you.” She let him help her into her coat. “I appreciate your forethought.”
“On a night like this, you shouldn’t have to stand at the curb and wait.” Paul turned to Neal. “You were exceptional tonight and I have to say that you are developing quite a following. This was the busiest Thursday we’ve had since you sang just after Christmas. The house was packed, and given the weather, that’s really saying something.”
Even in the dim light, June could see Neal flush with pleasure at the compliment. “Thank you, Paul.”
Paul held the door open, and as promised, Frederick was at the curb with June’s Bentley Continental. He insisted on taking Neal’s garment bag and putting it in the trunk before escorting them both, with an oversized umbrella, the great distance of ten steps from the edge of the club’s awning to the waiting car.
June watched Neal’s profile. She’d known him since he was an infant and she’d watched him grow into the man he was today. She’d witnessed his triumphs and she’d been there for him when tragedy struck, and she would never let him forget that no matter how badly he stumbled, she’d be there to help him get back on his feet.
Neal noticed that she was staring. “What’s the matter? Did I miss some of the mascara?”
“No, just thinking about the past. And the future.” June reached out and took Neal’s hand. “After Byron died, I didn’t know how I was going to be able to go on. My daughters have lives of their own and I dreaded becoming a burden to them. So I bottled everything up and pretended I was okay. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come back into my life.”
Neal took her hand and kissed her fingers. “As much as I’ve helped you, you’ve helped me a thousand times more. I don’t know what I would have done without you. Been living on the streets, most likely.”
“No, Neal – never that. You would have been fine. You’re strong – a lot stronger than you think you are. You just have to remember to keep believing in yourself.” She leaned against Neal, and like a cat accustomed to affection, Neal leaned back against her.
The rest of the trip uptown was spent in companionable silence, although around 42nd Street, June started humming “Lullaby of Broadway” and Neal joined in with the harmony line. It was an old game between them, one she’d played with Neal since he was seven. Even as a child, Neal was always humming or singing and he could magically find the harmony to her melody and then switch to the melody when she shifted to harmony. Byron had liked to joke that Neal was her perfect back-up singer, except when she was Neal's perfect back-up singer.
She'd been a little disappointed that Neal hadn't pursued a singing career, but he'd been given too many other gifts, and it would have been a crime for them to go to waste. By the time he'd graduated high school; Neal was fluent in six languages, had been regional champion in chess, was at the top of his class at Manhattan Prep and had taken enough AP classes to matriculate at Harvard as a sophomore.
Everyone had expected great things from Neal. Not only was he intellectually brilliant, he was charming and people naturally flocked to him. Byron had told her that Neal would be the mayor of New York by the time he was thirty, governor of the state by thirty-six, and President by the time he was forty-five. Neal, for his part, had wanted to join the FBI.
But things hadn't worked out like that. Nothing like that at all.
June rested her head on Neal's shoulder and they hummed "Corner of the Sky". It might be very selfish of her, but she was glad that things hadn't worked out as anyone had planned. Maybe it was time for her to return the favor.
♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫
Neal rolled over and slapped at the alarm clock. This was the third time the snooze had gone off and he needed to get his ass in the shower within the next five minutes or he was going to be late. He hated Monday mornings, especially ones that came after a week's vacation. He was constitutionally a night owl, and despite years of getting up before six, he was never going to get accustomed to it.
He dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom, turning the shower on before doing his morning business. The water, just a few degrees shy of scalding, chased the last of the sleep out of his brain. By the time he had finished shaving and grooming, Neal was already running the day's routine through his head. The tenth grade classes in European Studies were about to embark on the causes of World War I. His Advanced Placement students were supposed to be turning in papers on culture and class in the Nineteen Century, and the kids in the Art History elective would be viewing an abundance of Nineteen Century nudes.
On the surface, it should be a good day. The kids would probably lack focus – many of them had travelled during the break and would spend valuable class time catching up with their friends. Neal wasn't a martinet in the classroom; he understood that a little leeway was important, at least for the tenth graders. The AP students needed to focus, especially with the exam coming up in about six weeks.
But underneath the surface was a disgusting mire of ideology-driven politics that was making Neal's tenure – and that of several dozen other teachers at Manhattan Prep – difficult. Two years ago, after making a huge financial donation to the school, Phillip Kramer, extreme right wing radio show host and homophobic gasbag, managed to get a seat on the school's Board of Governors. Although he was only one of seven members, he used his checkbook like a battering ram, promising to pay of all sorts of things the elite school needed, if only they'd see things his way.
The biggest casualty had been Reese Hughes, the school's veteran headmaster, who'd left at the Christmas break. The public word was that he'd taken a well-earned retirement, but the staff knew that Kramer had done his best to push him out because Hughes had laid the groundwork for the school's new equal rights policy – "Dignity for All" – a trailblazing set of rules and guidelines for ensuring proper treatment and accommodations for the school's transgender students.
Something that Kramer found highly offensive and morally wrong.
At first, Neal couldn't figure out why Phillip Kramer was at all interested in Manhattan Prep, a private school with a century old reputation as a training ground for the liberal elite. The school's guiding principles – fairness, justice, and tolerance – were antithetical to the man's own interests. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that Kramer understood the importance of Manhattan Prep to the civic fabric of the city, and he was doing his best to change that. Manhattan Prep's grand liberal tradition was steadily eroding as the trustees and governors were falling under the spell of the vast piles of cash Kramer was promising to donate.
Last week, when he wasn't rehearsing, Neal had met with other like-minded teachers hoping to find some solution to the present crisis. But none of them could offer anything concrete, although after the third bottle of Burgundy, there was a unanimous vote to hire an assassin.
Neal shrugged into his suit coat and picked up his messenger bag. This morning it held his school-dedicated laptop, a pile of graded papers and a dozen other things a dedicated young teacher needed to get through the day. Nicole's music, the make-up, the falsies and false eyelashes were all stowed safely away in his closet.
It would be a disaster of epic proportions if the school – and its current administration – got wind of Neal's moonlighting gig. Hughes' replacement, Amanda Callaway, a southern belle who probably strangled small animals in her spare time, made it clear that the school would now have little tolerance for any behavior that deviated from "good moral standards". She was careful not to use religious terminology, but all of the code words were there.
Although he only wore a dress in his act, it – coupled with his sexual orientation – would probably be enough to get him booted under the new regime. A part of him was tempted to let it happen. June had said she was willing to help pay the legal expenses of fighting the termination, but when Neal really thought about it, he didn't want to have to deal with it at all. There was too much darkness in his past that could be used as ammunition against him.
He headed downstairs and was greeted by the familiar and welcome scent of freshly brewed coffee. Marthé, June's housekeeper, was waiting for him with a travel mug and brown paper bag containing his lunch. Neal took the mug and thanked her gratefully, in Marthé's native French, "I don't know what I'd do without you."
Marthé replied, "If you were straight, you could marry me and I'd bake chocolate croissants for you every morning."
Neal grinned and shifted to English. "You would have me fat?"
"I would have you anyway I could get you."
Neal kissed her cheek and she pinched his ass. "Maybe I should reconsider my sexual orientation, Marthé. You are a woman in her prime. And your croissants are incomparable."
She pushed the bag into his hands and pushed him out the door. "Ah, you stay gay, Mr. Neal – you couldn't keep up with me otherwise."
Neal left the house in a much lighter mood. They'd been having this conversation, or a variation of it, most weekday mornings for the last five years. He caught the express uptown subway that would take him within a few blocks of the school's Morningside Heights campus. Twenty minutes later, Neal was settled in his classroom, waiting for the first bell and the influx of less than eager students reporting to the first homeroom after vacation.
The morning went quickly as Neal kept his students engaged. He loved the pedagogic process, but more than that, he loved seeing the moments when his students understood the relevance of what he was teaching. He talked about the assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and one of the kids brought up an article she'd read in the New York Times last Sunday about whether assassinations could change the course of history, which lead into a spirited discussion about whether it was morally right for a government to try to have the leader of an enemy country killed.
But in the back of his mind, Neal wondered if he was heading into dark territory. Before Callaway came on board, none of the teachers worried about censoring their lectures, but recently, two teachers had been written up for introducing inappropriate content into the classroom. One was Elizabeth Mitchell, a fellow history teacher, who had strongly criticized the FBI's civil rights record in the 1960s. Her lecture was deemed disrespectful and borderline subversive. El had just laughed in Callaway's face and reminded the new principal that she had been a twenty-year veteran of the FBI and was perfectly aware of the Bureau's record – both the good and the bad.
Callaway had backed down and Neal was deeply relieved. Elizabeth Mitchell was one of his closest friends and he didn't know what he would have done if she quit.
The noon bell rang and his students fled for their lockers and the cafeteria. Neal retrieved his bag and headed for the staff lunch room.
The room was packed with teachers and Neal greeted each of them as he passed, declining offers to join various groups when he spotted Elizabeth waving at him from a table in the back of the room.
Neal gave her a brief hug and sat down, noticing how relaxed she looked. "Well, you look like vacation agreed with you."
El laughed. "It most certainly did."
"But I have to say, for someone who just spent a week in Acapulco, it doesn't look like you saw much sun."
"That's because I didn't go to Mexico."
"Oh?" That surprised Neal. "Didn't you promise Dana that the two of you were going to spend a week getting drunk and picking up boys and celebrating her divorce?"
El frowned. "Dana and John decided to try to reconcile again."
"I thought everything was done except for signing the papers."
El shrugged. "I thought so, too. They sold their house; she started a new business and was getting ready for a new chapter in her life. But two days before we were supposed to leave, John showed up and told her that he'd put in his discharge papers. He had a few good job offers and maybe they should try again. So what could I do? Those two have been together since high school. Dana gave me back my money for the trip and John went with her instead."
"But you still went away?"
"Yup."
Neal couldn't help but notice Elizabeth's deep blush and how she toyed with a strand of hair.
"El?"
She bit her lip and looked more like one of the teenagers who roamed the halls than a former FBI agent with a seriously badass reputation.
"Where did you go and more importantly, what did you do?"
"Can't really talk here." El glanced to her right, where Cynthia Watson was sitting. Watson was a new hire, hand-picked by Callaway and someone that Neal had instinctively disliked from the moment they met. Neal thought she was Callaway's eyes and ears and was quick to relay any information to the new principal that she thought could be damaging to the old guard.
"Ah. We'll meet for coffee after work?"
"Yup." El poked at her salad. "So, how was your vacation?"
This time it was Neal who flicked a glance over to Watson. "Did the usual. Spent time with June, caught up with my reading. Saw a new exhibit at the Met. Nothing exciting." Neal unwrapped the sandwich Marthé had made for him. It was tuna, but not like any tuna sandwich he'd ever carried to school as a kid. This had Italian tuna, dressed with good olive oil, lemon zest, green olives and cracked pepper, slices of hard-boiled egg and arugula on a freshly baked baguette. He offered El half.
El took it with a grateful smile and they ate in companionable silence. Another teacher, Taryn Van Der Sant, from the Art Department joined them, and even though Watson had left the room, no one felt any more comfortable talking about personal stuff. El left and Neal chatted with Taryn about the recent Matisse retrospective at the MOMA until the bell rang.
Neal's AP History class was his personal favorite. The class was technically an elective, but like all AP classes at Manhattan Prep, each student needed to be recommended by their prior year's history teacher. The class had a lot of writing requirements – at least four research papers a quarter, plus an orally presented book report each week. While there were always a few students who took the class as something to brag about, most of the students were here because they had a passion for the subject.
Two of his favorite students, Evan Leary and Chloe Woods, were already in the classroom, their heads together, whispering.
They both looked up when he dropped his bag on the desk and pulled out the last set of research essays. "Hope you had a good vacation."
Chloe started rhapsodizing about her trip to Paris and Neal tuned her out. He caught Evan's eye and bit his lip when the kid gave a little shrug. Apparently, he'd heard her travelogue before. Just before the bell rang, the rest of the students piled in.
Neal spent a few minutes lecturing on the birth of the modernist movement in the mid-Nineteenth century before calling on each of the students to lead a fifteen minute discussion on an artist, writer or composer, and how their works either affected or were affected by the political and social upheavals of the period.
Before Spring Break, a few students grumbled about the assignment; not that it was difficult, but that it was due the day after a long vacation. Neal had replied that everyone had a week before the vacation to work on it, so if they planned ahead, there was no need to do it during the break. He was certain that a few of the kids had scrambled over the weekend to finish the work, and some were clearly less prepared than others.
He saved Evan Leary for last of the class, knowing that he was probably the most prepared of all. The kid reminded him a little of himself at that age – fascinated by many things and excelling in almost everything. But there was a big difference between Neal Caffrey at sixteen and young Mr. Leary; he'd been popular, with a dozen friends and an active social life. Evan wasn't. Although he was generally respected by other students, his only close friend was Chloe Woods, who had her own host of issues.
But none of that really mattered at the moment. Evan led the class through a detailed discussion of Emile Zola, Paul Cezanne and Gustav Mahler. Neal thought some of the connections, particularly between the writer and the musician, were tenuous, but overall, it was an A-worthy effort.
Five minutes before the bell, he gently ended Evan's presentation by announcing that he'd graded and was returning the last set of papers. The school used an assignment portal and students submitted their work on-line, but Neal liked to print everything out and return the work by hand. He felt it created a better connection between him and his students.
"Good work, everyone." He put the papers face down on the students' desks and, according to classroom rules, waited for the bell to ring and left the classroom before letting the kids look at their grades.
Some people thought he was wasted as a teacher. June wanted him to sing professionally. His parents, before everything crashed so disastrously, had urged him to study law as a stepping stone to politics. He'd even dreamed of joining the FBI (something he'd never shared with Elizabeth). But those plans had been derailed – not by fate but bad choices that followed a shocking revelation. Now, at thirty-six, he was mostly happy. Despite the crap going on with the school administration, he loved teaching. He had friends he valued and knew valued him. He got the chance to perform whenever he wanted and made June very happy doing so.
Once, during the worst time of his life, a friend had asked him what he wanted out of life. He'd said that his needs were simple – meaningful work, enough money to live comfortably, and to be surrounded by people who cared about him.
He had that and considered himself blessed.
Neal waited by the door for his students to leave. This, too, was part of his rules. Not that he would discuss grades, but it was his way of letting the kids know he was watching out for them. Not that they had anything to worry about. There were twelve students in his AP European History class and he marked each paper with some variation of A-, A or A+, and each of those grades were well-earned and fully justified.
The kids raced out of the classroom, and each one of them gave him some acknowledgement before melting into the general chaos. He had one more class before the end of the day, an elective in Art History. Two seniors, who weren't in his Advance Placement class, greeted him and Neal followed them back into the classroom.
Evan and Chloe were still there, and Evan – helpful nerd that he was – had the wide screen monitors on and the program with the day's subject loaded into the classroom computer. One of Cezanne's Tahitian beauties was vying for attention with an Ingres nude.
The forty-five minutes went as quickly as they always did when he had truly engaged students, but by the time the bell rang, Neal was as grateful as the kids that the school day – at least the teaching portion – was over.
Evan asked, "Do you want me to pack up the equipment, Mr. Caffrey?"
"Nah, you and Chloe should get going."
Chloe smiled and tugged on Evan's sweater. "Come on, I want to go to Forbidden Planet – they're holding the new edition of Abe Sapien for me, but only until the end of the day and I don't want to miss it. My dad gave me money – so we can have dinner. My treat."
Neal watched the two of them as they left the room, practically joined at the hip. Evan was a scholarship student and Chloe came from old New York money. On paper, their friendship was highly improbable, but in reality, it worked and worked well. Much like Elizabeth's friendship with a certain bald and bespectacled former chemistry teacher.
Which reminded Neal that he was supposed to meet El for coffee this afternoon. He pulled out his phone and sent her a text. Still on for coffee?
His phone chimed with El's response just as he'd finished shutting down the various electronics in the classroom and packing up his papers.
Sure. See you there by 3:30.
Since it was already ten past three, Neal had to hustle. Daniel Pikah, one of the math teachers, waved at him. Neal waved back, but didn't stop. Dan was a good guy, but a little strange, and would talk your ear off for an hour if you let him.
Not that El would be annoyed if he was a few minutes late. Neal rushed to the coffee shop – one of those old fashioned places with cracked vinyl booths and mostly terrible drip coffee. He liked to meet El here because it was too un-hip to be considered cool by even the most ironic standards, no self-respecting student would be caught dead inside the place. They could talk freely, something impossible on school grounds these days.
El was sitting in their usual booth near the back, a troubled – almost sad – expression on her face.
"What's the matter?"
El turned the newspaper she was reading towards him. "Julian Larsen was arrested for murdering his wife."
Neal frowned. He had no idea who Julian Larsen was. "I'm sorry?"
"I forget that you're such a baby. Julian Larsen was the lead singer for Zen and the hottest thing in leather pants. I was soooo in love with him when I was sixteen."
Neal vaguely remembered that Zen was a rock band from the '80s. "British New Wave, right?"
"Right." El frowned again and took the paper back. "Says that he pushed his wife down the stairs. Drugs and alcohol were involved. I'd say 'so sad' but she was a real bitch – and half his age."
Neal wanted to make a quip about how these May-December romances rarely work out, but Julian Larsen's situation struck a little too close to home.
El closed the newspaper and with a practiced flick of her wrist, tossed it onto the table next to their booth. "So, tell me – how did Thursday night really go? I was really sorry I missed your performance."
"It went fine. I opened with the Annie Lennox – "
"The Gift or No More I Love You's?"
"No More I Love You's. June thinks the other song is just too sad for an opener."
"And did you do the Janis Ian?"
"Of course – but The Pick Up, not From Me to You. The band at Ellington's couldn't get the bridges right. They're like little mazurkas and the three-part syncopation was driving them crazy."
El smiled at him but there was a bit of confusion in her eyes, and Neal laughed. "Sorry – I can get lost in the music."
"It's okay. What else did you sing?"
"I closed the first set with I Enjoy Being a Girl."
El burst out laughing, "You're evil, you know that? But what about the second set – that's the one that really counts."
Neal wasn't so sure he agreed with her, but was too much of a gentleman to argue. "I opened with Feel Like Makin' Love."
"Oooh, I love that song. I never know whether I want to dance or jump someone's bones when I hear it."
"El!" Elizabeth had a way of saying the most outrageous things and Neal considered himself fairly unshockable these days.
"What else?"
"Fields of Gold."
"Don't think I know that one."
"It's by Sting." Neal hummed a few bars and El nodded.
"Yeah, not one of my favorites."
"Not one of mine, either. And the crowd agreed. I'm cutting it."
"And what was your big finish?"
"Wicked Game."
"I bet you had the audience on their feet for that one."
Neal smiled at the memory. "Yeah, it was a good performance."
The waitress finally came over. "Sorry for the delay, folks, you want your usual?"
Both he and El nodded, and El added, "Could you bring a cup of tea, too? Someone else will be joining us."
The waitress left and Neal gave El a puzzled look. Afterschool coffee was a ritual between just the two of them.
"Moz is coming." There was something in her eyes that made Neal believe that her friendship with the former chemistry teacher had changed.
Neal gave El a sly grin. "So, where did you and Moz go for vacation?"
"How the hell did you know that I went with Mozzie?"
"Lucky guess."
El shook her head. "You would have made an excellent FBI agent, you know that? All you'd have to do is smile and you get a confession."
Neal leaned back against the booth and sipped his coffee. "So, spill. Where did you and Moz go?"
"Colorado."
"That's not the answer I was expecting."
El was giving him the stare of death. "If you tell anyone – and I mean anyone – I'll make you wish you'd never been born."
Such threats were very uncharacteristic of her. "Why?"
"Because we went on a pot tour." Moz slipped into the booth next to Elizabeth. "Can you imagine what Callaway would do to her if she found out? Despite the fact that cannabis is legal in Colorado."
Neal laughed. "So you spent your week off getting stoned, eating vast quantities of junk food, and having wild sex."
Since Moz was fussing with his tea and blushing like an eighteenth century virgin, Elizabeth answered, "Yes, no, and yes. No junk food in this temple." She rubbed Mozzie's chest. "Just lots of high quality baked goods."
Neal snorted at the double-entendre. He had to ask, "Did you try the Rocky Mountain Oysters?"
Moz sniffed. "Don't be ridiculous, Neal. Oysters need ocean water currents to grow, and Colorado is about as far from the ocean as you can get."
Elizabeth whispered in Moz's ear and Neal enjoyed watching his friend turn even brighter red.
Moz recovered and said repressively, "No, we didn't eat any bovine testicles."
Neal let El and Moz do all the talking, content to listen to them talk about all the things they did (seven different types of weed, a few concerts) and all the things they didn't do (skiing, snowboarding, basically anything that meant being outdoors and getting cold). Their conversation washed over him and at the moment, the only thing that could have made him happier was if there was someone in the booth next to him and sharing his life.
It had been a long, long time since he craved companionship. Almost too long.
END PART ONE
GO TO PART TWO
Author:
elrhiarhodanArtist:
kaylashay Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, June Ellington, Clinton Jones, Diana Berrigan, Elizabeth Mitchell, Mozzie, Julian Larsen, Garrett Fowler, Reese Hughes, Kyle Bancroft, Evan Leary, Chloe Woods, Amanda Callaway, Phillip Kramer; Peter/Neal, Elizabeth/Mozzie
Word Count: ~56,000
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Expressions of homophobia, transphobia, past reference to a physically and emotionally abusive relationship. Please see more extensive notes in the Master Post on my Journal.
Beta Credit:
sinfulslasher, who, once again, was absolutely heroic in her work on this epic. Also, deepest thanks to my good friends and constant cheerleaders, theatregirl7299 and miri_thompson, whose endless encouragement helped me every step of the way. Summary: An alternate universe partially based on the characters and location in "Upper West Side Story", but with a twist - of the "Victor/Victoria" kind. Neal Caffrey teaches European History, but has an interesting and potentially career-damaging gig at his godmother's nightclub. Enter Peter Burke, talent agent and an old friend of June's, who plays the fairy godmother role to the hilt.
Author’s Note: My deepest thanks to my artist,
kaylashay, for being so patient with me. Her artwork inspired me with what I thought was a simple idea, but nothing, lately, is ever simple. I had so much fun writing this, I hope it lives up to the beautiful art she created.Tonight was a night that he should have been on his way home. After the week he'd had, he deserved an evening with no activity more strenuous than propping his feet up on an ottoman before a fire crackling in the hearth, with a glass of wine or a bottle of beer close at hand. Tonight, there'd be no music playing in the background – he deserved a little break from that. But he'd made a promise and Peter Burke was a man who kept his promises, no matter how tired and worn out he was.
Which was why, on a rainy Thursday night a little before ten, he was in a limo slowly making its way through traffic in the East Village instead of heading home to his penthouse condo overlooking Bryant Park.
Peter was scanning through some tedious paperwork and looked up just as the car turned onto Mercer Street.
"We're here, sir." The car came to a stop in front of his destination, Ellington's, the nightclub owned by one of his oldest friends, June.
Peter tipped the limo driver and ran to the door, barely avoiding a soaking as the heavens opened up. The club's lobby was surprisingly crowded for a mid-week evening and he had to wait a few minutes before handing his sopping umbrella and raincoat to the coat checker. The man gave him the numbered tag and brushed his fingers across Peter's palm in an attempt to flirt.
Peter smiled and shook his head in a gentle rejection. Despite his pencil thin mustache and soul patch, the coat check guy looked a little too close to jailbait for his tastes. Peter preferred his men to be men.
Ellington's was an old school nightclub with a stage and a six-piece jazz combo that performed nightly. The cocktails were basic, the menu non-existent. It was a place where people came, not to be seen, but to listen to good music. Clubs like Ellington's were becoming a rarity in Manhattan these days, when the young and well-heeled wanted to be entertained by celebrity chefs and rock-star mixologists, not musicians and singers.
June's late husband, Byron, had taken over the place from his father, who'd inherited it from his father. Three generations of Ellington men spent decades fighting with bigoted neighbors who didn't like the idea of a black man owning a club in the East Village. Byron, perhaps capitalizing on a surname shared with one of the truly great musicians of the twentieth century, did more than keep tradition alive. He made the place a hot spot for musicians who couldn't find any other place to perform in a city which seemed only interested in new sounds or ones that minted money. Ellington's was the place for jazz and blues before they became hip again, singers-song writers were still welcome, and there was nothing that Byron - and later on his widow, June - loved more than to give the stage to up and coming artists who needed a break.
Peter stifled a yawn and exchanged pleasantries with Paul, who'd been managing the front of the house for over twenty years. As an old friend of the owners and a powerful member of the music industry, Paul didn't even consider asking him to pay the cover charge. He made his way through the milling crowd, looking for June and, at the same time, wishing he was home, relaxing. He'd just had a hellacious week, flying out to the West Coast on Monday, holding marathon sessions with a major record label. He'd felt like he was battling sharks with just a dull knife and his wits when the snot-nosed lawyers for the recording company tried to renegotiate terms after one of his clients imploded her career via social media. Peter hated damage control, but it was an inevitable by-product of his life. After four days of playing hardball, he managed to save Alex's contract, and got on a flight home. When the plane landed at JFK and he checked his messages, there was one from June reminding him of his promise to see her newest sensation perform tonight.
And this was a promise he wanted to keep. Not only to hear the young singer that June said could be the hottest act since Diana Krall, but he wanted to catch up with his old friend, too. It had been at least six months since he'd seen June, and just because his life was like a roller coaster, that was no excuse.
"Another five minutes and you'd have been late." June greeted him with outstretched hands and a warm smile.
"Sorry – just got back from L.A. I came right from the airport."
June peered into his face. "You do look exhausted."
"I am, but not too tired to come see you. It's been too long." Peter leaned over and kissed June's cheek. "And you look wonderful."
"Flatterer."
"No – just the truth. Without you, I'd be nothing."
"I'm not so sure of that." She took him into the heart of the club. "Do you want a drink?"
"I'm working on fumes, and unless you want my snores drowning out the dulcet tones of your newest prodigy, I'd best stick with tonic water."
June signaled a waiter and gave him Peter's order. "Come, I reserved a table for you. The show is about to start."
Peter was grateful that the table that June led him to was towards the back, where the acoustics were best, but also where he could close his eyes and let the music wash over him. If he fell asleep, no one would be the wiser – unless he started to snore.
The server returned with his drink and June left to greet other guests. She was not only the club owner, but she was the voice and face of Ellington's, too. For close to forty years, she'd been introducing the acts. Peter remembered Byron telling him that he'd fallen in love with her speaking voice before he'd even seen her face.
The house lights dimmed and a single spot illuminated the stage. From behind the curtains, a clarinet and piano played the opening to Benny Goodman's "Limehouse Blues", which had been June's walk-on music for more than four decades. Watching from his seat, Peter thought she looked particularly good tonight. She teased the crowd, thanking them for braving the weather, and then broke into an impromptu rendition of "Stormy Weather."
For a while, Peter had worried about her, living alone in that big mansion uptown, but a few years back, her godson had moved in and his presence seemed to give her new life. Peter had a vague recollection of the godson; most of his memories were of a boy with bright blue eyes and a mass of dark brown curls. June and Byron had been inordinately proud of him, treating him like he was their own flesh and blood, footing the bill for private school – the same one that June and Byron had attended, and Peter had, too. They'd also paid for an undergraduate education at Harvard. Peter guessed the godson was now repaying their kindness and generosity. Or maybe he was just mooching.
She finished the song, and Peter joined in the enthusiastic appreciation of the crowd.
"Tonight, we continue a great tradition at Ellington's – 'New Artist Thursday' – and I don't need to remind you of all the great artists who got their start on a Thursday night like this. Our performer tonight is a unique talent, a voice that the words 'torch song' was made for. I give you, Nicole." June stepped to the side and the curtains slowly rose, revealing a column of liquid silver in the shape of a woman.
The house band played the opening strains of a classic melody, the clarinet filling in for the song's back-up voices. The column of silver cupped her hands around the mic and her voice filled the room.
I used to be lunatic from the gracious days
I used to be woebegone and so restless nights
My aching heart would bleed for you to see
Oh but now...
Nicole's voice soared, and the hair on the back of Peter's neck stood up; the music wrapped around him like a lover, enthralling him. He'd heard Annie Lennox perform No More I Love Yous live nearly twenty years ago, but it hadn't moved him like this. The lyrics – without the adornment that the pop star had added – were simple and sad and at the same time, so hopeful.
Peter had become so enraptured by the singer and her voice that it was a shock when the audience burst into rapturous applause, breaking the spell.
Nicole's next piece wasn't a song he recognized, at least not right away. It was moody and dark and it made him want to weep from the heartbreak. It told a tale of someone, alone and lonely, seeking meaningful companionship but only finding surcease in pick-ups and one night stands.
How do you do?
Would you like to be friends?
No, I just want a bed for the night
Someone to tell me they care
You can fake it, that's all right
In the morning I won't be here
Would you like to be friends?
No, I just want a bed for the night
Someone to tell me they care
You can fake it, that's all right
In the morning I won't be here
Peter found himself breathless, waiting on each note, each syllable, the rise and fall of the music's cadence. He'd been in the music business for almost a quarter-century and he'd never, ever, been this affected by a singer.
It was as if Nicole's voice was a magic spell, binding him to the seat and making him feel things he should never have felt. Not for a woman.
Peter's arousal was not only an embarrassment, it was appalling. He was fifty years old and for thirty of those years, he had a profound understanding of himself and his gayness. This reaction was inconceivable and he told himself that it was her talent, her voice, her exquisite musicianship that was doing this to him.
As the applause thundered and Nicole elegantly signaled her appreciation, Peter wondered if there was something called hetero-panic, because he was definitely panicking. And still, he couldn't bring himself to leave and put this feeling behind him, because Nicole had enough talent to be a superstar and he was too much of a businessman to walk away from an opportunity like this.
Maybe he'd take the coat check guy up on his offer and just fuck this feeling away.
Peter let Nicole's performance wash over him as he started building a plan to launch the singer into the stratosphere. In an era of pop stars with interchangeable voices and looks dictated by what was trending on Instagram, Nicole was going to stand out. Her voice was too deep and soulful for Top 40, and that was fine, because she wasn't Top 40 material. She was a hell of a lot better than the auto-tuned wonders that populated that genre. Thinking about it, Peter wondered if her selection of an Annie Lennox hit was good chance or deliberate, because he could see her as a performer in that vein, trading not on her sexuality, but on the power of her voice and her sheer physical presence.
As potent as her talent was, Peter knew he was going to have to work hard to make her the superstar he knew she could be.
At least he didn't have to worry about getting her out of any management or representation contracts. Only unrepresented talent was allowed to perform at Ellington's Thursday night shows. Over the years, Peter had cherry-picked the best of what June had offered, and while none of those talents had ended up with Grammys, they all had lucrative recording contracts and some even made gold records.
Nicole was not only going to continue his winning track record, she was going to run the board.
He listened to her perform Peggy Lee's I Enjoy Being a Girl and was again blown away. It wasn't just the range and power of her voice, but the emotions she conveyed; for this particular song, flirtatious good humor and a happy sexiness poured out of her that had the crowd laughing. The song came to an end and Nicole blew the crowd a kiss and bowed as the curtain dropped. Peter couldn't believe the act was over and as he got to his feet, June took the stage.
"Don't go anywhere; Nicole will be back for a second set that you don't want to miss." June singled the orchestra to play something light as she, too, left the stage.
Doing his best to ignore the lingering effects of his weird arousal, Peter wondered if he could get into the dressing rooms and talk with the singer before she started her second set. As he made his way through the milling audience, his cell phone buzzed.
The vibration was a very specific pattern, one that translated into Morse code for S-O-S. Texts from only two numbers had that ringtone assigned – his mother and Clinton Jones' emergency phone – and neither he couldn't ignore messages from.
He checked the text and it was bad.
Julian Larsen arrested. He's at 20th precinct
Peter sighed in disgust. Instead of going to sign a fabulous new talent, he was going to have to bail out an old has-been. He sent a reply.
Be there in 20 mins. Tell J to keep his mouth shut
Peter looked around the room and spotted June chatting with some guests and made her way over to her.
She smiled when she saw him. "Peter, tell me, what did you think of Nicole?"
"She's brilliant and I want to sign her."
"You need to stay for Nicole's second act."
He shook his head. "I can't – there's an emergency and I've got to go." He fished a business card out of his wallet and gave it to June. "Tell her to call me. But not until Monday – shit's going to hit the fan tonight and I probably won't resurface until then."
June frowned. "I can't give this to Nicole until you see the second act." She pushed the card back at him.
Peter gritted his teeth and shoved the card back into his jacket. Sometimes June could be difficult and protective of the talents she was nurturing, and he'd learned to respect that. "Okay. When will she be back on stage here?"
"Not until the end of June."
"It's only the end of March," Peter growled. His cell buzzed again, the same S-O-S that he couldn't ignore. "Okay – I have to go, but if you can get her to give me a private performance of this mysterious second act, that would be terrific. She's got an incredible voice and stage presence and I can make her into a star."
June gave him an enigmatic smile and said, "I'll see what can be arranged."
"Thank you, June. You are, as always, splendid." He gave her a brief hug before making a dash to the coat check. The 20th Precinct was all the way uptown, on the West Side, and only luck would get him there within the promised twenty minutes.
It was actually close to an hour before the cab dropped him off on 82nd Street. Clinton was sending texts, describing the evening's events in short bursts of one-hundred forty characters. He didn't want to call Peter, too concerned that he'd be overheard.
By the time Peter made his way past the front desk to the holding area, he had a pretty good picture of what had happened, and it was horrible.
To say the least.
As June made her way through the corridor behind the stage to the dressing rooms, she snagged her hosiery on some ancient piece of audio equipment and muttered an unladylike curse. For thirty-five years she'd been complaining about the condition of the backstage area, that it was a fire hazard, but despite her complaints, she had done nothing about it. There were always more important things to deal with.
Like tonight's performance.
She knocked on the dressing room door, right under the large gold star – which had long since lost its luster. The occupant called out, "Who is it?"
"It's me, June."
"Come in."
Neal was wearing a tee shirt and a pair of jeans. The silver lamé dress, "Nicole's" trademark, was hanging in a garment bag, ready to go home. Neal had removed most of the makeup, but his lips were still a shade brighter than their usual color and the remnants of his alter ego's heavy makeup were smudged under his eyes.
"How did I do?" Neal sounded worried, which June thought was so utterly charming. The man had no clue how powerful a performer he was.
"You were fantastic. You know you brought the house down, again. The place was packed, like it was a Saturday night and I had a major headliner on stage." Neal blushed and June hugged him. "You need to be more confident in your talent, Neal."
"I'm just a history teacher who occasionally dresses up and sings torch songs at my godmother's club."
"You may be a history teacher and I may be your godmother, but there's no 'just' about it. You're brilliant – you have a stage presence like I haven't seen since Diana Ross was belting it out uptown with the Supremes."
"Now I know you're joking." But Neal was smiling.
"Okay, then how about Adele before she became a star?" June reached up and rubbed a bit of the smudged mascara off Neal's cheek.
"Okay, that's a little more plausible."
She leaned back against the dressing table. "Any chance I can persuade you to take the stage again before the end of June?"
Neal shook his head emphatically. "You know my schedule. I only perform when I have vacation. It's Spring Break now, and until the semester's over, I won't have any free time."
"What about Memorial Day weekend?"
"That's only a Monday holiday and the club is closed on Monday. I perform on Thursdays and need a whole week of rehearsals. I just can't take off in the middle of the day and come downtown."
"What about if you performed on that Saturday? You could rehearse the weekend before."
Neal looked at her, a quizzical expression on his face. "What's the urgency?"
She licked her lips. "Someone was here tonight."
Neal sucked in his breath. "Someone? Someone like a recording executive?"
"Not quite. Someone better. A talent agent who was very interested in signing ‘Nicole" to an agency contract. Someone who has big plans for her.”
“Her? Your someone better didn’t stay for the second act?”
June lightly slapped Neal's shoulder. “No, he couldn’t. And don't get upset, but I refused to put him in contact with you until he sees the whole act.”
“Smart – this way he knows just what he’s getting.” Neal ran a hand through his hair and frowned at her. “But you know something, I’m not sure I even want to meet your friend. This –" He gestured around him. "- isn't supposed to be my life. "
"But it could be – and a lot more."
"It was a lark – you suggested my voice was more suited to a 1930s cabaret act and the next thing I know, I'm wearing a wig, falsies, silver lamé, and singing torch songs like I'm Karen Akers performing in The Purple Rose of Cairo, except that I'm actually Julie Andrews in Victor/Victoria, putting on a double act." Neal paused and took a deep breath.
"And what's wrong with that?" June understood Neal's reservations, but she believed in him, she believed that there was more to Neal's life than teaching history and grading papers.
"Nothing, but I don't want to start dreaming of things I'll never have or I shouldn't want." Neal smiled ruefully. "I've been down that path, and I don't want you to have to pick me up again. Besides, I love my life, I love teaching. I don't want to give that up."
June understood Neal’s reluctance. He’d been hurt too many times in his short life and it would be a crime to see him hurt again. “Then let’s play it by ear. If you can’t do it in May, then my friend will just have to wait for June.” She chuckled. “That pun was unintentional.”
Neal kissed her cheek. “Of course it was. Shall we go home?”
“Yes, I think that’s a very good idea. It’s late and I’m sure you could use a good night’s sleep.”
Neal shrugged into his coat, hefted the messenger bag that held everything that transformed him into “Nicole” and took the garment bag from the hook on the door. “It’s a good thing tomorrow is still vacation and I don’t have to be at school. Though the new headmaster – head mistress – would probably have my nuts if she knew what I was doing tonight.”
“She’s that bad?”
Neal grimaced. “Yeah.”
June left it at that as they made their way to the front of the club. The staff was efficient and all of the chairs were turned over on the tables, the floor vacuumed, and the glassware taken away for cleaning. Paul, the manager, held her coat.
“Your car is waiting, Miss June. I told Frederick to bring it around.”
“Thank you.” She let him help her into her coat. “I appreciate your forethought.”
“On a night like this, you shouldn’t have to stand at the curb and wait.” Paul turned to Neal. “You were exceptional tonight and I have to say that you are developing quite a following. This was the busiest Thursday we’ve had since you sang just after Christmas. The house was packed, and given the weather, that’s really saying something.”
Even in the dim light, June could see Neal flush with pleasure at the compliment. “Thank you, Paul.”
Paul held the door open, and as promised, Frederick was at the curb with June’s Bentley Continental. He insisted on taking Neal’s garment bag and putting it in the trunk before escorting them both, with an oversized umbrella, the great distance of ten steps from the edge of the club’s awning to the waiting car.
June watched Neal’s profile. She’d known him since he was an infant and she’d watched him grow into the man he was today. She’d witnessed his triumphs and she’d been there for him when tragedy struck, and she would never let him forget that no matter how badly he stumbled, she’d be there to help him get back on his feet.
Neal noticed that she was staring. “What’s the matter? Did I miss some of the mascara?”
“No, just thinking about the past. And the future.” June reached out and took Neal’s hand. “After Byron died, I didn’t know how I was going to be able to go on. My daughters have lives of their own and I dreaded becoming a burden to them. So I bottled everything up and pretended I was okay. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come back into my life.”
Neal took her hand and kissed her fingers. “As much as I’ve helped you, you’ve helped me a thousand times more. I don’t know what I would have done without you. Been living on the streets, most likely.”
“No, Neal – never that. You would have been fine. You’re strong – a lot stronger than you think you are. You just have to remember to keep believing in yourself.” She leaned against Neal, and like a cat accustomed to affection, Neal leaned back against her.
The rest of the trip uptown was spent in companionable silence, although around 42nd Street, June started humming “Lullaby of Broadway” and Neal joined in with the harmony line. It was an old game between them, one she’d played with Neal since he was seven. Even as a child, Neal was always humming or singing and he could magically find the harmony to her melody and then switch to the melody when she shifted to harmony. Byron had liked to joke that Neal was her perfect back-up singer, except when she was Neal's perfect back-up singer.
She'd been a little disappointed that Neal hadn't pursued a singing career, but he'd been given too many other gifts, and it would have been a crime for them to go to waste. By the time he'd graduated high school; Neal was fluent in six languages, had been regional champion in chess, was at the top of his class at Manhattan Prep and had taken enough AP classes to matriculate at Harvard as a sophomore.
Everyone had expected great things from Neal. Not only was he intellectually brilliant, he was charming and people naturally flocked to him. Byron had told her that Neal would be the mayor of New York by the time he was thirty, governor of the state by thirty-six, and President by the time he was forty-five. Neal, for his part, had wanted to join the FBI.
But things hadn't worked out like that. Nothing like that at all.
June rested her head on Neal's shoulder and they hummed "Corner of the Sky". It might be very selfish of her, but she was glad that things hadn't worked out as anyone had planned. Maybe it was time for her to return the favor.
Neal rolled over and slapped at the alarm clock. This was the third time the snooze had gone off and he needed to get his ass in the shower within the next five minutes or he was going to be late. He hated Monday mornings, especially ones that came after a week's vacation. He was constitutionally a night owl, and despite years of getting up before six, he was never going to get accustomed to it.
He dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom, turning the shower on before doing his morning business. The water, just a few degrees shy of scalding, chased the last of the sleep out of his brain. By the time he had finished shaving and grooming, Neal was already running the day's routine through his head. The tenth grade classes in European Studies were about to embark on the causes of World War I. His Advanced Placement students were supposed to be turning in papers on culture and class in the Nineteen Century, and the kids in the Art History elective would be viewing an abundance of Nineteen Century nudes.
On the surface, it should be a good day. The kids would probably lack focus – many of them had travelled during the break and would spend valuable class time catching up with their friends. Neal wasn't a martinet in the classroom; he understood that a little leeway was important, at least for the tenth graders. The AP students needed to focus, especially with the exam coming up in about six weeks.
But underneath the surface was a disgusting mire of ideology-driven politics that was making Neal's tenure – and that of several dozen other teachers at Manhattan Prep – difficult. Two years ago, after making a huge financial donation to the school, Phillip Kramer, extreme right wing radio show host and homophobic gasbag, managed to get a seat on the school's Board of Governors. Although he was only one of seven members, he used his checkbook like a battering ram, promising to pay of all sorts of things the elite school needed, if only they'd see things his way.
The biggest casualty had been Reese Hughes, the school's veteran headmaster, who'd left at the Christmas break. The public word was that he'd taken a well-earned retirement, but the staff knew that Kramer had done his best to push him out because Hughes had laid the groundwork for the school's new equal rights policy – "Dignity for All" – a trailblazing set of rules and guidelines for ensuring proper treatment and accommodations for the school's transgender students.
Something that Kramer found highly offensive and morally wrong.
At first, Neal couldn't figure out why Phillip Kramer was at all interested in Manhattan Prep, a private school with a century old reputation as a training ground for the liberal elite. The school's guiding principles – fairness, justice, and tolerance – were antithetical to the man's own interests. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that Kramer understood the importance of Manhattan Prep to the civic fabric of the city, and he was doing his best to change that. Manhattan Prep's grand liberal tradition was steadily eroding as the trustees and governors were falling under the spell of the vast piles of cash Kramer was promising to donate.
Last week, when he wasn't rehearsing, Neal had met with other like-minded teachers hoping to find some solution to the present crisis. But none of them could offer anything concrete, although after the third bottle of Burgundy, there was a unanimous vote to hire an assassin.
Neal shrugged into his suit coat and picked up his messenger bag. This morning it held his school-dedicated laptop, a pile of graded papers and a dozen other things a dedicated young teacher needed to get through the day. Nicole's music, the make-up, the falsies and false eyelashes were all stowed safely away in his closet.
It would be a disaster of epic proportions if the school – and its current administration – got wind of Neal's moonlighting gig. Hughes' replacement, Amanda Callaway, a southern belle who probably strangled small animals in her spare time, made it clear that the school would now have little tolerance for any behavior that deviated from "good moral standards". She was careful not to use religious terminology, but all of the code words were there.
Although he only wore a dress in his act, it – coupled with his sexual orientation – would probably be enough to get him booted under the new regime. A part of him was tempted to let it happen. June had said she was willing to help pay the legal expenses of fighting the termination, but when Neal really thought about it, he didn't want to have to deal with it at all. There was too much darkness in his past that could be used as ammunition against him.
He headed downstairs and was greeted by the familiar and welcome scent of freshly brewed coffee. Marthé, June's housekeeper, was waiting for him with a travel mug and brown paper bag containing his lunch. Neal took the mug and thanked her gratefully, in Marthé's native French, "I don't know what I'd do without you."
Marthé replied, "If you were straight, you could marry me and I'd bake chocolate croissants for you every morning."
Neal grinned and shifted to English. "You would have me fat?"
"I would have you anyway I could get you."
Neal kissed her cheek and she pinched his ass. "Maybe I should reconsider my sexual orientation, Marthé. You are a woman in her prime. And your croissants are incomparable."
She pushed the bag into his hands and pushed him out the door. "Ah, you stay gay, Mr. Neal – you couldn't keep up with me otherwise."
Neal left the house in a much lighter mood. They'd been having this conversation, or a variation of it, most weekday mornings for the last five years. He caught the express uptown subway that would take him within a few blocks of the school's Morningside Heights campus. Twenty minutes later, Neal was settled in his classroom, waiting for the first bell and the influx of less than eager students reporting to the first homeroom after vacation.
The morning went quickly as Neal kept his students engaged. He loved the pedagogic process, but more than that, he loved seeing the moments when his students understood the relevance of what he was teaching. He talked about the assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and one of the kids brought up an article she'd read in the New York Times last Sunday about whether assassinations could change the course of history, which lead into a spirited discussion about whether it was morally right for a government to try to have the leader of an enemy country killed.
But in the back of his mind, Neal wondered if he was heading into dark territory. Before Callaway came on board, none of the teachers worried about censoring their lectures, but recently, two teachers had been written up for introducing inappropriate content into the classroom. One was Elizabeth Mitchell, a fellow history teacher, who had strongly criticized the FBI's civil rights record in the 1960s. Her lecture was deemed disrespectful and borderline subversive. El had just laughed in Callaway's face and reminded the new principal that she had been a twenty-year veteran of the FBI and was perfectly aware of the Bureau's record – both the good and the bad.
Callaway had backed down and Neal was deeply relieved. Elizabeth Mitchell was one of his closest friends and he didn't know what he would have done if she quit.
The noon bell rang and his students fled for their lockers and the cafeteria. Neal retrieved his bag and headed for the staff lunch room.
The room was packed with teachers and Neal greeted each of them as he passed, declining offers to join various groups when he spotted Elizabeth waving at him from a table in the back of the room.
Neal gave her a brief hug and sat down, noticing how relaxed she looked. "Well, you look like vacation agreed with you."
El laughed. "It most certainly did."
"But I have to say, for someone who just spent a week in Acapulco, it doesn't look like you saw much sun."
"That's because I didn't go to Mexico."
"Oh?" That surprised Neal. "Didn't you promise Dana that the two of you were going to spend a week getting drunk and picking up boys and celebrating her divorce?"
El frowned. "Dana and John decided to try to reconcile again."
"I thought everything was done except for signing the papers."
El shrugged. "I thought so, too. They sold their house; she started a new business and was getting ready for a new chapter in her life. But two days before we were supposed to leave, John showed up and told her that he'd put in his discharge papers. He had a few good job offers and maybe they should try again. So what could I do? Those two have been together since high school. Dana gave me back my money for the trip and John went with her instead."
"But you still went away?"
"Yup."
Neal couldn't help but notice Elizabeth's deep blush and how she toyed with a strand of hair.
"El?"
She bit her lip and looked more like one of the teenagers who roamed the halls than a former FBI agent with a seriously badass reputation.
"Where did you go and more importantly, what did you do?"
"Can't really talk here." El glanced to her right, where Cynthia Watson was sitting. Watson was a new hire, hand-picked by Callaway and someone that Neal had instinctively disliked from the moment they met. Neal thought she was Callaway's eyes and ears and was quick to relay any information to the new principal that she thought could be damaging to the old guard.
"Ah. We'll meet for coffee after work?"
"Yup." El poked at her salad. "So, how was your vacation?"
This time it was Neal who flicked a glance over to Watson. "Did the usual. Spent time with June, caught up with my reading. Saw a new exhibit at the Met. Nothing exciting." Neal unwrapped the sandwich Marthé had made for him. It was tuna, but not like any tuna sandwich he'd ever carried to school as a kid. This had Italian tuna, dressed with good olive oil, lemon zest, green olives and cracked pepper, slices of hard-boiled egg and arugula on a freshly baked baguette. He offered El half.
El took it with a grateful smile and they ate in companionable silence. Another teacher, Taryn Van Der Sant, from the Art Department joined them, and even though Watson had left the room, no one felt any more comfortable talking about personal stuff. El left and Neal chatted with Taryn about the recent Matisse retrospective at the MOMA until the bell rang.
Neal's AP History class was his personal favorite. The class was technically an elective, but like all AP classes at Manhattan Prep, each student needed to be recommended by their prior year's history teacher. The class had a lot of writing requirements – at least four research papers a quarter, plus an orally presented book report each week. While there were always a few students who took the class as something to brag about, most of the students were here because they had a passion for the subject.
Two of his favorite students, Evan Leary and Chloe Woods, were already in the classroom, their heads together, whispering.
They both looked up when he dropped his bag on the desk and pulled out the last set of research essays. "Hope you had a good vacation."
Chloe started rhapsodizing about her trip to Paris and Neal tuned her out. He caught Evan's eye and bit his lip when the kid gave a little shrug. Apparently, he'd heard her travelogue before. Just before the bell rang, the rest of the students piled in.
Neal spent a few minutes lecturing on the birth of the modernist movement in the mid-Nineteenth century before calling on each of the students to lead a fifteen minute discussion on an artist, writer or composer, and how their works either affected or were affected by the political and social upheavals of the period.
Before Spring Break, a few students grumbled about the assignment; not that it was difficult, but that it was due the day after a long vacation. Neal had replied that everyone had a week before the vacation to work on it, so if they planned ahead, there was no need to do it during the break. He was certain that a few of the kids had scrambled over the weekend to finish the work, and some were clearly less prepared than others.
He saved Evan Leary for last of the class, knowing that he was probably the most prepared of all. The kid reminded him a little of himself at that age – fascinated by many things and excelling in almost everything. But there was a big difference between Neal Caffrey at sixteen and young Mr. Leary; he'd been popular, with a dozen friends and an active social life. Evan wasn't. Although he was generally respected by other students, his only close friend was Chloe Woods, who had her own host of issues.
But none of that really mattered at the moment. Evan led the class through a detailed discussion of Emile Zola, Paul Cezanne and Gustav Mahler. Neal thought some of the connections, particularly between the writer and the musician, were tenuous, but overall, it was an A-worthy effort.
Five minutes before the bell, he gently ended Evan's presentation by announcing that he'd graded and was returning the last set of papers. The school used an assignment portal and students submitted their work on-line, but Neal liked to print everything out and return the work by hand. He felt it created a better connection between him and his students.
"Good work, everyone." He put the papers face down on the students' desks and, according to classroom rules, waited for the bell to ring and left the classroom before letting the kids look at their grades.
Some people thought he was wasted as a teacher. June wanted him to sing professionally. His parents, before everything crashed so disastrously, had urged him to study law as a stepping stone to politics. He'd even dreamed of joining the FBI (something he'd never shared with Elizabeth). But those plans had been derailed – not by fate but bad choices that followed a shocking revelation. Now, at thirty-six, he was mostly happy. Despite the crap going on with the school administration, he loved teaching. He had friends he valued and knew valued him. He got the chance to perform whenever he wanted and made June very happy doing so.
Once, during the worst time of his life, a friend had asked him what he wanted out of life. He'd said that his needs were simple – meaningful work, enough money to live comfortably, and to be surrounded by people who cared about him.
He had that and considered himself blessed.
Neal waited by the door for his students to leave. This, too, was part of his rules. Not that he would discuss grades, but it was his way of letting the kids know he was watching out for them. Not that they had anything to worry about. There were twelve students in his AP European History class and he marked each paper with some variation of A-, A or A+, and each of those grades were well-earned and fully justified.
The kids raced out of the classroom, and each one of them gave him some acknowledgement before melting into the general chaos. He had one more class before the end of the day, an elective in Art History. Two seniors, who weren't in his Advance Placement class, greeted him and Neal followed them back into the classroom.
Evan and Chloe were still there, and Evan – helpful nerd that he was – had the wide screen monitors on and the program with the day's subject loaded into the classroom computer. One of Cezanne's Tahitian beauties was vying for attention with an Ingres nude.
The forty-five minutes went as quickly as they always did when he had truly engaged students, but by the time the bell rang, Neal was as grateful as the kids that the school day – at least the teaching portion – was over.
Evan asked, "Do you want me to pack up the equipment, Mr. Caffrey?"
"Nah, you and Chloe should get going."
Chloe smiled and tugged on Evan's sweater. "Come on, I want to go to Forbidden Planet – they're holding the new edition of Abe Sapien for me, but only until the end of the day and I don't want to miss it. My dad gave me money – so we can have dinner. My treat."
Neal watched the two of them as they left the room, practically joined at the hip. Evan was a scholarship student and Chloe came from old New York money. On paper, their friendship was highly improbable, but in reality, it worked and worked well. Much like Elizabeth's friendship with a certain bald and bespectacled former chemistry teacher.
Which reminded Neal that he was supposed to meet El for coffee this afternoon. He pulled out his phone and sent her a text. Still on for coffee?
His phone chimed with El's response just as he'd finished shutting down the various electronics in the classroom and packing up his papers.
Sure. See you there by 3:30.
Since it was already ten past three, Neal had to hustle. Daniel Pikah, one of the math teachers, waved at him. Neal waved back, but didn't stop. Dan was a good guy, but a little strange, and would talk your ear off for an hour if you let him.
Not that El would be annoyed if he was a few minutes late. Neal rushed to the coffee shop – one of those old fashioned places with cracked vinyl booths and mostly terrible drip coffee. He liked to meet El here because it was too un-hip to be considered cool by even the most ironic standards, no self-respecting student would be caught dead inside the place. They could talk freely, something impossible on school grounds these days.
El was sitting in their usual booth near the back, a troubled – almost sad – expression on her face.
"What's the matter?"
El turned the newspaper she was reading towards him. "Julian Larsen was arrested for murdering his wife."
Neal frowned. He had no idea who Julian Larsen was. "I'm sorry?"
"I forget that you're such a baby. Julian Larsen was the lead singer for Zen and the hottest thing in leather pants. I was soooo in love with him when I was sixteen."
Neal vaguely remembered that Zen was a rock band from the '80s. "British New Wave, right?"
"Right." El frowned again and took the paper back. "Says that he pushed his wife down the stairs. Drugs and alcohol were involved. I'd say 'so sad' but she was a real bitch – and half his age."
Neal wanted to make a quip about how these May-December romances rarely work out, but Julian Larsen's situation struck a little too close to home.
El closed the newspaper and with a practiced flick of her wrist, tossed it onto the table next to their booth. "So, tell me – how did Thursday night really go? I was really sorry I missed your performance."
"It went fine. I opened with the Annie Lennox – "
"The Gift or No More I Love You's?"
"No More I Love You's. June thinks the other song is just too sad for an opener."
"And did you do the Janis Ian?"
"Of course – but The Pick Up, not From Me to You. The band at Ellington's couldn't get the bridges right. They're like little mazurkas and the three-part syncopation was driving them crazy."
El smiled at him but there was a bit of confusion in her eyes, and Neal laughed. "Sorry – I can get lost in the music."
"It's okay. What else did you sing?"
"I closed the first set with I Enjoy Being a Girl."
El burst out laughing, "You're evil, you know that? But what about the second set – that's the one that really counts."
Neal wasn't so sure he agreed with her, but was too much of a gentleman to argue. "I opened with Feel Like Makin' Love."
"Oooh, I love that song. I never know whether I want to dance or jump someone's bones when I hear it."
"El!" Elizabeth had a way of saying the most outrageous things and Neal considered himself fairly unshockable these days.
"What else?"
"Fields of Gold."
"Don't think I know that one."
"It's by Sting." Neal hummed a few bars and El nodded.
"Yeah, not one of my favorites."
"Not one of mine, either. And the crowd agreed. I'm cutting it."
"And what was your big finish?"
"Wicked Game."
"I bet you had the audience on their feet for that one."
Neal smiled at the memory. "Yeah, it was a good performance."
The waitress finally came over. "Sorry for the delay, folks, you want your usual?"
Both he and El nodded, and El added, "Could you bring a cup of tea, too? Someone else will be joining us."
The waitress left and Neal gave El a puzzled look. Afterschool coffee was a ritual between just the two of them.
"Moz is coming." There was something in her eyes that made Neal believe that her friendship with the former chemistry teacher had changed.
Neal gave El a sly grin. "So, where did you and Moz go for vacation?"
"How the hell did you know that I went with Mozzie?"
"Lucky guess."
El shook her head. "You would have made an excellent FBI agent, you know that? All you'd have to do is smile and you get a confession."
Neal leaned back against the booth and sipped his coffee. "So, spill. Where did you and Moz go?"
"Colorado."
"That's not the answer I was expecting."
El was giving him the stare of death. "If you tell anyone – and I mean anyone – I'll make you wish you'd never been born."
Such threats were very uncharacteristic of her. "Why?"
"Because we went on a pot tour." Moz slipped into the booth next to Elizabeth. "Can you imagine what Callaway would do to her if she found out? Despite the fact that cannabis is legal in Colorado."
Neal laughed. "So you spent your week off getting stoned, eating vast quantities of junk food, and having wild sex."
Since Moz was fussing with his tea and blushing like an eighteenth century virgin, Elizabeth answered, "Yes, no, and yes. No junk food in this temple." She rubbed Mozzie's chest. "Just lots of high quality baked goods."
Neal snorted at the double-entendre. He had to ask, "Did you try the Rocky Mountain Oysters?"
Moz sniffed. "Don't be ridiculous, Neal. Oysters need ocean water currents to grow, and Colorado is about as far from the ocean as you can get."
Elizabeth whispered in Moz's ear and Neal enjoyed watching his friend turn even brighter red.
Moz recovered and said repressively, "No, we didn't eat any bovine testicles."
Neal let El and Moz do all the talking, content to listen to them talk about all the things they did (seven different types of weed, a few concerts) and all the things they didn't do (skiing, snowboarding, basically anything that meant being outdoors and getting cold). Their conversation washed over him and at the moment, the only thing that could have made him happier was if there was someone in the booth next to him and sharing his life.
It had been a long, long time since he craved companionship. Almost too long.
GO TO PART TWO
Tags:
- character: bancroft,
- character: clinton jones,
- character: daniel picah,
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: garrett fowler,
- character: june ellington,
- character: mozzie,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: peter burke,
- character: philip kramer,
- genre: abuse,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: badassery,
- genre: emotional trauma,
- genre: friendship,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: romance,
- genre: ust,
- kink: oral sex,
- pairing: elizabeth/mozzie,
- pairing: neal/adler,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- wc verse: torch song,
- written for: wcrbb,
- year: 2015
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no subject
Date: 2015-07-02 06:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-07-02 06:13 pm (UTC)