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elrhiarhodanTitle: Torch Song – Part Two 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.
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.
__________________
By the time Thursday rolled around, Peter wished he had an ordinary job and an ordinary life. Maybe an accountant, a number cruncher who went home after an eight hour day, had a dog, a husband, a few kids and a big house in the suburbs.
Usually, he lived for the deal, flying out to the West Coast on a moment's notice to meet with industry executives or spending his evenings checking out new acts – looking for the latest hidden gem that was just waiting for the right push to get to the top of the charts.
But not this week. Since last Thursday night, he and his team had once again been fully engaged in damage control mode.
Julian Larsen, his oldest client, had been arrested for murdering his wife in a fit of jealous, drugged-out rage.
As an agent, he really wasn't responsible for anything more than getting Julian work, whether that was a part in a movie, a contract for a solo album and tour, or his latest venture, a reality television show. But his relationship with Julian was more than agent and client. Julian saw him more as a friend and those feelings were reciprocated. So, when the shit hit the fan, Peter Burke's number was the first one on Julian's speed dial.
Peter hadn’t answered his phone last Thursday, so the next person he’d called was Clinton Jones, Peter’s right hand at the agency. Clinton did what was needed – he called the best criminal defense attorney in the city and made sure that no one at the police station said a damn word to anyone.
Julian Larsen might not have been all that headline worthy as a rock star but he was as the star of a highly rated reality television show, and the public would eat up any scandal he was part of.
Actually, the television show had been Julian's wife's idea. Chantal had been a supermodel, but now was on the downward slid to thirty, and desperate to keep some measure of fame. She'd been rather brutally rejected as a "Real Housewife" and latched onto the idea that the whole world would be interested in the day-to-day shenanigans of her and her bad-boy rock star husband, Julian Larsen, the former front man for the 1980s superband, Zen.
Julian hadn't been too keen on the idea – he thought he was too young, still too much of a rock star, to indulge in something that was the province of aging musicians too pathetically desperate to fade into obscurity. But Chantal wore him down – those were his exact words – and for the sake of marital peace, he begged Peter to get him some kind of television deal.
Which Peter had. For the last three years, Julian and Chantal’s marriage had been slowly breaking apart on camera, amid mutual accusations of drug use, alcoholism, and infidelity. Each week, the ratings climbed higher and higher as they metaphorically cut pieces out of each other in front of the dozens of cameras set up in their Upper East Side townhouse.
By the end of the first season, Julian had wanted out of the show, but had been persuaded to sign on for a second season. By the end of that year, he had wanted out of both the show and the marriage, but Chantal was clinging to both. Over lunch shortly after the second season had started filming, Julian had begged Peter to get him out of the contract and he’d hinted that Chantal was holding something over his head.
Peter had sipped his wine and asked, “Blackmail?” He wouldn't have been surprised if the answer was yes. Peter had known Julian for a long time and there were a lot of skeletons in the man's closet.
Julian had grimaced and signaled the waiter for a refill on his scotch. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“Ah.” Peter wasn’t terribly sympathetic. He had told Julian that living a lie – especially for someone in the public eye – was dangerous.
“I’ll be ruined if she goes public.”
“Only in the short term, or maybe not at all. It’s a different world these days. You might find yourself surprised.”
“I doubt it. Not for men like me.”
Peter wasn't sure he agreed, but he had changed the subject. “You’ll take a big hit if I get the network to cancel.”
“I have reserves.”
“Not if Chantal sues you for divorce and tries to add the loss of income from the show to her claims. You’d be wiped out.”
The waiter had come back with Julian’s drink and he'd downed it in one gulp. “I’m tempted to let it all go, Peter. I can’t go on like this.”
But he had, even signing a contract for a third season, and the drama of the Larsens' marriage continued to escalate, as did the show's ratings. Every few months, Peter would have lunch with Julian and listen to him rant about the show, his music, and his wife. He was living in hell, but she seemed to think everything was perfect.
And maybe for her, it was, until she went headfirst down a marble staircase during a blistering argument with her husband.
Ironically, the show that Julian despised was what saved him. The cameras had been recording – they always were – and it was someone from the production team in the truck parked on the street that had called 9-1-1 to report the accident.
The police had taken one look at Mrs. Larsen, blonde, elegant and very much dead at the foot of the steps, and then looked at her husband, unkempt, bruises on his face, and very much drunk. They made assumptions based on the evidence at hand, and arrested Julian for Chantal's murder.
It had taken Sara Ellis, one of the best criminal attorneys in the city, three days to pry the video of Chantal Larsen's fall out of the production company. The recordings showed that yes, Julian and Chantal were furiously arguing, and yes, Julian had been drinking. But Julian hadn't laid a hand on his wife; she was the one who had gotten physical and taken a swing at her husband. Julian had let her hit him once and tried to walk away. Chantal, however, wasn't ready to give up and took another swipe at him. Unfortunately, she was standing at the top of the grand staircase, and when Julian dodged her swing, she lost her balance and fell.
All the way down thirty-six marble-clad steps.
Faced with incontrovertible evidence that Chantal Larsen's death was an unfortunate accident, the district attorney dropped the charges. The media, though, was already primed by over two years of televised marital dysfunction and were on Julian like lions scenting blood. Every time he stepped out of his townhouse, they mobbed him. What had the Larsens been arguing about that Chantal, who was such a delicate and gentle beauty, wanted to hit her brutish husband? What dark and terrible secret was Julian Larsen hiding?
All this drama meant more work for Peter – recording executives to placate, concert promoters to soothe, interference to run with all sorts of media people. Of course, the television production company wanted a piece out of Julian's hide – they wanted to continue to film now that Julian was cleared. The latest episode of "Life in a Zen Garden" had broken all viewing records.
Peter called on the cadre of entertainment lawyers he kept on retainer and had them go to work, getting Julian out of the contract. Julian, for his part, stopped production by ripping the cameras out of his house and taking off to someplace where no one could find him, not even telling Peter where he was going.
He had just stopped by Peter's office, a duffle bag over one shoulder and a guitar case in his hand. "You need me, send me an email. I'll get back to you eventually. You have my power of attorney and I trust you to deal with everything."
Peter gave Julian a brief hug. "Take care of yourself, friend."
"I will."
Peter watched the man leave and went over to the small bar area and contemplated pouring himself a stiff drink. It was a little past noon and he'd been awake for the better part of three days. Scotch wasn't a good idea right now. Nor was more coffee.
The truth was, he needed sleep. Between spending last week salvaging Alex Hunter's recording contracts and this week with Julian problems, he deserved at least a month in Tahiti. But the closest he was going to come to that sort of rest and relaxation would be his two o'clock massage appointment and a ten minute post-massage power nap.
A knock interrupted his contemplation.
"Boss?" It was Clinton and he had a folder in his hand.
"If you tell me it's bad news, or that another client is having a public meltdown, or someone died, or was murdered, or anything else that's going to put this firm back into damage control mode, I'm firing you."
"Then I guess you don't want my letter of resignation."
Peter stared at Clinton, unable to believe what his ears had just heard.
Clinton smiled. "Gotcha."
"That wasn't funny, Mr. Jones."
"It's April first, I could have been a lot crueler."
Peter huffed a sigh and shook his head. He hadn't even realized the date. "What do you have there?"
"Just the candidates for the Manhattan Prep summer internship. I've looked through them and pulled the top five. I don't know why you don't let the junior staff handle this."
Peter took the folder from Clinton. "We have this conversation every year. I do this myself because it's important to me. I was a scholarship student at that school and I got a big start with my own internship."
"So this is paying it back."
"Yeah." Peter felt strongly about his connection to the school and frequently donated to the scholarship fund. If he wasn't so damn busy all the time, he'd have taken the school up on their offer of a seat on the Board of Governors.
Clinton said, apropos of nothing, "You look like you could use a vacation. I know you thrive on the business, but I think it's taking its toll on you."
"Thanks. And it's not the business, but the constant crisis mode. Give me a forty-eight hour marathon negotiating session for the next big thing, and I'll be fine." Peter then remembered something. "Speaking of the next big thing, I didn't get the chance to tell you about the new act I caught at Ellington's."
"When was this?"
"The night that Julian was arrested. Your text came just as the first set ended."
"Singer?"
"Brilliant. Her name is Nicole and she has 'star' written all over her."
"What's she like?"
Peter thought for a moment, trying to find a way to describe the singer and not his rather unwelcome reaction to her. "Annie Lennox's range, Adele's power, and the stage presence of a young Diana Ross."
"Wow – that's quite a combination. When do we start work on her?"
"Have to sign her first."
"And that's a problem?"
"June's being protective – won't even give me an introduction until I see Nicole's second act."
"That seems a little bizarre. What's the problem?"
Peter shook his head. "Don't know – but June has her ways and I've known her too long to try to get around them. If she says I have to wait, I wait."
"And when can we go see this all-important second act?"
Peter sighed. "That's the problem – Nicole won't be performing again until the end of June."
Clinton was as flabbergasted as Peter had been. "Seriously? You have to be kidding me."
"I'm not. That's what June told me and we don't have a choice."
"Maybe this Nicole's performing elsewhere."
"I doubt it – it was New Artist Thursday at Ellington's, and June's pretty strict about acts she gives a boost to." Peter scrubbed his face, feeling every day of his fifty years. "You know, I'm going to give her a call – maybe I can get her to change her mind."
Clinton wished him luck and left as Peter tried - and failed - to stifle a yawn. Before he forgot, he called June.
"Peter, this is a surprise. I heard what happened with Julian."
"Yeah, so you know it's been a week from hell."
"But you got him off."
"Yeah, he's out of jail and free as a bird, but I really had nothing to do with it. His lawyer was the one who forced the production company to release the video. I can't even imagine why they thought it would be a good idea to hold that back."
"You can't?" Peter could hear the laugher in June's voice.
"No, you're right. Of course I can. They thought they were sitting on a gold mine and would make a fortune airing it just at the right time. Or milking Julian for it. Anyway – that's all settled and Julian Larsen's out of my hair for the next few months."
"Unless he gets himself in trouble again."
"That's true. But like you always tell me; don't buy trouble when it's not on sale."
"Yes, I do say that. So, Peter – why are you calling?"
"Your prodigy, Nicole. I really want to get her under contract."
"I know you do, but you know what I told you. You need to see her second act."
"I don't understand why," Peter growled in frustration.
"Because I said so. Besides, you wouldn't buy a house without looking in all the rooms, no matter how much you liked what you saw."
"True. But you're making me wait until the end of June, June."
"That's when Nicole will be back on stage. And before you ask, Nicole's not performing anywhere else in the interim."
"You're a cruel woman, June Ellington."
"Tell you what, why don't you come for dinner tomorrow night. It's been too long since you've been here. Maybe you can use your persuasive talents to convince me to change my mind."
Peter mentally reviewed his calendar. He was fairly certain he had nothing booked, not for work and not for pleasure. It was kind of pathetic to realize he hadn't had a date in almost a year. "I'd be delighted."
"Good. You won't mind an early dinner, say six? I have to be at the club by eight, and that should give us time to talk."
"No, not at all. Six is fine. I'll see you then." Peter hung up and tried to ignore the slight churning in his gut. June had an agenda. She wanted something from him, and if it meant getting access to Nicole, Peter was probably going to give it to her.
♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫
"Are you free tonight, darling?"
To Neal's surprise, instead of Marthé, June was waiting for him in the front parlor on Friday morning. He kissed her cheek. "Yes – no, I have no plans."
"Good, I'm having a friend over and I'd love for you to join us."
"Friend?" Neal raised a hopeful eyebrow. Despite his urgings, June hadn't dated or seen anyone socially since Byron had died, claiming that the club provided her with all the companionship she needed.
June shook her head, dashing Neal's hopes. "Peter's an old friend; I've known him for over thirty years. He used to work at the club."
Neal nodded, distracted by the busy day ahead. "Okay – I'll be there." It wasn't like he had any plans for the evening and could always make an early exit if the company was tedious.
He kissed June's cheek again, took his coffee and lunch and all but ran to the subway so he wouldn't be late.
When Neal got home, Marthé was supervising a trio of maids cleaning the downstairs. She smiled at him and beckoned. "Mrs. June asked me to give you this." She handed him an envelope.
Neal kissed Marthé's cheek as he took the envelope. "Merci, m'dear."
"Don't start something you're not prepared to finish, Mr. Neal. You're a bad gay man for trying to seduce poor Marthé."
Neal chuckled and shook his head. "If I was to turn straight, it would be for you and only for you."
She swatted his backside and laughed. "I live in hope, Mr. Neal."
Neal grinned and headed upstairs before reading the note. It was from June.
Amused at the formality of June's note, Neal tucked it into a book he was reading. June – with three daughters and two granddaughters – was certainly conversant with modern technology and she could text and tweet with the best of them, but with Neal, she preferred to communicate in a more old-fashioned, and as she liked to say, more gracious style. Hence the handwritten note on embossed stationary instead of a terse, one-hundred forty character instruction.
Friday night at the Ellington mansion was once a time for a certain level of formality. Although this was one of the busiest nights at the club, Byron and June always tried to have a traditional family dinner, a time for good manners and good company – musicians and luminaries from the music industry were often in attendance early in the evening, before a performance. Neal could remember, even as a little boy, coming over with his parents, wearing his best clothes. By the time he was ten, he was expected to contribute to the conversation, sharing something about school or something he'd learned. He'd come to love those Friday night dinners and missed them, so he certainly didn't mind June's request for formality.
It was a little after four and that gave him time to shower and, before changing into the required suit, he'd have time to grade a handful of exams from his tenth grade European History class.
The ninety minutes he'd allotted passed quickly and the faint sound of Bugsy's yapping barks all the way from the first floor broke his concentration. It was a few minutes after six and just about time for him to get dressed.
Six-thirty sharp and wearing a black wool and silk Devore suit – one that Byron had ordered, but had never worn – plus a narrow sky-blue Armani tie that had been a gift from June last Christmas, he headed downstairs. He could hear June and her guest talking, probably about old times, how the city and the music scene used to be. Or so he assumed.
Neal went into the front parlor and thought, Never assume, that makes an ass out of you and me.
June greeted him with a warm smile and introduced him to her guest. Peter Burke.
A god in silver-gray Brioni.
After everything he'd been through, Neal thought he had no more vulnerabilities; that all of his fatal weaknesses has been exorcised.
How wrong he was.
♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫
Peter had vague memories of June's godson – he'd met him a few times at the Friday dinners June and Byron used to host. As an intern at Ellington's, and then a few years later, when he'd worked as an assistant to booking manager during the summer, between semesters at Harvard, he'd become close with June and Byron and often been invited to dinner. The daughters of the house had flirted, and Peter had been gracious and gallant and made no bones about why he wasn't interested in them that way. If he closed his eyes, he could recall a boy with dark curls and blue eyes.
Peter couldn't remember ever actually speaking to the godson, but could remember being mildly impressed at how self-possessed and well-spoken the boy was; able to converse with the adults without any shyness or hesitation.
June had mentioned that Neal would be joining them for dinner tonight and before Peter could ask about him, she changed the subject. While she was adamant about not allowing him to meet Nicole until he saw her complete performance, there were a few other singers she thought he should consider representing – some performing at Ellington's, others that were at other clubs or still waiting for any kind of break.
Peter took the names and promised to look at each act. The promise wasn't hollow politeness made out of respect. June had the vision to see nascent talent, but even better, she could also see when that talent had the drive and discipline to go beyond the small stage without falling apart. He trusted her – which was why he'd answered her summons to see Nicole last week and why he was willing to wait until he could see the entire act.
"There's plenty to keep you busy until June, when you'll be able to see Nicole."
Peter nodded and bit his tongue. It wasn't as if he didn't have a hundred other clients and a busy agency to manage.
The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs distracted him. Ah, the godson. Peter stood when June did and plastered a bland smile on his lips.
It was a good thing he did that because if he hadn't, his jaw would have hit the floor. Yes, the godson still had dark curls and blue eyes, but he couldn't match the gorgeous man in the sharply cut black with the pre-teen of his memories.
He heard June make the introductions. "Neal, please come meet my old friend, Peter Burke. You may remember him from Friday night dinners when you were a boy."
Neal looked from June to him, head tilted and a searching expression in his eyes. When Neal's lips curved into a slight smile, Peter thought he'd died and gone to heaven, because only angels smiled that sweetly. And then he tried not to blush at the utter ridiculousness of that thought.
"I have to apologize, but I don't remember you at all." Neal held out his hand.
Peter managed to find his tongue and get his brain in gear. He shook Neal's hand and replied, "That's okay – it's been a while, and I don't think a dorky twenty-something would have made much of an impression on you when you're ten or eleven." And he wanted to dig a hole to climb into. Nice way to point out the age difference.
June disagreed with that self-assessment. "You weren't dorky, Peter. You were a lovely young man." She turned to Neal. "Are you sure you don't remember Peter?"
Neal kept looking at him as if he was trying to remember. Finally, he shook his head. "Sorry, but no, I don't. Don't be offended, though – I don't remember meeting Ed Koch or Carly Simon or Woody Allen, either, even though June's told me that I was there when they came for dinner."
Peter replied, "That's okay. But I have to say I do remember you."
"You do?" Neal actually blushed. "I hope I behaved myself."
"You certainly did – I remember being impressed with your encyclopedic knowledge of the collected works of Carl Sagan – particularly Broca's Brain."
Neal's blush burned a little brighter. "I was a precocious little snot."
June interrupted. "Not in the least. You were a charming boy." She held out her hands to both men. "And now you have the pleasure of escorting me into the dining room."
The room was as beautiful as Peter remembered, set with elegant china and silver and crystal. A pair of maids in formal service attire stood ready.
June sat, quite appropriately, at the head of the table and kept the conversation flowing, even as the various courses of the meal arrived.
"You know, Peter, other than the obvious – you and Neal have a lot in common."
Before Peter could ask what June meant by obvious, Neal said, "What do you mean, 'other than the obvious'?"
June leaned back in her chair and delicately patted her lips with her napkin. Her eyes twinkled with mischief as she said, "Well, you're both good looking, single, and lead busy and interesting lives."
There was a strange, almost relieved expression on Neal's face, but that was less interesting than the subtext of June's comment. Was Neal gay? Peter mentally shook himself. Even if such a splendid creature as Neal Caffrey did bat for the same team that he did, there was no reason to think that he'd be interested in a man at least fifteen years his senior. And rather than wade into those waters, Peter picked up the first conversational gambit that June had tossed out. "Okay, but what else do we have in common?"
"Like you, Neal's a graduate of Manhattan Prep. And he teaches there now."
Peter knew that Neal had been a student at his alma mater. Byron had bragged about his godson almost as much as he had about his own flesh and blood. But he didn't know that Neal had returned as a teacher. "Oh? What do you teach?"
"European history."
Peter smiled. "One of my favorite subjects. Was Reese Hughes still teaching when you were there?"
Neal nodded. "Yes, he was until they made him Headmaster. I think he sometimes regretted taking that position. He once confided to me that as an administrator, he often felt sidelined from the process of education."
"I think I read in the alumni newsletter that he just retired."
Neal made a face. "Yeah, but it really wasn't his choice."
"Oh?"
"I guess you haven't been keeping up with all the happenings at Manhattan Prep."
Peter shook his head. "No, I wish I could be more involved with the school, but I'm traveling about two weeks out of every month. They've asked me to take a seat on the Board of Governors. I had to decline; that's almost a full time job and I wouldn't be doing the school any justice if I did."
Neal made a slight grimace. "I can understand that. What do you do?"
June answered, "Peter is a talent agent."
Alarm bells started ringing in Neal's head and he wondered if Peter was the agent that had been at the club last week. Peter talked a little about the music business, sharing a few choice anecdotes and Neal relaxed. By the time the main course was served, he decided that Peter hadn't been the one who'd seen the first half of Nicole's act.
June kept a light hand on the conversational reins and the three of them talked about local politics, including the performance of the city's not-so-new mayor, Bill De Blasio, a relatively recent movie that both June and Peter had liked – The Tree of Life – but Neal had found tedious in the extreme, and by the time dessert – crème brûlée – was served, the talk finally turned back to business – the decay of the local music scene.
June delicately licked her spoon and said, "I still can't believe that CBGB is gone."
Peter laughed. "It's been over nine years since it was shut down. And since when have you been a fan of punk rock?"
"It's not that I was a fan of the music played there, Peter. It's the loss of a tradition – a fixture in the New York scene, the history of the place. So much happened there. And now it's just another high-rent tenant selling overpriced clothing to yummy mummies who have no clue. That could happen to Ellington's someday."
"June, no!" Neal echoed Peter's own sense of outrage. "You own the building, nothing's going to happen to force the club out."
"But time does march on and I won't be around forever." June smiled, as if to soften the trauma her words were causing. "My girls are doctors and lawyers and politicians, and that's what Byron and I wanted for them, but there will come a time – hopefully not soon – when the last song will be sung at Ellington's."
Peter understood what June was saying, but he wanted to deny it. It was impossible to contemplate a world without Ellington's.
"I'm sorry – I didn't mean to end the meal on such a maudlin note." June signaled to one of the maids to clear away the dishes and bring a selection of digestifs.
Peter wasn't particularly fond of sweet liquor and elected to have another cup of June's excellent Italian Roast. June had a small glass of Frangelico, but Neal seemed to share his love of coffee.
June looked at Neal. "You and Peter have another point in common."
"Oh?"
"You're both Harvard grads."
Neal looked at him with respect. "Why am I not surprised. What did you study?"
"I was a math major and then went to Business School. You?"
"I had a stellar liberal arts education – majored in history, minored in literature and Renaissance studies, started a master's degree in early modern cultural history. Pretty much left me fit to either teach or serve terrible coffee at Starbucks while pretending to write the Great American Novel."
"Don't talk yourself down, Neal." June gently slapped at Neal's hand. "You had a marvelous education and you are putting it to splendid use." She turned to Peter. "Neal graduated magna cum laude in three years. He pretends to be a dilettante, but he's nothing shy of a genius."
Peter nodded. "Harvard in three years, that's impressive."
Neal muttered into his coffee, clearly embarrassed. "It was stupid."
From the front parlor, they heard a clock start to chime and June stood up. "That, my dears, means it's time for me to go." Peter and Neal both got up, but she gestured for them to sit back down. "I have to get to the club, but the two of you should relax, get to know each other a little better. I think you'll find you really do have a lot in common."
At that, June swept out of the room, her carriage as regal as ever. In the somewhat awkward silence that followed, Peter gave Neal a wry smile. "Don't let me keep you. I can stay until June's on her way downtown."
Neal shook his head. "No, that's okay. I have no plans for the night – other than grading papers."
"Do you like teaching?"
"I do – very much. But I'm lucky. I don't know if I'd take as much pleasure in my work if I was at a public school, with hundreds of students and little opportunity to teach something other than what's on the latest state-mandated curriculum. Or if I could do little more than prepare students for the mass testing public school kids now have to go through."
Peter was curious about Neal – it was so clear he was a hell of a lot more than just another very pretty face. "Did you always want to teach?"
"Yes and no. I was always inspired by history and wanted to immerse myself in it, which meant teaching at some level. But I had other interests too – and Byron and June encouraged me to explore them."
"What sort of interests?"
Neal stared into his coffee cup, as if the dregs of the cappuccino held all the answers in the universe. "A few things. For a while, I wanted to follow my father into law enforcement."
"Oh?"
"Yeah – my dad was a cop. He was … killed … in the line of duty when I was fourteen."
Peter wondered at the pause in Neal's explanation, but all he said was, "I'm sorry."
Neal shrugged. "It's okay, I guess. I thought I'd apply to the FBI – because there's nothing more ridiculous than a city cop with an Ivy League degree."
"What happened? Why didn't you?"
Neal shrugged again and made a face. "Decided a life of bad suits and worse coffee wasn't for me."
Peter knew that there was a hell of a lot that Neal wasn't saying, but this wasn't the time to press.
"I travelled for a few years after college. Went to Europe, got a different perspective on life."
That was something Peter could understand. He waited for Neal to add something about his travels, but instead, Neal shifted the conversation to him.
"What about you? How did you get into the talent business?"
"Byron Ellington."
"Really? You know, June never said how you met except that you worked at the club a long time ago. You must have been close to have been invited to Friday night dinners."
"Yeah, we were. You know about the senior internship program at Manhattan Prep, right?"
"Of course I do. I went through it, too."
"Well, Byron had offered one. It was the chance to see how Ellington's operated. The problem was that you had to be seventeen. It was a nightclub, after all, which meant that very few students qualified. And the pool was even smaller because Byron limited it to scholarship students only."
Neal commented, "He'd been a scholarship student, himself."
"That's right, and he wanted to give kids who didn't have that 'damn silver spoon' a chance to get a leg up."
"Sounds like Byron."
"Anyways, I showed up at the club – this big, gangly white kid who couldn't hold a tune – and he took one look at me and said 'I guess you'll have to do'. The first week, I swept the floors, washed the glasses, and basically served as unpaid help."
"Yes, that definitely sounds like Byron."
"The second week, when he asked me what I thought of the place, I mentioned to him that the assistant manager was stealing tips and taking home half-empty bottles of whiskey."
"And I bet Byron just nodded and said, 'good work, kid – glad to see you've got eyes in your head'."
Peter laughed. "How the hell did you know that?"
"I didn't intern at the club, but I worked there during the summers. Byron knew all about Marty and his sticky fingers, but Marty was related to the Masuccis. Not the crime family, but the ones who were big in Latin music. If it meant getting some high class acts for the club – "
"It was worth putting up with some pilfering and giving the staff a little extra under the table every week."
Neal laughed. "Of course you'd know that."
"Yeah. After I told Byron about Marty, he let me work with him in the back office – watching him book acts, balance the booze bill, schmooze with the suppliers. I fell in love with the industry – especially working with the talent."
"And that's when you decided you were going to be a talent agent?"
It was Peter's turn to shrug. "I wasn't sure right then, but Byron and June gave me direction and a lot of help. I had a real job there during my first summer after high school and for the first two years of college. Byron was always introducing me to people, giving me opportunities that I probably would never have had otherwise. Between my junior and senior year, I had another internship – but this time at the William Morris Agency."
"Then B-school."
"Yup, and back to William Morris for a few more years, this time as an employee."
"Bet those days were fun." Neal smiled and Peter was enchanted with how his eyes crinkled.
"I worked hard, but I got to play hard, too."
"And it didn't matter that you were gay. Back in the nineties, the entertainment business was probably one of the few that were openly tolerant of our kind."
Of our kind… Peter blinked at that. "How did you ...? You're gay?"
"For a smart man, you are rather oblivious to the obvious. June's little comment about us both being single men? She was matchmaking all evening."
Peter felt the heat of embarrassment scald his cheeks. "I wasn't sure and I didn't want to assume." He could only imagine how ridiculous this must have seemed to Neal.
"Assume away, Peter."
Peter felt something flutter under his ribcage at the way Neal said his name – it was full of challenge. And promise. "I have a hard time believing that you're single."
"Why?"
"Look at yourself."
Neal grimaced. "I'd rather not."
"I don't mean that you're just a pretty face." And a smoking hot body.
"Yes, you do."
Peter opened his mouth to object, but Neal cut him off. "It's okay – I know what most guys think when they look at me."
"What do you think they think?" Peter didn't like the bitterness in Neal's tone.
"Underwear model. Nothing more than good packaging and not a lot between the ears."
Peter tried not to sputter and as he recovered, he could see just that happening. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be silly – there's nothing to apologize for. I'm not Kelly LeBrock, begging people not to hate me because I'm beautiful."
"But you're a hell of a lot more than that. And I mean it."
Neal stared at him for a moment or two, as if to assess his sincerity. "Maybe you do."
Peter let out the breath he didn't realize he was holding. Before he could say anything, Neal took that breath away.
"I can't believe you're single."
"Why?"
"I'd have thought someone would have snapped you up ages ago. You don't seem like a man who'd ever want for companionship, even for a night."
Peter smiled to take the sting from his words. "Are you accusing me of having a little black book?"
Neal nodded slightly. "Yeah, I guess."
"And that I have a well-worn casting couch?" Peter was still smiling but felt a tiny bit of anger at the assumption.
Neal just gave him a level stare, and Peter finally understood. "The shoe just went on the other foot, didn't it?"
"And you don't like the way it feels."
"Not in the least."
"Do you want to start over again?"
Peter took a deep breath. "Do you?"
"We can play word games all night."
"I guess I'm wondering why you want to play those games."
Neal gave him a puzzled look.
"I mean – why are you bothering?"
Neal licked his lips. "Because I'm interested?"
"In me? Seriously?"
"Why are you so surprised?"
Peter now knew better than to remark about Neal's looks, and besides, he knew he wasn't a troll, himself. "I'm fifty."
"And I'm thirty-six. Not such a big gap."
"Neal, I was a math major and don't need a calculator to subtract thirty-six from fifty. Fourteen years – "
"Isn't a lot when you like someone."
There was that flutter again. "And you like me?"
Neal smiled, just that tiny – almost self-deprecating twist of his lips. "Yeah, I do."
♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫
The lyrics from the Annie Lennox song had been going through Neal's head for the entire evening, almost since the moment he had laid eyes on Peter Burke.
His alter ego, Nicole, had nothing to do with this carefully orchestrated setup. June had promised him that, and she wouldn't break that promise. No, she thought that Neal would like Peter Burke and that Peter would be good for him. In his head, he alternately cursed and thanked his godmother. Of all the people in his life, she saw him very clearly – all of his flaws and weaknesses, his desires and his dreams, and she'd do nothing to harm him.
Once, there was a man – on the surface not that dissimilar to Peter Burke –who oozed power and authority, who took him under his wing and taught him things, who made him what he was today. A coward, a fool, a weak creature who probably would have died on the streets if it wasn't for June's love and generosity.
Neal carefully, deliberately packed away those memories.
Peter Burke was nothing like the nightmare from his past. He was powerful, yes – with a power that came from earning it with his own hands and his own brain. He was also a bit goofy, a bit insecure and absolutely gorgeous.
At that thought, Neal felt a little guilty. He'd needled Peter about making assumptions about him because of his looks, but here he was, all but salivating over a mile-wide pair of shoulders and legs that went on forever.
The clock chimed again, bringing Neal back to the here and now. Peter was staring at him, and for the first time this evening, his expression was unreadable. "What's the matter?"
Peter shook his head and when he smiled, the enigmatic expression disappeared. "You like me. I like you. This feels a little high schoolish."
"Which makes me feel right at home."
Peter chuckled.
Neal let his tongue get ahead of his common sense. "I've got a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle upstairs – a gift from a grateful parent. If you'd like to extend the evening a bit, you could have a nightcap with me. That's definitely not high schoolish." What the hell am I doing?
Peter's expression changed again. "What if I said I'd prefer a beer?"
"I have that, too." Then he had to back-peddle. "Maybe."
Peter chuckled, "I'd like a nightcap, and whiskey will be fine."
"Really?" Neal felt inordinately pleased.
"Yeah. Even if it's just Johnnie Walker Red."
Neal stood and wanted to grab Peter's hand to drag him upstairs, before he changed his mind. Instead, he forced himself to take a deep breath. "Shall we?"
Peter got up, too. "Lead the way."
As they headed upstairs, Neal kept telling himself that this was just an offer for an after-dinner drink, nothing more than that. But it felt like a hell of a lot more, if just because he hadn't had an after-dinner drink with anyone but June in a very long time. Yes, he had kind of crossed the Rubicon when he admitted that he liked Peter, after a rather passive-aggressive argument, but Peter Burke was clearly a gentleman and wouldn't follow him across the line.
Unless he was invited.
Neal opened the door and gestured for Peter to precede him, and when he followed, he got the shock of his life.
The loft was immaculate – not that he was a slob or careless with his possessions, but tonight, the room shone. Or rather, sparkled. There were candles lit, and the fairy lights that trimmed the French doors leading out to the terrace were turned on. Neal snuck a glance over to the sleeping area and was surprised to see his bed freshly made and the covers turned back in invitation. On the table was his precious bottle of rare scotch, plus a pair of crystal highball glasses and a silver ice bucket.
"Umm…" Neal bit his lip and turned to Peter, who seemed more bemused than anything. "I didn't plan this."
Peter chuckled. "I always thought that June had house elves working for her."
Neal relaxed. "I don't know what she was thinking."
"You mean you can't figure it out, Copernicus?"
Neal let out a startled laugh at that nickname. "Yeah. Look – there's no strings here. Just a nightcap."
"But you like me."
"I do."
Peter went over to the table and poured them each two fingers of scotch. He handed Neal his glass before taking a sip of his own. "I like you, too. I like smart, regardless of the package. And I'd like to get to know you better."
Neal took a sip and found some courage. "Me, too – I'd like to get to know you better, too." God, he sounded so gauche and awkward. He took another swallow and as the alcohol hit, he became a little reckless. "I haven't been with anyone for a while." He probably should have stuck to wine, which never affected him. Spirits had a way of loosening his tongue.
"Me, neither." Peter stared at him over the rim of his glass. "I don't go for casual hookups."
"That's good." Neal stared at the amber liquor in his glass and muttered, "Just so you know, when I say 'by a while', I mean years."
Peter seemed taken aback by that.
Neal thought he might as well come clean now – before things got too deep. "Before I moved back here, I wasn't in a good relationship – at least for me. I'm not – " Neal sighed and decided to make a reasonably full confession. "I'm not a very strong person, and I let Vincent take advantage of that. I let him put me into a hole." Neal took another swallow of whiskey. "Literally and metaphorically. It took me a long time to get my life back together."
He watched Peter's expression and was shocked at the rage he saw there. A little sick at heart, Neal tried to paper over his ill-timed confession. "But I'm clean – no lasting physical damage, if you know what I mean. And I don't get involved in anything I don't think I can handle. Which is why it's been a long time." And then he realized just what he revealed. "Look, it's okay. If you want to go, I understand."
The anger that had burned so brightly in Peter's eyes seemed a little muted now, softened by something that Neal hoped wasn't pity. "What do you mean by 'not a strong person'? You don't seem at all weak to me."
Neal felt the heat scald his cheeks. "I'm not like you – I'm not dominant." He ducked his head, unable to meet Peter's gaze any longer.
"And you equate submission with weakness? You think because you're not dominant, you're weak?"
Neal swallowed and nodded.
"You seriously believe that?" Peter carefully put his glass on the table and Neal was surprised to see the man's hand shake.
"Yes. That's what Vincent told me. That's why I became – " Neal clamped his lips shut, there were still some things he couldn't reveal. Not now, maybe not ever. How did this moment turn into such a disaster? He put down his own glass and stared at his hands.
Peter stepped into his space and touched him – first lightly resting a hand on his shoulder, and then cupping his cheek. "Submission is not weakness, and this Vincent – whoever he is – is one fucked up bastard to make you believe that."
Neal stepped away. Peter's closeness was an intoxicant far more powerful than the whiskey he had just drunk. "You don't think I know that – intellectually. But … " He shook his head, unable to complete the thought. "I'm a mess, and you're probably better off going home and writing off the second half of this evening."
However, Peter didn't agree with him. "You know, downstairs – when we were sparring – I thought you were beautiful and sharp and way out of my league. I thought you were toying with me, but I liked the idea of a challenge."
"And now, I've just shown you what a broken mess I am. We've known each other, what – three hours?"
"You're not a mess. Neal. You're human, and at this moment, you're a hell of a lot more appealing than the glossy son of a bitch who played word games with me in the dining room."
Neal looked at Peter, not quite believing what he'd just heard. But he had to believe the sincerity he saw in Peter's eyes. "I still like you, Peter Burke."
Peter laughed, and the sound was like an aphrodisiac. "And I still like you, too, Neal Caffrey. I like you a lot."
Neal swallowed his fear, his embarrassment, his anxiety, and did something he might end up regretting.
He kissed Peter Burke.
♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫
Peter wouldn't have classified the second half of the evening as surreal. More like revelatory.
He hadn't lied when he said he liked Neal, but downstairs, at the dinner table, he thought him a bit prickly. And a bit self-dramatic, too – especially with that comment about other men classifying him as nothing more than an underwear model because of his extraordinary good looks. But despite the prickliness, the drama, he liked him. Neal Caffrey had the one quality that was his own fatal weakness – he was smart. It was not just his intellectual brilliance – anyone who did Harvard in three years had to have that. It was that Neal was sharp and witty, with a mind that didn't back down from a challenge.
The invitation for a nightcap was a little surprising, and Peter more than half-hoped it was a prelude to a more intimate encounter. It had been years since he enjoyed casual hookups, and he hadn't had time for anything even semi-serious. Which meant he'd gone without since David Siegel, good friend and occasional fuck-buddy, had moved to London six months ago. At fifty, he'd never had a long-term relationship and he'd never felt the lack.
As he followed Neal upstairs, Peter realized that he wouldn't mind investing some time and effort in Neal Caffrey. They had – despite the age difference – a lot in common, as June had so eagerly pointed out. Neal had his own life and a busy schedule, and wouldn't be put out if he wasn't the center of Peter's universe. That was one of the primary reasons why he'd shied away from the dating scene. Relationships required work, and Peter didn't mind the work, but even the smartest of men developed expectations. Maybe Neal, knowing the music business and having his own busy life, wouldn't be disappointed by Peter's more than occasional lack of attention.
But still, he probably should have politely excused himself when Neal dropped his bombshell.
Men with baggage were worse than men with expectations. If Peter had been looking for a partner – even a temporary good time type of guy, he'd be searching for a man who could hold his own, who didn't cling, who didn't need. A man who was his emotional equal, which was why – no matter how attractive the package – he had always shied away from the walking wounded.
But for some reason, he didn't leave. He liked Neal Caffrey – the sharp-edge version from downstairs and this softer, less confident version who looked at him like he was the lone Christmas present under the tree and he couldn't wait to unwrap him.
It wasn't ego – or just ego, since there was something intensely powerful about being the focus of this man's interest, and yes – desire. But he was still surprised when Neal – after confessing to a disastrous relationship, after taking the blame for something that had certainly been abusive, kissed him.
Neal was gentle, tentative, almost unsure when he brushed his lips against his. At first it was as if he was being kissed by a butterfly. Peter didn't move, letting Neal control the moment. That was the right thing to do; Neal gained confidence and deepened their kiss. It took all of Peter's willpower not to take over.
He tasted like the coffee they had drunk downstairs and the good whiskey they'd had up here. He tasted sweet, too – like a memory of the dessert they'd eaten. Neal kissed him and Peter thought he could become addicted to this taste, but that didn't frighten him. There was something about Neal Caffrey that called to him, that seemed to fill a part of him he hadn't realized was so aching and empty.
The kiss was as close to perfection as he'd ever experienced, and when he cupped his hands to Neal's cheeks, he could feel the other man's pulse racing. Keeping it gentle, letting Neal control the moment was so damn difficult. As desire swamped his senses, Peter wanted to overwhelm him, to take and take until he had consumed every breath, every atom, the very essence of the man. He wanted to glut himself on Neal Caffrey and leave them both wanting for more.
But he kept those needs under tight control, just holding Neal's face as gently as possible, when he wanted to strip that beautiful suit off him and make him beg for everything Peter wanted to give him.
Neal, for his part, seemed to relish the gentleness. He explored Peter's mouth, tasting him and humming his pleasure. Just as Peter's hands were cupped around Neal's face, Neal's fingers were combing through Peter's hair, his nails gently scraping against his scalp, sensations that went right to his groin. Peter felt his control erode and before it could disappear completely, he stepped back. Neal's moan of disappointment was an aphrodisiac Peter didn't need.
"What's the matter?" Neal's voice was slurred, his eyes almost black as the pupils swallowed those pale blue irises.
"Nothing, absolutely nothing."
"Then why did we stop?"
Peter took a deep breath. "Because you've just told me that you haven't been with anyone for a long time and we just met."
Neal blinked and licked his lips before smiling at him. The gesture wasn't so much seductive as humorous. "What kind of gay man are you?"
"Not a very good one, apparently."
A shadow crossed Neal's face. "Is it because of what I told you, about what happened to me?"
Neal didn't say the words, but Peter could all but hear him calling himself damaged goods. "No – not that, not at all. I didn't come prepared."
"If that's all you're worried about, I have condoms and lube."
Peter blinked, not expecting to hear that from a man who said he hadn't been with anyone for years.
Neal explained with a casual shrug and a knowing smirk. "I don't think June would particularly like to find my favorite butt plug in her dishwasher, so I always use a rubber. It makes clean up a lot easier."
The image of June, elegant and refined, discovering a big fake penis in her kitchen was almost too much to bear and Peter burst out laughing.
Neal laughed, too. "Although I don't know the last time June actually went into the kitchen. Still, I wouldn't want to shock Marthé or any of the other staff."
"Marthé?"
"June's cook and housekeeper. She teases me all the time about going straight for her, but still – it wouldn't be polite."
Okay, the evening had definitely turned surreal.
"Now that I've effectively destroyed the mood… " Neal was still smiling.
Peter tried to explain. "It's a little more than having protection… "
"You don't put out on first dates? You’re right, you are a terrible gay man.” Neal’s smile extended into a grin. “We don't have to go all the way you know – some heavy petting, maybe we can hump each other raw?"
Peter had to laugh again. Underneath the teasing, Neal sounded so hopeful. "I like you."
"I like you, too. We've already established that."
Peter shook his head at Neal's deliberate misunderstanding. "But I think I want something more than a casual encounter with you."
Neal ducked his head, but not before Peter could see his blush. "I think I'd like that, too."
"I've got a free weekend. How do you feel about bagpipes?"
"Huh?" Neal looked up at his deliberate non sequitur. "Bagpipes?"
"And kilts and flings and strathspeys, too."
The confused look on Neal's face was precious, but Peter explained. "It's the start of Tartan Week at Bryant Park. I live in the area and was planning on watching the festivities."
"You mean ogling men in skirts."
"That's an added benefit, but I do happen to have an unholy love for good Celtic music." He lifted a hand, forestalling Neal's question. "I can't explain it, but it's there. If you want to join me and listen to some of the best cat skinning this side of the Atlantic…"
"I suppose I could tell you all about the Forty-Five and how the British nearly destroyed the Highland culture while we listen to endless versions of Mason's Apron, the Marching O'Neills, and Amazing Grace. I'm not a history teacher for nothing."
"Then it's a date?" Peter couldn't believe he said that.
"Yeah, I guess it is. What time?"
"The music starts at one. Want to meet at the carousel around noon?"
"Sound perfect." Peter looked around and found a pen and paper. "My phone number. Call or text if you need to get in touch."
Neal took the piece of paper. "You're going to go now?"
"I should."
"You don't have to. We can still have something more than a casual encounter. Even if you do stay the night. I'll still respect you in the morning."
"Neal – " The man was doing a very good job of destroying his will power.
"What, you're not the kind of guy who spends the night?"
Truthfully, he wasn't – but for Neal, he had the feeling he would. "I'll see you tomorrow." Peter leaned over and kissed Neal on the lips. It was brief, but he made sure there was a promise there, too.
♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫
Neal watched Peter leave, the door closing behind him with a gentle click. He couldn’t believe what he’d just done.
In a moment of mad recklessness, he had thrown himself at an almost perfect stranger.
No. Peter wasn’t really a stranger. But he was perfect.
His hands shaking, Neal picked up a glass – it could have been his, it could have been Peter’s – and finished the rest of the whiskey. The potent alcohol didn’t really do anything other than make him a bit dizzy.
This was so fucked up. But what else was new?
END PART TWO
GO TO PART THREE
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.
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.
By the time Thursday rolled around, Peter wished he had an ordinary job and an ordinary life. Maybe an accountant, a number cruncher who went home after an eight hour day, had a dog, a husband, a few kids and a big house in the suburbs.
Usually, he lived for the deal, flying out to the West Coast on a moment's notice to meet with industry executives or spending his evenings checking out new acts – looking for the latest hidden gem that was just waiting for the right push to get to the top of the charts.
But not this week. Since last Thursday night, he and his team had once again been fully engaged in damage control mode.
Julian Larsen, his oldest client, had been arrested for murdering his wife in a fit of jealous, drugged-out rage.
As an agent, he really wasn't responsible for anything more than getting Julian work, whether that was a part in a movie, a contract for a solo album and tour, or his latest venture, a reality television show. But his relationship with Julian was more than agent and client. Julian saw him more as a friend and those feelings were reciprocated. So, when the shit hit the fan, Peter Burke's number was the first one on Julian's speed dial.
Peter hadn’t answered his phone last Thursday, so the next person he’d called was Clinton Jones, Peter’s right hand at the agency. Clinton did what was needed – he called the best criminal defense attorney in the city and made sure that no one at the police station said a damn word to anyone.
Julian Larsen might not have been all that headline worthy as a rock star but he was as the star of a highly rated reality television show, and the public would eat up any scandal he was part of.
Actually, the television show had been Julian's wife's idea. Chantal had been a supermodel, but now was on the downward slid to thirty, and desperate to keep some measure of fame. She'd been rather brutally rejected as a "Real Housewife" and latched onto the idea that the whole world would be interested in the day-to-day shenanigans of her and her bad-boy rock star husband, Julian Larsen, the former front man for the 1980s superband, Zen.
Julian hadn't been too keen on the idea – he thought he was too young, still too much of a rock star, to indulge in something that was the province of aging musicians too pathetically desperate to fade into obscurity. But Chantal wore him down – those were his exact words – and for the sake of marital peace, he begged Peter to get him some kind of television deal.
Which Peter had. For the last three years, Julian and Chantal’s marriage had been slowly breaking apart on camera, amid mutual accusations of drug use, alcoholism, and infidelity. Each week, the ratings climbed higher and higher as they metaphorically cut pieces out of each other in front of the dozens of cameras set up in their Upper East Side townhouse.
By the end of the first season, Julian had wanted out of the show, but had been persuaded to sign on for a second season. By the end of that year, he had wanted out of both the show and the marriage, but Chantal was clinging to both. Over lunch shortly after the second season had started filming, Julian had begged Peter to get him out of the contract and he’d hinted that Chantal was holding something over his head.
Peter had sipped his wine and asked, “Blackmail?” He wouldn't have been surprised if the answer was yes. Peter had known Julian for a long time and there were a lot of skeletons in the man's closet.
Julian had grimaced and signaled the waiter for a refill on his scotch. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“Ah.” Peter wasn’t terribly sympathetic. He had told Julian that living a lie – especially for someone in the public eye – was dangerous.
“I’ll be ruined if she goes public.”
“Only in the short term, or maybe not at all. It’s a different world these days. You might find yourself surprised.”
“I doubt it. Not for men like me.”
Peter wasn't sure he agreed, but he had changed the subject. “You’ll take a big hit if I get the network to cancel.”
“I have reserves.”
“Not if Chantal sues you for divorce and tries to add the loss of income from the show to her claims. You’d be wiped out.”
The waiter had come back with Julian’s drink and he'd downed it in one gulp. “I’m tempted to let it all go, Peter. I can’t go on like this.”
But he had, even signing a contract for a third season, and the drama of the Larsens' marriage continued to escalate, as did the show's ratings. Every few months, Peter would have lunch with Julian and listen to him rant about the show, his music, and his wife. He was living in hell, but she seemed to think everything was perfect.
And maybe for her, it was, until she went headfirst down a marble staircase during a blistering argument with her husband.
Ironically, the show that Julian despised was what saved him. The cameras had been recording – they always were – and it was someone from the production team in the truck parked on the street that had called 9-1-1 to report the accident.
The police had taken one look at Mrs. Larsen, blonde, elegant and very much dead at the foot of the steps, and then looked at her husband, unkempt, bruises on his face, and very much drunk. They made assumptions based on the evidence at hand, and arrested Julian for Chantal's murder.
It had taken Sara Ellis, one of the best criminal attorneys in the city, three days to pry the video of Chantal Larsen's fall out of the production company. The recordings showed that yes, Julian and Chantal were furiously arguing, and yes, Julian had been drinking. But Julian hadn't laid a hand on his wife; she was the one who had gotten physical and taken a swing at her husband. Julian had let her hit him once and tried to walk away. Chantal, however, wasn't ready to give up and took another swipe at him. Unfortunately, she was standing at the top of the grand staircase, and when Julian dodged her swing, she lost her balance and fell.
All the way down thirty-six marble-clad steps.
Faced with incontrovertible evidence that Chantal Larsen's death was an unfortunate accident, the district attorney dropped the charges. The media, though, was already primed by over two years of televised marital dysfunction and were on Julian like lions scenting blood. Every time he stepped out of his townhouse, they mobbed him. What had the Larsens been arguing about that Chantal, who was such a delicate and gentle beauty, wanted to hit her brutish husband? What dark and terrible secret was Julian Larsen hiding?
All this drama meant more work for Peter – recording executives to placate, concert promoters to soothe, interference to run with all sorts of media people. Of course, the television production company wanted a piece out of Julian's hide – they wanted to continue to film now that Julian was cleared. The latest episode of "Life in a Zen Garden" had broken all viewing records.
Peter called on the cadre of entertainment lawyers he kept on retainer and had them go to work, getting Julian out of the contract. Julian, for his part, stopped production by ripping the cameras out of his house and taking off to someplace where no one could find him, not even telling Peter where he was going.
He had just stopped by Peter's office, a duffle bag over one shoulder and a guitar case in his hand. "You need me, send me an email. I'll get back to you eventually. You have my power of attorney and I trust you to deal with everything."
Peter gave Julian a brief hug. "Take care of yourself, friend."
"I will."
Peter watched the man leave and went over to the small bar area and contemplated pouring himself a stiff drink. It was a little past noon and he'd been awake for the better part of three days. Scotch wasn't a good idea right now. Nor was more coffee.
The truth was, he needed sleep. Between spending last week salvaging Alex Hunter's recording contracts and this week with Julian problems, he deserved at least a month in Tahiti. But the closest he was going to come to that sort of rest and relaxation would be his two o'clock massage appointment and a ten minute post-massage power nap.
A knock interrupted his contemplation.
"Boss?" It was Clinton and he had a folder in his hand.
"If you tell me it's bad news, or that another client is having a public meltdown, or someone died, or was murdered, or anything else that's going to put this firm back into damage control mode, I'm firing you."
"Then I guess you don't want my letter of resignation."
Peter stared at Clinton, unable to believe what his ears had just heard.
Clinton smiled. "Gotcha."
"That wasn't funny, Mr. Jones."
"It's April first, I could have been a lot crueler."
Peter huffed a sigh and shook his head. He hadn't even realized the date. "What do you have there?"
"Just the candidates for the Manhattan Prep summer internship. I've looked through them and pulled the top five. I don't know why you don't let the junior staff handle this."
Peter took the folder from Clinton. "We have this conversation every year. I do this myself because it's important to me. I was a scholarship student at that school and I got a big start with my own internship."
"So this is paying it back."
"Yeah." Peter felt strongly about his connection to the school and frequently donated to the scholarship fund. If he wasn't so damn busy all the time, he'd have taken the school up on their offer of a seat on the Board of Governors.
Clinton said, apropos of nothing, "You look like you could use a vacation. I know you thrive on the business, but I think it's taking its toll on you."
"Thanks. And it's not the business, but the constant crisis mode. Give me a forty-eight hour marathon negotiating session for the next big thing, and I'll be fine." Peter then remembered something. "Speaking of the next big thing, I didn't get the chance to tell you about the new act I caught at Ellington's."
"When was this?"
"The night that Julian was arrested. Your text came just as the first set ended."
"Singer?"
"Brilliant. Her name is Nicole and she has 'star' written all over her."
"What's she like?"
Peter thought for a moment, trying to find a way to describe the singer and not his rather unwelcome reaction to her. "Annie Lennox's range, Adele's power, and the stage presence of a young Diana Ross."
"Wow – that's quite a combination. When do we start work on her?"
"Have to sign her first."
"And that's a problem?"
"June's being protective – won't even give me an introduction until I see Nicole's second act."
"That seems a little bizarre. What's the problem?"
Peter shook his head. "Don't know – but June has her ways and I've known her too long to try to get around them. If she says I have to wait, I wait."
"And when can we go see this all-important second act?"
Peter sighed. "That's the problem – Nicole won't be performing again until the end of June."
Clinton was as flabbergasted as Peter had been. "Seriously? You have to be kidding me."
"I'm not. That's what June told me and we don't have a choice."
"Maybe this Nicole's performing elsewhere."
"I doubt it – it was New Artist Thursday at Ellington's, and June's pretty strict about acts she gives a boost to." Peter scrubbed his face, feeling every day of his fifty years. "You know, I'm going to give her a call – maybe I can get her to change her mind."
Clinton wished him luck and left as Peter tried - and failed - to stifle a yawn. Before he forgot, he called June.
"Peter, this is a surprise. I heard what happened with Julian."
"Yeah, so you know it's been a week from hell."
"But you got him off."
"Yeah, he's out of jail and free as a bird, but I really had nothing to do with it. His lawyer was the one who forced the production company to release the video. I can't even imagine why they thought it would be a good idea to hold that back."
"You can't?" Peter could hear the laugher in June's voice.
"No, you're right. Of course I can. They thought they were sitting on a gold mine and would make a fortune airing it just at the right time. Or milking Julian for it. Anyway – that's all settled and Julian Larsen's out of my hair for the next few months."
"Unless he gets himself in trouble again."
"That's true. But like you always tell me; don't buy trouble when it's not on sale."
"Yes, I do say that. So, Peter – why are you calling?"
"Your prodigy, Nicole. I really want to get her under contract."
"I know you do, but you know what I told you. You need to see her second act."
"I don't understand why," Peter growled in frustration.
"Because I said so. Besides, you wouldn't buy a house without looking in all the rooms, no matter how much you liked what you saw."
"True. But you're making me wait until the end of June, June."
"That's when Nicole will be back on stage. And before you ask, Nicole's not performing anywhere else in the interim."
"You're a cruel woman, June Ellington."
"Tell you what, why don't you come for dinner tomorrow night. It's been too long since you've been here. Maybe you can use your persuasive talents to convince me to change my mind."
Peter mentally reviewed his calendar. He was fairly certain he had nothing booked, not for work and not for pleasure. It was kind of pathetic to realize he hadn't had a date in almost a year. "I'd be delighted."
"Good. You won't mind an early dinner, say six? I have to be at the club by eight, and that should give us time to talk."
"No, not at all. Six is fine. I'll see you then." Peter hung up and tried to ignore the slight churning in his gut. June had an agenda. She wanted something from him, and if it meant getting access to Nicole, Peter was probably going to give it to her.
"Are you free tonight, darling?"
To Neal's surprise, instead of Marthé, June was waiting for him in the front parlor on Friday morning. He kissed her cheek. "Yes – no, I have no plans."
"Good, I'm having a friend over and I'd love for you to join us."
"Friend?" Neal raised a hopeful eyebrow. Despite his urgings, June hadn't dated or seen anyone socially since Byron had died, claiming that the club provided her with all the companionship she needed.
June shook her head, dashing Neal's hopes. "Peter's an old friend; I've known him for over thirty years. He used to work at the club."
Neal nodded, distracted by the busy day ahead. "Okay – I'll be there." It wasn't like he had any plans for the evening and could always make an early exit if the company was tedious.
He kissed June's cheek again, took his coffee and lunch and all but ran to the subway so he wouldn't be late.
When Neal got home, Marthé was supervising a trio of maids cleaning the downstairs. She smiled at him and beckoned. "Mrs. June asked me to give you this." She handed him an envelope.
Neal kissed Marthé's cheek as he took the envelope. "Merci, m'dear."
"Don't start something you're not prepared to finish, Mr. Neal. You're a bad gay man for trying to seduce poor Marthé."
Neal chuckled and shook his head. "If I was to turn straight, it would be for you and only for you."
She swatted his backside and laughed. "I live in hope, Mr. Neal."
Neal grinned and headed upstairs before reading the note. It was from June.
My dear Neal -
Peter will be arriving around six, but I have some personal business to discuss with him. Please join us in the salon no later than six thirty, and wear the black suit – the one you know I love, you look so beautiful in it. It is Friday night and some traditions are worth remembering.
Your loving Godmother,
June
Peter will be arriving around six, but I have some personal business to discuss with him. Please join us in the salon no later than six thirty, and wear the black suit – the one you know I love, you look so beautiful in it. It is Friday night and some traditions are worth remembering.
Your loving Godmother,
June
Amused at the formality of June's note, Neal tucked it into a book he was reading. June – with three daughters and two granddaughters – was certainly conversant with modern technology and she could text and tweet with the best of them, but with Neal, she preferred to communicate in a more old-fashioned, and as she liked to say, more gracious style. Hence the handwritten note on embossed stationary instead of a terse, one-hundred forty character instruction.
Friday night at the Ellington mansion was once a time for a certain level of formality. Although this was one of the busiest nights at the club, Byron and June always tried to have a traditional family dinner, a time for good manners and good company – musicians and luminaries from the music industry were often in attendance early in the evening, before a performance. Neal could remember, even as a little boy, coming over with his parents, wearing his best clothes. By the time he was ten, he was expected to contribute to the conversation, sharing something about school or something he'd learned. He'd come to love those Friday night dinners and missed them, so he certainly didn't mind June's request for formality.
It was a little after four and that gave him time to shower and, before changing into the required suit, he'd have time to grade a handful of exams from his tenth grade European History class.
The ninety minutes he'd allotted passed quickly and the faint sound of Bugsy's yapping barks all the way from the first floor broke his concentration. It was a few minutes after six and just about time for him to get dressed.
Six-thirty sharp and wearing a black wool and silk Devore suit – one that Byron had ordered, but had never worn – plus a narrow sky-blue Armani tie that had been a gift from June last Christmas, he headed downstairs. He could hear June and her guest talking, probably about old times, how the city and the music scene used to be. Or so he assumed.
Neal went into the front parlor and thought, Never assume, that makes an ass out of you and me.
June greeted him with a warm smile and introduced him to her guest. Peter Burke.
A god in silver-gray Brioni.
After everything he'd been through, Neal thought he had no more vulnerabilities; that all of his fatal weaknesses has been exorcised.
How wrong he was.
Peter had vague memories of June's godson – he'd met him a few times at the Friday dinners June and Byron used to host. As an intern at Ellington's, and then a few years later, when he'd worked as an assistant to booking manager during the summer, between semesters at Harvard, he'd become close with June and Byron and often been invited to dinner. The daughters of the house had flirted, and Peter had been gracious and gallant and made no bones about why he wasn't interested in them that way. If he closed his eyes, he could recall a boy with dark curls and blue eyes.
Peter couldn't remember ever actually speaking to the godson, but could remember being mildly impressed at how self-possessed and well-spoken the boy was; able to converse with the adults without any shyness or hesitation.
June had mentioned that Neal would be joining them for dinner tonight and before Peter could ask about him, she changed the subject. While she was adamant about not allowing him to meet Nicole until he saw her complete performance, there were a few other singers she thought he should consider representing – some performing at Ellington's, others that were at other clubs or still waiting for any kind of break.
Peter took the names and promised to look at each act. The promise wasn't hollow politeness made out of respect. June had the vision to see nascent talent, but even better, she could also see when that talent had the drive and discipline to go beyond the small stage without falling apart. He trusted her – which was why he'd answered her summons to see Nicole last week and why he was willing to wait until he could see the entire act.
"There's plenty to keep you busy until June, when you'll be able to see Nicole."
Peter nodded and bit his tongue. It wasn't as if he didn't have a hundred other clients and a busy agency to manage.
The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs distracted him. Ah, the godson. Peter stood when June did and plastered a bland smile on his lips.
It was a good thing he did that because if he hadn't, his jaw would have hit the floor. Yes, the godson still had dark curls and blue eyes, but he couldn't match the gorgeous man in the sharply cut black with the pre-teen of his memories.
He heard June make the introductions. "Neal, please come meet my old friend, Peter Burke. You may remember him from Friday night dinners when you were a boy."
Neal looked from June to him, head tilted and a searching expression in his eyes. When Neal's lips curved into a slight smile, Peter thought he'd died and gone to heaven, because only angels smiled that sweetly. And then he tried not to blush at the utter ridiculousness of that thought.
"I have to apologize, but I don't remember you at all." Neal held out his hand.
Peter managed to find his tongue and get his brain in gear. He shook Neal's hand and replied, "That's okay – it's been a while, and I don't think a dorky twenty-something would have made much of an impression on you when you're ten or eleven." And he wanted to dig a hole to climb into. Nice way to point out the age difference.
June disagreed with that self-assessment. "You weren't dorky, Peter. You were a lovely young man." She turned to Neal. "Are you sure you don't remember Peter?"
Neal kept looking at him as if he was trying to remember. Finally, he shook his head. "Sorry, but no, I don't. Don't be offended, though – I don't remember meeting Ed Koch or Carly Simon or Woody Allen, either, even though June's told me that I was there when they came for dinner."
Peter replied, "That's okay. But I have to say I do remember you."
"You do?" Neal actually blushed. "I hope I behaved myself."
"You certainly did – I remember being impressed with your encyclopedic knowledge of the collected works of Carl Sagan – particularly Broca's Brain."
Neal's blush burned a little brighter. "I was a precocious little snot."
June interrupted. "Not in the least. You were a charming boy." She held out her hands to both men. "And now you have the pleasure of escorting me into the dining room."
The room was as beautiful as Peter remembered, set with elegant china and silver and crystal. A pair of maids in formal service attire stood ready.
June sat, quite appropriately, at the head of the table and kept the conversation flowing, even as the various courses of the meal arrived.
"You know, Peter, other than the obvious – you and Neal have a lot in common."
Before Peter could ask what June meant by obvious, Neal said, "What do you mean, 'other than the obvious'?"
June leaned back in her chair and delicately patted her lips with her napkin. Her eyes twinkled with mischief as she said, "Well, you're both good looking, single, and lead busy and interesting lives."
There was a strange, almost relieved expression on Neal's face, but that was less interesting than the subtext of June's comment. Was Neal gay? Peter mentally shook himself. Even if such a splendid creature as Neal Caffrey did bat for the same team that he did, there was no reason to think that he'd be interested in a man at least fifteen years his senior. And rather than wade into those waters, Peter picked up the first conversational gambit that June had tossed out. "Okay, but what else do we have in common?"
"Like you, Neal's a graduate of Manhattan Prep. And he teaches there now."
Peter knew that Neal had been a student at his alma mater. Byron had bragged about his godson almost as much as he had about his own flesh and blood. But he didn't know that Neal had returned as a teacher. "Oh? What do you teach?"
"European history."
Peter smiled. "One of my favorite subjects. Was Reese Hughes still teaching when you were there?"
Neal nodded. "Yes, he was until they made him Headmaster. I think he sometimes regretted taking that position. He once confided to me that as an administrator, he often felt sidelined from the process of education."
"I think I read in the alumni newsletter that he just retired."
Neal made a face. "Yeah, but it really wasn't his choice."
"Oh?"
"I guess you haven't been keeping up with all the happenings at Manhattan Prep."
Peter shook his head. "No, I wish I could be more involved with the school, but I'm traveling about two weeks out of every month. They've asked me to take a seat on the Board of Governors. I had to decline; that's almost a full time job and I wouldn't be doing the school any justice if I did."
Neal made a slight grimace. "I can understand that. What do you do?"
June answered, "Peter is a talent agent."
Alarm bells started ringing in Neal's head and he wondered if Peter was the agent that had been at the club last week. Peter talked a little about the music business, sharing a few choice anecdotes and Neal relaxed. By the time the main course was served, he decided that Peter hadn't been the one who'd seen the first half of Nicole's act.
June kept a light hand on the conversational reins and the three of them talked about local politics, including the performance of the city's not-so-new mayor, Bill De Blasio, a relatively recent movie that both June and Peter had liked – The Tree of Life – but Neal had found tedious in the extreme, and by the time dessert – crème brûlée – was served, the talk finally turned back to business – the decay of the local music scene.
June delicately licked her spoon and said, "I still can't believe that CBGB is gone."
Peter laughed. "It's been over nine years since it was shut down. And since when have you been a fan of punk rock?"
"It's not that I was a fan of the music played there, Peter. It's the loss of a tradition – a fixture in the New York scene, the history of the place. So much happened there. And now it's just another high-rent tenant selling overpriced clothing to yummy mummies who have no clue. That could happen to Ellington's someday."
"June, no!" Neal echoed Peter's own sense of outrage. "You own the building, nothing's going to happen to force the club out."
"But time does march on and I won't be around forever." June smiled, as if to soften the trauma her words were causing. "My girls are doctors and lawyers and politicians, and that's what Byron and I wanted for them, but there will come a time – hopefully not soon – when the last song will be sung at Ellington's."
Peter understood what June was saying, but he wanted to deny it. It was impossible to contemplate a world without Ellington's.
"I'm sorry – I didn't mean to end the meal on such a maudlin note." June signaled to one of the maids to clear away the dishes and bring a selection of digestifs.
Peter wasn't particularly fond of sweet liquor and elected to have another cup of June's excellent Italian Roast. June had a small glass of Frangelico, but Neal seemed to share his love of coffee.
June looked at Neal. "You and Peter have another point in common."
"Oh?"
"You're both Harvard grads."
Neal looked at him with respect. "Why am I not surprised. What did you study?"
"I was a math major and then went to Business School. You?"
"I had a stellar liberal arts education – majored in history, minored in literature and Renaissance studies, started a master's degree in early modern cultural history. Pretty much left me fit to either teach or serve terrible coffee at Starbucks while pretending to write the Great American Novel."
"Don't talk yourself down, Neal." June gently slapped at Neal's hand. "You had a marvelous education and you are putting it to splendid use." She turned to Peter. "Neal graduated magna cum laude in three years. He pretends to be a dilettante, but he's nothing shy of a genius."
Peter nodded. "Harvard in three years, that's impressive."
Neal muttered into his coffee, clearly embarrassed. "It was stupid."
From the front parlor, they heard a clock start to chime and June stood up. "That, my dears, means it's time for me to go." Peter and Neal both got up, but she gestured for them to sit back down. "I have to get to the club, but the two of you should relax, get to know each other a little better. I think you'll find you really do have a lot in common."
At that, June swept out of the room, her carriage as regal as ever. In the somewhat awkward silence that followed, Peter gave Neal a wry smile. "Don't let me keep you. I can stay until June's on her way downtown."
Neal shook his head. "No, that's okay. I have no plans for the night – other than grading papers."
"Do you like teaching?"
"I do – very much. But I'm lucky. I don't know if I'd take as much pleasure in my work if I was at a public school, with hundreds of students and little opportunity to teach something other than what's on the latest state-mandated curriculum. Or if I could do little more than prepare students for the mass testing public school kids now have to go through."
Peter was curious about Neal – it was so clear he was a hell of a lot more than just another very pretty face. "Did you always want to teach?"
"Yes and no. I was always inspired by history and wanted to immerse myself in it, which meant teaching at some level. But I had other interests too – and Byron and June encouraged me to explore them."
"What sort of interests?"
Neal stared into his coffee cup, as if the dregs of the cappuccino held all the answers in the universe. "A few things. For a while, I wanted to follow my father into law enforcement."
"Oh?"
"Yeah – my dad was a cop. He was … killed … in the line of duty when I was fourteen."
Peter wondered at the pause in Neal's explanation, but all he said was, "I'm sorry."
Neal shrugged. "It's okay, I guess. I thought I'd apply to the FBI – because there's nothing more ridiculous than a city cop with an Ivy League degree."
"What happened? Why didn't you?"
Neal shrugged again and made a face. "Decided a life of bad suits and worse coffee wasn't for me."
Peter knew that there was a hell of a lot that Neal wasn't saying, but this wasn't the time to press.
"I travelled for a few years after college. Went to Europe, got a different perspective on life."
That was something Peter could understand. He waited for Neal to add something about his travels, but instead, Neal shifted the conversation to him.
"What about you? How did you get into the talent business?"
"Byron Ellington."
"Really? You know, June never said how you met except that you worked at the club a long time ago. You must have been close to have been invited to Friday night dinners."
"Yeah, we were. You know about the senior internship program at Manhattan Prep, right?"
"Of course I do. I went through it, too."
"Well, Byron had offered one. It was the chance to see how Ellington's operated. The problem was that you had to be seventeen. It was a nightclub, after all, which meant that very few students qualified. And the pool was even smaller because Byron limited it to scholarship students only."
Neal commented, "He'd been a scholarship student, himself."
"That's right, and he wanted to give kids who didn't have that 'damn silver spoon' a chance to get a leg up."
"Sounds like Byron."
"Anyways, I showed up at the club – this big, gangly white kid who couldn't hold a tune – and he took one look at me and said 'I guess you'll have to do'. The first week, I swept the floors, washed the glasses, and basically served as unpaid help."
"Yes, that definitely sounds like Byron."
"The second week, when he asked me what I thought of the place, I mentioned to him that the assistant manager was stealing tips and taking home half-empty bottles of whiskey."
"And I bet Byron just nodded and said, 'good work, kid – glad to see you've got eyes in your head'."
Peter laughed. "How the hell did you know that?"
"I didn't intern at the club, but I worked there during the summers. Byron knew all about Marty and his sticky fingers, but Marty was related to the Masuccis. Not the crime family, but the ones who were big in Latin music. If it meant getting some high class acts for the club – "
"It was worth putting up with some pilfering and giving the staff a little extra under the table every week."
Neal laughed. "Of course you'd know that."
"Yeah. After I told Byron about Marty, he let me work with him in the back office – watching him book acts, balance the booze bill, schmooze with the suppliers. I fell in love with the industry – especially working with the talent."
"And that's when you decided you were going to be a talent agent?"
It was Peter's turn to shrug. "I wasn't sure right then, but Byron and June gave me direction and a lot of help. I had a real job there during my first summer after high school and for the first two years of college. Byron was always introducing me to people, giving me opportunities that I probably would never have had otherwise. Between my junior and senior year, I had another internship – but this time at the William Morris Agency."
"Then B-school."
"Yup, and back to William Morris for a few more years, this time as an employee."
"Bet those days were fun." Neal smiled and Peter was enchanted with how his eyes crinkled.
"I worked hard, but I got to play hard, too."
"And it didn't matter that you were gay. Back in the nineties, the entertainment business was probably one of the few that were openly tolerant of our kind."
Of our kind… Peter blinked at that. "How did you ...? You're gay?"
"For a smart man, you are rather oblivious to the obvious. June's little comment about us both being single men? She was matchmaking all evening."
Peter felt the heat of embarrassment scald his cheeks. "I wasn't sure and I didn't want to assume." He could only imagine how ridiculous this must have seemed to Neal.
"Assume away, Peter."
Peter felt something flutter under his ribcage at the way Neal said his name – it was full of challenge. And promise. "I have a hard time believing that you're single."
"Why?"
"Look at yourself."
Neal grimaced. "I'd rather not."
"I don't mean that you're just a pretty face." And a smoking hot body.
"Yes, you do."
Peter opened his mouth to object, but Neal cut him off. "It's okay – I know what most guys think when they look at me."
"What do you think they think?" Peter didn't like the bitterness in Neal's tone.
"Underwear model. Nothing more than good packaging and not a lot between the ears."
Peter tried not to sputter and as he recovered, he could see just that happening. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be silly – there's nothing to apologize for. I'm not Kelly LeBrock, begging people not to hate me because I'm beautiful."
"But you're a hell of a lot more than that. And I mean it."
Neal stared at him for a moment or two, as if to assess his sincerity. "Maybe you do."
Peter let out the breath he didn't realize he was holding. Before he could say anything, Neal took that breath away.
"I can't believe you're single."
"Why?"
"I'd have thought someone would have snapped you up ages ago. You don't seem like a man who'd ever want for companionship, even for a night."
Peter smiled to take the sting from his words. "Are you accusing me of having a little black book?"
Neal nodded slightly. "Yeah, I guess."
"And that I have a well-worn casting couch?" Peter was still smiling but felt a tiny bit of anger at the assumption.
Neal just gave him a level stare, and Peter finally understood. "The shoe just went on the other foot, didn't it?"
"And you don't like the way it feels."
"Not in the least."
"Do you want to start over again?"
Peter took a deep breath. "Do you?"
"We can play word games all night."
"I guess I'm wondering why you want to play those games."
Neal gave him a puzzled look.
"I mean – why are you bothering?"
Neal licked his lips. "Because I'm interested?"
"In me? Seriously?"
"Why are you so surprised?"
Peter now knew better than to remark about Neal's looks, and besides, he knew he wasn't a troll, himself. "I'm fifty."
"And I'm thirty-six. Not such a big gap."
"Neal, I was a math major and don't need a calculator to subtract thirty-six from fifty. Fourteen years – "
"Isn't a lot when you like someone."
There was that flutter again. "And you like me?"
Neal smiled, just that tiny – almost self-deprecating twist of his lips. "Yeah, I do."
God, it makes me be so blue
Every time I think about you
All of the heat of my desire
Smokin' like some crazy fire
Come on here
Look at me
Where I stand
Can't you see my heart burnin'
In my hands?
Every time I think about you
All of the heat of my desire
Smokin' like some crazy fire
Come on here
Look at me
Where I stand
Can't you see my heart burnin'
In my hands?
The lyrics from the Annie Lennox song had been going through Neal's head for the entire evening, almost since the moment he had laid eyes on Peter Burke.
His alter ego, Nicole, had nothing to do with this carefully orchestrated setup. June had promised him that, and she wouldn't break that promise. No, she thought that Neal would like Peter Burke and that Peter would be good for him. In his head, he alternately cursed and thanked his godmother. Of all the people in his life, she saw him very clearly – all of his flaws and weaknesses, his desires and his dreams, and she'd do nothing to harm him.
Once, there was a man – on the surface not that dissimilar to Peter Burke –who oozed power and authority, who took him under his wing and taught him things, who made him what he was today. A coward, a fool, a weak creature who probably would have died on the streets if it wasn't for June's love and generosity.
Neal carefully, deliberately packed away those memories.
Peter Burke was nothing like the nightmare from his past. He was powerful, yes – with a power that came from earning it with his own hands and his own brain. He was also a bit goofy, a bit insecure and absolutely gorgeous.
At that thought, Neal felt a little guilty. He'd needled Peter about making assumptions about him because of his looks, but here he was, all but salivating over a mile-wide pair of shoulders and legs that went on forever.
The clock chimed again, bringing Neal back to the here and now. Peter was staring at him, and for the first time this evening, his expression was unreadable. "What's the matter?"
Peter shook his head and when he smiled, the enigmatic expression disappeared. "You like me. I like you. This feels a little high schoolish."
"Which makes me feel right at home."
Peter chuckled.
Neal let his tongue get ahead of his common sense. "I've got a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle upstairs – a gift from a grateful parent. If you'd like to extend the evening a bit, you could have a nightcap with me. That's definitely not high schoolish." What the hell am I doing?
Peter's expression changed again. "What if I said I'd prefer a beer?"
"I have that, too." Then he had to back-peddle. "Maybe."
Peter chuckled, "I'd like a nightcap, and whiskey will be fine."
"Really?" Neal felt inordinately pleased.
"Yeah. Even if it's just Johnnie Walker Red."
Neal stood and wanted to grab Peter's hand to drag him upstairs, before he changed his mind. Instead, he forced himself to take a deep breath. "Shall we?"
Peter got up, too. "Lead the way."
As they headed upstairs, Neal kept telling himself that this was just an offer for an after-dinner drink, nothing more than that. But it felt like a hell of a lot more, if just because he hadn't had an after-dinner drink with anyone but June in a very long time. Yes, he had kind of crossed the Rubicon when he admitted that he liked Peter, after a rather passive-aggressive argument, but Peter Burke was clearly a gentleman and wouldn't follow him across the line.
Unless he was invited.
Neal opened the door and gestured for Peter to precede him, and when he followed, he got the shock of his life.
The loft was immaculate – not that he was a slob or careless with his possessions, but tonight, the room shone. Or rather, sparkled. There were candles lit, and the fairy lights that trimmed the French doors leading out to the terrace were turned on. Neal snuck a glance over to the sleeping area and was surprised to see his bed freshly made and the covers turned back in invitation. On the table was his precious bottle of rare scotch, plus a pair of crystal highball glasses and a silver ice bucket.
"Umm…" Neal bit his lip and turned to Peter, who seemed more bemused than anything. "I didn't plan this."
Peter chuckled. "I always thought that June had house elves working for her."
Neal relaxed. "I don't know what she was thinking."
"You mean you can't figure it out, Copernicus?"
Neal let out a startled laugh at that nickname. "Yeah. Look – there's no strings here. Just a nightcap."
"But you like me."
"I do."
Peter went over to the table and poured them each two fingers of scotch. He handed Neal his glass before taking a sip of his own. "I like you, too. I like smart, regardless of the package. And I'd like to get to know you better."
Neal took a sip and found some courage. "Me, too – I'd like to get to know you better, too." God, he sounded so gauche and awkward. He took another swallow and as the alcohol hit, he became a little reckless. "I haven't been with anyone for a while." He probably should have stuck to wine, which never affected him. Spirits had a way of loosening his tongue.
"Me, neither." Peter stared at him over the rim of his glass. "I don't go for casual hookups."
"That's good." Neal stared at the amber liquor in his glass and muttered, "Just so you know, when I say 'by a while', I mean years."
Peter seemed taken aback by that.
Neal thought he might as well come clean now – before things got too deep. "Before I moved back here, I wasn't in a good relationship – at least for me. I'm not – " Neal sighed and decided to make a reasonably full confession. "I'm not a very strong person, and I let Vincent take advantage of that. I let him put me into a hole." Neal took another swallow of whiskey. "Literally and metaphorically. It took me a long time to get my life back together."
He watched Peter's expression and was shocked at the rage he saw there. A little sick at heart, Neal tried to paper over his ill-timed confession. "But I'm clean – no lasting physical damage, if you know what I mean. And I don't get involved in anything I don't think I can handle. Which is why it's been a long time." And then he realized just what he revealed. "Look, it's okay. If you want to go, I understand."
The anger that had burned so brightly in Peter's eyes seemed a little muted now, softened by something that Neal hoped wasn't pity. "What do you mean by 'not a strong person'? You don't seem at all weak to me."
Neal felt the heat scald his cheeks. "I'm not like you – I'm not dominant." He ducked his head, unable to meet Peter's gaze any longer.
"And you equate submission with weakness? You think because you're not dominant, you're weak?"
Neal swallowed and nodded.
"You seriously believe that?" Peter carefully put his glass on the table and Neal was surprised to see the man's hand shake.
"Yes. That's what Vincent told me. That's why I became – " Neal clamped his lips shut, there were still some things he couldn't reveal. Not now, maybe not ever. How did this moment turn into such a disaster? He put down his own glass and stared at his hands.
Peter stepped into his space and touched him – first lightly resting a hand on his shoulder, and then cupping his cheek. "Submission is not weakness, and this Vincent – whoever he is – is one fucked up bastard to make you believe that."
Neal stepped away. Peter's closeness was an intoxicant far more powerful than the whiskey he had just drunk. "You don't think I know that – intellectually. But … " He shook his head, unable to complete the thought. "I'm a mess, and you're probably better off going home and writing off the second half of this evening."
However, Peter didn't agree with him. "You know, downstairs – when we were sparring – I thought you were beautiful and sharp and way out of my league. I thought you were toying with me, but I liked the idea of a challenge."
"And now, I've just shown you what a broken mess I am. We've known each other, what – three hours?"
"You're not a mess. Neal. You're human, and at this moment, you're a hell of a lot more appealing than the glossy son of a bitch who played word games with me in the dining room."
Neal looked at Peter, not quite believing what he'd just heard. But he had to believe the sincerity he saw in Peter's eyes. "I still like you, Peter Burke."
Peter laughed, and the sound was like an aphrodisiac. "And I still like you, too, Neal Caffrey. I like you a lot."
Neal swallowed his fear, his embarrassment, his anxiety, and did something he might end up regretting.
He kissed Peter Burke.
Peter wouldn't have classified the second half of the evening as surreal. More like revelatory.
He hadn't lied when he said he liked Neal, but downstairs, at the dinner table, he thought him a bit prickly. And a bit self-dramatic, too – especially with that comment about other men classifying him as nothing more than an underwear model because of his extraordinary good looks. But despite the prickliness, the drama, he liked him. Neal Caffrey had the one quality that was his own fatal weakness – he was smart. It was not just his intellectual brilliance – anyone who did Harvard in three years had to have that. It was that Neal was sharp and witty, with a mind that didn't back down from a challenge.
The invitation for a nightcap was a little surprising, and Peter more than half-hoped it was a prelude to a more intimate encounter. It had been years since he enjoyed casual hookups, and he hadn't had time for anything even semi-serious. Which meant he'd gone without since David Siegel, good friend and occasional fuck-buddy, had moved to London six months ago. At fifty, he'd never had a long-term relationship and he'd never felt the lack.
As he followed Neal upstairs, Peter realized that he wouldn't mind investing some time and effort in Neal Caffrey. They had – despite the age difference – a lot in common, as June had so eagerly pointed out. Neal had his own life and a busy schedule, and wouldn't be put out if he wasn't the center of Peter's universe. That was one of the primary reasons why he'd shied away from the dating scene. Relationships required work, and Peter didn't mind the work, but even the smartest of men developed expectations. Maybe Neal, knowing the music business and having his own busy life, wouldn't be disappointed by Peter's more than occasional lack of attention.
But still, he probably should have politely excused himself when Neal dropped his bombshell.
Men with baggage were worse than men with expectations. If Peter had been looking for a partner – even a temporary good time type of guy, he'd be searching for a man who could hold his own, who didn't cling, who didn't need. A man who was his emotional equal, which was why – no matter how attractive the package – he had always shied away from the walking wounded.
But for some reason, he didn't leave. He liked Neal Caffrey – the sharp-edge version from downstairs and this softer, less confident version who looked at him like he was the lone Christmas present under the tree and he couldn't wait to unwrap him.
It wasn't ego – or just ego, since there was something intensely powerful about being the focus of this man's interest, and yes – desire. But he was still surprised when Neal – after confessing to a disastrous relationship, after taking the blame for something that had certainly been abusive, kissed him.
Neal was gentle, tentative, almost unsure when he brushed his lips against his. At first it was as if he was being kissed by a butterfly. Peter didn't move, letting Neal control the moment. That was the right thing to do; Neal gained confidence and deepened their kiss. It took all of Peter's willpower not to take over.
He tasted like the coffee they had drunk downstairs and the good whiskey they'd had up here. He tasted sweet, too – like a memory of the dessert they'd eaten. Neal kissed him and Peter thought he could become addicted to this taste, but that didn't frighten him. There was something about Neal Caffrey that called to him, that seemed to fill a part of him he hadn't realized was so aching and empty.
The kiss was as close to perfection as he'd ever experienced, and when he cupped his hands to Neal's cheeks, he could feel the other man's pulse racing. Keeping it gentle, letting Neal control the moment was so damn difficult. As desire swamped his senses, Peter wanted to overwhelm him, to take and take until he had consumed every breath, every atom, the very essence of the man. He wanted to glut himself on Neal Caffrey and leave them both wanting for more.
But he kept those needs under tight control, just holding Neal's face as gently as possible, when he wanted to strip that beautiful suit off him and make him beg for everything Peter wanted to give him.
Neal, for his part, seemed to relish the gentleness. He explored Peter's mouth, tasting him and humming his pleasure. Just as Peter's hands were cupped around Neal's face, Neal's fingers were combing through Peter's hair, his nails gently scraping against his scalp, sensations that went right to his groin. Peter felt his control erode and before it could disappear completely, he stepped back. Neal's moan of disappointment was an aphrodisiac Peter didn't need.
"What's the matter?" Neal's voice was slurred, his eyes almost black as the pupils swallowed those pale blue irises.
"Nothing, absolutely nothing."
"Then why did we stop?"
Peter took a deep breath. "Because you've just told me that you haven't been with anyone for a long time and we just met."
Neal blinked and licked his lips before smiling at him. The gesture wasn't so much seductive as humorous. "What kind of gay man are you?"
"Not a very good one, apparently."
A shadow crossed Neal's face. "Is it because of what I told you, about what happened to me?"
Neal didn't say the words, but Peter could all but hear him calling himself damaged goods. "No – not that, not at all. I didn't come prepared."
"If that's all you're worried about, I have condoms and lube."
Peter blinked, not expecting to hear that from a man who said he hadn't been with anyone for years.
Neal explained with a casual shrug and a knowing smirk. "I don't think June would particularly like to find my favorite butt plug in her dishwasher, so I always use a rubber. It makes clean up a lot easier."
The image of June, elegant and refined, discovering a big fake penis in her kitchen was almost too much to bear and Peter burst out laughing.
Neal laughed, too. "Although I don't know the last time June actually went into the kitchen. Still, I wouldn't want to shock Marthé or any of the other staff."
"Marthé?"
"June's cook and housekeeper. She teases me all the time about going straight for her, but still – it wouldn't be polite."
Okay, the evening had definitely turned surreal.
"Now that I've effectively destroyed the mood… " Neal was still smiling.
Peter tried to explain. "It's a little more than having protection… "
"You don't put out on first dates? You’re right, you are a terrible gay man.” Neal’s smile extended into a grin. “We don't have to go all the way you know – some heavy petting, maybe we can hump each other raw?"
Peter had to laugh again. Underneath the teasing, Neal sounded so hopeful. "I like you."
"I like you, too. We've already established that."
Peter shook his head at Neal's deliberate misunderstanding. "But I think I want something more than a casual encounter with you."
Neal ducked his head, but not before Peter could see his blush. "I think I'd like that, too."
"I've got a free weekend. How do you feel about bagpipes?"
"Huh?" Neal looked up at his deliberate non sequitur. "Bagpipes?"
"And kilts and flings and strathspeys, too."
The confused look on Neal's face was precious, but Peter explained. "It's the start of Tartan Week at Bryant Park. I live in the area and was planning on watching the festivities."
"You mean ogling men in skirts."
"That's an added benefit, but I do happen to have an unholy love for good Celtic music." He lifted a hand, forestalling Neal's question. "I can't explain it, but it's there. If you want to join me and listen to some of the best cat skinning this side of the Atlantic…"
"I suppose I could tell you all about the Forty-Five and how the British nearly destroyed the Highland culture while we listen to endless versions of Mason's Apron, the Marching O'Neills, and Amazing Grace. I'm not a history teacher for nothing."
"Then it's a date?" Peter couldn't believe he said that.
"Yeah, I guess it is. What time?"
"The music starts at one. Want to meet at the carousel around noon?"
"Sound perfect." Peter looked around and found a pen and paper. "My phone number. Call or text if you need to get in touch."
Neal took the piece of paper. "You're going to go now?"
"I should."
"You don't have to. We can still have something more than a casual encounter. Even if you do stay the night. I'll still respect you in the morning."
"Neal – " The man was doing a very good job of destroying his will power.
"What, you're not the kind of guy who spends the night?"
Truthfully, he wasn't – but for Neal, he had the feeling he would. "I'll see you tomorrow." Peter leaned over and kissed Neal on the lips. It was brief, but he made sure there was a promise there, too.
Neal watched Peter leave, the door closing behind him with a gentle click. He couldn’t believe what he’d just done.
In a moment of mad recklessness, he had thrown himself at an almost perfect stranger.
No. Peter wasn’t really a stranger. But he was perfect.
His hands shaking, Neal picked up a glass – it could have been his, it could have been Peter’s – and finished the rest of the whiskey. The potent alcohol didn’t really do anything other than make him a bit dizzy.
This was so fucked up. But what else was new?
GO TO PART THREE
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
