elrhiarhodan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elrhiarhodan) wrote2015-11-15 10:42 am
elrhiarhodan) wrote2015-11-15 10:42 am
Entry tags:
- character: clinton jones,
- character: david siegel,
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: landon shepherd,
- character: matthew keller,
- character: mozzie,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: peter burke,
- character: sara ellis,
- character: theo berrigan,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: comfort porn,
- genre: domesticity,
- genre: emotional trauma,
- kink: cuddling,
- kink: kissing,
- pairing: neal/keller,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- wc verse: it must be now,
- white collar,
- written for: wcbb,
- year: 2015
White Collar Fic - It Must Be Now - Part One (WCBB)
Title: It Must Be Now - Part One of Seven
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Artist:treonb / Art Post
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, David Siegel, Diana Berrigan, Theodore "Mozzie" Winters, Theo Berrigan, Sara Ellis, Clinton Jones, Matthew Keller; Peter/Elizabeth (Past), Peter/Neal (Past), Neal/Keller (Past), Peter/Neal
Word Count: ~60,000
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Major Character Illness
Beta Credit:pooh_collector, sinfulslasher
Summary: In this alternate universe, the story opens as Peter and Elizabeth's marriage ends. Peter tries to move into a new life, but finds himself haunted by his past - a relationship with Neal Caffrey when they were both students at Harvard - and a future that might come to an end far too soon.
Author’s Note: Many, many thanks to my alpha readerstheatregirl7299 and miri_thompson, who provided an endless bounty of encouragement.
Even more thanks to my wonderful and talented artist,treonb, who created the beautiful and evocative promo video.
Title from the Annie Lennox Song "Oh God (Prayer)", which TreonB used in the vid.
__________________
"Just put your John Hancock on each page, and then we're done."
Peter looked at the package of legal papers waiting for his signature. There were about a half-dozen of those "Sign Here" flags sticking out from the side. With a deep sigh, he picked up the pen his attorney provided and scrawled his signature where indicated, then pushed the package back across the table.
"Congratulations, Peter. You're a free man."
Peter tried to summon a smile, but it was impossible. He didn't want to be a free man. He wanted to be a husband. He wanted to be Elizabeth's husband, just as he'd been for the last decade and a half. But she didn't want to be his wife anymore, she didn't want his adoration and affection and the bounty of material wealth he could provide. She wanted her independence, she wanted to stand on her own two feet and do what she wanted, whenever she wanted, with whoever she wanted. She wanted a life without him.
Elizabeth's reasons for their separation and divorce were still baffling to Peter. He'd never felt as if he'd stood in her way or held her back. When she wanted to start her own business, Peter had been happy to provide capital. When she needed clients; Peter hadn't hesitated to refer his colleagues to her. But apparently that wasn't enough – or in El's words, it was too much. She had felt stifled and constrained by his constant need to please her.
First she told him she wanted to be something more than the great Peter Burke's wife.
Then she said she couldn't stand his need to be the perfect husband.
So, after fifteen years of trying to be just that, Peter couldn't deny his wife anything, and when she asked him for a divorce, in those loving and reasonable tones that he knew so well, he couldn't even deny her that.
"Are you okay?" His lawyer, David Siegel, an old friend from his Harvard days, gave him a worried look.
Peter shrugged. "Yeah. I guess so."
"You know, this might have been the easiest divorce I've handled in ten years. You got away easy. Your ex wanted nothing from what you earned during your marriage, so your net worth's still intact. You aren't paying alimony, you aren't paying spousal support. If you hadn't insisted, you wouldn't have even had to clear the mortgage on the marital home. Why are you so blue?"
Because I don't want to be divorced, you idiot. "Don't know." Peter realized he was still fiddling with the pen and tossed it on the table. Feeling more like eighty than fifty, he pushed himself to his feet.
David made some soothing noises. "Look, it's a big change, I get that."
"You would. You've been married and divorced four times." Peter smiled to take the sting out of his words.
"You wound me – it was only three." David held his hand to his chest in an overly dramatic fashion. "But seriously, Peter, you have a chance that most men would give their eyeteeth for. You're healthy, wealthy, and unburdened by a spouse. You're built like a god and could probably pose for the cover of Men's Health without the need for Photoshop. What are you complaining about?"
"Elizabeth meant everything to me. I never wanted anything more than to be her husband."
"Oh?" David leaned back against the credenza, a smirk on his lips. "I seem to remember you as having very ecumenical tastes. You worked your way through every leggy blue-eyed brunette in Cambridge, and then went home and fucked that rather tasty housemate of ours, also a blue-eyed brunet. He was gorgeous enough to make me think I'd like to be queer, instead of just watching you be queer."
Peter felt a hot flush rise in his cheeks. "Those days are long past."
"Really?" David still wore that smirk as skepticism dripped from the syllables he uttered. "I thought leopards couldn't change their spots."
"I'm not a leopard. I was simply curious."
"Oh, come on. You told me that when I walked in on you getting a blow job in our freshman year. While there's nothing wrong with being curious, seven years is a long time to satisfy your curiosity. For three years, I watched you screw a lot of guys in our dorm room. And what about our housemate? For three years, he was the only one you wouldn't let me watch you fuck. I always thought that meant he was important to you."
"It was just a fling, that's it." Even after twenty-five years, the denial was still a bitter taste in his mouth. "And it just took a while to satisfy my curiosity."
"And now you have a chance to satisfy it all over again. Being gay is all the rage these days."
Peter shook his head, dismissing his lawyer's words. He wasn't gay. He hadn't been gay. He'd been bisexual, but that was no longer an issue. "Look, send me a copy of the papers and your final bill. I think we're done."
David tipped his head in a gesture of submission. "Will do, and here's some advice I'm not going to charge you for – get out there, have fun, enjoy yourself." He picked up the papers. "As of today, you and Elizabeth are history. You're better off."
Peter bit back the retort, No, I'm not, and left. There was no point in saying another word.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Six Months Later
Elizabeth scanned the small restaurant, looking for her client and she was pretty certain that the man sitting at a table near the window was him. She'd done her research after receiving his call, and although he lacked a footprint on any of the major social media sites and was generally publicity-shy, she was able to locate a relatively recent photograph taken at a charity event last spring. In a custom-made tuxedo, he'd taken her breath away, and if the man sitting by the window was her client, the picture hadn’t done him justice.
The maître'd approached. "Can I help you?"
"I'm here to see Neal Caffrey."
"Ah, yes. Mr. Caffrey is expecting you. Please follow me."
As she hoped, the man at the table was Neal Caffrey, and when he stood and smiled, the warmth in his eyes dispelled much of the awe his physical perfection generated. She knew he was a year shy of fifty, and if it wasn't for the magnificent silver wings at his temples and the threads of gray in his late afternoon scruff, she'd have said that Neal Caffrey wasn't a day over thirty-five.
"Elizabeth Burke?"
She smiled and corrected him, "Actually, it's Elizabeth Mitchell – at least it has been for the last six months – since my divorce was final. I keep meaning to get our website updated, but there's always something else that takes priority, especially since I'm not changing the name of the business." She flushed, not really intending on spilling her personal information to a client before she even sat down.
Neal nodded. "I know how those things are. Handle the big things and the small stuff takes care of itself."
"One hopes."
Neal gestured to the table. "Shall we sit?"
El did just that and Neal followed suit. He relaxed against the seat, legs crossed. Wearing what El suspected was Armani Black Label; he was the epitome of urbane elegance.
A waiter came by for the drink order and she figured, for the moment, it would be best to stick with club soda. Neal, however, ordered a vodka martini, extra olives.
After the waiter departed, El decided to get down to business before she lost her nerve and started flailing like a schoolgirl. This was Neal Caffrey, a former professional poker player who had become a wunderkind of the investment world. Those who knew about such things called him the "Shadow Prince of Private Equity," because even a whisper of his intentions could make or break companies. And for some reason, he wanted her – or at least he wanted the services of Burke Premier Events. Striving to maintain some semblance of dignity, Elizabeth asked, "What can BPE do for you?"
Neal's smile broadened, and something else hit her – it wasn't just a sexual appreciation for the man's physical gifts, but a different sort of warmth. It was the need to be this man's friend, to get to know him better. The more logical part of her brain said that this was certainly not an uncommon reaction.
"I want to throw a birthday party for my partner, Mozzie. He's turning sixty in January."
"Your partner?" El felt an unreasonable stab of disappointment. It wasn't as if she'd have a chance with a man like this anyway. Neal Caffrey likely dated supermodels, not curvy, short, almost-middle-aged business women.
A different sort of smile twisted Neal's lips. "My business partner. And my best friend. Besides, even if Moz liked men, he's not the type who mixes business with that sort of pleasure, and I value him too dearly to risk the inevitable mess that a breakup would leave behind. I've been through that before." Neal blinked. "Wow – I usually don't overshare like that."
"Well, considering I mentioned my divorce as we shook hands, I'd say we're even."
The waiter came back with her club soda and Neal's martini.
There was a pause as they both took sips, and Elizabeth pushed things forward. "Can you tell me about your friend? Things I should know so we can figure out how to throw him a party he'll never want to forget."
Neal seemed to consider the request. "Well, Moz is unique. I don't think you'll ever meet anyone quite like him."
Elizabeth often thought that was true of most people, but she just asked, "Can you give me an example?"
"Well, he's something of a paranoid genius."
That didn't sound promising. "I'm hoping you mean more genius than paranoid. More Albert Einstein, less Ted Kazinsky?"
Neal chuckled and sipped his martini. "Yeah, that's a good way to put it, and a way that Moz would appreciate."
Elizabeth had to ask, "Is Moz his first or his last name?"
"It's a nickname – short for Mozart, a nickname from his childhood. Moz doesn't like to use his real name."
"Okay. And is Moz musically inclined – like Mozart?"
"Not at all. He can't hold a tune, but he does appreciate the classics."
El was beginning to feel like she was digging for gold with a thimble. Neal was doing a good job of providing the least amount of useful information possible. "Is he married?"
"Yes."
"Can I ask why his wife isn’t planning this party?"
"Their relationship is … unusual. But she'll be on the guest list. As will his two girlfriends."
That was not what she expected to hear. "Okaaaay."
"I guess you're not a fan of polyamory."
"Poly-what?"
"Polyamory – or consensual non-monogamy. Moz has an open relationship with his wife and his two girlfriends. They all know about each other."
"Sort of share and share and share alike?"
"Pretty much."
El thought it seemed rather bizarre, but it wasn't up to her to pass judgment on anyone's lifestyle. "Sounds exhausting."
"Moz has a strong constitution."
Anxious to change the subject, El asked, "So – other than the business and his bounty of female companionship, what else can you tell me about him?"
"He has a few hobbies. Enjoys good wine, preferably Italian reds, though he won't turn up his nose at something French – especially something that costs a few hundred bucks and someone else is paying for. He flies his own airplane, and keeps bees. He races pigeons and has a pet rat. He loves solving puzzles and is a chess Grand Master. He buys storage lockers for the hell of it and freaks out when he finds people's dirty old clothes and used furniture."
Elizabeth finally had to concede, "You're right. Your friend certainly is unique. Are you sure he's going to want a birthday party, though?"
"Yes, absolutely. Moz may be prickly and difficult and no one would ever call him a people-person, but he loves being fussed over and made to feel important."
"He likes to be the center of attention?"
"Yeah, but it has to be the right kind of attention."
Elizabeth nodded, she understood that. They talked dates and guest lists and venues and menus, and although Neal wanted to give her a blank check, she insisted on a budget. "I'm not comfortable without some sort of cost control."
Neal accepted her request. "I'm usually not so expansive – I remember my lean years too well. But it's for Moz and I guess I'm inclined to overspend to make sure it's perfect."
"Nothing is perfect – there will always be hiccups and mistakes and I guarantee that something very important will require last minute changes or accommodations. That's the nature of the business – you just have to plan for it."
"Thank you for telling me that. I was expecting to hear you say that everything will be perfect and the party will come off without a hitch."
"There's no point in that, other than to create unreasonable expectations. You're hiring me to deliver the best event possible; it's my job to make sure that happens. But promising perfection is unrealistic, no matter how much money you're paying." This wasn't a speech she normally gave to prospective clients, but for some reason, she thought that Neal would appreciate it.
"You've been doing this for a while?"
"About a decade or so. I was an art acquisitions consultant for a few major galleries in New York, but started branching out about ten years ago. I still do some work in that field, but mostly my focus is on the event business." El then asked, "How did you find Burke Premier? You didn't mention who referred you."
"I wasn't referred. To be honest, I liked the name, I liked your website. I checked you out. You had good reviews on Yelp and Angie's List."
El was stunned. "I don't think anyone's ever picked my company because of my website. And I don't remember the last time I got a new client that wasn't a referral. Event planning is a business that thrives on word of mouth. The website's there simply because one can't do business without one, and my assistant's oldest daughter is pretty good with coding and whatnot."
Neal shrugged. "What can I say? I got a good feeling from the site and I'm glad I went with it. I like you."
"I'm glad you did, too."
The room began to darken and a server came by with a small lit candle, which he placed in the center of the table. It was mid-October and the days were already too short. El checked her watch, it was close to five.
Neal's next request was completely unexpected. "Would you like to have dinner with me?"
El looked up and blinked, not sure that she heard correctly. Did Neal Caffrey just ask her to dinner? The comfortable rapport she'd developed over the last hour or so evaporated. "I, um, I can't. I have another appointment." The words came out of her mouth before she could even think.
Neal accepted her excuse gracefully. "I understand. I just – well, sometimes – get bored with my own company. Moz is out of town and I'm at loose ends tonight."
"Maybe another time?"
"Absolutely. How about next week, when you have some ideas for this party?"
El couldn't believe she turned down what was possibly a date with Neal Caffrey. And considering that her appointment was her standing monthly dinner with her ex, she wanted to shoot herself for being so stupid. She could have rescheduled her dinner with Peter with a quick text. No explanation required. But she hadn't, and now she'd look foolish and desperate if she told Neal that she could change her plans. So El got up, and Neal followed suit. "It was nice meeting you."
"It was my pleasure."
"I'll call you next week. Monday or Tuesday, and we can discuss the options."
"Sounds perfect." Neal took her hand and for a moment, El thought he was going to kiss the back of it. A courtly gesture like that was usually a ridiculous affectation, but El thought it would suit him.
But he didn't, he just said, "I'm looking forward to seeing you again."
El nodded and hoped she didn't look like a perfect idiot. "I am, too."
As she walked away, El told herself she was being ridiculous, since Neal Caffrey all but admitted he was gay.
But a woman could dream, couldn't she?
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal watched Elizabeth Burke's – no, Mitchell's – retreating figure. A lovely firm ass, strong back and shoulders, and despite the lack of height, killer legs in those four-inch heels. A sight worth savoring. And once upon a time, he might have done more than savor.
Neal had stopped kidding himself a long time ago. He liked women. He appreciated them – their beauty and their minds. But he wasn't attracted to them, not sexually. Not anymore.
In truth, he probably never had been, but there was a time when it was easier to pretend interest than to deny it, if just because it meant he could hold onto something else for a little longer.
But that was more than a lifetime ago.
Neal signaled the waiter for a refill, and from his seat by the window, watched the busy New York sidewalk filled with people going on with their lives. Going home to their families or getting ready to socialize with friends. There were times – like tonight – when he wished he was different. That he could walk into a bar and smile at someone and find an evening's companionship or maybe something a little bit more than that. This was New York City, he was fit, wealthy, and he wasn't stupid enough to pretend that he wasn't attractive. There should have been plenty of men for him.
But after twenty-five years, he still longed for what he never really had.
Which was why he was dumb enough to pick an event planning company that shared a name with the man who walked away from him a quarter-century ago and never looked back. Or technically, the man who told him to get lost. It was a foolish choice – silly and juvenile – but one that seemed like it might very well work out. Elizabeth Mitchell was not just beautiful; she was smart, perceptive, and best of all, an emotional adult.
Unlike him. Despite his success, he felt like he had the impulse control of a three year old. And there were times that Moz wasn't much better than that. Between the two of them, it often seemed like they had the collective emotional intelligence of a very insecure thirteen-year-old girl.
At least he didn't delude himself, not anymore, that he was made for a family and PTA meetings and a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence. A string of mostly disastrous relationships since he left Harvard taught him plenty. He might be a romantic, he might long for permanence – the proverbial white picket fence – but he wasn't cut out to be anybody's one true love.
For a while, he thought he could settle for good companionship, that he could find someone who was sexually and emotionally compatible. But that never seemed to work out. Just before Matthew – his last attempt at a meaningful relationship – stormed out of his apartment, he'd called him an emotionally-stunted, closed-off narcissist, and no matter how much money he had, he'd end up dying alone because no one wanted to share their life with a very pretty and very empty shell.
Of course, when Matthew had come crawling back a few weeks later, Neal took great pleasure in telling him that there was no point in resuming a relationship, since he didn't want to be with anyone who'd settle for an "emotionally-stunted, closed-off narcissist".
He never really missed Matthew. The sex was okay, the conversation less so. He could buy better and occasionally did, although not lately. It wasn't that he had any functional difficulties; it was that he simply lacked the desire to pursue such interests.
His libido seemed to be in terminal decline.
Except in the small, dark hours of the night, when he dreamed he was back in Cambridge, back in that little house a few blocks from the Charles River. Those nights, he'd wake up hard and aching and fucking his mattress as his dream-partner fucked him.
The waiter came back with Neal's fresh martini and a small plate of tapas, courtesy of the house. Neal thanked the man and pretended not to notice the flirtatious up-from-under look he gave him. The guy was cute in a hipsterish sort of way. The beard was neat, but Neal could see the edges of a tattoo peeking out from his collar. His ears were pierced and there was a tiny hole at the side of his nostril for another piercing.
None of which Neal found appealing.
So he smiled absently and turned back to his people-watching. The alcohol didn't chase away the memories of another man's smooth, well-muscled flesh. It didn't chase away memories of it glowing unmarked and almost perfect in the dim light of a small bedroom. It didn't chase away the memories of the taste of that skin and its one tiny flaw – a mole at the base of that man's throat. Neal wondered if anything could erase those memories.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It took Elizabeth about twenty-five minutes to get from the trendy Upper West Side bistro where she'd had her appointment with Neal Caffrey to the extremely traditional Italian restaurant where she was meeting Peter. For years, Donatella's had been their go-to joint, a convenient spot to meet up in Manhattan before heading back to the house in Brooklyn. It remained convenient – about midway between her storefront in Chelsea and Peter's office in the McGraw-Hill Building on 56th and Sixth Avenue.
The place was shabby, but the food was better than decent. El was glad that they could still come here without feeling the pressure of memory.
She paid the cabbie and rushed into the restaurant. She was about ten minutes late and while Peter would never, ever say anything, she knew that he was almost obsessively punctual and would be there, waiting.
And Peter was, sitting at the bar. El paused in the doorway and took in the sight of her ex. He was reading something on a tablet, and there were a pair of bifocals perched on the tip of his nose. She remembered when Peter had gotten the prescription and had absolutely refused to wear them – complaining that they gave him headaches. She had told him that she thought there was nothing sexier than a man in glasses. He hadn't said anything, but had taken to wearing them while reading in bed. She had enjoyed proving her point. Over and over again.
Regardless of the issues between them, their sex life had rarely been a problem. Even now, almost a year since she asked Peter for a divorce, and six months since it had been finalized, El still felt that rich, sharp tug of desire. She wondered if maybe, despite everything, this was something they could have. They were, after all, still friends, so why not make that friends with benefits?
Peter looked up from his tablet and spotted her. He smiled, took off his glasses and tucked the tablet into his briefcase. As El approached, she couldn't help but notice that her ex seemed tired. Thinner, too. As he stood up to greet her, she saw how his suit jacket seemed to sag on him. It had taken her some time to convince him that even his off-the-rack Brooks Brothers needed some alterations, but once he'd gotten with the program, Peter had all his suits tailored properly. He had always been a little proud of his physique, especially as he'd entered middle age, and liked to show if off. After he'd left the FBI and taken a job with a top-tier Wall Street firm, the off-the-rack Brooks Brothers had been exchanged for custom-tailored, close-fitting Brioni, Armani, and Tom Ford, like the one he was wearing now.
Something wasn't quite right.
But Peter didn't seem to notice her concern as he leaned over and kissed her cheek. "You look wonderful, El."
She brushed off the compliment and apologized for her tardiness. "There was a stalled truck on Seventh and the traffic was backed up."
"Don't worry about it."
"I just hate keeping you waiting."
"It's okay, just ten minutes – no big deal."
They settled into the corner booth – their spot for almost a dozen years – and a waiter brought their usual drink order: a glass of Pinot for her and a bottle of Peroni for Peter, and asked if they were having their usual, which they were. El liked how comfortable they were with each other. She never regretted their separation and divorce, maybe because they had been able to remain such good friends.
They relaxed with their drinks and Peter asked her about her day.
"I have a new client."
"Oh?"
El told Peter about the job, but didn't mention Neal's name or any of the particulars. One of the few things he had required before their meeting was that she sign a non-disclosure agreement, and she hadn't hesitated. Such things were fairly common when dealing with extremely wealthy clients. She could talk about the job, but in broad strokes. Peter knew her well enough not to ask for details about the people paying the bills, and they could still brainstorm some of the plans.
"Where are you thinking of having this party?"
"Not sure. The birthday boy is a bit of an eccentric, so the Top of the Rock or the Four Seasons might be a bit ordinary."
"Does it have to be in Manhattan or New York City?"
"Hmm, don't know. That's a good point." El made a mental note to check with Neal on that.
The waiter came with a plate of cold antipasti, all terribly unhealthy but delicious. El was hungry and didn't stand on ceremony, helping herself to some prosciutto and melon. Two bites in, she noticed that Peter hadn't taken anything. Nor had he had more than a single sip of his beer. They might be divorced, but she could still worry about him. "Is everything all right?"
Peter gave her a quizzical look. "Sure, why do you ask?"
"You haven't taken anything." El waved at the platter. "And usually, you're on your second beer by now."
"Ah. Everything's fine. Had a late lunch with a client. Saving my appetite for the main course."
The excuse was offered without hesitation, but El's bullshit meter was hitting the red zone. She didn't press, though. "Okay." Suddenly, her own appetite deserted her and the piece of mozzarella she'd just bitten into tasted like chalk.
Peter then told her a story about a junior associate's epic loss of composure during an audit call that morning. El found the story more pathetic than amusing, but laughed at the appropriate places. Peter, however, noticed that she was faking it.
"I guess that wasn't very funny."
She shrugged. "Not really. You were never the kind of person who took pleasure from someone else's misfortune. Unless they deserved it. Did this kid?"
"No. He'd been working close to sixty hours without a break." Peter grimaced. "You're right; I never used to be that guy."
"So, what are you going to do?"
"I'll talk to his boss, try and smooth things over. Worse comes to worse, I'll take him for my team. He's smart – "
El finished the sentence, "And you like smart."
Peter raised his bottle to her and gave her a wry smile. "You know me very well."
The waiter returned with their entrees, and El waited to see if Peter was going to start eating. To her relief, he did. But not with any particular gusto, which was surprising, since the Chicken Valdostana was his favorite dish. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.
Peter noticed her preoccupation. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
"You're staring at me."
"Sorry, just lost in thought." El attacked her own meal with pretended delight.
Peter waited a few moments before asking, "Good thoughts, I hope."
"Huh?"
"You said you were lost in thought. Hope they were good thoughts."
"Yeah, I guess they were."
"Are you seeing someone?"
Elizabeth wasn't surprised by Peter's question, but the almost diffident tone sort of broke her heart. She kept reminding herself, no regrets, you have no regrets, and answered, "Been on a few casual dates, but nothing serious. What about you? Are you seeing anyone?"
"Me?" Peter sounded incredulous.
"Yeah, you. Any nice girls in your life?" She ignored the pained look on his face and, feeling a little outrageous, asked, "Any nice boys?"
"El!"
She didn't buy Peter's outrage. "Oh, come on, Peter. I know you, remember?" A few months after they'd started dating, when things started to turn serious, Peter told her about his past, which included more women than he could count and quite a few men, too.
"That was a long time ago, I was curious, that's all."
"Really? That's all it was? From what you told me, you spread yourself pretty thin trying to satisfy your curiosity."
"Look, I'm not interested in anyone. Not men, not women."
"Why not?"
"Because. I'm just not."
"Peter – come on. Why aren't you out there? Even if you aren't looking for romance, what about getting some action? It's not like you don't like sex." She ignored the storm clouds building in Peter's expression and continued. "I remember your stories – you were quite the player in college. Boys, girls, it didn't matter as long as they were willing and not looking for commitment. I loved that about you, you know that." She used to tease him like this all the time. Peter's past was his past – she'd never felt threatened by it. "Time to get back in the saddle, so to speak."
"El, drop it. Okay?" Peter's tone was sharp and she realized that maybe she was behaving like a bitch, pushing him into something he clearly wasn't ready for. She knew how much the divorce hurt him.
"Sorry – I didn't mean to cross the line."
Whatever fire had been in Peter's voice had died out and he shook his head. "It's okay."
The waiter stopped by, noticing that neither of them had eaten much, and Peter assured the man that everything was fine. When the waiter left, El finally gave voice to her concerns. "You don't look good, hon." She silently chided herself; using their old, affectionate shorthand was probably not a good idea anymore.
"I'm fine, El."
"Forgive me if I don't believe you. You look awful."
"Thanks for nothing."
"Seriously, Peter. You've lost weight, your complexion's terrible. You look like you haven't seen the sun in weeks, you have no appetite. What's wrong?"
"Nothing, El. Nothing's wrong at all."
She didn't call him a liar, although she was tempted. Instead, she put her hand over his, and gently said, "We may not be married anymore, but I still care about you. We're still friends. I'm here for you. You can tell me anything."
Peter deliberately removed his hand from under hers and looked at her. In all their years together – and the months they'd been apart – El had never seen him look at her this coldly. Not even when she'd asked him for a divorce.
"No, Elizabeth, we're not. We were married, and I thought we had a good marriage. You disagreed and wanted a divorce. So we're no longer married. We're simply ex-husband and ex-wife. 'Ex' means 'former'. We are not friends and I am tired of pretending that we are, or that we should be. Goodbye."
Peter picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth before taking out his wallet. He dropped enough money on the table to cover the bill and a generous tip before getting up. He grabbed his briefcase and without another word, walked out of the restaurant and out of her life.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter hadn't planned on making the final break with Elizabeth tonight, even though he knew he was going to have to do so soon. He just couldn't keep pretending that everything was all right, that he enjoyed seeing his ex-wife glowing with happiness while his own world was shrouded in misery.
He'd planned on easing away for a few weeks now. He should have cancelled a few of their monthly dinners, taking longer and longer to return her calls, making this final separation as natural and painless as possible. If he'd gone through with his initial plan, he wouldn't have had to be so brutal to Elizabeth. Despite the divorce, she didn't deserve that. But El was too smart, too perceptive. She always was, and that had been such a big part of the attraction. He couldn't lie to her, he couldn't fool her, and now, the only way he could make the break was by making her hate him. When she called him "hon" and said that he could tell her anything because they were friends, the plan clicked into place. He could cut it off now, make the break. He had to get out of there, no matter how much it hurt both of them.
It was late enough that he was easily able to get a cab back to his apartment on Columbus Avenue. It wasn't all that far, about twenty blocks, but he was just too tired and worn out to hoof it. The doorman greeted him and by the time he made it through the lobby, the private elevator car was waiting to whisk him up to his apartment on the twenty-first floor. Or rather, simply to the twenty-first floor, because his apartment took up the entire space.
He'd bought the property as an investment while the building was under construction, never expecting that he'd need to live here. But when Elizabeth asked for a divorce, there was no way he could stay in the house in Brooklyn. It was a symbol of a life he no longer had, maybe a life that never was anything more than an illusion. During the first years of their marriage, they'd scrimped and saved and managed to get a down payment together for a house in the not-yet-trendy Fort Greene neighborhood in Brooklyn. Today, the house was worth stupid money and paying off the mortgage as part of the divorce settlement was equivalent to a mere rounding error in his net worth.
But this glossy box wasn't his home. It was a place where he kept his suits, where he slept, where he existed in the time when he wasn't working. Not that work was particularly fulfilling. He'd never really relished his time as an FBI agent, at least not after 9/11 when the Bureau reorganized to focus on counterterrorism. He'd been pulled off of the white collar task force he'd been so proud to be a part of and spend the next five years chasing suspected terrorists through their bank accounts. He'd been good at it, too – but the work was soul-draining. Shortly after his fifteenth year with the FBI, he made the leap, taking a position with a Wall Street firm that valued his experience and his connections more than his facility with numbers. Which turned out to be just as soul-draining, but far more lucrative.
Not that wealth could truly buy happiness; it only made being unhappy a lot easier.
The elevator doors opened into a glossy foyer area with a marble floor and black leather and mirrored glass paneled walls – certainly not to his taste at all. After construction had finished, the place had been decorated by some famous designer – Peter couldn't remember who. He'd given a project manager a generous budget and told her she could have ten percent of whatever was left, once the apartment was sold. Even though she overran the budget, he ended up giving her a ten percent bonus anyway. It was finished just as he needed to move in.
If things were different, he'd sell it and find something smaller, something a little more practical. Something a little less glossy and magazine-layout like. But frankly, he didn't have the energy. At least not right now. Maybe someday.
Weary beyond belief, Peter dropped his briefcase on the couch and made his way into his bedroom. The view was decent, facing east, and he could see the towers of the truly grand buildings on Central Park West. Nowadays, he liked being so high up – there was a sense of isolation from being up so high, a separation from the world and its petty cares. In the winter, when the snow came, it seemed as if there was no one else in the world.
That he was alone in the universe.
It took a few minutes to change out of his suit. Elizabeth was right – he had lost weight. The jacket hung on him and the pants slipped over his hips as soon as he undid his belt. But there was no point in getting them tailored. If he was lucky, they'd fit him again in a year or so. If he wasn't, well then someone would take them to a thrift store.
Peter put on an old pair of sweatpants and cursed when the drawstring broke and they fell to the floor because he had no meat on his ass and hips to hold them up. He rummaged around the back of his closet and found another pair – not as old, not as comfortable, but they had an elastic waistband and stayed mostly where they were supposed to. He pulled on an old Harvard sweatshirt and something smacked him in the face before falling to the rug.
Panting from the simple effort of changing his clothes, Peter got woozy when he bent down to pick up the offending object. It took a second to recover from the dizzy spell, but he retrieved it. It was his watch; the leather strap had broken.
Peter looked at it, and felt a surge of almost angry tears. Elizabeth had given this to him on their tenth anniversary – a solid gold Movado. Peter had worn it with pride, although it was almost useless as a timekeeper. Time to put it away. Time to move on.
There was a small leather valet case on his bureau. The top of the box contained the wedding ring he could no longer wear, a few pairs of cufflinks, a couple of tie bars – a ridiculous affectation, and the pinkie ring he'd had made from his ten-year FBI anniversary pin. Underneath that tray was a space for watches. And other things.
Peter took a deep breath – knowing what he'd find there and not wanting to see it. It should be easy just to lift up the tray and drop the watch in the space and not see the white square he'd put there so long ago. Not see the faded script – P&N '88 Cmbdg. It should be easy to be the coward he'd always been and close his eyes to the past. He'd never had a problem doing that before, but tonight, he heard the echo of his words to Elizabeth:
"We are not friends…"
Words that were so similar to the ones he'd spoken to someone else, more than half a lifetime ago. Words of deliberate cruelty. Words he'd always wanted to take back but never did.
Peter lifted the tray and before he put away Elizabeth's broken gift, he pulled out that white square and turned it over. His heart beat a little faster at what he saw – a faded color photograph of two young men in matching tuxedos, arms slung over each other's shoulders.
A portrait of two friends.
Watch forgotten, he wandered out of the bedroom and dropped onto the vast leather couch. The room wasn't completely dark. This was Manhattan and the lights from the neighboring buildings provided enough of a glow for him to see.
But Peter didn't need the light. Memory provided all the illumination he needed.
END PART ONE - GO TO PART TWO
Author:
elrhiarhodanArtist:
treonb / Art PostFandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, David Siegel, Diana Berrigan, Theodore "Mozzie" Winters, Theo Berrigan, Sara Ellis, Clinton Jones, Matthew Keller; Peter/Elizabeth (Past), Peter/Neal (Past), Neal/Keller (Past), Peter/Neal
Word Count: ~60,000
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Major Character Illness
Beta Credit:
pooh_collector, sinfulslasher Summary: In this alternate universe, the story opens as Peter and Elizabeth's marriage ends. Peter tries to move into a new life, but finds himself haunted by his past - a relationship with Neal Caffrey when they were both students at Harvard - and a future that might come to an end far too soon.
Author’s Note: Many, many thanks to my alpha readers
theatregirl7299 and miri_thompson, who provided an endless bounty of encouragement. Even more thanks to my wonderful and talented artist,
treonb, who created the beautiful and evocative promo video. Title from the Annie Lennox Song "Oh God (Prayer)", which TreonB used in the vid.
"Just put your John Hancock on each page, and then we're done."
Peter looked at the package of legal papers waiting for his signature. There were about a half-dozen of those "Sign Here" flags sticking out from the side. With a deep sigh, he picked up the pen his attorney provided and scrawled his signature where indicated, then pushed the package back across the table.
"Congratulations, Peter. You're a free man."
Peter tried to summon a smile, but it was impossible. He didn't want to be a free man. He wanted to be a husband. He wanted to be Elizabeth's husband, just as he'd been for the last decade and a half. But she didn't want to be his wife anymore, she didn't want his adoration and affection and the bounty of material wealth he could provide. She wanted her independence, she wanted to stand on her own two feet and do what she wanted, whenever she wanted, with whoever she wanted. She wanted a life without him.
Elizabeth's reasons for their separation and divorce were still baffling to Peter. He'd never felt as if he'd stood in her way or held her back. When she wanted to start her own business, Peter had been happy to provide capital. When she needed clients; Peter hadn't hesitated to refer his colleagues to her. But apparently that wasn't enough – or in El's words, it was too much. She had felt stifled and constrained by his constant need to please her.
First she told him she wanted to be something more than the great Peter Burke's wife.
Then she said she couldn't stand his need to be the perfect husband.
So, after fifteen years of trying to be just that, Peter couldn't deny his wife anything, and when she asked him for a divorce, in those loving and reasonable tones that he knew so well, he couldn't even deny her that.
"Are you okay?" His lawyer, David Siegel, an old friend from his Harvard days, gave him a worried look.
Peter shrugged. "Yeah. I guess so."
"You know, this might have been the easiest divorce I've handled in ten years. You got away easy. Your ex wanted nothing from what you earned during your marriage, so your net worth's still intact. You aren't paying alimony, you aren't paying spousal support. If you hadn't insisted, you wouldn't have even had to clear the mortgage on the marital home. Why are you so blue?"
Because I don't want to be divorced, you idiot. "Don't know." Peter realized he was still fiddling with the pen and tossed it on the table. Feeling more like eighty than fifty, he pushed himself to his feet.
David made some soothing noises. "Look, it's a big change, I get that."
"You would. You've been married and divorced four times." Peter smiled to take the sting out of his words.
"You wound me – it was only three." David held his hand to his chest in an overly dramatic fashion. "But seriously, Peter, you have a chance that most men would give their eyeteeth for. You're healthy, wealthy, and unburdened by a spouse. You're built like a god and could probably pose for the cover of Men's Health without the need for Photoshop. What are you complaining about?"
"Elizabeth meant everything to me. I never wanted anything more than to be her husband."
"Oh?" David leaned back against the credenza, a smirk on his lips. "I seem to remember you as having very ecumenical tastes. You worked your way through every leggy blue-eyed brunette in Cambridge, and then went home and fucked that rather tasty housemate of ours, also a blue-eyed brunet. He was gorgeous enough to make me think I'd like to be queer, instead of just watching you be queer."
Peter felt a hot flush rise in his cheeks. "Those days are long past."
"Really?" David still wore that smirk as skepticism dripped from the syllables he uttered. "I thought leopards couldn't change their spots."
"I'm not a leopard. I was simply curious."
"Oh, come on. You told me that when I walked in on you getting a blow job in our freshman year. While there's nothing wrong with being curious, seven years is a long time to satisfy your curiosity. For three years, I watched you screw a lot of guys in our dorm room. And what about our housemate? For three years, he was the only one you wouldn't let me watch you fuck. I always thought that meant he was important to you."
"It was just a fling, that's it." Even after twenty-five years, the denial was still a bitter taste in his mouth. "And it just took a while to satisfy my curiosity."
"And now you have a chance to satisfy it all over again. Being gay is all the rage these days."
Peter shook his head, dismissing his lawyer's words. He wasn't gay. He hadn't been gay. He'd been bisexual, but that was no longer an issue. "Look, send me a copy of the papers and your final bill. I think we're done."
David tipped his head in a gesture of submission. "Will do, and here's some advice I'm not going to charge you for – get out there, have fun, enjoy yourself." He picked up the papers. "As of today, you and Elizabeth are history. You're better off."
Peter bit back the retort, No, I'm not, and left. There was no point in saying another word.
Six Months Later
Elizabeth scanned the small restaurant, looking for her client and she was pretty certain that the man sitting at a table near the window was him. She'd done her research after receiving his call, and although he lacked a footprint on any of the major social media sites and was generally publicity-shy, she was able to locate a relatively recent photograph taken at a charity event last spring. In a custom-made tuxedo, he'd taken her breath away, and if the man sitting by the window was her client, the picture hadn’t done him justice.
The maître'd approached. "Can I help you?"
"I'm here to see Neal Caffrey."
"Ah, yes. Mr. Caffrey is expecting you. Please follow me."
As she hoped, the man at the table was Neal Caffrey, and when he stood and smiled, the warmth in his eyes dispelled much of the awe his physical perfection generated. She knew he was a year shy of fifty, and if it wasn't for the magnificent silver wings at his temples and the threads of gray in his late afternoon scruff, she'd have said that Neal Caffrey wasn't a day over thirty-five.
"Elizabeth Burke?"
She smiled and corrected him, "Actually, it's Elizabeth Mitchell – at least it has been for the last six months – since my divorce was final. I keep meaning to get our website updated, but there's always something else that takes priority, especially since I'm not changing the name of the business." She flushed, not really intending on spilling her personal information to a client before she even sat down.
Neal nodded. "I know how those things are. Handle the big things and the small stuff takes care of itself."
"One hopes."
Neal gestured to the table. "Shall we sit?"
El did just that and Neal followed suit. He relaxed against the seat, legs crossed. Wearing what El suspected was Armani Black Label; he was the epitome of urbane elegance.
A waiter came by for the drink order and she figured, for the moment, it would be best to stick with club soda. Neal, however, ordered a vodka martini, extra olives.
After the waiter departed, El decided to get down to business before she lost her nerve and started flailing like a schoolgirl. This was Neal Caffrey, a former professional poker player who had become a wunderkind of the investment world. Those who knew about such things called him the "Shadow Prince of Private Equity," because even a whisper of his intentions could make or break companies. And for some reason, he wanted her – or at least he wanted the services of Burke Premier Events. Striving to maintain some semblance of dignity, Elizabeth asked, "What can BPE do for you?"
Neal's smile broadened, and something else hit her – it wasn't just a sexual appreciation for the man's physical gifts, but a different sort of warmth. It was the need to be this man's friend, to get to know him better. The more logical part of her brain said that this was certainly not an uncommon reaction.
"I want to throw a birthday party for my partner, Mozzie. He's turning sixty in January."
"Your partner?" El felt an unreasonable stab of disappointment. It wasn't as if she'd have a chance with a man like this anyway. Neal Caffrey likely dated supermodels, not curvy, short, almost-middle-aged business women.
A different sort of smile twisted Neal's lips. "My business partner. And my best friend. Besides, even if Moz liked men, he's not the type who mixes business with that sort of pleasure, and I value him too dearly to risk the inevitable mess that a breakup would leave behind. I've been through that before." Neal blinked. "Wow – I usually don't overshare like that."
"Well, considering I mentioned my divorce as we shook hands, I'd say we're even."
The waiter came back with her club soda and Neal's martini.
There was a pause as they both took sips, and Elizabeth pushed things forward. "Can you tell me about your friend? Things I should know so we can figure out how to throw him a party he'll never want to forget."
Neal seemed to consider the request. "Well, Moz is unique. I don't think you'll ever meet anyone quite like him."
Elizabeth often thought that was true of most people, but she just asked, "Can you give me an example?"
"Well, he's something of a paranoid genius."
That didn't sound promising. "I'm hoping you mean more genius than paranoid. More Albert Einstein, less Ted Kazinsky?"
Neal chuckled and sipped his martini. "Yeah, that's a good way to put it, and a way that Moz would appreciate."
Elizabeth had to ask, "Is Moz his first or his last name?"
"It's a nickname – short for Mozart, a nickname from his childhood. Moz doesn't like to use his real name."
"Okay. And is Moz musically inclined – like Mozart?"
"Not at all. He can't hold a tune, but he does appreciate the classics."
El was beginning to feel like she was digging for gold with a thimble. Neal was doing a good job of providing the least amount of useful information possible. "Is he married?"
"Yes."
"Can I ask why his wife isn’t planning this party?"
"Their relationship is … unusual. But she'll be on the guest list. As will his two girlfriends."
That was not what she expected to hear. "Okaaaay."
"I guess you're not a fan of polyamory."
"Poly-what?"
"Polyamory – or consensual non-monogamy. Moz has an open relationship with his wife and his two girlfriends. They all know about each other."
"Sort of share and share and share alike?"
"Pretty much."
El thought it seemed rather bizarre, but it wasn't up to her to pass judgment on anyone's lifestyle. "Sounds exhausting."
"Moz has a strong constitution."
Anxious to change the subject, El asked, "So – other than the business and his bounty of female companionship, what else can you tell me about him?"
"He has a few hobbies. Enjoys good wine, preferably Italian reds, though he won't turn up his nose at something French – especially something that costs a few hundred bucks and someone else is paying for. He flies his own airplane, and keeps bees. He races pigeons and has a pet rat. He loves solving puzzles and is a chess Grand Master. He buys storage lockers for the hell of it and freaks out when he finds people's dirty old clothes and used furniture."
Elizabeth finally had to concede, "You're right. Your friend certainly is unique. Are you sure he's going to want a birthday party, though?"
"Yes, absolutely. Moz may be prickly and difficult and no one would ever call him a people-person, but he loves being fussed over and made to feel important."
"He likes to be the center of attention?"
"Yeah, but it has to be the right kind of attention."
Elizabeth nodded, she understood that. They talked dates and guest lists and venues and menus, and although Neal wanted to give her a blank check, she insisted on a budget. "I'm not comfortable without some sort of cost control."
Neal accepted her request. "I'm usually not so expansive – I remember my lean years too well. But it's for Moz and I guess I'm inclined to overspend to make sure it's perfect."
"Nothing is perfect – there will always be hiccups and mistakes and I guarantee that something very important will require last minute changes or accommodations. That's the nature of the business – you just have to plan for it."
"Thank you for telling me that. I was expecting to hear you say that everything will be perfect and the party will come off without a hitch."
"There's no point in that, other than to create unreasonable expectations. You're hiring me to deliver the best event possible; it's my job to make sure that happens. But promising perfection is unrealistic, no matter how much money you're paying." This wasn't a speech she normally gave to prospective clients, but for some reason, she thought that Neal would appreciate it.
"You've been doing this for a while?"
"About a decade or so. I was an art acquisitions consultant for a few major galleries in New York, but started branching out about ten years ago. I still do some work in that field, but mostly my focus is on the event business." El then asked, "How did you find Burke Premier? You didn't mention who referred you."
"I wasn't referred. To be honest, I liked the name, I liked your website. I checked you out. You had good reviews on Yelp and Angie's List."
El was stunned. "I don't think anyone's ever picked my company because of my website. And I don't remember the last time I got a new client that wasn't a referral. Event planning is a business that thrives on word of mouth. The website's there simply because one can't do business without one, and my assistant's oldest daughter is pretty good with coding and whatnot."
Neal shrugged. "What can I say? I got a good feeling from the site and I'm glad I went with it. I like you."
"I'm glad you did, too."
The room began to darken and a server came by with a small lit candle, which he placed in the center of the table. It was mid-October and the days were already too short. El checked her watch, it was close to five.
Neal's next request was completely unexpected. "Would you like to have dinner with me?"
El looked up and blinked, not sure that she heard correctly. Did Neal Caffrey just ask her to dinner? The comfortable rapport she'd developed over the last hour or so evaporated. "I, um, I can't. I have another appointment." The words came out of her mouth before she could even think.
Neal accepted her excuse gracefully. "I understand. I just – well, sometimes – get bored with my own company. Moz is out of town and I'm at loose ends tonight."
"Maybe another time?"
"Absolutely. How about next week, when you have some ideas for this party?"
El couldn't believe she turned down what was possibly a date with Neal Caffrey. And considering that her appointment was her standing monthly dinner with her ex, she wanted to shoot herself for being so stupid. She could have rescheduled her dinner with Peter with a quick text. No explanation required. But she hadn't, and now she'd look foolish and desperate if she told Neal that she could change her plans. So El got up, and Neal followed suit. "It was nice meeting you."
"It was my pleasure."
"I'll call you next week. Monday or Tuesday, and we can discuss the options."
"Sounds perfect." Neal took her hand and for a moment, El thought he was going to kiss the back of it. A courtly gesture like that was usually a ridiculous affectation, but El thought it would suit him.
But he didn't, he just said, "I'm looking forward to seeing you again."
El nodded and hoped she didn't look like a perfect idiot. "I am, too."
As she walked away, El told herself she was being ridiculous, since Neal Caffrey all but admitted he was gay.
But a woman could dream, couldn't she?
Neal watched Elizabeth Burke's – no, Mitchell's – retreating figure. A lovely firm ass, strong back and shoulders, and despite the lack of height, killer legs in those four-inch heels. A sight worth savoring. And once upon a time, he might have done more than savor.
Neal had stopped kidding himself a long time ago. He liked women. He appreciated them – their beauty and their minds. But he wasn't attracted to them, not sexually. Not anymore.
In truth, he probably never had been, but there was a time when it was easier to pretend interest than to deny it, if just because it meant he could hold onto something else for a little longer.
But that was more than a lifetime ago.
Neal signaled the waiter for a refill, and from his seat by the window, watched the busy New York sidewalk filled with people going on with their lives. Going home to their families or getting ready to socialize with friends. There were times – like tonight – when he wished he was different. That he could walk into a bar and smile at someone and find an evening's companionship or maybe something a little bit more than that. This was New York City, he was fit, wealthy, and he wasn't stupid enough to pretend that he wasn't attractive. There should have been plenty of men for him.
But after twenty-five years, he still longed for what he never really had.
Which was why he was dumb enough to pick an event planning company that shared a name with the man who walked away from him a quarter-century ago and never looked back. Or technically, the man who told him to get lost. It was a foolish choice – silly and juvenile – but one that seemed like it might very well work out. Elizabeth Mitchell was not just beautiful; she was smart, perceptive, and best of all, an emotional adult.
Unlike him. Despite his success, he felt like he had the impulse control of a three year old. And there were times that Moz wasn't much better than that. Between the two of them, it often seemed like they had the collective emotional intelligence of a very insecure thirteen-year-old girl.
At least he didn't delude himself, not anymore, that he was made for a family and PTA meetings and a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence. A string of mostly disastrous relationships since he left Harvard taught him plenty. He might be a romantic, he might long for permanence – the proverbial white picket fence – but he wasn't cut out to be anybody's one true love.
For a while, he thought he could settle for good companionship, that he could find someone who was sexually and emotionally compatible. But that never seemed to work out. Just before Matthew – his last attempt at a meaningful relationship – stormed out of his apartment, he'd called him an emotionally-stunted, closed-off narcissist, and no matter how much money he had, he'd end up dying alone because no one wanted to share their life with a very pretty and very empty shell.
Of course, when Matthew had come crawling back a few weeks later, Neal took great pleasure in telling him that there was no point in resuming a relationship, since he didn't want to be with anyone who'd settle for an "emotionally-stunted, closed-off narcissist".
He never really missed Matthew. The sex was okay, the conversation less so. He could buy better and occasionally did, although not lately. It wasn't that he had any functional difficulties; it was that he simply lacked the desire to pursue such interests.
His libido seemed to be in terminal decline.
Except in the small, dark hours of the night, when he dreamed he was back in Cambridge, back in that little house a few blocks from the Charles River. Those nights, he'd wake up hard and aching and fucking his mattress as his dream-partner fucked him.
The waiter came back with Neal's fresh martini and a small plate of tapas, courtesy of the house. Neal thanked the man and pretended not to notice the flirtatious up-from-under look he gave him. The guy was cute in a hipsterish sort of way. The beard was neat, but Neal could see the edges of a tattoo peeking out from his collar. His ears were pierced and there was a tiny hole at the side of his nostril for another piercing.
None of which Neal found appealing.
So he smiled absently and turned back to his people-watching. The alcohol didn't chase away the memories of another man's smooth, well-muscled flesh. It didn't chase away memories of it glowing unmarked and almost perfect in the dim light of a small bedroom. It didn't chase away the memories of the taste of that skin and its one tiny flaw – a mole at the base of that man's throat. Neal wondered if anything could erase those memories.
It took Elizabeth about twenty-five minutes to get from the trendy Upper West Side bistro where she'd had her appointment with Neal Caffrey to the extremely traditional Italian restaurant where she was meeting Peter. For years, Donatella's had been their go-to joint, a convenient spot to meet up in Manhattan before heading back to the house in Brooklyn. It remained convenient – about midway between her storefront in Chelsea and Peter's office in the McGraw-Hill Building on 56th and Sixth Avenue.
The place was shabby, but the food was better than decent. El was glad that they could still come here without feeling the pressure of memory.
She paid the cabbie and rushed into the restaurant. She was about ten minutes late and while Peter would never, ever say anything, she knew that he was almost obsessively punctual and would be there, waiting.
And Peter was, sitting at the bar. El paused in the doorway and took in the sight of her ex. He was reading something on a tablet, and there were a pair of bifocals perched on the tip of his nose. She remembered when Peter had gotten the prescription and had absolutely refused to wear them – complaining that they gave him headaches. She had told him that she thought there was nothing sexier than a man in glasses. He hadn't said anything, but had taken to wearing them while reading in bed. She had enjoyed proving her point. Over and over again.
Regardless of the issues between them, their sex life had rarely been a problem. Even now, almost a year since she asked Peter for a divorce, and six months since it had been finalized, El still felt that rich, sharp tug of desire. She wondered if maybe, despite everything, this was something they could have. They were, after all, still friends, so why not make that friends with benefits?
Peter looked up from his tablet and spotted her. He smiled, took off his glasses and tucked the tablet into his briefcase. As El approached, she couldn't help but notice that her ex seemed tired. Thinner, too. As he stood up to greet her, she saw how his suit jacket seemed to sag on him. It had taken her some time to convince him that even his off-the-rack Brooks Brothers needed some alterations, but once he'd gotten with the program, Peter had all his suits tailored properly. He had always been a little proud of his physique, especially as he'd entered middle age, and liked to show if off. After he'd left the FBI and taken a job with a top-tier Wall Street firm, the off-the-rack Brooks Brothers had been exchanged for custom-tailored, close-fitting Brioni, Armani, and Tom Ford, like the one he was wearing now.
Something wasn't quite right.
But Peter didn't seem to notice her concern as he leaned over and kissed her cheek. "You look wonderful, El."
She brushed off the compliment and apologized for her tardiness. "There was a stalled truck on Seventh and the traffic was backed up."
"Don't worry about it."
"I just hate keeping you waiting."
"It's okay, just ten minutes – no big deal."
They settled into the corner booth – their spot for almost a dozen years – and a waiter brought their usual drink order: a glass of Pinot for her and a bottle of Peroni for Peter, and asked if they were having their usual, which they were. El liked how comfortable they were with each other. She never regretted their separation and divorce, maybe because they had been able to remain such good friends.
They relaxed with their drinks and Peter asked her about her day.
"I have a new client."
"Oh?"
El told Peter about the job, but didn't mention Neal's name or any of the particulars. One of the few things he had required before their meeting was that she sign a non-disclosure agreement, and she hadn't hesitated. Such things were fairly common when dealing with extremely wealthy clients. She could talk about the job, but in broad strokes. Peter knew her well enough not to ask for details about the people paying the bills, and they could still brainstorm some of the plans.
"Where are you thinking of having this party?"
"Not sure. The birthday boy is a bit of an eccentric, so the Top of the Rock or the Four Seasons might be a bit ordinary."
"Does it have to be in Manhattan or New York City?"
"Hmm, don't know. That's a good point." El made a mental note to check with Neal on that.
The waiter came with a plate of cold antipasti, all terribly unhealthy but delicious. El was hungry and didn't stand on ceremony, helping herself to some prosciutto and melon. Two bites in, she noticed that Peter hadn't taken anything. Nor had he had more than a single sip of his beer. They might be divorced, but she could still worry about him. "Is everything all right?"
Peter gave her a quizzical look. "Sure, why do you ask?"
"You haven't taken anything." El waved at the platter. "And usually, you're on your second beer by now."
"Ah. Everything's fine. Had a late lunch with a client. Saving my appetite for the main course."
The excuse was offered without hesitation, but El's bullshit meter was hitting the red zone. She didn't press, though. "Okay." Suddenly, her own appetite deserted her and the piece of mozzarella she'd just bitten into tasted like chalk.
Peter then told her a story about a junior associate's epic loss of composure during an audit call that morning. El found the story more pathetic than amusing, but laughed at the appropriate places. Peter, however, noticed that she was faking it.
"I guess that wasn't very funny."
She shrugged. "Not really. You were never the kind of person who took pleasure from someone else's misfortune. Unless they deserved it. Did this kid?"
"No. He'd been working close to sixty hours without a break." Peter grimaced. "You're right; I never used to be that guy."
"So, what are you going to do?"
"I'll talk to his boss, try and smooth things over. Worse comes to worse, I'll take him for my team. He's smart – "
El finished the sentence, "And you like smart."
Peter raised his bottle to her and gave her a wry smile. "You know me very well."
The waiter returned with their entrees, and El waited to see if Peter was going to start eating. To her relief, he did. But not with any particular gusto, which was surprising, since the Chicken Valdostana was his favorite dish. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.
Peter noticed her preoccupation. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
"You're staring at me."
"Sorry, just lost in thought." El attacked her own meal with pretended delight.
Peter waited a few moments before asking, "Good thoughts, I hope."
"Huh?"
"You said you were lost in thought. Hope they were good thoughts."
"Yeah, I guess they were."
"Are you seeing someone?"
Elizabeth wasn't surprised by Peter's question, but the almost diffident tone sort of broke her heart. She kept reminding herself, no regrets, you have no regrets, and answered, "Been on a few casual dates, but nothing serious. What about you? Are you seeing anyone?"
"Me?" Peter sounded incredulous.
"Yeah, you. Any nice girls in your life?" She ignored the pained look on his face and, feeling a little outrageous, asked, "Any nice boys?"
"El!"
She didn't buy Peter's outrage. "Oh, come on, Peter. I know you, remember?" A few months after they'd started dating, when things started to turn serious, Peter told her about his past, which included more women than he could count and quite a few men, too.
"That was a long time ago, I was curious, that's all."
"Really? That's all it was? From what you told me, you spread yourself pretty thin trying to satisfy your curiosity."
"Look, I'm not interested in anyone. Not men, not women."
"Why not?"
"Because. I'm just not."
"Peter – come on. Why aren't you out there? Even if you aren't looking for romance, what about getting some action? It's not like you don't like sex." She ignored the storm clouds building in Peter's expression and continued. "I remember your stories – you were quite the player in college. Boys, girls, it didn't matter as long as they were willing and not looking for commitment. I loved that about you, you know that." She used to tease him like this all the time. Peter's past was his past – she'd never felt threatened by it. "Time to get back in the saddle, so to speak."
"El, drop it. Okay?" Peter's tone was sharp and she realized that maybe she was behaving like a bitch, pushing him into something he clearly wasn't ready for. She knew how much the divorce hurt him.
"Sorry – I didn't mean to cross the line."
Whatever fire had been in Peter's voice had died out and he shook his head. "It's okay."
The waiter stopped by, noticing that neither of them had eaten much, and Peter assured the man that everything was fine. When the waiter left, El finally gave voice to her concerns. "You don't look good, hon." She silently chided herself; using their old, affectionate shorthand was probably not a good idea anymore.
"I'm fine, El."
"Forgive me if I don't believe you. You look awful."
"Thanks for nothing."
"Seriously, Peter. You've lost weight, your complexion's terrible. You look like you haven't seen the sun in weeks, you have no appetite. What's wrong?"
"Nothing, El. Nothing's wrong at all."
She didn't call him a liar, although she was tempted. Instead, she put her hand over his, and gently said, "We may not be married anymore, but I still care about you. We're still friends. I'm here for you. You can tell me anything."
Peter deliberately removed his hand from under hers and looked at her. In all their years together – and the months they'd been apart – El had never seen him look at her this coldly. Not even when she'd asked him for a divorce.
"No, Elizabeth, we're not. We were married, and I thought we had a good marriage. You disagreed and wanted a divorce. So we're no longer married. We're simply ex-husband and ex-wife. 'Ex' means 'former'. We are not friends and I am tired of pretending that we are, or that we should be. Goodbye."
Peter picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth before taking out his wallet. He dropped enough money on the table to cover the bill and a generous tip before getting up. He grabbed his briefcase and without another word, walked out of the restaurant and out of her life.
Peter hadn't planned on making the final break with Elizabeth tonight, even though he knew he was going to have to do so soon. He just couldn't keep pretending that everything was all right, that he enjoyed seeing his ex-wife glowing with happiness while his own world was shrouded in misery.
He'd planned on easing away for a few weeks now. He should have cancelled a few of their monthly dinners, taking longer and longer to return her calls, making this final separation as natural and painless as possible. If he'd gone through with his initial plan, he wouldn't have had to be so brutal to Elizabeth. Despite the divorce, she didn't deserve that. But El was too smart, too perceptive. She always was, and that had been such a big part of the attraction. He couldn't lie to her, he couldn't fool her, and now, the only way he could make the break was by making her hate him. When she called him "hon" and said that he could tell her anything because they were friends, the plan clicked into place. He could cut it off now, make the break. He had to get out of there, no matter how much it hurt both of them.
It was late enough that he was easily able to get a cab back to his apartment on Columbus Avenue. It wasn't all that far, about twenty blocks, but he was just too tired and worn out to hoof it. The doorman greeted him and by the time he made it through the lobby, the private elevator car was waiting to whisk him up to his apartment on the twenty-first floor. Or rather, simply to the twenty-first floor, because his apartment took up the entire space.
He'd bought the property as an investment while the building was under construction, never expecting that he'd need to live here. But when Elizabeth asked for a divorce, there was no way he could stay in the house in Brooklyn. It was a symbol of a life he no longer had, maybe a life that never was anything more than an illusion. During the first years of their marriage, they'd scrimped and saved and managed to get a down payment together for a house in the not-yet-trendy Fort Greene neighborhood in Brooklyn. Today, the house was worth stupid money and paying off the mortgage as part of the divorce settlement was equivalent to a mere rounding error in his net worth.
But this glossy box wasn't his home. It was a place where he kept his suits, where he slept, where he existed in the time when he wasn't working. Not that work was particularly fulfilling. He'd never really relished his time as an FBI agent, at least not after 9/11 when the Bureau reorganized to focus on counterterrorism. He'd been pulled off of the white collar task force he'd been so proud to be a part of and spend the next five years chasing suspected terrorists through their bank accounts. He'd been good at it, too – but the work was soul-draining. Shortly after his fifteenth year with the FBI, he made the leap, taking a position with a Wall Street firm that valued his experience and his connections more than his facility with numbers. Which turned out to be just as soul-draining, but far more lucrative.
Not that wealth could truly buy happiness; it only made being unhappy a lot easier.
The elevator doors opened into a glossy foyer area with a marble floor and black leather and mirrored glass paneled walls – certainly not to his taste at all. After construction had finished, the place had been decorated by some famous designer – Peter couldn't remember who. He'd given a project manager a generous budget and told her she could have ten percent of whatever was left, once the apartment was sold. Even though she overran the budget, he ended up giving her a ten percent bonus anyway. It was finished just as he needed to move in.
If things were different, he'd sell it and find something smaller, something a little more practical. Something a little less glossy and magazine-layout like. But frankly, he didn't have the energy. At least not right now. Maybe someday.
Weary beyond belief, Peter dropped his briefcase on the couch and made his way into his bedroom. The view was decent, facing east, and he could see the towers of the truly grand buildings on Central Park West. Nowadays, he liked being so high up – there was a sense of isolation from being up so high, a separation from the world and its petty cares. In the winter, when the snow came, it seemed as if there was no one else in the world.
That he was alone in the universe.
It took a few minutes to change out of his suit. Elizabeth was right – he had lost weight. The jacket hung on him and the pants slipped over his hips as soon as he undid his belt. But there was no point in getting them tailored. If he was lucky, they'd fit him again in a year or so. If he wasn't, well then someone would take them to a thrift store.
Peter put on an old pair of sweatpants and cursed when the drawstring broke and they fell to the floor because he had no meat on his ass and hips to hold them up. He rummaged around the back of his closet and found another pair – not as old, not as comfortable, but they had an elastic waistband and stayed mostly where they were supposed to. He pulled on an old Harvard sweatshirt and something smacked him in the face before falling to the rug.
Panting from the simple effort of changing his clothes, Peter got woozy when he bent down to pick up the offending object. It took a second to recover from the dizzy spell, but he retrieved it. It was his watch; the leather strap had broken.
Peter looked at it, and felt a surge of almost angry tears. Elizabeth had given this to him on their tenth anniversary – a solid gold Movado. Peter had worn it with pride, although it was almost useless as a timekeeper. Time to put it away. Time to move on.
There was a small leather valet case on his bureau. The top of the box contained the wedding ring he could no longer wear, a few pairs of cufflinks, a couple of tie bars – a ridiculous affectation, and the pinkie ring he'd had made from his ten-year FBI anniversary pin. Underneath that tray was a space for watches. And other things.
Peter took a deep breath – knowing what he'd find there and not wanting to see it. It should be easy just to lift up the tray and drop the watch in the space and not see the white square he'd put there so long ago. Not see the faded script – P&N '88 Cmbdg. It should be easy to be the coward he'd always been and close his eyes to the past. He'd never had a problem doing that before, but tonight, he heard the echo of his words to Elizabeth:
"We are not friends…"
Words that were so similar to the ones he'd spoken to someone else, more than half a lifetime ago. Words of deliberate cruelty. Words he'd always wanted to take back but never did.
Peter lifted the tray and before he put away Elizabeth's broken gift, he pulled out that white square and turned it over. His heart beat a little faster at what he saw – a faded color photograph of two young men in matching tuxedos, arms slung over each other's shoulders.
A portrait of two friends.
Watch forgotten, he wandered out of the bedroom and dropped onto the vast leather couch. The room wasn't completely dark. This was Manhattan and the lights from the neighboring buildings provided enough of a glow for him to see.
But Peter didn't need the light. Memory provided all the illumination he needed.
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Curious as to what will happen next = please update soon!
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It's for the BB, so there'll be a new chapter every day until the story's done (seven chapters in all).
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Thank you.
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I'm evol like that.
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Great start. Enjoyed Neal trying to describe Mozzie.
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