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elrhiarhodanTitle: Salva Me - Part Three of Three
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Diana Berrigan, James Bennett, Lydia Bennett (OFC), Kyle Collins, Clinton Jones, Matthew Keller; Neal/Keller (past), Peter/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Kidnapping, physical assault, very brief reference to self-harm (OC), brief reference to clerical sexual abuse of a minor (OC), pre-story non-described death of canon character.
Word Count: ~22,000
Beta Credit:sinfulslasher who was heroic in her work on this story, despite having her own fic to write. Her advice was invaluable, even when I didn't take it.
Summary: Colonel Peter Burke, retired, runs a private kidnap and hostage recovery operation. He's hired by James and Lydia Bennett to rescue their kidnapped son, Neal. Neal is a priest who's been assigned to work in central Honduras, one of the most dangerous places in the world.
__________________
"Well?" Peter was dreading Caffrey's answer. He liked the man for reasons beyond his physical attractiveness. He liked his resiliency, his ability to adapt to the situation. He liked his humor and his curiosity. And he liked his intelligence. Peter had always liked smart.
But all that was about to be ruined – because he couldn't keep his mouth shut. Because his curiosity was too attractive and Peter had been suffering the tortures of the damned. Just when he'd recovered from the bathing, he had to go and offer to shave the man. He wished he had a camera, because in his imagination, Neal leaning back against him while being so intimately cared for was hotter than any pornography he'd ever seen.
"I don't think you're going to Hell, Peter."
"No?" He hated the way Neal said his name, with softness and compassion. "You think I'm going to repent my sinful ways?"
"I don't think you have anything to repent. Real love, real affection and respect between two people, regardless of gender, is never sinful."
"Who's talking about love and respect? I'm talking about fucking." Peter wished he could just shut up, that he could end the conversation – but his mouth wasn't listening to his brain.
"Why are you so angry? Do you hate being gay?"
"No, it is part of who I am, like my height or the color of my eyes." That was the absolute, holy truth.
"It's difficult, being in the closet. Not letting the people who are close to you know the truth."
"Yeah, it is – it was." Peter rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. Maybe the priest did understand.
"That wasn't a question."
Peter gave Neal a puzzled look. "What do you mean?"
Neal answered in a quiet and painfully even voice. "I know what it's like, being in the closet."
Peter wasn't sure he heard that correctly. "You – in the closet? What do you mean you know what it's like?"
"And I thought I was particularly dense when you were asking if I'd been sexually assaulted." Neal gave him a slight smile. "I'm gay, too. I know just what it's like to hide that part of me."
Peter blurted out, to his shame, "But you're a priest."
"I'm a human being, who happens to be a priest."
"Does the Church know?" Peter wasn't even sure that was possible – for Neal to be who he is, given what he is.
"Some in the hierarchy do."
"I guess, if you're celibate, it doesn't matter." Peter vaguely remembered reading something about the Church accepting gay and lesbian parishioners, as long as they didn't act upon their sexual orientation.
"That's the official line, yes. But you'd be shocked at how many priests are in long term same-sex relationships and the Church doesn't care."
"Oh." Peter had a hard time believing that, given the Church's very vocal position against gays.
"And for the record, I'm not celibate."
"You're involved with someone?" Peter couldn't imagine this man trolling the streets of Tegucigalpa – or anywhere – and having random hookups.
"Not for a while, but celibacy requires complete abstention from sexual pleasure. Even self-pleasure."
Peter didn't want, didn't need the image in his head of Neal Caffrey jerking off. It was bad enough that he knew what he looked like naked. That he knew the shape of his cock and how it rested against his body. "I don't know what to say."
"There's really nothing to say. I am what I am, you are what you are."
"We are as God made us?"
Neal laughed, and it was an unpleasant sound. "You really think that?"
"What, you don't?"
"Believe in God, no."
"But you're a priest?"
"Tell me, which is more shocking – I'm a gay priest or I'm an atheist."
"Who is a Roman Catholic priest!" Peter thought he'd been stunned before, but this revelation was, by far, the hardest to process. "Did you ever believe in God?"
"Yes, once upon a time, I did. Once I was as devout as the Pope himself."
Peter had to ask, "What happened?"
Neal got up and circled the cavern, moving in and out of the lamplight – almost like an illusion. He didn't answer.
Peter retracted the question. "You don't have to answer. It's none of my business."
That earned him a laugh. "I think we've done a good job on cross-examining each other."
Unsettled, Peter wanted to even the playing field. "You can ask me anything – anything personal, if you want."
Neal took advantage of the offer. "Have you ever been in love?"
"No." The answer came easily, it was the truth.
"Why not? You are a caring man, you have a lot more empathy and consideration than I've seen in many of my colleagues – men who were trained in pastoral care."
"Like I said before, I've been a soldier – I've been living in the battlefield for a long time."
"There had to have been men you've connected with, emotionally."
Peter shrugged. "Let's just say that there was no one I was willing to risk my career for."
"What about now – you're not a soldier anymore. You don't have to hide who you are anymore."
"I may be a civilian now, but the tenor of my life is pretty much the same. At any given moment, I can be heading out into the desert or the jungle or into any number of dangerous situations. I can't be tied down – and that's the definition of a relationship. How can I expect someone to be there for me if I can't ever be there for him?"
"That seems like a very sad way to live."
"It might be, but it's my life." Suddenly, it seemed very unsatisfactory.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
"Well, in less than six hours, you've managed to give up almost all of your secrets. I'm very proud of you, Caffrey."
Matthew was beginning to piss him off. Over the years, he'd learned to live with the voice in the back of his head. He knew he wasn't haunted or crazy; intellectually he knew that his old friend, his lover, had somehow become the voice of his conscience. If he was of a Freudian bent, he'd say that Matthew was the personification of his super-ego.
"Oh, sweetheart, you've really lost it. I'm the personification of your super-ego – seriously?"
Talking back to the voice in his head was never a wise choice – because Matthew never gave in, he was never without an answer.
"I'll go away when you've made up your mind about your future."
Neal let out a little snort. Ironically, when he was alive, Matthew had actively encouraged him to drop out of the seminary and pursue his dreams. Back then, he had been the voice of Neal's id – urging him to do what he wanted without worrying about the consequences, about hurting the people who cared about him.
Matthew snorted in laughter. "I really haven't changed, Neal. You have."
"Neal?" Peter interrupted the conversation inside his head. "Have I upset you?"
"No, no. Why do you ask?"
"You got very quiet."
"Tired, I guess." Too many revelations.
Peter tilted his head towards the mattress. "You could lie down, get some sleep. We're not going anywhere until the storm lets up."
"I know I could. You've been pushing me to get some rest for a while."
"Suggesting, not pushing. You'll know when I pushed."
"And if I go to sleep, we could stop this uncomfortable conversation."
"It's not uncomfortable – just … unexpected."
Neal laughed. "You're being nice." He eyed the air mattress; it was big enough for two. "You could join me. And get some sleep, too."
Matthew howled again. "You take the cake, Caffrey. Really."
But Peter didn't laugh, didn't look at him like he was crazy. "It's best I stay up."
"But you really should get some sleep, too."
"I'm a trained soldier, Neal – and part of that training is going without sleep for long stretches of time."
Curious, he asked, "What was the longest you were awake?"
"Five days in the field. As part of my training, I had to stay up for seven days without any drugs or stimulants. And just so you know, I slept on the plane before I got into Tegu this morning. I've still got plenty of hours in me before I start foaming at the mouth or getting delusional."
At this point, Neal was the one who felt like he was about to start foaming at the mouth. "Should I leave my boots on?" Part of the wardrobe Peter had provided included a pair of hiking boots.
"You can if you want to. Personally, I don't particularly like sleeping with my boots on."
"I was just thinking, in case – "
"In case we have to bug out quickly, you'll need to have your boots on. But there's no chance of that. Listen."
Neal did, and even twenty yards from the cave entrance, he could hear the rain pounding and the wind howling through the forest.
"Even if Collins was able to find us – which he wouldn't – he couldn't get up this mountain, not tonight and probably not for several days."
"If you're sure."
"I'm certain. I spent a long time in this part of the world and storms like this cause a lot of devastation. Flooding and mudslides in the lower elevations are common. Short of teleportation, no one's getting up here until the storm passes. Take off your boots and get some sleep. That's an order."
As Neal unlaced his boots, he muttered, "Aye, aye, Captain."
Peter heard him and commented, "My rank was Colonel, not Captain."
Neal snarked back, "I'll remember that."
"Please do."
It seemed that Peter, like Matthew, always needed to have the last word.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Thank god – or whatever higher power existed – that Neal finally hit the bunk. Peter was unsettled, unnerved, and slightly overwhelmed. Except for the aftermath of the Cape Town debacle, he couldn't ever remember feeling this shaken. Not even after a pitched battle.
Peter went out to the front of the cave. It was pouring and the wind gusts were hard enough to send the trees parallel to the ground. The fresh air felt good, it helped clear his mind. But that wasn't the only reason why he was out here. Even though it was impossible for Collins to get to them – even if he knew where they were – Peter had set up tripwires and proximity alarms, and he took the opportunity to check them.
Of course, they were functioning and undisturbed, and the routine helped settle him – a little.
Peter didn't know what was harder – wrapping his brain around the idea that Neal was gay, or that Neal was an atheist.
Both seemed so antithetical to the man's priestly vocation.
Weighing both revelations, Peter decided that he was more disturbed that Neal didn't believe in god than that he was gay. He also realized that this information should have no bearing on how he thought about Neal. A person's belief – or non-belief – in god was a wholly private matter. And it wasn't like he, himself, believed.
Although it was really quite weird for a priest to be an atheist.
Father Caffrey's sexual orientation was a completely different matter. Father Caffrey. It occurred to Peter that he used the clerical title in his thoughts when he wanted to deflect his own attraction to the man.
Neal was gay. Neal was not celibate. Neal was …
Forbidden. Off-limits. Above his pay grade.
Peter used every term he could think of to remind himself that the man he was so intensely attracted to was not for him. Self-discipline finally won out and after rechecking the perimeter security, he felt he had enough control to go back into the cavern and either continue the conversation they'd been having, or watch over Neal as he slept.
To his relief, Neal was sleeping, sprawled across the air mattress; his breathing was deep and even. But all of the tough talk he gave himself was forgotten. Neal was on his belly, and not only had he taken off his boots, he'd shucked his pants, too. his butt, thankfully still encased in the same style of boxer briefs that he, himself preferred, was on full display. Peter resigned himself to a long night of staring at that perfect pair of apples.
Once he returned Neal to the loving arms of his family and collected his paycheck, he'd take a short vacation. Go to New York or San Francisco, stock up on condoms and load Grindr onto his phone. He'd spend a week getting as much ass as he could manage and work this unacceptable lust out of his system.
For the better part of an hour, Peter tried to distract himself with his usual and time-honored mental diversions: calculating Pi to the three-hundredth digit; reciting the Constitution backwards; replaying his favorite World Series games and inserting himself as the winning pitcher.
None of those tricks worked. He listened to Neal breathe, the storm rage, and a dozen different sexual fantasies played out in his head – and most of them involved fucking Neal in all sorts of sacrilegious settings. Peter had resigned himself to spending the night in a semi-aroused state, when Neal moaned. At first, he thought that Neal was having a nightmare; which wouldn't surprise him at all. Neal moaned again and this time, it was pretty clear that Neal was not having a nightmare – the sound was unmistakably sexual. And if he needed confirmation, Neal rolled onto his back, displaying a bulge that would do a porn star proud.
"Peter…"
Shit. Shit. Shit Neal was dreaming about him. Neal was aroused and dreaming about him.
Father Neal Caffrey, priest and recently rescued kidnapping victim, had a hard-on the size of the Empire State Building and was dreaming about him.
Peter's half-hard state went to DEFCON-4, but he refused to issue the launch codes. Neal was sleeping, and he'd be the lowest form of pond scum if he took advantage of that. It would be nothing less than rape.
Walk away, Burke. Just walk away.
He might have made a clean escape, but his erection made walking difficult and he ended up tripping over the small, battery powered lantern on the ground. It didn't break, but the clatter was loud enough to wake Neal.
"Peter? What's goin' on? Is everything okay?"
"It's fine, just bumped into something. Go back to sleep."
But Neal didn't. He propped himself up on an elbow and watched him with glowing eyes. "I was dreaming about you."
Peter nodded, not knowing how to respond.
"It was a really good dream." Neal licked his lips. "I didn't want to go to sleep because I was afraid I'd have nightmares. But this wasn't a nightmare." He touched himself. "I haven't had a dream like this in a very long time. But you know what's even better than the dream?"
"No," Peter croaked.
"Waking up and finding you here."
"Neal, what are you doing?" He closed his eyes, as if a few millimeters of skin could block out the image of Neal touching himself so intimately.
"I think I'm trying to seduce you. Is it working?"
Peter took a deep breath. He was about to say no, but the word "Yes" came out in a rush.
"Good."
"This is not good. Not good for you or for me."
"I'm sick and tired of being good. I was so good, I became a priest."
Peter wasn't sure what Neal meant by that, but before he had a chance to ask, Neal pushed his briefs down to his thighs and then shimmied out of them. He pulled up his tee-shirt, exposing his navel and one pebble-hard nipple.
Neal ran a fingertip over it and Peter thought he might just pass out from lust. "Stop, just stop."
"Why? You want me – I can see that." Neal pinched his nipple and his cock jerked.
"I do – I'd be an idiot if I denied that. But I can't – "
"Why?"
"Because it would be wrong."
"Because I'm a priest?" Neal pinched himself again and moaned at the sensation.
"That – and I just rescued you from a life-threatening situation."
"You wouldn't be taking advantage of me. I'm well aware of what I'm doing and what I want."
He could keep arguing with Neal, with his conscience – a losing battle if ever there was one – or he could walk away, and let the wind and the rain quench the desire.
Neal continued to tempt him, to taunt him. "I bet you have lube and condoms with you – you have everything else in the back of the truck, Boy Scout."
"Neal, stop. Please. You'll regret this in the morning."
"I've regretted a lot of things in my life. Things I've done, things I haven't done. But I will promise you that this will never be anything I'll regret."
It was wrong; it violated the moral code that had guided his life, but Peter went to the back of the truck and fetched the small toiletry case that held his lube and condoms. He tossed it on the ground next to Neal and pulled off his tee-shirt.
Neal licked his lips again and smiled, looking like the very devil. "God, you're gorgeous."
Peter felt like he wanted to preen and pose, but he laughed, instead. "I think that's the pot calling the kettle black."
"You think I'm gorgeous, too?" Neal was grinning.
"I think you know just how beautiful you are. And I think you know that that is the very least of your gifts."
Neal's lascivious smile changed into something else, something a little less certain. "Beauty is a dangerous gift – I've always wished I looked a lot more ordinary. Would you want me if I wore a different skin?"
"Yes, absolutely." Peter pulled off his boots and socks, and then stripped out of his cargo pants and underwear. The cave was warm, but not as warm as Neal's gaze.
Peter knelt on the mattress. "If you want me to stop, just tell me. I'm not an animal." At least I hope not.
Neal wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled him close. He kissed him and Peter lost all sense of time and place.
Truthfully, he'd never been much for kissing. Sex was sex, often hurried and furtive. Kissing always seemed to him to be something for relationships. Mouth to mouth was almost too great an intimacy. Kissing Neal proved that right. He was fifty years old and despite his experience, he'd never been truly intimate with another man until now.
Neal broke the kiss, and smiled up at him, panting and definitely happy. "I think I could do this forever."
Peter smiled back, not the least bit disturbed in the implication in those words. "Let me taste you."
Neal nodded, giving him permission, and Peter began exploring the geography of his body, following the map of bone and muscle like an explorer. He lingered over Neal's shoulders and collarbone - not the usual erogenous territory - but it was worth the effort. His skin was like silk, and it tasted clean - like the rain, with just a hint of musk. Peter focused on the lateral shape of his collar, laying kisses over the long bone, sipping at the tiny bit of sweat that pooled in his suprasternal notch, before heading south, discovering the perfection of Neal's pectoral muscles.
He teased Neal, licking and gently biting at the muscled flesh, deliberately avoiding his very sensitive nipples. Neal's early display was proof that he liked nipple play, but Peter wanted to toy with him, make him suffer - just a little - for tormenting him.
"Please, please." Neal heaved upward, pressing his flesh into Peter's mouth, trying to make the contact he desired.
"You are so pretty when you beg."
"I'll do whatever you want, but please touch me there."
"Touch you where?" Peter was enjoying this way too much. "Tell me. You have to tell me."
"My nipples - touch my nipples. Suck them."
"Such a dirty mouth."
Neal, in his frustration, tried to touch himself but Peter wouldn't let him give himself that satisfaction. Instead, he blew a stream of warm air across that sensitive bit of flesh and enjoyed Neal's reaction.
Underneath him, Peter could feel Neal's cock, hard and hot and leaking precome He wanted to taste it, he wanted to play with it. He wanted to savor this man the way he'd never savored anyone before. And tonight, for probably the first time in his life, he had that chance.
He left off tormenting Neal's nipples, kissing and licking and sucking at the flesh over his ribs. He was careful, though, not to add to the bruises Collins left behind. The thought of anyone hurting Neal made him blisteringly angry. Maybe some of that anger was communicated to Neal, who touched his head. Peter looked up and Neal was smiling. "It's okay – I'm okay. Whatever you do is fine."
The anger leached out of him, leaving only desire and the need to please Neal, to please himself in every possible way.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal woke slowly, luxuriating in all the delicious sensations – a soft mattress, the scent of brewing coffee, a sore and well-used ass. "Mmmm." He rolled over and opened his eyes, expecting to see the white plaster ceiling of his seminary dorm room.
He didn't. There was minimal illumination, but all he could see was stone and more stone. Where the heck am I?
He looked around and spotted a huge truck sporting a rather disturbingly large gun mounted on the roof, several battery operated lanterns, and several khaki-green duffle bags on the ground. In a second, Neal remembered everything. The kidnapping. The rescue. Peter Burke.
The seduction.
He wanted to just lie there and parse through his memories, relish every moment of his seduction, all the lingering sensations.
"Morning, Neal." Peter walked in, looking like a god of war. "The storm has blown out quicker than I'd expected. I've contacted my team and set up the extraction."
Peter's face was unreadable, but Neal could read his posture. He was uncomfortable and quite possibly regretting everything that had happened between them. Neal wasn't foolish and didn't press the issue. He hadn't expected hearts and flowers, but he hoped that at some point, they could talk about what had happened.
He got up and found his clothing, which Peter had neatly folded and left in a pile at the foot of the mattress, next to his boots. Once dressed, Peter handed him a cup of coffee. Neal might have loathed his assignment in Honduras, the separation from everything and everyone he loved, but the coffee here was incredible. But not what Peter gave him; the contents of the plastic cup were both bitter and weak, and probably instant.
It seemed an appropriate metaphor.
With typical efficiency, Peter quickly stowed all the gear. Even the mattress was deflated and rolled up into its storage bag and put into the truck.
"We have a few minutes before we need to head to the rendezvous point, you should have something to eat."
Neal joked, "What's on the menu?"
"This morning, cereal packet, sugared, one, or cereal packet, sugared, two. I recommend cereal packet, sugared, one. It's less cardboard-y tasting." Peter tossed him a foil bag similar to what last night's dinner came in.
Neal wasn't particularly hungry, but he was curious. The bag contained the promised cereal packet, plus a side of apple sauce, plus a brown sugar toaster pastry, plus a package of crackers, as well as a packet of something that was labeled "ground-nut spread". There were also packets of powdered milk and powdered fruit-flavored beverage. "Enough carbs to keep a long distance runner going for weeks."
"Or a soldier on the battlefield for a couple of hours. Do you know how many calories you burn hefting a forty pound field kit for ten hours a day?"
"Yeah, I guess it makes sense." Neal skipped the cereal and scarfed down the toaster pastry with the rest of the coffee. Both items, separately, were fairly vile, but consumed together, they were almost palatable.
Something occurred to Neal. "How did you reach your team? I can't imagine you'd have cell phone service up here."
"Nope, but now that the weather's cleared, I was able to get a direct line of sight to the sky and use the satellite phone link. One of my associates has confirmed arrangements with a helicopter pilot, who will be picking us up."
"In Tegu?"
"No, we're heading to a plateau about halfway to the coast; the pickup will be safer there."
That made sense.
Peter looked around the cave and picked up the two remaining lanterns. "Get in the truck and I'll shut these down."
Neal obeyed – not that he had a choice. Peter shut the lanterns off and the cave went almost completely dark. Not that that seemed to affect Peter. He put the lanterns in the truck and climbed in behind the wheel. The truck's lights illuminated the cave, but Neal didn't have much of a chance to appreciate it, as Peter quickly backed out. Once free of the cavern, Peter parked and spent a few minutes restoring the greenery to disguise the entrance.
Neal kept quiet as Peter negotiated the road, which was little more than a slightly less vegetation-covered path. Yesterday, when Peter headed up to the cave, he'd been asleep – or dozing - and didn't have any memory of what was probably a very harrowing climb.
The vehicle slipped a few times, but Peter recovered. They eventually reached slightly less difficult terrain and Peter asked, "How are you doing?"
"I'm okay, it's just a good thing I liked roller coasters as a kid."
Peter nodded but didn't say anything else. It seemed that the warm and caring man from yesterday, the one who didn't hesitate to engage him, had been replaced by an automaton. Which frustrated and angered Neal.
They made it to a real road and Neal couldn't keep himself from saying, "You regret what happened."
"I took advantage of you."
"That's not how I remember it. I seduced you."
"You were dreaming, you woke up aroused. You were vulnerable."
"Bullshit. I teased you, I begged you to fuck me." Neal looked at Peter and could see him grinding his teeth. "I could give you absolution if you are truly repentant. Twenty Hail Marys and a dozen Our Fathers."
That got him a laugh, but Peter sobered up and said, "You don't understand."
"But I do. I'm in your care. A few hours before, I'd been held against my will, and was probably going to be killed, even if the ransom was paid. You're thinking that I was so overcome with relief that I'd simply surrendered my virtue to you in gratitude."
Peter didn't answer.
"My virtue – if you want to call it that – is mine to give or not give. It's also an antiquated and patriarchal notion, and frankly I would have thought you were a hell of a lot more enlightened than that. Do you think I'm some wilting flower, a child who doesn't know right from wrong?"
Peter kept giving him the silent treatment.
"And for what it's worth, I was horny. I wanted you to fuck me. I still want you. And yeah, I'm a priest and I should be beyond such base urges, but you know what? I'm not." Before Peter could reply, he added, "And if you tell me that you should be – then I'll start putting together the file for your beatification."
"I'm not a candidate for sainthood, far from it. But I can't always have what I want. Especially not rescued kidnap victims who had spent two weeks chained to a fucking rock! No matter how horny they make me."
"What's the matter, are you afraid I'll become attached, like a baby goose that accidentally imprinted on you? That I'll follow you around like a puppy waiting for a scrap of your affection?"
"Yeah. Exactly. It's call transference."
Neal disagreed, transference was something completely different – but this wasn't the time or place for a discussion of Freudian theory. "I know what it's called." Neal scratched his ear, and prepared to lie through his teeth. "It wasn't transference, it was an itch that needed to be scratched. One you don't ever have to think about again. You go back to your life; I go and have one of my own. Our paths will never cross again."
Neal took hope from the expression on Peter's face – he looked hurt, like he'd just been dumped by his best friend.
They drove in silence for a while, and the dense forest began to thin out and then it disappeared altogether as they emerged onto a plateau. Peter parked at the tree line and checked his watch. "We're right on time. Hopefully, our pick-up will be just as prompt."
Peter unbuckled his seatbelt and started to get out. When Neal copied his action, Peter told him to stay put. "Wait here – I want to call into base. Best to stay in the truck, just to be on the safe side."
Neal wasn't surprised at Peter's caution, and followed the instructions. A few minutes later, Peter came back wearing a vest and helmet and a worried expression. He had another vest and helmet in his hands. "Put these on."
He popped the helmet on his head and struggled into the vest. It was heavy. "What is this?"
"Body armor."
"Why would I need this?"
Peter frowned. "I just called my base and got word that Collins might know where the pick-up is. The Humvee is armored, but you'll be vulnerable when you're moving to the helicopter"
"He could be out there?"
"It's possible, so stay put until I tell you to come out."
Peter disappeared again and Neal started to sweat. Collins wouldn't bother to recapture him – he'd just kill him and take his body back to Hernandez. The bishop would probably make a fuss about paying him, but Neal took some small, sick pleasure in imagining what Collins would do to the prelate when he tried to back out.
Peter knocked on the window and Neal rolled it down. Peter told him, "The chopper is about a minute out."
Neal was pleased to see that Peter was armed – a rifle was slung across his back, one of the shoulder holsters had a pistol and the other one was in his hand. There was also a small radio attached to the vest, and it squawked.
Whatever the person on the other end was saying was drowned out by the sound of incoming chopper blades. Peter opened the door and Neal jumped out.
Peter shouted, "Keep your head down."
Neal remembered the opening credits from M*A*S*H and figured he knew what to do. A helicopter touched down about fifty yards away, the blades' rotation slowing. He started to sprint towards it, and crossed about half the distance when he heard a loud crack and Peter stumbled against him.
"Go – go." Peter didn't collapse, thank god. He pushed at Neal. "Get in that damn chopper and get out of here."
For the first time, Neal didn't obey. He watched, horrified, as Collins ran towards them, pistol drawn. "You're not going anywhere."
Peter pushed him again and turned to face Collins. "You'll have to go through me to get to him."
"That will be my pleasure." Collins raised his gun and pointed it at Peter. "You're not denying me two paydays."
"Yes, I am." Peter aimed the gun he was carrying at Collins and screamed for Neal to move. "Get your ass on that helicopter! DO IT!"
Neal ran and even though he heard a gunshot, he didn't stop. When he was ten yards from the chopper, a man jumped out and ran towards him, gun drawn. Neal froze, thinking that this was a two-pronged attack, but the man yanked on his arm, pushing him towards the copter. "Get on the damn bird."
He sprinted the last thirty feet and climbed to safety. As he buckled in, the helicopter started to ascend. "No, no – we have to wait for them. Peter!"
The pilot shook her head and shouted, "My instructions were to get you away, not to wait."
"You have to wait!"
"Sorry – I've got my orders."
The helicopter got airborne and swung around, giving Neal a brief glimpse of the ground.
And of Peter, splayed out, face down. Collins was down, too, and the man who'd arrived in the chopper was standing over him, gun drawn.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Three Months Later
Neal went right from the airport to the cemetery. It was small, particularly by southern California standards. No celebrities were buried here, but the place was filled with monuments to human mortality, all the same.
The grave he was looking for was in a newer part of the cemetery, a bit of a hike from the road. But it was a pretty plot, sheltered by a large cypress tree. He knelt down and brushed away the fallen needles that had accumulated from a simple grave marker.
"Hey, Matthew."
"Sweetheart, I'd say it's good to see you, but you look like crap."
Neal let out a tiny sigh of relief. Matthew – or whatever had lived in his mind – had been absent since that last terrible day in Honduras. "It's good to hear your voice. I've missed you."
"Haven't been anywhere - you didn't need me."
"That's not true."
"Yeah, it is. You've done a prime job of fixing your problems, all by yourself. You didn't need me whispering in your ear."
Neal sat on the dry grass and lifted his face to the dappled sunshine. Back home, it was cold and wet, sleet and snow making a mess of everything. But here, the sky was a pure and endless blue, punctuated only by the occasional drifting cloud or a condensation trail left by a passing airplane.
"It's done."
"Good. It should have been done five years ago."
"I wasn't ready. I wasn't strong enough."
"You didn't want to hurt them."
"I was afraid. I didn't want to lose their love. I didn't want to disappoint them."
"But now they know. And you really had nothing to fear. Sweetheart, think about all the pain you'd have avoided if you'd listened to me all of those years ago."
"I know. You were right."
"I always am."
Neal leaned back and stretched out on the grass, next to Matthew's grave. "Maybe they were so relieved to have me home and safe, they didn't care."
"Maybe, or maybe not."
"Well?" Neal was surprised that Matthew didn't have a snarky comment.
"You've surprised me. Didn't think you had the guts to tell them everything."
"Haven't told them everything. I didn't tell them about you."
"Or about Peter."
Neal closed his eyes against the pain. "Please don't say his name."
"Sweetheart, you've got it so bad. And for some stupid reason, you're here, on the wrong side of the country and talking to a dead man, instead of trying to get that gorgeous hunk of man-meat back in your bed."
"He doesn't want to see me. I was just a job."
"Did he tell you that?"
"No, but it was pretty well implied."
Neal knew that Peter was alive before he left Honduras. The helicopter had taken him back to the U.S. base outside of Tegu and while Neal was getting a debriefing, word had come in that a second helicopter had retrieved Colonel Burke. He'd been shot in the leg, and while there was considerable blood loss, his condition was stable. Kyle Collins; however, was dead.
A few hours later, Neal had been loaded onto a military transport and taken back to D.C. He hadn't heard anything more about Peter and hadn't wanted to ask.
"You need to go home and see him. Use all your talents, make him see you – Neal Caffrey the man. Not Neal Caffrey the priest, or worse, Neal Caffrey the kidnapping victim."
"I need to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life first."
"No you don't. You need to do this now. Not next week or next month. The Church has released you. The pope has granted you a waiver. You're a free man. Waiting another six months will probably mean another year. Or two. I know you, sweetheart. I know you'd rather slip and slide and take the path of least resistance. If you don't do this now, you're going to live the rest of your life filled in vain regret. Like a character in a Tennessee Williams play."
"And you thought I was overly dramatic."
"Go, and don't you dare come back. There's nothing here for you. Nothing at all."
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It had been ten weeks since he'd gotten back from Honduras and three months since he'd successfully rescued Father Neal Caffrey. Two weeks of those three months were spent recovering in a military hospital at Soto Cano Air Base outside of Tegucigalpa. Collins had shot him twice – once in the back, where he'd been protected by the rifle plating in his vest, and once in the upper thigh. The bullet had shattered his femur and he'd lost a couple of pints of blood.
The leg was healing, but the truth was, it would never be the same. His career in the field was over. No matter how much physical therapy he did, no matter how much he worked on his recovery, there was too much damage that could never be repaired. He'd never be as strong or as fast as he was, which meant he'd put his team and his mission at risk, which was unacceptable.
Diana rolled into his office. "You doing okay, boss?"
"Yeah, getting there. What's up?"
She dumped a few files on his desk. "Some mission reports for you to review, a couple of resumes that you might want to take a look at. The latest offer from Barrett-Dunne."
"That should have gone right into the shredder."
"Thought you might want to use it as toilet paper."
Peter snickered. "Only if I had the trots."
Diana chuckled, too. Then her expression changed and she looked serious.
"What's the matter?"
"You know I track who looks at our website."
"Yeah. Is the CIA still hitting it hard?"
Diana nodded. "And the Army, too. But that's nothing new."
"Then what's the problem?"
"There's a pretty frequent civilian visitor."
"Oh?"
"I recognized the IP address. It's James Bennett's."
Peter's mouth went dry. "I can't imagine why he'd been interested in our services."
"There's another frequent civilian visitor, but from a mobile device. I was able to trace the address to an account. It's from Neal Caffrey's iPad."
Peter nodded. "Okay." He didn't know what else to say.
Diana backed up and got halfway to the door before she dropped her bombshell. "I wasn't going to bother mentioning that to you, except that Neal Caffrey is in the office and would like to see you."
"I – um – I…" Peter looked around his office and wished like hell he'd had a private exit put in.
"You know, he's even better looking without the clerical garb. He looks like he was born to wear Armani. But then, I've never had a priest kink."
Diana's outrageousness didn't obscure her comment that Neal was in civilian clothing. Peter knew very few priests, but all of them seemed to wear the dog collar all the time.
"Give me a sec, okay?"
"I've put him in the small conference room." With that, Diana rolled out and shut the door behind her.
Peter took a deep breath. BRS clients usually didn't stop by to express their gratitude.
Then again, neither did he usually make love with a client.
In the three months since Honduras, Peter had relieved that night many, many times, and he couldn't escape the conclusion that what had happened was a hell of a lot more than an encounter between two virtual strangers. Somehow, Neal had gotten under his skin, into his heart, and Peter knew that he'd spend the rest of his life wanting what had never been offered.
"And for what it's worth, I was horny. I wanted you to fuck me. I still want you. And yeah, I'm a priest and I should be beyond such base urges, but you know what? I'm not."
A small part of him hoped that Neal had meant just what he said – that the night was just an itch to be scratched – a small part of him that wanted his life to stay the same. No hooks, no ties, no body.
But the other part of him, the one that watched Diana and her wife negotiate chores and battle over what to watch on television and kiss each other over pasta, wanted to believe that Neal had been deflecting. That what they experienced was something more than base urges.
And now, Neal Caffrey was waiting for him in his conference room.
He reached for his cane and levered himself out of his chair. At least he'd been able to exchange the aluminum hospital model for something a bit more stylish. This one was walnut with nickel fittings. Jones had suggested getting a sword cane, but he'd opted for the model with the flask.
It might be another year before he'd be able to walk without it. But at least he was able to walk.
Diana had left the privacy glass off and Peter took a few seconds to look at Neal, who had his back to him. He was examining a series of framed photographs. Diana was right; Neal was made to wear expensive and well-cut suits, although Peter had no clue if the gray wool he was wearing was really Armani.
He opened the door and Neal turned around. Peter quickly cataloged the changes – his face had lost that haunted look, and of course the bruising was gone. His hair was shorter, or maybe it had been tamed by something that gave it a rich gleam. Time and care seemed to have healed a lot of the surface wounds. "How are you?"
"I'm good." Neal saw the cane he was leaning on and frowned. "I was furious when they left you. I wanted to jump out of the helicopter."
Peter shook his head at that foolishness. "I had never planned on accompanying you on that ride. My associate, Jones, was there to see you home. I needed to deal with Collins."
"You planned to find him and kill him?" Neal seemed perturbed by that idea.
"No, bring him back for trial."
"But that's not necessary now."
"No, it's not. He's dead." His leg aching, Peter rested his ass on the conference table and flipped on the switch for the privacy glass. He didn't want to give his staff front row seats to what might be the most important moment of his life. "You look good."
Neal actually blushed and looked down at himself. "Thanks. I think I'd rather go naked than wear black again."
Peter felt his heart start to race. "I thought that black was standard issue for Roman Catholic priests."
"For those who are actually functioning as priests, yes. But I'm not."
"So, you're not a priest anymore?" Peter hoped he sounded casual.
Neal gave him a little head wobble – not a nod or a shake. "It's complicated. The sacrament of Holy Orders can't be undone – once a priest, always a priest. But I've been released from my responsibilities and duties. Technically, I still am a priest, but I'll never function as one again. I've been laicized."
Peter was unfamiliar with the word. "What does that mean?"
"Basically, I have the Church's blessing to not be a priest and no longer am required to observe my vows."
"As if you ever have." Peter couldn't stop that comment if his life depended on it.
Neal laughed, and the sound was like a joyously ringing bell. "That is really quite true."
Peter couldn't stand it anymore. "Why are you here?"
"Isn't it obvious? I wanted to see you."
"Why?" Peter hoped, but he needed to hear.
"Because I think we might have something. And I'd like to see if it's real. I know all the theories about trauma attachments and this just might be a textbook case, but I really believe there's something more between us. I've spent a lot of my life trying to make other people happy, to satisfy what I think are their expectations. But now, I want to make myself happy."
"I want you to be happy, too." God, he sounded like such an idiot.
"Good. You know what would make me really happy?"
Peter licked his lips. "Letting me make love to you in a real bed?"
Neal laughed again. "I was going to say, taking you out to dinner and holding hands at the movies. Go out on a few dates, take things slowly."
Heat seared his cheeks. "Oh, okay. We can do that."
Neal smiled. "I'm joking with you. I was going to say getting you to kiss me, then dinner, then a stop at the drug store for condoms and lube, then –"
"I'm a boy scout, remember? I already have condoms and lube." Peter felt himself grinning from ear to ear.
"Okay, so no need to stop. We can go to your apartment and fuck until we're blind."
"Make love." He corrected Neal.
Neal's eyes went soft as he agreed. "Yes. Make love."
Peter wrapped a hand around the back of Neal's neck, hauling him close. "So, you want me to kiss you first?"
"That's the plan."
Peter stroked Neal's jaw, loving the slight rasp of beard against his thumb. "I want to shave you again. Maybe watch ourselves in the mirror."
"I'd like that." Neal's voice was breathy, as if he were as lightheaded as Peter was feeling. "Will you please kiss me?"
Neal didn't have to ask twice. Peter captured his lips and couldn't stop the moan of satisfaction. Neal's hands were cupped around his face, holding him like he was something precious, something to be cherished and protected.
This was a kiss of beginnings. It was a kiss that marked the start of something he'd never dreamed possible. Yes, it was perfection, but it was more than that. It was hope. It was happiness.
Neal's kiss was his salvation.
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Diana Berrigan, James Bennett, Lydia Bennett (OFC), Kyle Collins, Clinton Jones, Matthew Keller; Neal/Keller (past), Peter/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Kidnapping, physical assault, very brief reference to self-harm (OC), brief reference to clerical sexual abuse of a minor (OC), pre-story non-described death of canon character.
Word Count: ~22,000
Beta Credit:
sinfulslasher who was heroic in her work on this story, despite having her own fic to write. Her advice was invaluable, even when I didn't take it.Summary: Colonel Peter Burke, retired, runs a private kidnap and hostage recovery operation. He's hired by James and Lydia Bennett to rescue their kidnapped son, Neal. Neal is a priest who's been assigned to work in central Honduras, one of the most dangerous places in the world.
"Well?" Peter was dreading Caffrey's answer. He liked the man for reasons beyond his physical attractiveness. He liked his resiliency, his ability to adapt to the situation. He liked his humor and his curiosity. And he liked his intelligence. Peter had always liked smart.
But all that was about to be ruined – because he couldn't keep his mouth shut. Because his curiosity was too attractive and Peter had been suffering the tortures of the damned. Just when he'd recovered from the bathing, he had to go and offer to shave the man. He wished he had a camera, because in his imagination, Neal leaning back against him while being so intimately cared for was hotter than any pornography he'd ever seen.
"I don't think you're going to Hell, Peter."
"No?" He hated the way Neal said his name, with softness and compassion. "You think I'm going to repent my sinful ways?"
"I don't think you have anything to repent. Real love, real affection and respect between two people, regardless of gender, is never sinful."
"Who's talking about love and respect? I'm talking about fucking." Peter wished he could just shut up, that he could end the conversation – but his mouth wasn't listening to his brain.
"Why are you so angry? Do you hate being gay?"
"No, it is part of who I am, like my height or the color of my eyes." That was the absolute, holy truth.
"It's difficult, being in the closet. Not letting the people who are close to you know the truth."
"Yeah, it is – it was." Peter rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. Maybe the priest did understand.
"That wasn't a question."
Peter gave Neal a puzzled look. "What do you mean?"
Neal answered in a quiet and painfully even voice. "I know what it's like, being in the closet."
Peter wasn't sure he heard that correctly. "You – in the closet? What do you mean you know what it's like?"
"And I thought I was particularly dense when you were asking if I'd been sexually assaulted." Neal gave him a slight smile. "I'm gay, too. I know just what it's like to hide that part of me."
Peter blurted out, to his shame, "But you're a priest."
"I'm a human being, who happens to be a priest."
"Does the Church know?" Peter wasn't even sure that was possible – for Neal to be who he is, given what he is.
"Some in the hierarchy do."
"I guess, if you're celibate, it doesn't matter." Peter vaguely remembered reading something about the Church accepting gay and lesbian parishioners, as long as they didn't act upon their sexual orientation.
"That's the official line, yes. But you'd be shocked at how many priests are in long term same-sex relationships and the Church doesn't care."
"Oh." Peter had a hard time believing that, given the Church's very vocal position against gays.
"And for the record, I'm not celibate."
"You're involved with someone?" Peter couldn't imagine this man trolling the streets of Tegucigalpa – or anywhere – and having random hookups.
"Not for a while, but celibacy requires complete abstention from sexual pleasure. Even self-pleasure."
Peter didn't want, didn't need the image in his head of Neal Caffrey jerking off. It was bad enough that he knew what he looked like naked. That he knew the shape of his cock and how it rested against his body. "I don't know what to say."
"There's really nothing to say. I am what I am, you are what you are."
"We are as God made us?"
Neal laughed, and it was an unpleasant sound. "You really think that?"
"What, you don't?"
"Believe in God, no."
"But you're a priest?"
"Tell me, which is more shocking – I'm a gay priest or I'm an atheist."
"Who is a Roman Catholic priest!" Peter thought he'd been stunned before, but this revelation was, by far, the hardest to process. "Did you ever believe in God?"
"Yes, once upon a time, I did. Once I was as devout as the Pope himself."
Peter had to ask, "What happened?"
Neal got up and circled the cavern, moving in and out of the lamplight – almost like an illusion. He didn't answer.
Peter retracted the question. "You don't have to answer. It's none of my business."
That earned him a laugh. "I think we've done a good job on cross-examining each other."
Unsettled, Peter wanted to even the playing field. "You can ask me anything – anything personal, if you want."
Neal took advantage of the offer. "Have you ever been in love?"
"No." The answer came easily, it was the truth.
"Why not? You are a caring man, you have a lot more empathy and consideration than I've seen in many of my colleagues – men who were trained in pastoral care."
"Like I said before, I've been a soldier – I've been living in the battlefield for a long time."
"There had to have been men you've connected with, emotionally."
Peter shrugged. "Let's just say that there was no one I was willing to risk my career for."
"What about now – you're not a soldier anymore. You don't have to hide who you are anymore."
"I may be a civilian now, but the tenor of my life is pretty much the same. At any given moment, I can be heading out into the desert or the jungle or into any number of dangerous situations. I can't be tied down – and that's the definition of a relationship. How can I expect someone to be there for me if I can't ever be there for him?"
"That seems like a very sad way to live."
"It might be, but it's my life." Suddenly, it seemed very unsatisfactory.
"Well, in less than six hours, you've managed to give up almost all of your secrets. I'm very proud of you, Caffrey."
Matthew was beginning to piss him off. Over the years, he'd learned to live with the voice in the back of his head. He knew he wasn't haunted or crazy; intellectually he knew that his old friend, his lover, had somehow become the voice of his conscience. If he was of a Freudian bent, he'd say that Matthew was the personification of his super-ego.
"Oh, sweetheart, you've really lost it. I'm the personification of your super-ego – seriously?"
Talking back to the voice in his head was never a wise choice – because Matthew never gave in, he was never without an answer.
"I'll go away when you've made up your mind about your future."
Neal let out a little snort. Ironically, when he was alive, Matthew had actively encouraged him to drop out of the seminary and pursue his dreams. Back then, he had been the voice of Neal's id – urging him to do what he wanted without worrying about the consequences, about hurting the people who cared about him.
Matthew snorted in laughter. "I really haven't changed, Neal. You have."
"Neal?" Peter interrupted the conversation inside his head. "Have I upset you?"
"No, no. Why do you ask?"
"You got very quiet."
"Tired, I guess." Too many revelations.
Peter tilted his head towards the mattress. "You could lie down, get some sleep. We're not going anywhere until the storm lets up."
"I know I could. You've been pushing me to get some rest for a while."
"Suggesting, not pushing. You'll know when I pushed."
"And if I go to sleep, we could stop this uncomfortable conversation."
"It's not uncomfortable – just … unexpected."
Neal laughed. "You're being nice." He eyed the air mattress; it was big enough for two. "You could join me. And get some sleep, too."
Matthew howled again. "You take the cake, Caffrey. Really."
But Peter didn't laugh, didn't look at him like he was crazy. "It's best I stay up."
"But you really should get some sleep, too."
"I'm a trained soldier, Neal – and part of that training is going without sleep for long stretches of time."
Curious, he asked, "What was the longest you were awake?"
"Five days in the field. As part of my training, I had to stay up for seven days without any drugs or stimulants. And just so you know, I slept on the plane before I got into Tegu this morning. I've still got plenty of hours in me before I start foaming at the mouth or getting delusional."
At this point, Neal was the one who felt like he was about to start foaming at the mouth. "Should I leave my boots on?" Part of the wardrobe Peter had provided included a pair of hiking boots.
"You can if you want to. Personally, I don't particularly like sleeping with my boots on."
"I was just thinking, in case – "
"In case we have to bug out quickly, you'll need to have your boots on. But there's no chance of that. Listen."
Neal did, and even twenty yards from the cave entrance, he could hear the rain pounding and the wind howling through the forest.
"Even if Collins was able to find us – which he wouldn't – he couldn't get up this mountain, not tonight and probably not for several days."
"If you're sure."
"I'm certain. I spent a long time in this part of the world and storms like this cause a lot of devastation. Flooding and mudslides in the lower elevations are common. Short of teleportation, no one's getting up here until the storm passes. Take off your boots and get some sleep. That's an order."
As Neal unlaced his boots, he muttered, "Aye, aye, Captain."
Peter heard him and commented, "My rank was Colonel, not Captain."
Neal snarked back, "I'll remember that."
"Please do."
It seemed that Peter, like Matthew, always needed to have the last word.
Thank god – or whatever higher power existed – that Neal finally hit the bunk. Peter was unsettled, unnerved, and slightly overwhelmed. Except for the aftermath of the Cape Town debacle, he couldn't ever remember feeling this shaken. Not even after a pitched battle.
Peter went out to the front of the cave. It was pouring and the wind gusts were hard enough to send the trees parallel to the ground. The fresh air felt good, it helped clear his mind. But that wasn't the only reason why he was out here. Even though it was impossible for Collins to get to them – even if he knew where they were – Peter had set up tripwires and proximity alarms, and he took the opportunity to check them.
Of course, they were functioning and undisturbed, and the routine helped settle him – a little.
Peter didn't know what was harder – wrapping his brain around the idea that Neal was gay, or that Neal was an atheist.
Both seemed so antithetical to the man's priestly vocation.
Weighing both revelations, Peter decided that he was more disturbed that Neal didn't believe in god than that he was gay. He also realized that this information should have no bearing on how he thought about Neal. A person's belief – or non-belief – in god was a wholly private matter. And it wasn't like he, himself, believed.
Although it was really quite weird for a priest to be an atheist.
Father Caffrey's sexual orientation was a completely different matter. Father Caffrey. It occurred to Peter that he used the clerical title in his thoughts when he wanted to deflect his own attraction to the man.
Neal was gay. Neal was not celibate. Neal was …
Forbidden. Off-limits. Above his pay grade.
Peter used every term he could think of to remind himself that the man he was so intensely attracted to was not for him. Self-discipline finally won out and after rechecking the perimeter security, he felt he had enough control to go back into the cavern and either continue the conversation they'd been having, or watch over Neal as he slept.
To his relief, Neal was sleeping, sprawled across the air mattress; his breathing was deep and even. But all of the tough talk he gave himself was forgotten. Neal was on his belly, and not only had he taken off his boots, he'd shucked his pants, too. his butt, thankfully still encased in the same style of boxer briefs that he, himself preferred, was on full display. Peter resigned himself to a long night of staring at that perfect pair of apples.
Once he returned Neal to the loving arms of his family and collected his paycheck, he'd take a short vacation. Go to New York or San Francisco, stock up on condoms and load Grindr onto his phone. He'd spend a week getting as much ass as he could manage and work this unacceptable lust out of his system.
For the better part of an hour, Peter tried to distract himself with his usual and time-honored mental diversions: calculating Pi to the three-hundredth digit; reciting the Constitution backwards; replaying his favorite World Series games and inserting himself as the winning pitcher.
None of those tricks worked. He listened to Neal breathe, the storm rage, and a dozen different sexual fantasies played out in his head – and most of them involved fucking Neal in all sorts of sacrilegious settings. Peter had resigned himself to spending the night in a semi-aroused state, when Neal moaned. At first, he thought that Neal was having a nightmare; which wouldn't surprise him at all. Neal moaned again and this time, it was pretty clear that Neal was not having a nightmare – the sound was unmistakably sexual. And if he needed confirmation, Neal rolled onto his back, displaying a bulge that would do a porn star proud.
"Peter…"
Shit. Shit. Shit Neal was dreaming about him. Neal was aroused and dreaming about him.
Father Neal Caffrey, priest and recently rescued kidnapping victim, had a hard-on the size of the Empire State Building and was dreaming about him.
Peter's half-hard state went to DEFCON-4, but he refused to issue the launch codes. Neal was sleeping, and he'd be the lowest form of pond scum if he took advantage of that. It would be nothing less than rape.
Walk away, Burke. Just walk away.
He might have made a clean escape, but his erection made walking difficult and he ended up tripping over the small, battery powered lantern on the ground. It didn't break, but the clatter was loud enough to wake Neal.
"Peter? What's goin' on? Is everything okay?"
"It's fine, just bumped into something. Go back to sleep."
But Neal didn't. He propped himself up on an elbow and watched him with glowing eyes. "I was dreaming about you."
Peter nodded, not knowing how to respond.
"It was a really good dream." Neal licked his lips. "I didn't want to go to sleep because I was afraid I'd have nightmares. But this wasn't a nightmare." He touched himself. "I haven't had a dream like this in a very long time. But you know what's even better than the dream?"
"No," Peter croaked.
"Waking up and finding you here."
"Neal, what are you doing?" He closed his eyes, as if a few millimeters of skin could block out the image of Neal touching himself so intimately.
"I think I'm trying to seduce you. Is it working?"
Peter took a deep breath. He was about to say no, but the word "Yes" came out in a rush.
"Good."
"This is not good. Not good for you or for me."
"I'm sick and tired of being good. I was so good, I became a priest."
Peter wasn't sure what Neal meant by that, but before he had a chance to ask, Neal pushed his briefs down to his thighs and then shimmied out of them. He pulled up his tee-shirt, exposing his navel and one pebble-hard nipple.
Neal ran a fingertip over it and Peter thought he might just pass out from lust. "Stop, just stop."
"Why? You want me – I can see that." Neal pinched his nipple and his cock jerked.
"I do – I'd be an idiot if I denied that. But I can't – "
"Why?"
"Because it would be wrong."
"Because I'm a priest?" Neal pinched himself again and moaned at the sensation.
"That – and I just rescued you from a life-threatening situation."
"You wouldn't be taking advantage of me. I'm well aware of what I'm doing and what I want."
He could keep arguing with Neal, with his conscience – a losing battle if ever there was one – or he could walk away, and let the wind and the rain quench the desire.
Neal continued to tempt him, to taunt him. "I bet you have lube and condoms with you – you have everything else in the back of the truck, Boy Scout."
"Neal, stop. Please. You'll regret this in the morning."
"I've regretted a lot of things in my life. Things I've done, things I haven't done. But I will promise you that this will never be anything I'll regret."
It was wrong; it violated the moral code that had guided his life, but Peter went to the back of the truck and fetched the small toiletry case that held his lube and condoms. He tossed it on the ground next to Neal and pulled off his tee-shirt.
Neal licked his lips again and smiled, looking like the very devil. "God, you're gorgeous."
Peter felt like he wanted to preen and pose, but he laughed, instead. "I think that's the pot calling the kettle black."
"You think I'm gorgeous, too?" Neal was grinning.
"I think you know just how beautiful you are. And I think you know that that is the very least of your gifts."
Neal's lascivious smile changed into something else, something a little less certain. "Beauty is a dangerous gift – I've always wished I looked a lot more ordinary. Would you want me if I wore a different skin?"
"Yes, absolutely." Peter pulled off his boots and socks, and then stripped out of his cargo pants and underwear. The cave was warm, but not as warm as Neal's gaze.
Peter knelt on the mattress. "If you want me to stop, just tell me. I'm not an animal." At least I hope not.
Neal wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled him close. He kissed him and Peter lost all sense of time and place.
Truthfully, he'd never been much for kissing. Sex was sex, often hurried and furtive. Kissing always seemed to him to be something for relationships. Mouth to mouth was almost too great an intimacy. Kissing Neal proved that right. He was fifty years old and despite his experience, he'd never been truly intimate with another man until now.
Neal broke the kiss, and smiled up at him, panting and definitely happy. "I think I could do this forever."
Peter smiled back, not the least bit disturbed in the implication in those words. "Let me taste you."
Neal nodded, giving him permission, and Peter began exploring the geography of his body, following the map of bone and muscle like an explorer. He lingered over Neal's shoulders and collarbone - not the usual erogenous territory - but it was worth the effort. His skin was like silk, and it tasted clean - like the rain, with just a hint of musk. Peter focused on the lateral shape of his collar, laying kisses over the long bone, sipping at the tiny bit of sweat that pooled in his suprasternal notch, before heading south, discovering the perfection of Neal's pectoral muscles.
He teased Neal, licking and gently biting at the muscled flesh, deliberately avoiding his very sensitive nipples. Neal's early display was proof that he liked nipple play, but Peter wanted to toy with him, make him suffer - just a little - for tormenting him.
"Please, please." Neal heaved upward, pressing his flesh into Peter's mouth, trying to make the contact he desired.
"You are so pretty when you beg."
"I'll do whatever you want, but please touch me there."
"Touch you where?" Peter was enjoying this way too much. "Tell me. You have to tell me."
"My nipples - touch my nipples. Suck them."
"Such a dirty mouth."
Neal, in his frustration, tried to touch himself but Peter wouldn't let him give himself that satisfaction. Instead, he blew a stream of warm air across that sensitive bit of flesh and enjoyed Neal's reaction.
Underneath him, Peter could feel Neal's cock, hard and hot and leaking precome He wanted to taste it, he wanted to play with it. He wanted to savor this man the way he'd never savored anyone before. And tonight, for probably the first time in his life, he had that chance.
He left off tormenting Neal's nipples, kissing and licking and sucking at the flesh over his ribs. He was careful, though, not to add to the bruises Collins left behind. The thought of anyone hurting Neal made him blisteringly angry. Maybe some of that anger was communicated to Neal, who touched his head. Peter looked up and Neal was smiling. "It's okay – I'm okay. Whatever you do is fine."
The anger leached out of him, leaving only desire and the need to please Neal, to please himself in every possible way.
Neal woke slowly, luxuriating in all the delicious sensations – a soft mattress, the scent of brewing coffee, a sore and well-used ass. "Mmmm." He rolled over and opened his eyes, expecting to see the white plaster ceiling of his seminary dorm room.
He didn't. There was minimal illumination, but all he could see was stone and more stone. Where the heck am I?
He looked around and spotted a huge truck sporting a rather disturbingly large gun mounted on the roof, several battery operated lanterns, and several khaki-green duffle bags on the ground. In a second, Neal remembered everything. The kidnapping. The rescue. Peter Burke.
The seduction.
He wanted to just lie there and parse through his memories, relish every moment of his seduction, all the lingering sensations.
"Morning, Neal." Peter walked in, looking like a god of war. "The storm has blown out quicker than I'd expected. I've contacted my team and set up the extraction."
Peter's face was unreadable, but Neal could read his posture. He was uncomfortable and quite possibly regretting everything that had happened between them. Neal wasn't foolish and didn't press the issue. He hadn't expected hearts and flowers, but he hoped that at some point, they could talk about what had happened.
He got up and found his clothing, which Peter had neatly folded and left in a pile at the foot of the mattress, next to his boots. Once dressed, Peter handed him a cup of coffee. Neal might have loathed his assignment in Honduras, the separation from everything and everyone he loved, but the coffee here was incredible. But not what Peter gave him; the contents of the plastic cup were both bitter and weak, and probably instant.
It seemed an appropriate metaphor.
With typical efficiency, Peter quickly stowed all the gear. Even the mattress was deflated and rolled up into its storage bag and put into the truck.
"We have a few minutes before we need to head to the rendezvous point, you should have something to eat."
Neal joked, "What's on the menu?"
"This morning, cereal packet, sugared, one, or cereal packet, sugared, two. I recommend cereal packet, sugared, one. It's less cardboard-y tasting." Peter tossed him a foil bag similar to what last night's dinner came in.
Neal wasn't particularly hungry, but he was curious. The bag contained the promised cereal packet, plus a side of apple sauce, plus a brown sugar toaster pastry, plus a package of crackers, as well as a packet of something that was labeled "ground-nut spread". There were also packets of powdered milk and powdered fruit-flavored beverage. "Enough carbs to keep a long distance runner going for weeks."
"Or a soldier on the battlefield for a couple of hours. Do you know how many calories you burn hefting a forty pound field kit for ten hours a day?"
"Yeah, I guess it makes sense." Neal skipped the cereal and scarfed down the toaster pastry with the rest of the coffee. Both items, separately, were fairly vile, but consumed together, they were almost palatable.
Something occurred to Neal. "How did you reach your team? I can't imagine you'd have cell phone service up here."
"Nope, but now that the weather's cleared, I was able to get a direct line of sight to the sky and use the satellite phone link. One of my associates has confirmed arrangements with a helicopter pilot, who will be picking us up."
"In Tegu?"
"No, we're heading to a plateau about halfway to the coast; the pickup will be safer there."
That made sense.
Peter looked around the cave and picked up the two remaining lanterns. "Get in the truck and I'll shut these down."
Neal obeyed – not that he had a choice. Peter shut the lanterns off and the cave went almost completely dark. Not that that seemed to affect Peter. He put the lanterns in the truck and climbed in behind the wheel. The truck's lights illuminated the cave, but Neal didn't have much of a chance to appreciate it, as Peter quickly backed out. Once free of the cavern, Peter parked and spent a few minutes restoring the greenery to disguise the entrance.
Neal kept quiet as Peter negotiated the road, which was little more than a slightly less vegetation-covered path. Yesterday, when Peter headed up to the cave, he'd been asleep – or dozing - and didn't have any memory of what was probably a very harrowing climb.
The vehicle slipped a few times, but Peter recovered. They eventually reached slightly less difficult terrain and Peter asked, "How are you doing?"
"I'm okay, it's just a good thing I liked roller coasters as a kid."
Peter nodded but didn't say anything else. It seemed that the warm and caring man from yesterday, the one who didn't hesitate to engage him, had been replaced by an automaton. Which frustrated and angered Neal.
They made it to a real road and Neal couldn't keep himself from saying, "You regret what happened."
"I took advantage of you."
"That's not how I remember it. I seduced you."
"You were dreaming, you woke up aroused. You were vulnerable."
"Bullshit. I teased you, I begged you to fuck me." Neal looked at Peter and could see him grinding his teeth. "I could give you absolution if you are truly repentant. Twenty Hail Marys and a dozen Our Fathers."
That got him a laugh, but Peter sobered up and said, "You don't understand."
"But I do. I'm in your care. A few hours before, I'd been held against my will, and was probably going to be killed, even if the ransom was paid. You're thinking that I was so overcome with relief that I'd simply surrendered my virtue to you in gratitude."
Peter didn't answer.
"My virtue – if you want to call it that – is mine to give or not give. It's also an antiquated and patriarchal notion, and frankly I would have thought you were a hell of a lot more enlightened than that. Do you think I'm some wilting flower, a child who doesn't know right from wrong?"
Peter kept giving him the silent treatment.
"And for what it's worth, I was horny. I wanted you to fuck me. I still want you. And yeah, I'm a priest and I should be beyond such base urges, but you know what? I'm not." Before Peter could reply, he added, "And if you tell me that you should be – then I'll start putting together the file for your beatification."
"I'm not a candidate for sainthood, far from it. But I can't always have what I want. Especially not rescued kidnap victims who had spent two weeks chained to a fucking rock! No matter how horny they make me."
"What's the matter, are you afraid I'll become attached, like a baby goose that accidentally imprinted on you? That I'll follow you around like a puppy waiting for a scrap of your affection?"
"Yeah. Exactly. It's call transference."
Neal disagreed, transference was something completely different – but this wasn't the time or place for a discussion of Freudian theory. "I know what it's called." Neal scratched his ear, and prepared to lie through his teeth. "It wasn't transference, it was an itch that needed to be scratched. One you don't ever have to think about again. You go back to your life; I go and have one of my own. Our paths will never cross again."
Neal took hope from the expression on Peter's face – he looked hurt, like he'd just been dumped by his best friend.
They drove in silence for a while, and the dense forest began to thin out and then it disappeared altogether as they emerged onto a plateau. Peter parked at the tree line and checked his watch. "We're right on time. Hopefully, our pick-up will be just as prompt."
Peter unbuckled his seatbelt and started to get out. When Neal copied his action, Peter told him to stay put. "Wait here – I want to call into base. Best to stay in the truck, just to be on the safe side."
Neal wasn't surprised at Peter's caution, and followed the instructions. A few minutes later, Peter came back wearing a vest and helmet and a worried expression. He had another vest and helmet in his hands. "Put these on."
He popped the helmet on his head and struggled into the vest. It was heavy. "What is this?"
"Body armor."
"Why would I need this?"
Peter frowned. "I just called my base and got word that Collins might know where the pick-up is. The Humvee is armored, but you'll be vulnerable when you're moving to the helicopter"
"He could be out there?"
"It's possible, so stay put until I tell you to come out."
Peter disappeared again and Neal started to sweat. Collins wouldn't bother to recapture him – he'd just kill him and take his body back to Hernandez. The bishop would probably make a fuss about paying him, but Neal took some small, sick pleasure in imagining what Collins would do to the prelate when he tried to back out.
Peter knocked on the window and Neal rolled it down. Peter told him, "The chopper is about a minute out."
Neal was pleased to see that Peter was armed – a rifle was slung across his back, one of the shoulder holsters had a pistol and the other one was in his hand. There was also a small radio attached to the vest, and it squawked.
Whatever the person on the other end was saying was drowned out by the sound of incoming chopper blades. Peter opened the door and Neal jumped out.
Peter shouted, "Keep your head down."
Neal remembered the opening credits from M*A*S*H and figured he knew what to do. A helicopter touched down about fifty yards away, the blades' rotation slowing. He started to sprint towards it, and crossed about half the distance when he heard a loud crack and Peter stumbled against him.
"Go – go." Peter didn't collapse, thank god. He pushed at Neal. "Get in that damn chopper and get out of here."
For the first time, Neal didn't obey. He watched, horrified, as Collins ran towards them, pistol drawn. "You're not going anywhere."
Peter pushed him again and turned to face Collins. "You'll have to go through me to get to him."
"That will be my pleasure." Collins raised his gun and pointed it at Peter. "You're not denying me two paydays."
"Yes, I am." Peter aimed the gun he was carrying at Collins and screamed for Neal to move. "Get your ass on that helicopter! DO IT!"
Neal ran and even though he heard a gunshot, he didn't stop. When he was ten yards from the chopper, a man jumped out and ran towards him, gun drawn. Neal froze, thinking that this was a two-pronged attack, but the man yanked on his arm, pushing him towards the copter. "Get on the damn bird."
He sprinted the last thirty feet and climbed to safety. As he buckled in, the helicopter started to ascend. "No, no – we have to wait for them. Peter!"
The pilot shook her head and shouted, "My instructions were to get you away, not to wait."
"You have to wait!"
"Sorry – I've got my orders."
The helicopter got airborne and swung around, giving Neal a brief glimpse of the ground.
And of Peter, splayed out, face down. Collins was down, too, and the man who'd arrived in the chopper was standing over him, gun drawn.
Three Months Later
Neal went right from the airport to the cemetery. It was small, particularly by southern California standards. No celebrities were buried here, but the place was filled with monuments to human mortality, all the same.
The grave he was looking for was in a newer part of the cemetery, a bit of a hike from the road. But it was a pretty plot, sheltered by a large cypress tree. He knelt down and brushed away the fallen needles that had accumulated from a simple grave marker.
"Hey, Matthew."
"Sweetheart, I'd say it's good to see you, but you look like crap."
Neal let out a tiny sigh of relief. Matthew – or whatever had lived in his mind – had been absent since that last terrible day in Honduras. "It's good to hear your voice. I've missed you."
"Haven't been anywhere - you didn't need me."
"That's not true."
"Yeah, it is. You've done a prime job of fixing your problems, all by yourself. You didn't need me whispering in your ear."
Neal sat on the dry grass and lifted his face to the dappled sunshine. Back home, it was cold and wet, sleet and snow making a mess of everything. But here, the sky was a pure and endless blue, punctuated only by the occasional drifting cloud or a condensation trail left by a passing airplane.
"It's done."
"Good. It should have been done five years ago."
"I wasn't ready. I wasn't strong enough."
"You didn't want to hurt them."
"I was afraid. I didn't want to lose their love. I didn't want to disappoint them."
"But now they know. And you really had nothing to fear. Sweetheart, think about all the pain you'd have avoided if you'd listened to me all of those years ago."
"I know. You were right."
"I always am."
Neal leaned back and stretched out on the grass, next to Matthew's grave. "Maybe they were so relieved to have me home and safe, they didn't care."
"Maybe, or maybe not."
It had taken him two weeks to screw up the courage to tell his parents that he was gay. His stepfather took it in stride, but his mother had been stunned. "But you're a priest? How can you be gay?"
"That's like saying, 'you're a priest, how can you have blue eyes?' I'm gay, it's the way god made me." Neal thought it was easier to let them believe he still believed.
"But, but, your vows?"
That was another thing Neal hadn't been prepared to deal with at that moment, so he asked her, point blank, "Do you still love me?"
"Of course! You're my son." She wrapped her arms around him and sobbed quietly on his shoulder. Neal's eyes met James' and the two men shared a smile.
A few days after that conversation, James joined him in the library. "I sent your mother for a day at the spa - I think we all could use it."
Neal chuckled. "She's been under a lot of stress."
His stepfather nodded. "How about a drink? I still have that Barolo that you gave me for my birthday a few years ago. I think it's rested long enough."
Neal concurred and the two of them sat before the fireplace, enjoying a companionable silence. He sipped the dark and heady vintage and contemplated the flames, contemplated the truth. "I didn't want to marry Kate Moreau."
"What?" James was startled.
"I became a priest because I didn't want to marry Kate and I couldn't figure out how to tell you 'no'."
"Jesus, Neal! I never expected you to marry Kate just because I wanted to buy out Robert Moreau."
"You really pushed the match, you and Mom kept saying what a sweet girl she was, what a perfect daughter-in-law she'd be. You two weren't at all subtle about pairing us up when I was home for the holidays or at semester break. Her dad cornered me the in the library the Christmas before I graduated Harvard and told me all about the merger plans and how happy he'd be to see Kate settled in the bosom of our family."
James shook his head. "Maybe I pushed, but I wouldn't have expected you to marry a girl you didn't love. I wanted you to be happy."
Neal stared into his wineglass. "I wanted you to be happy, too. You didn't have to love me, you didn't have to raise me as your own flesh and blood. I didn't want to disappoint you."
"So you became a priest? Just to get out of marrying a girl?"
"Yeah. Sounds kind of foolish now."
"Well, it did make your mother happy." James refilled their glasses. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm leaving the priesthood."
"I guess that's not unexpected. If you only became one because you didn't want us to know you were gay…"
"That's not why."
"Oh?"
Neal chose his words carefully. James wasn't as overtly devout as his mother, but he was still a good Catholic who believed in the power and majesty of the Church. "When I was in St. Louis, I saw things. Bad things."
"Neal?"
"I witnessed two of the senior priests abusing a boy. I reported it to the archbishop. The next day, I was told that I was being transferred to Honduras. If I told anyone about what I'd seen, I'd be outed and both of the priests I'd accused would swear that I was the one who abused that child."
"Shit, Neal – you should have come to me. I wouldn't have let them do that to you. You should have trusted me."
"I know, I know I should have. But I didn't. What's past is past. I can't change it."
"What happened in Honduras? I have a feeling that there's a lot you haven't told us."
Neal shrugged. "I don't know if the archbishop knew what he was sending me into, if he just figured I'd keep my mouth shut and beg to come home after a few months there, or if he knew the truth."
"Which is?"
"The local priests and bishop are heavily involved in the drug trade and in human trafficking. They are sending women and children north and making them carry drugs. When I found out, the bishop hired a man to kill me. I broke down and begged him not to – I told him you'd pay my ransom." Neal felt ashamed of that moment of weakness. "I'm sorry."
"Neal, don't be. It kept you alive." James hugged him. "You may not be my blood, but you're my son, my child and I'd do anything to keep you safe."
When James released him, Neal told him the rest. "I have to go to the police about what happened in St. Louis. It's going to be a shit storm when the news breaks. Worse than what happened in Boston. And everything about me is going to come out."
"It doesn't matter. Your mom and I will stand by you, regardless of what anyone says, no matter how much mud and muck is flung at you."
"Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me."
James then asked, "What about Honduras? Will you have to go back?"
"I don't know. I talked with a bunch of people when I was in the hospital, I told them what I saw. But I don't think it will make any difference." The whole thing depressed Neal.
"So, how does one leave the priesthood?"
"That's like saying, 'you're a priest, how can you have blue eyes?' I'm gay, it's the way god made me." Neal thought it was easier to let them believe he still believed.
"But, but, your vows?"
That was another thing Neal hadn't been prepared to deal with at that moment, so he asked her, point blank, "Do you still love me?"
"Of course! You're my son." She wrapped her arms around him and sobbed quietly on his shoulder. Neal's eyes met James' and the two men shared a smile.
A few days after that conversation, James joined him in the library. "I sent your mother for a day at the spa - I think we all could use it."
Neal chuckled. "She's been under a lot of stress."
His stepfather nodded. "How about a drink? I still have that Barolo that you gave me for my birthday a few years ago. I think it's rested long enough."
Neal concurred and the two of them sat before the fireplace, enjoying a companionable silence. He sipped the dark and heady vintage and contemplated the flames, contemplated the truth. "I didn't want to marry Kate Moreau."
"What?" James was startled.
"I became a priest because I didn't want to marry Kate and I couldn't figure out how to tell you 'no'."
"Jesus, Neal! I never expected you to marry Kate just because I wanted to buy out Robert Moreau."
"You really pushed the match, you and Mom kept saying what a sweet girl she was, what a perfect daughter-in-law she'd be. You two weren't at all subtle about pairing us up when I was home for the holidays or at semester break. Her dad cornered me the in the library the Christmas before I graduated Harvard and told me all about the merger plans and how happy he'd be to see Kate settled in the bosom of our family."
James shook his head. "Maybe I pushed, but I wouldn't have expected you to marry a girl you didn't love. I wanted you to be happy."
Neal stared into his wineglass. "I wanted you to be happy, too. You didn't have to love me, you didn't have to raise me as your own flesh and blood. I didn't want to disappoint you."
"So you became a priest? Just to get out of marrying a girl?"
"Yeah. Sounds kind of foolish now."
"Well, it did make your mother happy." James refilled their glasses. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm leaving the priesthood."
"I guess that's not unexpected. If you only became one because you didn't want us to know you were gay…"
"That's not why."
"Oh?"
Neal chose his words carefully. James wasn't as overtly devout as his mother, but he was still a good Catholic who believed in the power and majesty of the Church. "When I was in St. Louis, I saw things. Bad things."
"Neal?"
"I witnessed two of the senior priests abusing a boy. I reported it to the archbishop. The next day, I was told that I was being transferred to Honduras. If I told anyone about what I'd seen, I'd be outed and both of the priests I'd accused would swear that I was the one who abused that child."
"Shit, Neal – you should have come to me. I wouldn't have let them do that to you. You should have trusted me."
"I know, I know I should have. But I didn't. What's past is past. I can't change it."
"What happened in Honduras? I have a feeling that there's a lot you haven't told us."
Neal shrugged. "I don't know if the archbishop knew what he was sending me into, if he just figured I'd keep my mouth shut and beg to come home after a few months there, or if he knew the truth."
"Which is?"
"The local priests and bishop are heavily involved in the drug trade and in human trafficking. They are sending women and children north and making them carry drugs. When I found out, the bishop hired a man to kill me. I broke down and begged him not to – I told him you'd pay my ransom." Neal felt ashamed of that moment of weakness. "I'm sorry."
"Neal, don't be. It kept you alive." James hugged him. "You may not be my blood, but you're my son, my child and I'd do anything to keep you safe."
When James released him, Neal told him the rest. "I have to go to the police about what happened in St. Louis. It's going to be a shit storm when the news breaks. Worse than what happened in Boston. And everything about me is going to come out."
"It doesn't matter. Your mom and I will stand by you, regardless of what anyone says, no matter how much mud and muck is flung at you."
"Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me."
James then asked, "What about Honduras? Will you have to go back?"
"I don't know. I talked with a bunch of people when I was in the hospital, I told them what I saw. But I don't think it will make any difference." The whole thing depressed Neal.
"So, how does one leave the priesthood?"
"Well?" Neal was surprised that Matthew didn't have a snarky comment.
"You've surprised me. Didn't think you had the guts to tell them everything."
"Haven't told them everything. I didn't tell them about you."
"Or about Peter."
Neal closed his eyes against the pain. "Please don't say his name."
"Sweetheart, you've got it so bad. And for some stupid reason, you're here, on the wrong side of the country and talking to a dead man, instead of trying to get that gorgeous hunk of man-meat back in your bed."
"He doesn't want to see me. I was just a job."
"Did he tell you that?"
"No, but it was pretty well implied."
Neal knew that Peter was alive before he left Honduras. The helicopter had taken him back to the U.S. base outside of Tegu and while Neal was getting a debriefing, word had come in that a second helicopter had retrieved Colonel Burke. He'd been shot in the leg, and while there was considerable blood loss, his condition was stable. Kyle Collins; however, was dead.
A few hours later, Neal had been loaded onto a military transport and taken back to D.C. He hadn't heard anything more about Peter and hadn't wanted to ask.
"You need to go home and see him. Use all your talents, make him see you – Neal Caffrey the man. Not Neal Caffrey the priest, or worse, Neal Caffrey the kidnapping victim."
"I need to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life first."
"No you don't. You need to do this now. Not next week or next month. The Church has released you. The pope has granted you a waiver. You're a free man. Waiting another six months will probably mean another year. Or two. I know you, sweetheart. I know you'd rather slip and slide and take the path of least resistance. If you don't do this now, you're going to live the rest of your life filled in vain regret. Like a character in a Tennessee Williams play."
"And you thought I was overly dramatic."
"Go, and don't you dare come back. There's nothing here for you. Nothing at all."
It had been ten weeks since he'd gotten back from Honduras and three months since he'd successfully rescued Father Neal Caffrey. Two weeks of those three months were spent recovering in a military hospital at Soto Cano Air Base outside of Tegucigalpa. Collins had shot him twice – once in the back, where he'd been protected by the rifle plating in his vest, and once in the upper thigh. The bullet had shattered his femur and he'd lost a couple of pints of blood.
The leg was healing, but the truth was, it would never be the same. His career in the field was over. No matter how much physical therapy he did, no matter how much he worked on his recovery, there was too much damage that could never be repaired. He'd never be as strong or as fast as he was, which meant he'd put his team and his mission at risk, which was unacceptable.
Diana rolled into his office. "You doing okay, boss?"
"Yeah, getting there. What's up?"
She dumped a few files on his desk. "Some mission reports for you to review, a couple of resumes that you might want to take a look at. The latest offer from Barrett-Dunne."
"That should have gone right into the shredder."
"Thought you might want to use it as toilet paper."
Peter snickered. "Only if I had the trots."
Diana chuckled, too. Then her expression changed and she looked serious.
"What's the matter?"
"You know I track who looks at our website."
"Yeah. Is the CIA still hitting it hard?"
Diana nodded. "And the Army, too. But that's nothing new."
"Then what's the problem?"
"There's a pretty frequent civilian visitor."
"Oh?"
"I recognized the IP address. It's James Bennett's."
Peter's mouth went dry. "I can't imagine why he'd been interested in our services."
"There's another frequent civilian visitor, but from a mobile device. I was able to trace the address to an account. It's from Neal Caffrey's iPad."
Peter nodded. "Okay." He didn't know what else to say.
Diana backed up and got halfway to the door before she dropped her bombshell. "I wasn't going to bother mentioning that to you, except that Neal Caffrey is in the office and would like to see you."
"I – um – I…" Peter looked around his office and wished like hell he'd had a private exit put in.
"You know, he's even better looking without the clerical garb. He looks like he was born to wear Armani. But then, I've never had a priest kink."
Diana's outrageousness didn't obscure her comment that Neal was in civilian clothing. Peter knew very few priests, but all of them seemed to wear the dog collar all the time.
"Give me a sec, okay?"
"I've put him in the small conference room." With that, Diana rolled out and shut the door behind her.
Peter took a deep breath. BRS clients usually didn't stop by to express their gratitude.
Then again, neither did he usually make love with a client.
In the three months since Honduras, Peter had relieved that night many, many times, and he couldn't escape the conclusion that what had happened was a hell of a lot more than an encounter between two virtual strangers. Somehow, Neal had gotten under his skin, into his heart, and Peter knew that he'd spend the rest of his life wanting what had never been offered.
"And for what it's worth, I was horny. I wanted you to fuck me. I still want you. And yeah, I'm a priest and I should be beyond such base urges, but you know what? I'm not."
A small part of him hoped that Neal had meant just what he said – that the night was just an itch to be scratched – a small part of him that wanted his life to stay the same. No hooks, no ties, no body.
But the other part of him, the one that watched Diana and her wife negotiate chores and battle over what to watch on television and kiss each other over pasta, wanted to believe that Neal had been deflecting. That what they experienced was something more than base urges.
And now, Neal Caffrey was waiting for him in his conference room.
He reached for his cane and levered himself out of his chair. At least he'd been able to exchange the aluminum hospital model for something a bit more stylish. This one was walnut with nickel fittings. Jones had suggested getting a sword cane, but he'd opted for the model with the flask.
It might be another year before he'd be able to walk without it. But at least he was able to walk.
Diana had left the privacy glass off and Peter took a few seconds to look at Neal, who had his back to him. He was examining a series of framed photographs. Diana was right; Neal was made to wear expensive and well-cut suits, although Peter had no clue if the gray wool he was wearing was really Armani.
He opened the door and Neal turned around. Peter quickly cataloged the changes – his face had lost that haunted look, and of course the bruising was gone. His hair was shorter, or maybe it had been tamed by something that gave it a rich gleam. Time and care seemed to have healed a lot of the surface wounds. "How are you?"
"I'm good." Neal saw the cane he was leaning on and frowned. "I was furious when they left you. I wanted to jump out of the helicopter."
Peter shook his head at that foolishness. "I had never planned on accompanying you on that ride. My associate, Jones, was there to see you home. I needed to deal with Collins."
"You planned to find him and kill him?" Neal seemed perturbed by that idea.
"No, bring him back for trial."
"But that's not necessary now."
"No, it's not. He's dead." His leg aching, Peter rested his ass on the conference table and flipped on the switch for the privacy glass. He didn't want to give his staff front row seats to what might be the most important moment of his life. "You look good."
Neal actually blushed and looked down at himself. "Thanks. I think I'd rather go naked than wear black again."
Peter felt his heart start to race. "I thought that black was standard issue for Roman Catholic priests."
"For those who are actually functioning as priests, yes. But I'm not."
"So, you're not a priest anymore?" Peter hoped he sounded casual.
Neal gave him a little head wobble – not a nod or a shake. "It's complicated. The sacrament of Holy Orders can't be undone – once a priest, always a priest. But I've been released from my responsibilities and duties. Technically, I still am a priest, but I'll never function as one again. I've been laicized."
Peter was unfamiliar with the word. "What does that mean?"
"Basically, I have the Church's blessing to not be a priest and no longer am required to observe my vows."
"As if you ever have." Peter couldn't stop that comment if his life depended on it.
Neal laughed, and the sound was like a joyously ringing bell. "That is really quite true."
Peter couldn't stand it anymore. "Why are you here?"
"Isn't it obvious? I wanted to see you."
"Why?" Peter hoped, but he needed to hear.
"Because I think we might have something. And I'd like to see if it's real. I know all the theories about trauma attachments and this just might be a textbook case, but I really believe there's something more between us. I've spent a lot of my life trying to make other people happy, to satisfy what I think are their expectations. But now, I want to make myself happy."
"I want you to be happy, too." God, he sounded like such an idiot.
"Good. You know what would make me really happy?"
Peter licked his lips. "Letting me make love to you in a real bed?"
Neal laughed again. "I was going to say, taking you out to dinner and holding hands at the movies. Go out on a few dates, take things slowly."
Heat seared his cheeks. "Oh, okay. We can do that."
Neal smiled. "I'm joking with you. I was going to say getting you to kiss me, then dinner, then a stop at the drug store for condoms and lube, then –"
"I'm a boy scout, remember? I already have condoms and lube." Peter felt himself grinning from ear to ear.
"Okay, so no need to stop. We can go to your apartment and fuck until we're blind."
"Make love." He corrected Neal.
Neal's eyes went soft as he agreed. "Yes. Make love."
Peter wrapped a hand around the back of Neal's neck, hauling him close. "So, you want me to kiss you first?"
"That's the plan."
Peter stroked Neal's jaw, loving the slight rasp of beard against his thumb. "I want to shave you again. Maybe watch ourselves in the mirror."
"I'd like that." Neal's voice was breathy, as if he were as lightheaded as Peter was feeling. "Will you please kiss me?"
Neal didn't have to ask twice. Peter captured his lips and couldn't stop the moan of satisfaction. Neal's hands were cupped around his face, holding him like he was something precious, something to be cherished and protected.
This was a kiss of beginnings. It was a kiss that marked the start of something he'd never dreamed possible. Yes, it was perfection, but it was more than that. It was hope. It was happiness.
Neal's kiss was his salvation.
Tags:
- character: clinton jones,
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: james bennett,
- character: kyle collins,
- character: matthew keller,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: ofc,
- character: peter burke,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: badassery,
- genre: coming out,
- genre: emotional trauma,
- kink: bathing,
- kink: kissing,
- kink: mirrorplay,
- kink: nipple play,
- pairing: neal/keller,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- wc verse: salva me,
- white collar,
- written for: fic-can-ukah,
- year: 2015
