New York, New York - It's a Helluva Town - Part II

[elrhiarhodan]

Title: New York, New York - It’s a Helluva Town – Part II – In the Dendur Pavilion
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Neal Caffrey, New York City (Peter/Elizabeth, Peter/Neal this part)
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Private sex acts in public settings
Word Count: ~2600 (this part)
Beta Credit: None
Summary: Kink Meme Prompt Reply: El has a kink. She loves to have dirty sex in public places and Bad!Peter is always willing to indulge her. The hire Rentboy!Neal for a frolic. Extra points for dirty talk and sex in a really refined place like The Cloisters or the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Double bonus for Peter in leather. I couldn’t manage to get Neal as a male prostitute, the story kept turning into something that kelly_girl wrote (In Between the Lines) a while back. So, we’ve got Dom!Peter, SexFairy!El, and Sad!Neal all set to have sex...on a bus, in a museum, in the park...

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Neal loved the airy, glass enclosed pavilion that housed the ancient stone temple. He also loved that the building was a gift from the Egyptian government – preserved for everyone when it otherwise would have been lost to the new gods of progress. He loved that this was something he couldn’t steal or forge or con someone out of. He loved the ancientness of it, the permanence, and the odd perfection of the modern glass enclosure and the great green park just outside.

The week has been busy, Peter and his team closing out a handful of fraud cases that had been hanging around, seemingly unsolvable, until Neal found a connection between them. Arrests were made, and the matter turned over to the DOJ for prosecution. But the best was the look in Peter’s eyes when the U.S. Attorney congratulated him and he gave the credit back to Neal. There was talk about having Neal testify as to how he made the actual connection between four seemingly unrelated cases. Even Hughes thought the idea had merit.

Neal felt he could dine off of that look for a month – the pride and the confidence Peter had in him. He’d be lying to himself if he said it was almost as good as pulling a great con. The way that look from Peter made him feel was better, in ways that Neal didn’t quite want to explore.

Another area Neal didn’t want to think about too much was Peter. It had been that way for years - three on the chase, more than four in prison - Neal didn’t want to admit how much he was fascinated by the man. He once said to Kate that half the fun of the game was being chased by Peter, and Kate told him he had a Daddy complex. That couldn’t be further from the truth - even from the beginning, his feelings were the opposite of filial.

He couldn’t remember the first time he dreamed about Peter, maybe after the job in Venice, the first time that Peter came close to catching him. Something about him, despite the ugly suit, preyed on Neal’s mind - maybe it it was the way he stood on the bridge over the Grand Canal as Neal jumped onto a passing vaporetto, with the sun behind him. He was solid, real - like a rock, and Neal carried that image with him. The dream, like most dreams, was a combination of the real and surreal - Peter in front of him, holding his wrists, but behind him, fucking him. He woke, uncomfortable and aroused, to find that Kate was pegging him with a strap-on dildo. He bit his lips as she plowed into him, so not to cry out “Peter” as he climaxed.

It didn’t matter. When Kate finished with him, all she said was, “you were moaning ‘Peter, Peter' in your sleep; so I thought you’d enjoy a taste of Peter.” Neal remembered lying alone in bed, on the wet spot, and crying for no reason at all.

Dreams became fantasies - especially after Peter caught him with the bonds. When Peter finally locked the handcuffs on him - the first time Peter actually touched him - Neal became almost unbearably aroused. It wasn’t the fetishistic feel of the cuffs, or even the excitement of the chase. It was sitting in the backseat of the standard-issue FBI sedan, next to Peter - their thighs touching from hip to knee - breathing in the smell of him, the solid reality of him. The entire ride back to the FBI building, Peter said nothing. He sat there, just looking at Neal. At some point, Neal realized that they were breathing in rhythm - perfectly in sync.

Neal played those moments in his head during the months of incarceration before his trial, and later, in prison, he would stroke himself to the same rhythm of memory of their shared breaths. Now, sometimes when they were alone in the office, he would try to sync his breathing to Peter’s - but it never quite worked.

He also didn’t really like to think about Peter and sex - because that meant he would be betraying Elizabeth. Before he met her, Elizabeth Burke was merely an abstract concept - Peter would naturally have a wife, and she’d be beautiful, smart and funny - but she really didn’t matter. But the reality of Elizabeth what that she was almost as important to him as Peter. And Neal would let himself go back to the deepest hole in that damn SuperMax before he hurt her, and having any sort of non-professional (okay, sexual) relationship with Peter would wound her beyond measure. It also didn’t help that Neal wanted to fuck her almost as badly as he wanted to fuck Peter.

So Neal sat there, on the stone benches, half-heartedly sketching - trying not to think about Peter. Trying not to think about Elizabeth. Trying not to think about fucking and breathing and fucking.

So absorbed in his own thoughts - his own not-thoughts, that he didn’t even look up when someone sat down next to him, facing out to the windows.

“Hello Neal.”

Neal’s brain recognized the voice, but his eyes were playing tricks on him. The voice was Peter’s, but the man sitting next to him was not Peter, at least not any version of Peter that occupied daytime reality. This not-Peter was dressed in all black, tailored in casual elegance was nothing like the rumpled FBI agent he thought he knew. The only thing that was familiar were the unfashionable aviator-style sunglasses that hid Peter’s eyes.

“Peter?” A wealth of questions filled that one word.

“Whatcha’ doing?” Not-Peter leaned in and planted a hand between Neal’s legs, his thumb an inch from Neal’s cock (and if Neal couldn’t exercise better control, he’s be closing that distance very soon). Neal closed his eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again - expecting to see Real-Peter, in a badly fitting cotton sports shirt and off the rack pants or whatever he normally wore during non-work hours (Neal didn’t think Elizabeth, as tolerate as she may be, would let Peter anywhere outside their Brooklyn townhouse in old college tee-shirts and sweatpants). But no, it was still Not-Peter, dressed like something out of Neal’s darkest wet dreams.

“Umm, sketching...what are you doing here, Peter?”

“Oh, just enjoying the lovely weather. Elizabeth wanted to come to the Met.” If it was possible to vocalize a smirk, then Peter/Not-Peter certainly did on the word “come.”

“Elizabeth’s here?” Neal was relieved - if Peter’s wife was here, then he could keep his reactions (including his unruly cock) in check by focusing on Elizabeth or on Peter/Elizabeth - husband and wife.

“Honey - look what I found” Peter’s voice, from Not-Peter’s mouth called out, against all basic tenets of museum etiquette, and sure enough, Elizabeth Burke skipped into view. But like Not-Peter, this was Not-Elizabeth - instead of the casual elegance of a successful businesswoman or a suburban wife out for a weekend date with her husband, this not-Elizabeth was dressed like some demented sex-fairy. She twirled in front of Neal, and the sunlight pouring into the courtyard turned the sheer cotton of her blouse practically transparent.

“Hiya Neal. Been here long?” Elizabeth chirped - no - that had to be wrong, Elizabeth Burke did not chirp.

“About a hour, why? I was just getting ready to leave...” It wasn’t hard to miss the sharp looks between husband and wife, even if Peter’s face was half-hidden by those damn sunglasses. “What? What’s going on here?” Neal suddenly knew how Alice felt, tumbling down the rabbit hole. As Peter leaned in closer, Neal started to sweat - this wasn’t happening. Then he felt it, Peter’s thumb - just his thumb, slowly stroking his cock. And Elizabeth was standing there - watching her husband masturbate him in public.

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Neal swallowed convulsively, his throat bone dry. He looked down at Peter’s hand, his thumb rubbing against the fine wool of his trousers, against the flare of his cock head. He looked up at Elizabeth, and she was watching Peter’s hand and smiling like a cat with a bowl of cream. He finally looked at Peter’s face, and for the first time since they started working together, Neal couldn’t read his expression. He needed to see Peter’s eyes - he needed to see the reality beneath this slick veneer. Neal reached up to take off Peter’s sunglasses, only to find his wrist captured by Elizabeth - and then she released him just as quickly.

Neal’s hand dropped away, but his eyes never left Peter - trying to divine something, anything. Peter leaned in still closer and whispered into Neal’s ear - “Don’t you think it’s time we finished this dance?” To his horror, to his delight, Peter brushed his lips first against Neal’s earlobe, then across his cheek, his tongue flicking against the stubble on his chin, and finally settling on his lips. At first, his kiss was delicate - but not unsure - and then changed into something more persuasive, seeking compliance rather than demanding obedience.

Neal wasn’t sure who moaned, but the sound galvanized him. He reached up and shoved his fingers through Peter’s hair and deepened their kissed. Neal’s tongue thrust into the other man’s mouth, biting at the other man’s lips, and then he pulled back and grabbed the sunglasses off of Peter’s face. What he saw there shocked him - there was affection (a semi-familiar expression), lust (unbearably attractive) and something else - something Neal occasionally caught out of the corner of his eye - something that almost frightened him. Peter’s other hand cupped the back of Neal’s head and brought him close again. This time when they kissed, it was like two gladiators locked in combat, each man striving for dominance.

All of a sudden, Neal felt another hand on him - a smaller hand, on his thigh, also rubbing against his cock. This time, Peter broke off their kiss and Neal looked down to see Elizabeth, kneeling at his feet. “Peter, do you know your wife’s not wearing a bra?” Neal burst out, “and I don’t think she’s wearing any panties.”

Neal didn’t think that Peter was going to like these observations about his wife’s undergarments, or the lack thereof, but since the universe seemed to have shifted two degrees to the left, Peter’s reply seemed almost normal. “When I spanked her this morning, El was wearing a thong, so I guess that qualifies as ‘panties.’” Peter casually said, as if they were discussing the weather or sports scores, “I bet they’re soaked through right now - I fucked her on the bus ride uptown.”

Elizabeth chuckled, and added - “And I humped his leg on the ride from Brooklyn. Came three times before we got to Penn Station. I may come again from just watching you men kiss.”

The shirt and tie and vest Neal wore, like modern day armor against the world, all of a sudden felt as constricting as a straight jacket. Wonderful, she’s beautiful, smart, funny, devoted and multi-orgasmic. Truly the perfect woman. “So, um, Elizabeth… you’re okay with this?”

“This?” Elizabeth teased him.

“Me and Peter, kissing and ummm”

Peter snorted a laugh - “ummm, that’s very eloquent, Caffrey.”

Elizabeth replied “I’ve been all right with this for a while. I’ve got a dildo named ‘Neal’ and a buttplug called ‘Caffrey.’”

“I’ve got a dildo named ‘Neal’ and a buttplug called ‘Caffrey.’” Neal wasn’t sure he heard those words correctly, the way his heart was racing and the blood was pulsing in his head, echoing in his ears like the surf pounding into the shore. He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation with these Bizarro versions of Peter and Elizabeth, in the opened and very public Temple of Dendur pavilion, with families with baby strollers and sticky-fingered toddlers and dozens of pretty teenaged girls within earshot.

“What to you want from me?” Neal wanted to stand up, to move away from the heat and promise and desire, but to move away from those warm, stroking hands would be like exiling himself to the South Pole. Since he was paroled, Neal had been very careful - about touching and being touched. First, out of loyalty to Kate, then - after Kate - nothing. He wanted what he could not have, and for the first time in his life, he wasn’t prepared to take what he wasn’t entitled to. But now, now it seemed that everything he wanted was being offered to him on a platter.

“Honey - we want you - we’ve wanted you for a very long time. And I think you want us back.” Elizabeth’s eyes, a shade darker than his own, were like endlessly deep pools and Neal felt like he was drowning and the only thing keeping him afloat was her small hand stroking him.

Peter’s hand tightened in Neal’s hair, and Neal turned back to face him. “El and I like to play games, but this - this connection between us - is not a game.” Normally so ineloquent, Peter found the perfect words at the perfect time. “You’ve been a part of our marriage since I started chasing you. We were both attracted, enthralled - and if you hadn’t fucked up and escaped to chase that stupid bitch, Kate, you would have been ours months ago.”

“You thought you were so smart, offering yourself as a consultant to help me catch the Dutchman. I was all set to bring you on when you were released. El had the date marked in red on her calendar. Now, it’s all the more difficult - you’re my parolee, and I seem to spend half my day thinking about fucking you. We mess this up, and everything is lost. My job, you’ll be back in prison - this has the makings of a god-damned Greek tragedy.”

“Peter - I want you, you too, Elizabeth. More than anything, any con, any job - I want this - I want to live in your skins.” Neal felt like he’d been stripped naked, the words seemed to come from some untapped well of emotion - no, not untapped, only tightly capped. Neal then realized what he said, what he revealed. Maybe Peter and Elizabeth weren’t speaking of love or permanence, were they? Maybe they just wanted him to scratch an itch? It wouldn’t be the first time. The thought depressed and disgusted him.

Some of that must have shown on his face, and Peter took his hand off of Neal’s crotch and pulled him close. “Listen to me, Neal Caffrey - you’re in this, it’s forever - and when they cut that anklet for good, the only place you’re going is Brooklyn.”

End Part II
Go to Part Three – Kissing in Public