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elrhiarhodanTitle: Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell/Don’t Ask, Don’t Care (Part 1 of 2)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Peter/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Modern Military A/U
Word Count: ~12,000
Summary: Admiral Peter Burke is having a bad day. He walks into a dive bar off of K Street in Washington and meets Commander Neal Caffrey. To say they hit it off would be a vast understatement. And that’s going a problem of monumental proportions for both men.
A/N: Thank you torabidchild67 for the beta and to jrosemary for her cheerleading and story advice. All mistakes are mine and mine alone. Written for a prompt from coffeethyme4me who just wanted some schmoopy DADT repeal fic to mark the day (September 20, 2011). It somehow turned epic. And real. Many of the events referenced by the characters actually happened. See this entry for more details.
__________________
10:42 pm, September 19, 2011
The door to his study opened. “You’re late, Caffrey.” Peter didn’t bother looking up from the report he was reviewing. Neal was the only other person who had a key and the codes to access his Crystal City apartment. He was supposed to be home four hours ago.
“Are you going to flog me and throw me in the brig, Admiral?”
“Don’t tempt me, Commander.” Peter growled. He tried to give his attention to the report in front of him, it was important. All of these reports were, but he’d been reading since eight, and there was no end in sight. He shut the binder (why, in this day and age, were these things actually printed?) and turned his attention to Neal.
The other man was sitting in the leather club chair in front of the fireplace, uniform jacket unbuttoned; tie loosened, bare feet resting on an ottoman, his hat tossed onto a couch. Neal in repose was always a sight to be appreciated.
“What kept you?” Peter knew he wasn’t going to get a straight answer.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you, curiosity killed the cat?”
There was something in Neal’s voice that troubled him. “This particular cat has nine lives, Commander.”
“And a few have already been expended. I’d hate for you to lose another.”
“Okay, okay. Is everything all right?” It really wasn’t like Neal to be this late and not contact him, especially tonight.
“Yeah. Nothing to worry about.”
Whenever Neal said that, Peter knew he should probably start worrying, but unless Neal volunteered the information, he had no choice but to believe him, for the moment.
Peter got up and joined Neal by the fireplace. It was a little chilly in the room, so he pressed a button and flames shot to life. He adjusted the gas flow and opened the doors to let some heat out.
Neal gave an appreciative sigh. “Some day, I’d like to have a real fireplace. One with wood and crackling embers.”
“And maybe a dog and one of those long handled metal baskets to roast chestnuts?”
“Hmm, yeah.”
“Ever eat a chestnut?”
Neal kept his head tilted back, eyes closed. “Nope, but I love how they smell.”
“They’re pretty tasteless. Once you finish burning your fingers and your tongue, there’s really no flavor.”
Neal turned his head and looked at Peter. “Do you have to ruin all my fantasies?”
Peter gave him a bright, quick smile. “Some fantasies are better when they remain fantasies.” He went over to the bar and poured a glass of wine for Neal and took a beer for himself. “But having a real fireplace and a dog is a good dream. Especially when you have someone to share it with.” He handed Neal the glass, their fingers touching for just a second.
Neal took it, and made a toast. “To you, Peter.”
He responded, with equal simplicity. “And to you, Neal.”
Their journey to this warm, quiet room wasn’t easy.
__________________
Mid-March, 2008
It started in a small, dark bar off of K Street in Georgetown.
In a neighborhood filled with high powered watering holes and four-star restaurants, that place was a refuge from the powerful and the power-brokers. Mozzie’s wasn’t precisely a dive bar, but it wasn’t ever going to be featured on tourist maps and guidebooks either. It was also just the type of place that Peter needed after an awful day.
He sat there, hunched over, his thumb rubbing the newly empty space on his ring finger, regrets and memories tying him in knots. The bartender, a short, bald man with thick glasses, pushed a fresh bottle of beer over to him, his third of the night. Peter took a sip, than another before he realized that the man on the stool next to him was watching.
“Bad day?”
He thought about not answering. In fact, it would be a good idea not to answer. People with his level of security clearance should not be talking to strangers in bars. He looked the man over, his face was indistinguishable in the darkness, but his eyes glowed an uncanny blue.
“Yeah, very bad day.”
“That’s what usually brings people into Mozzie’s. Bad days, bad lives.”
“And you? Are you having a bad day or a bad life?”
“Bad day, but I’ll get over it.” The reply was filled with false cheer.
Peter took another sip of his beer. “What do you do to get over a bad life?”
“That, my friend, is not a question I can answer.”
Peter couldn’t think of anything to say and then his cell phone rang. By the time he got off the call – something totally unnecessary, the stranger was gone.
It took another two weeks of bad days before Peter found his way back to that strange little place. The bartender didn’t even wait for him to place an order, he just pushed a bottle in front of him, gave him a fresh bowl of pretzels and took a four dollar tip out of the twenty Peter had given him. He shook his head in bemusement.
This place – it was almost like Narnia for grown-ups.
He must have been there for an hour and was once again working on a third beer when he felt a pair of eyes on him.
“Still having a bad life?”
The light in the bar, at least in this seat, was a little better than last time, and Peter stifled a gasp when he looked at the man sitting next to him. All he could think was if God existed, he was having a very good day when this man was conceived.
“Yeah, in so many different ways. You?”
“Bad doesn’t even begin to describe it.”
The little bartender came over with a bottle of wine and a glass. “Enjoy.” His tone was flat and clearly sarcastic.
“You know him?”
“Hmmm. We go back a ways.”
The other man tilted his head towards a recently vacated booth. “I could use a friendly ear – feel like talking or listening?”
“Sure.” They migrated over to the table and it felt like something clandestine, forbidden and Peter was struck with the thought that he should run. Run now. He sat down, instead, and asked inanely, “Are you going to offer to murder my wife, if I kill yours?”
“A fan of Hitchcock. How could you know that ‘Strangers on a Train’ is one of my favorite movies?” The man grinned and it seemed like all of the light in the bar was shining out of him. “Neal Caffrey, and no – I have no wife for you to murder.” He held out a hand.
“Peter Burke.” He shook Neal’s hand. It was an odd feeling to leave off his rank. It had been so long since he socialized outside of the tight knit Pentagon community. “That’s good, because I don’t have a wife anymore. Not that she ever needed murdering.”
Neal took a sip of his wine, and Peter couldn’t help but notice that he watched him like a hawk, eyes never leaving his face. It was disconcerting. “So – you wanted a friendly ear?”
Neal dropped his eyes and sighed. “Yeah. I’m just feeling a little sorry for myself.”
“You needed someone to join the pity party?”
Neal laughed. “That’s one way of putting it.”
Peter decided that if this was a trap, he should at least play along and see where it led. “Why are you feeling sorry for yourself.”
“I hate my job. I hate it with a passion.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a lawyer, a prosecutor.”
“Justice Department?” These days, under this administration, there was little honor and less justice to be had there.
Neal shook his head. “No.”
“You work for the District?” That seemed unlikely. Civilians were not ordinarily K Street habitués.
“No. I’m JAG.”
That set Peter back. Something must have shown on his face.
“What?”
“Sorry – you don’t look like career military.”
Neal grimaced, a sharp twist of the lips. “Don’t judge a book by its cover. I flew two tours over in the Gulf before I bailed out for a full ride at Harvard Law. Got to give the Navy another four years before I can get out for good.”
Peter just asked “So what’s the problem?”
Neal emptied his glass, filled it and half emptied it again. “I helped destroy a man’s career and his life today.”
“You convicted an innocent man?”
“No, not quite. I railroaded a man out of the Service because a bigoted, nosy neighbor decided to file a report with the man’s commanding officer under DADT.”
A lump of ice formed in Peter’s stomach. He knew just what Neal was talking about. “DADT?”
“Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. Surely you’ve heard of it?”
Peter nodded, he’d more than heard of it. “What happened?”
“An Air Force major, living in off-base housing was brought up on charges of having an inappropriate relationship with a person of the same sex. He wasn’t ‘out’ by any stretch of the imagination. But his neighbor took a dislike to him – something to do with the major’s golden retriever pissing on his petunias.” Neal finished his glass of wine, looked at the bottle and poured himself another.
“Anyway – the major was in a relationship, and was Skyping and instant messaging with his partner. He never secured his Wi-Fi connection. The neighbor eavesdropped, captured the conversations, none of which were explicit – and reported the man to his commanding officer.”
Neal paused and swallowed. “And so, today was the nadir of my career. I forced this poor man to accept a General Discharge or face a court martial, even though he didn’t do a damn thing wrong. The Air Force loses an experienced and highly decorated officer all because we can’t have those people in the military.”
Peter didn’t say anything. He’d been discreetly following this case since word of it had made its way through the General Staff. The current administration’s position was intractable and he’d learned to keep his mouth shut.
“What? You agree that gays don’t belong in the military?” Neal’s voice had risen with anger and desperation.
“Whatever I believe is irrelevant. It’s the law.” Peter strove for an even tone.
“And laws need to be enforced.” Neal was bitter.
“I guess I’m not the sympathetic ear you were looking for.”
Neal shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t matter. This is Washington, the home of bigots and bureaucrats. It’s not the Athens of the Potomac. Not anymore.”
Peter was highly sympathetic; he just couldn’t let it show.
A fresh bottle for each of them had miraculously appeared at the table and Peter watched the retreating back of the bartender. “How the hell did he do that? Does he have some sort of alcoholic sixth sense?”
Neal shook his head. “Like I said, I’ve known him for years. But I still haven’t figured him out.”
They talked, and by tacit agreement, didn’t revisit the issue that had so troubled Neal. Peter couldn’t remember the range of topics they did discuss, but he found himself intellectually stimulated in ways he hadn’t been in years. They were so involved with their conversation that the rest of the bar, the rest of the outside world ceased to exist. It wasn’t until someone was standing next to the booth and clearing his throat that Peter realized what time it was.”
“Unless you want to stay and sleep on the floor, gentlemen, you may want to leave. I’m closing.” Mozzie the bartender announced.
Peter looked at his watch – it was almost two am.
Neal got up, fished out a pair of fifty dollar bills, dropped them on the table and walked unsteadily to the men’s room. “Moz, be a pal and call a cab for me?”
Peter followed, his bladder was uncomfortably full.
There was always something weird about pissing next to someone you knew. You didn’t look, you didn’t dare look. But hell, you had to. And Neal was … impressive. More than a handful, even flaccid.
“Ahh, gods. You know, you only rent a fine Bordeaux.” Neal commented as shook the last drops off. He tucked himself in, wash up and turned to Peter, who was just finishing. “I’m heading over to Arlington, if you’re going in that direction, I’ll be more than happy to share the ride.”
Peter nodded. “That would be great.” He washed up too and by the time they left the bar, there was a Town Car waiting.
Peter had no intention of giving Neal his address, but was shocked when the man directed the driver to the Concord Apartments in Crystal City. “How did you know?”
“How did I know what?”
“Where I live.” Maybe he was just too drunk, because nothing was really making any sense.
Neal spoke slowly. “I have no idea where you live. I live in the Concord. Moved here six months ago.”
“I live in the Concord too.” Peter wondered if he was being set up. “Small world.”
Neal shifted in his seat, as if he were uncomfortable. “I don’t know what’s going on here…”
“Hey – you approached me.” Peter reminded him.
“Yeah. Yeah – I did.”
“And what are you so worried about?” Working in the upper echelons at the Pentagon gave Peter the right to worry about spies and entrapment, but why would a JAG attorney be concerned about who he shared a cab ride home with?
Neal didn’t say anything; he just looked at him with wide, unblinking eyes.
The light dawned. “Oh.”
“Look – I…”
Peter was still wary, but a little less so now. “Don’t worry about it. I think we were both a little indiscreet this evening.”
“Both? I was the one who …”
“Neal. Shut up. Just shut up.”
The other man tucked his chin down, and in the flickering darkness, Peter thought he looked like a fallen angel. And he wanted to kiss him, badly.
The ride was both an eternity too long and as short as a single breath. Peter paid the driver, Neal tipped him and they both got out into a cool spring night. He inhaled, trying to clear his head. Neal stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, looking anywhere but at Peter.
“Hey – we did nothing wrong. We’re two strangers who sat together and shared a drink. Nothing for you, or anyone, to be worried about.”
Neal finally looked up. “Yeah, but my intentions...”
Peter pushed him towards the door. The night shift doorman asked for ID and Peter swiped his resident card. When the man greeted him, “Admiral, I hope you had a good night,” Neal fumbled for his wallet and nearly dropped it when he looked at Peter, an appalled expression on his face.
Damn.
Neal finally produced his own resident ID card and followed Peter into the lobby.
Peter squeezed Neal’s forearm. “Look – go home. Go to bed. Just forget about this evening, okay? It’s not as if anything happened.”
Neal nodded, clearly miserable and frightened.
Before he turned and headed for his bank of elevators, Peter thought he heard Neal whisper. “But I wish something did.”
So did I, so did I.
__________________
11:01 pm, September 19, 2011
“You’re very quiet.” Peter noted. Not that Neal was ever particularly talkative. He never felt the need to fill the air. But tonight – a night when they were supposed to be celebrating, he seemed off. “Everything okay?”
“That’s the second time you’ve asked me that in the space of a half-hour.”
“Maybe because I don’t believe you? Aren’t I allowed to worry?”
Neal sighed. “Sorry, Peter. It’s just … awful.”
“Is it Merkelson?” Peter named the senior JAG officer that Neal had had problems with over the last few years.
“And then some. He dropped another sexual misconduct prosecution on my desk tonight - an airman in Korea may or may not have inappropriately touched another airman’s hand in the mess.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah. And it was deliberate.” The disgust in Neal’s tone spoke volumes.
“What, is he crazy?”
“’The law’s the law, Caffrey. If these perverts think they can play hide the sausage in the shitter and remain in the U.S. Military, they’ve got another thing coming.’” Neal’s voice took on the affected tones of his bigoted boss, who had made it his mandate to have gay service personnel discharged under DADT and was determined to keep doing it, even though the Department of Defense had declared it would comply with the California Federal District Court’s injunction.
“Doesn’t he realize…”
Neal cut him off. “He knows, but he thinks that he can continue the prosecution anyway. If he can’t use DADT, he wants me to prosecute under Sexual Misconduct and Conduct Unbecoming.” Neal scrubbed his face. “Peter, I’ve got to get out of this. I don’t know if I can take another six months.”
Peter didn’t know what to tell Neal. They had talked about a transfer, but unless Neal wanted to leave DC, there was little opportunity for him to find another position.
__________________
Late April, 2008
In the six weeks since that night at Mozzie’s, Peter couldn’t stop thinking about Neal. He’d become an obsession. A very unhealthy one.
The morning after, Peter looked up his service record. Commander Neal Caffrey was an Annapolis graduate with honors, and he went right on to flight school. As Neal had said, he did two tours in the Persian Gulf, flying tactical support on bombing raids over Iraq and then Afghanistan. The list of service commendations was impressive. Graduated top of his class at Harvard and at the Naval Justice School in Newport, Rhode Island. He had four more years to give the Navy to complete his commitment.
Peter closed the record and tried to forget.
It was almost impossible.
It didn’t help that Neal lived in the same building and Peter hoped and feared that he could run into him at any time. Except that the Concord was like a small city and the odds of seeing Neal were statistically impossible, since he lived on the other side of the building. But still, Peter kept his eyes open for a head of dark hair, pale skin and a pair of pale blue eyes.
He didn’t go back to Mozzie’s, though. That would be too dangerous, for more than the obvious reasons. Peter realized that since his divorce, he was drinking too much – out of boredom, aggravation and disgust. The self-medicating had given him the start of an ugly beer gut and an uglier set of man boobs. He was offended by himself and started working out in the apartment building’s excellent gym. There were a lot of fine young things to look at, to keep him motivated and none of them, (thankfully and unfortunately), were Neal.
Tonight, though, he was going for a swim. The extra weight was replaced by a layer of muscle and Peter felt he looked good enough to go without his shirt again. The swimming pool had been one of the attractions that sold him on this building – it wasn’t a dank, smelly facility in the apartment building’s basement. The pool was on the middle floors, surrounded by windows and skylights – as close to being outdoors as possible.
Tonight, there was just one other person doing laps and the rest of the pool area was deserted. Peter shed his robe, donned his goggles and dove in. The water felt good, exhilarating, and he cut effortlessly through the water. Ten laps, then twenty, and he was able to let his mind go as his body moved without thought. At some point, he had matched the other swimmer’s stroke and pace and they were moving in accidental synchronization.
Peter lost count, maybe a hundred laps and he was beginning to feel winded. Another twenty-five laps, and his arms were like lead, his shoulders and legs burning, but the man next to him was still going strong, and Peter pushed himself to stay on the pace.
Until his right leg cramped and he couldn’t move. Peter was unable to turn over fast enough and he swallowed a mouthful of water. He choked and swallowed more, his other leg cramped and he felt himself sinking and losing consciousness.
A pair of strong arms grabbed him and pulled his head above water. Peter tried not to fight as he was pulled the few short feet to the pool’s edge.
He clung to the rough stone, letting his body float and the muscles relax.
“Are you all right?” He thought he recognized that voice through the ringing in his ears. He coughed, expelling the last bit of water in his throat and he lost his grip on the edge.
A hand steadied him and the question was repeated. “Are you all right?”
Peter turned to face his rescuer. Of course he recognized the voice. And of course it would be Neal.
“Yeah.” His own voice was scratchy from the water he inhaled. “Thank you.” He pulled his way towards the ladder and managed to climb out. Thankfully, his legs carried him to an empty lounge chair. What a dumb old fool.
Neal must have followed him out of the water. A hand with a towel appeared in front of his face. He took it and with pretend nonchalance, dried off.
Neal didn’t move and Peter couldn’t ignore him anymore. He looked up at him. “Thank you. I’m thinking that you saved my life.”
The slightest hint of a smile curved Neal’s lips. “Isn’t it the sailor’s ultimate nightmare, to drown on dry land?”
Peter smiled back. “How have you been?”
“Good, okay. Not bad, I guess.”
Peter gave a short bark of laughter. “Which is it?”
“All of the above?” Neal wrapped a towel around his waist and sat down next to Peter. “I’ve been looking for you. I wanted to see you again so badly it hurt.”
That simple sentence rocked his world. “Neal…”
“I know, I know. I’m being stupid and indiscreet and you’re probably thinking you should punch me in the face or do some other manly thing to signify your rejection.” He finished in a breathless huff.
“Neal…” Peter repeated. “This is foolish.”
“I know. We could end up …”
“No, I mean this is foolish. Sitting here, wet and cold. Come back to my apartment. We’ll talk there.” He couldn’t believe those words came out of his mouth.
“Are you sure?” Neal all but whispered.
“Do you want me to make it an order, Commander?”
Neal smiled. “Aye-aye, sir! Shall I snap to attention?”
Peter grinned and looked Neal up and down, taking in the smooth, hairless chest that could have been sculpted by Michelangelo. “I don’t think that would be such a good idea, here.”
They put on their robes and headed for the escalator. When Peter swiped his card to access the penthouse level apartments, Neal raised an eyebrow. “I’d like your pay grade, Admiral.”
Peter didn’t know why the statement irked him, or why he even felt the need to respond. “I’ve earned it. I’ve lived a lie for almost thirty fucking years, I’ve earned it.”
“Somehow, I don’t think there was a lot of fucking involved.”
“And you’re worried about my lack of discretion?” Peter shook his head, exasperated.
The elevator gave a melodious chime, signaling their arrival. The walk to his apartment was conducted in silence and he opened the door, letting Neal precede him. He shut the door, engaged the lock and fell on Neal like a ravening wolf.
He felt like he was going crazy. “Is this what you want?” He pushed the younger man back against the door, pinning him with his hips, his hot, aching erection burning through the thin material of his swimsuit. “Is it?”
“Peter…”
The sound of his name on Neal’s lips, begging, breathless, made him a little more insane. He pushed the robe off of Neal’s shoulder and put his mouth on the sweet spot between his neck and his ear. Neal’s skin was cool, then hot. He tasted a little like chlorine and a lot like heaven. Peter wanted to bite, to mark, to show the world his possession. But he didn’t – he wasn’t that far gone.
“Tell me you want this. Tell me.”
“Yes, please, God – yes.”
He finally let Neal step back from the door and take off his robe, his cock so erect that the head was poking out of his Speedo. Peter was shocked at the ferocity of his desire. He wanted to push Neal to the floor, to take him without thought or consideration, the word mine – mine – mine pounding in time with his heart. He forced himself to slow down, to take it easy.
Anger, desire – never a good combination – made him incautious, and he asked again. “You want this, you want me?”
“Yes. Yes.”
He pulled Neal into the bedroom, with its king-sized bed and bank of floor to ceiling windows. It wasn’t dark; the lights from the Capitol, the Monuments, the Mall cast a glow over the room. He stripped, struggling not to castrate himself with his still-damp swimsuit. Neal managed to get out of his in one graceful movement and stood by the bed, looking as nervous as a gazelle in a lion’s den.
Until he met Neal’s eyes, glowing and blue and filled with wicked promise.
Peter smiled, and he knew it wasn’t a nice one. He took one step, then another, tumbling them both onto the bed.
“Tell me you want this.” That question again burst from his lips. Peter didn’t even know if he could ever stop asking. “Tell me.”
“I want you, I want this.”
Neal’s head fell back against the pillows, his dark hair haloed by the pure white cotton. Peter set his teeth against his throat, his neck, the delicate lobe of his ear, closing gently, careful not to leave visible marks. Neal moved in restless waves beneath him, their bodies aligned, unjoined.
He released the precious flesh. “Tell me you want this.” Peter whispered against Neal’s skin, cool marble clothed in hot silk and velvet. “Tell me.”
“Yes, yes.” Neal repeated, a whine of desire.
He flipped Neal onto his stomach, but he wasn’t going to take him - not yet. Peter wanted to explore, to learn, to gather all that was Neal Caffrey into him.
It could have been Neal’s body that sent Peter’s senses into overdrive. He was like some beautiful, fey creature - narrow, not small, perfectly built. He still had the body of a fighter pilot, lean and compact, sharply defined but not grossly bulked up.
But it wasn’t Neal’s body. It was the back of his head - his dark curls still damp, exposing the nape of his neck. That delicious point where a man’s strength meets vulnerability.
Peter leaned over and pressed a kiss at that spot, flicking out his tongue, tasting again the residue from the swimming pool and the faint musk of new perspiration. The feel of those damp curls against his nose, so innocent, incited some atavistic, possessive beast in him. He fit his body onto Neal’s, his cock riding that hot, sweet crack. Neal shifted restlessly.
Peter had to ask again, “You want this?” He held his breath, waiting for the answer.
It was the same as the last time he asked, and the same as the time before that. “Yes, Peter, please. I want this, I want you.” Neal’s voice rose and fell like his hips against Peter’s body. “I want you, I need you. Please.”
As desperate as Neal sounded, Peter wanted to toy with him, to play, to drive them both insane. It had been so goddamned long.
He pressed one hand on the middle of Neal’s back, pressing him down into the mattress, impressing his strength on Neal. Neal stiffened, pushed back, refusing to fully submit. He pressed a little harder and Neal began to thrash, to fight him.
“Peter - let me go.”
He did instantly, moving completely off of Neal’s body. Neal flipped over, panting; there was a wariness in his eyes now. Peter felt his desire flag, then die. “I’m -- I’m sorry. I --” Words failed him. He had crossed the line.
“No - no. I just…” Neal stopped, grimaced. “I want this. I just … I’ve never done this before.” It all came out in a rush. Neal ducked his head.
Peter was appalled. Not at Neal - at himself. He’d just treated Neal like some anonymous guy he picked up in a club (and there was a dangerous time in his life when he’d do just that). It never occurred to him that Neal, a fellow officer deep in the closet, had such little experience.
“I don’t know what came over me - I’m not usually like this.”
“Like what?” Neal seemed genuinely curious.
“So possessive - I was like an animal.” Peter moved to get off the bed, to put some distance between them.
“Hey - no. Don’t go.” Neal held out a hand, grabbed his arm. Peter allowed himself to be pulled back. “I liked it. The last, though - I just wasn’t ready. Sorry for being such a girl.”
“I know a few girls who’d put you on the ground for saying that.”
Neal bit his lip and his eyelids dropped, those long and impossible lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. Peter licked his lips. There was nothing innocent about Neal, but the thought of being his first brought out that possessive beast in him again. “We’ll go slowly.”
“Slowly, I can do slowly.” Neal grinned and stretched out against the white bedding.
“You little shit - you’re going to drive me insane.” This time, Peter didn’t fall on him like an animal. He took his time, using his hands and mouth to build a fire in Neal, to make him want and know nothing that existed past this room.
Peter looked down at Neal’s cock, massively erect and tight against his belly. It was truly a thing of beauty and he thought about going down on him. His mouth watered, but they’d save that for later, because there would definitely be a later.
The lube and condoms in the night table drawer had been there since … years? He bought them one night after he moved in, when he thought that maybe - just maybe. But that was a stupid dream who was looking for a sugar daddy and Peter was no one’s daddy, sugar or otherwise. Neal writhed under him, impatient.
He soothed him. “Shh, shh. Gotta get you prepared. You want this? You still want this?” This time, the question wasn’t driven by compulsion, but by concern.
“Yes - don’t stop. I’ll die if you stop.”
That was all he needed to hear.
Neal spread his legs wide. It would be easier for both of them if Neal was on his belly, but for the first time, he wanted this face to face.
The slick was cool against his fingers and he warmed it before touching Neal.
“Nnn, Peter … ” His finger met natural resistance.
“Relax, can you relax?”
Neal tried and Peter was able to breach him. He worked gently, slowly stretching the tight muscles, adding more lube and another finger. Neal bit his lip and Peter thought he’d never see anything more beautiful. More lube, a third finger and Neal’s hips were humping the air as he worked them back and forth.
“I want you - I want your cock.” Neal tried to pull himself up, grabbing at Peter’s arms.
“Okay - you’re sure?”
“Yes, damn it. I want you. How many times am I going to have to tell you?”
Peter felt a grin spread across his face. “You’re damn bossy for a junior officer.”
“Well excuse me, Admiral, sir. May I please have your cock, sir?”
The humor was as powerful an aphrodisiac as anything he’d ever experienced. Despite the differences in age, in experience (and hell, yes - even in rank), at this moment Peter knew that Neal was his equal. He’d take and give and take some more - which is just what he had longed for all his life, someone who’d complete him. And he had to laugh at himself - what was he, a lesbian? It wasn’t even the second date and he was thinking about the damned U-Haul.
Peter kissed him - slowly devouring that mouth, sass and all. Neal was rubbing himself against his belly, leaving hot streaks of pre-come on his skin. He lifted Neal’s leg over his hip and rubbed the tip of it against his slicked up hole. And pulled back.
Neal whimpered in distress. “Hold on, baby - gotta get my garrison cap on.” Peter tore the foil packet, sheathed himself and added some slick.
In that first moment of penetration, Neal’s erection began to flag and he bit his lip, but this time it wasn’t in thwarted desire.
“Sorry baby - it’s going to hurt, just a bit.” Peter forced himself to go slowly, achingly so, giving Neal time to adjust with each millimeter of penetration.
They found their rhythm, slow, careful, like some exquisite tango. Neal was panting, urging him to go faster, wrapping his legs around his waist, drawing him closer. Peter resisted. “No, baby - don’t - I don’t want to hurt you.”
He kept up the long, slow thrusts, he wanted to imprint himself on Neal, he wanted this to never end. The slide of skin and slick and sweat, the taste of Neal, the scent of them, together was maddening. Once, long ago, Peter had trained for a HALO mission - he never forgot the rush of freefalling for miles, the exhilaration of the jerk and sudden snap of the parachute as it opened. This was even better.
Orgasm caught them both by surprise. Neal came first, his body clamping down tight on Peter, pulling it out of him, making the universe burn white.
(End Part 1 - Go to Part 2)
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Peter/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Modern Military A/U
Word Count: ~12,000
Summary: Admiral Peter Burke is having a bad day. He walks into a dive bar off of K Street in Washington and meets Commander Neal Caffrey. To say they hit it off would be a vast understatement. And that’s going a problem of monumental proportions for both men.
A/N: Thank you to
rabidchild67 for the beta and to jrosemary for her cheerleading and story advice. All mistakes are mine and mine alone. Written for a prompt from coffeethyme4me who just wanted some schmoopy DADT repeal fic to mark the day (September 20, 2011). It somehow turned epic. And real. Many of the events referenced by the characters actually happened. See this entry for more details.10:42 pm, September 19, 2011
The door to his study opened. “You’re late, Caffrey.” Peter didn’t bother looking up from the report he was reviewing. Neal was the only other person who had a key and the codes to access his Crystal City apartment. He was supposed to be home four hours ago.
“Are you going to flog me and throw me in the brig, Admiral?”
“Don’t tempt me, Commander.” Peter growled. He tried to give his attention to the report in front of him, it was important. All of these reports were, but he’d been reading since eight, and there was no end in sight. He shut the binder (why, in this day and age, were these things actually printed?) and turned his attention to Neal.
The other man was sitting in the leather club chair in front of the fireplace, uniform jacket unbuttoned; tie loosened, bare feet resting on an ottoman, his hat tossed onto a couch. Neal in repose was always a sight to be appreciated.
“What kept you?” Peter knew he wasn’t going to get a straight answer.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you, curiosity killed the cat?”
There was something in Neal’s voice that troubled him. “This particular cat has nine lives, Commander.”
“And a few have already been expended. I’d hate for you to lose another.”
“Okay, okay. Is everything all right?” It really wasn’t like Neal to be this late and not contact him, especially tonight.
“Yeah. Nothing to worry about.”
Whenever Neal said that, Peter knew he should probably start worrying, but unless Neal volunteered the information, he had no choice but to believe him, for the moment.
Peter got up and joined Neal by the fireplace. It was a little chilly in the room, so he pressed a button and flames shot to life. He adjusted the gas flow and opened the doors to let some heat out.
Neal gave an appreciative sigh. “Some day, I’d like to have a real fireplace. One with wood and crackling embers.”
“And maybe a dog and one of those long handled metal baskets to roast chestnuts?”
“Hmm, yeah.”
“Ever eat a chestnut?”
Neal kept his head tilted back, eyes closed. “Nope, but I love how they smell.”
“They’re pretty tasteless. Once you finish burning your fingers and your tongue, there’s really no flavor.”
Neal turned his head and looked at Peter. “Do you have to ruin all my fantasies?”
Peter gave him a bright, quick smile. “Some fantasies are better when they remain fantasies.” He went over to the bar and poured a glass of wine for Neal and took a beer for himself. “But having a real fireplace and a dog is a good dream. Especially when you have someone to share it with.” He handed Neal the glass, their fingers touching for just a second.
Neal took it, and made a toast. “To you, Peter.”
He responded, with equal simplicity. “And to you, Neal.”
Their journey to this warm, quiet room wasn’t easy.
Mid-March, 2008
It started in a small, dark bar off of K Street in Georgetown.
In a neighborhood filled with high powered watering holes and four-star restaurants, that place was a refuge from the powerful and the power-brokers. Mozzie’s wasn’t precisely a dive bar, but it wasn’t ever going to be featured on tourist maps and guidebooks either. It was also just the type of place that Peter needed after an awful day.
He sat there, hunched over, his thumb rubbing the newly empty space on his ring finger, regrets and memories tying him in knots. The bartender, a short, bald man with thick glasses, pushed a fresh bottle of beer over to him, his third of the night. Peter took a sip, than another before he realized that the man on the stool next to him was watching.
“Bad day?”
He thought about not answering. In fact, it would be a good idea not to answer. People with his level of security clearance should not be talking to strangers in bars. He looked the man over, his face was indistinguishable in the darkness, but his eyes glowed an uncanny blue.
“Yeah, very bad day.”
“That’s what usually brings people into Mozzie’s. Bad days, bad lives.”
“And you? Are you having a bad day or a bad life?”
“Bad day, but I’ll get over it.” The reply was filled with false cheer.
Peter took another sip of his beer. “What do you do to get over a bad life?”
“That, my friend, is not a question I can answer.”
Peter couldn’t think of anything to say and then his cell phone rang. By the time he got off the call – something totally unnecessary, the stranger was gone.
It took another two weeks of bad days before Peter found his way back to that strange little place. The bartender didn’t even wait for him to place an order, he just pushed a bottle in front of him, gave him a fresh bowl of pretzels and took a four dollar tip out of the twenty Peter had given him. He shook his head in bemusement.
This place – it was almost like Narnia for grown-ups.
He must have been there for an hour and was once again working on a third beer when he felt a pair of eyes on him.
“Still having a bad life?”
The light in the bar, at least in this seat, was a little better than last time, and Peter stifled a gasp when he looked at the man sitting next to him. All he could think was if God existed, he was having a very good day when this man was conceived.
“Yeah, in so many different ways. You?”
“Bad doesn’t even begin to describe it.”
The little bartender came over with a bottle of wine and a glass. “Enjoy.” His tone was flat and clearly sarcastic.
“You know him?”
“Hmmm. We go back a ways.”
The other man tilted his head towards a recently vacated booth. “I could use a friendly ear – feel like talking or listening?”
“Sure.” They migrated over to the table and it felt like something clandestine, forbidden and Peter was struck with the thought that he should run. Run now. He sat down, instead, and asked inanely, “Are you going to offer to murder my wife, if I kill yours?”
“A fan of Hitchcock. How could you know that ‘Strangers on a Train’ is one of my favorite movies?” The man grinned and it seemed like all of the light in the bar was shining out of him. “Neal Caffrey, and no – I have no wife for you to murder.” He held out a hand.
“Peter Burke.” He shook Neal’s hand. It was an odd feeling to leave off his rank. It had been so long since he socialized outside of the tight knit Pentagon community. “That’s good, because I don’t have a wife anymore. Not that she ever needed murdering.”
Neal took a sip of his wine, and Peter couldn’t help but notice that he watched him like a hawk, eyes never leaving his face. It was disconcerting. “So – you wanted a friendly ear?”
Neal dropped his eyes and sighed. “Yeah. I’m just feeling a little sorry for myself.”
“You needed someone to join the pity party?”
Neal laughed. “That’s one way of putting it.”
Peter decided that if this was a trap, he should at least play along and see where it led. “Why are you feeling sorry for yourself.”
“I hate my job. I hate it with a passion.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a lawyer, a prosecutor.”
“Justice Department?” These days, under this administration, there was little honor and less justice to be had there.
Neal shook his head. “No.”
“You work for the District?” That seemed unlikely. Civilians were not ordinarily K Street habitués.
“No. I’m JAG.”
That set Peter back. Something must have shown on his face.
“What?”
“Sorry – you don’t look like career military.”
Neal grimaced, a sharp twist of the lips. “Don’t judge a book by its cover. I flew two tours over in the Gulf before I bailed out for a full ride at Harvard Law. Got to give the Navy another four years before I can get out for good.”
Peter just asked “So what’s the problem?”
Neal emptied his glass, filled it and half emptied it again. “I helped destroy a man’s career and his life today.”
“You convicted an innocent man?”
“No, not quite. I railroaded a man out of the Service because a bigoted, nosy neighbor decided to file a report with the man’s commanding officer under DADT.”
A lump of ice formed in Peter’s stomach. He knew just what Neal was talking about. “DADT?”
“Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. Surely you’ve heard of it?”
Peter nodded, he’d more than heard of it. “What happened?”
“An Air Force major, living in off-base housing was brought up on charges of having an inappropriate relationship with a person of the same sex. He wasn’t ‘out’ by any stretch of the imagination. But his neighbor took a dislike to him – something to do with the major’s golden retriever pissing on his petunias.” Neal finished his glass of wine, looked at the bottle and poured himself another.
“Anyway – the major was in a relationship, and was Skyping and instant messaging with his partner. He never secured his Wi-Fi connection. The neighbor eavesdropped, captured the conversations, none of which were explicit – and reported the man to his commanding officer.”
Neal paused and swallowed. “And so, today was the nadir of my career. I forced this poor man to accept a General Discharge or face a court martial, even though he didn’t do a damn thing wrong. The Air Force loses an experienced and highly decorated officer all because we can’t have those people in the military.”
Peter didn’t say anything. He’d been discreetly following this case since word of it had made its way through the General Staff. The current administration’s position was intractable and he’d learned to keep his mouth shut.
“What? You agree that gays don’t belong in the military?” Neal’s voice had risen with anger and desperation.
“Whatever I believe is irrelevant. It’s the law.” Peter strove for an even tone.
“And laws need to be enforced.” Neal was bitter.
“I guess I’m not the sympathetic ear you were looking for.”
Neal shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t matter. This is Washington, the home of bigots and bureaucrats. It’s not the Athens of the Potomac. Not anymore.”
Peter was highly sympathetic; he just couldn’t let it show.
A fresh bottle for each of them had miraculously appeared at the table and Peter watched the retreating back of the bartender. “How the hell did he do that? Does he have some sort of alcoholic sixth sense?”
Neal shook his head. “Like I said, I’ve known him for years. But I still haven’t figured him out.”
They talked, and by tacit agreement, didn’t revisit the issue that had so troubled Neal. Peter couldn’t remember the range of topics they did discuss, but he found himself intellectually stimulated in ways he hadn’t been in years. They were so involved with their conversation that the rest of the bar, the rest of the outside world ceased to exist. It wasn’t until someone was standing next to the booth and clearing his throat that Peter realized what time it was.”
“Unless you want to stay and sleep on the floor, gentlemen, you may want to leave. I’m closing.” Mozzie the bartender announced.
Peter looked at his watch – it was almost two am.
Neal got up, fished out a pair of fifty dollar bills, dropped them on the table and walked unsteadily to the men’s room. “Moz, be a pal and call a cab for me?”
Peter followed, his bladder was uncomfortably full.
There was always something weird about pissing next to someone you knew. You didn’t look, you didn’t dare look. But hell, you had to. And Neal was … impressive. More than a handful, even flaccid.
“Ahh, gods. You know, you only rent a fine Bordeaux.” Neal commented as shook the last drops off. He tucked himself in, wash up and turned to Peter, who was just finishing. “I’m heading over to Arlington, if you’re going in that direction, I’ll be more than happy to share the ride.”
Peter nodded. “That would be great.” He washed up too and by the time they left the bar, there was a Town Car waiting.
Peter had no intention of giving Neal his address, but was shocked when the man directed the driver to the Concord Apartments in Crystal City. “How did you know?”
“How did I know what?”
“Where I live.” Maybe he was just too drunk, because nothing was really making any sense.
Neal spoke slowly. “I have no idea where you live. I live in the Concord. Moved here six months ago.”
“I live in the Concord too.” Peter wondered if he was being set up. “Small world.”
Neal shifted in his seat, as if he were uncomfortable. “I don’t know what’s going on here…”
“Hey – you approached me.” Peter reminded him.
“Yeah. Yeah – I did.”
“And what are you so worried about?” Working in the upper echelons at the Pentagon gave Peter the right to worry about spies and entrapment, but why would a JAG attorney be concerned about who he shared a cab ride home with?
Neal didn’t say anything; he just looked at him with wide, unblinking eyes.
The light dawned. “Oh.”
“Look – I…”
Peter was still wary, but a little less so now. “Don’t worry about it. I think we were both a little indiscreet this evening.”
“Both? I was the one who …”
“Neal. Shut up. Just shut up.”
The other man tucked his chin down, and in the flickering darkness, Peter thought he looked like a fallen angel. And he wanted to kiss him, badly.
The ride was both an eternity too long and as short as a single breath. Peter paid the driver, Neal tipped him and they both got out into a cool spring night. He inhaled, trying to clear his head. Neal stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, looking anywhere but at Peter.
“Hey – we did nothing wrong. We’re two strangers who sat together and shared a drink. Nothing for you, or anyone, to be worried about.”
Neal finally looked up. “Yeah, but my intentions...”
Peter pushed him towards the door. The night shift doorman asked for ID and Peter swiped his resident card. When the man greeted him, “Admiral, I hope you had a good night,” Neal fumbled for his wallet and nearly dropped it when he looked at Peter, an appalled expression on his face.
Damn.
Neal finally produced his own resident ID card and followed Peter into the lobby.
Peter squeezed Neal’s forearm. “Look – go home. Go to bed. Just forget about this evening, okay? It’s not as if anything happened.”
Neal nodded, clearly miserable and frightened.
Before he turned and headed for his bank of elevators, Peter thought he heard Neal whisper. “But I wish something did.”
So did I, so did I.
11:01 pm, September 19, 2011
“You’re very quiet.” Peter noted. Not that Neal was ever particularly talkative. He never felt the need to fill the air. But tonight – a night when they were supposed to be celebrating, he seemed off. “Everything okay?”
“That’s the second time you’ve asked me that in the space of a half-hour.”
“Maybe because I don’t believe you? Aren’t I allowed to worry?”
Neal sighed. “Sorry, Peter. It’s just … awful.”
“Is it Merkelson?” Peter named the senior JAG officer that Neal had had problems with over the last few years.
“And then some. He dropped another sexual misconduct prosecution on my desk tonight - an airman in Korea may or may not have inappropriately touched another airman’s hand in the mess.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah. And it was deliberate.” The disgust in Neal’s tone spoke volumes.
“What, is he crazy?”
“’The law’s the law, Caffrey. If these perverts think they can play hide the sausage in the shitter and remain in the U.S. Military, they’ve got another thing coming.’” Neal’s voice took on the affected tones of his bigoted boss, who had made it his mandate to have gay service personnel discharged under DADT and was determined to keep doing it, even though the Department of Defense had declared it would comply with the California Federal District Court’s injunction.
“Doesn’t he realize…”
Neal cut him off. “He knows, but he thinks that he can continue the prosecution anyway. If he can’t use DADT, he wants me to prosecute under Sexual Misconduct and Conduct Unbecoming.” Neal scrubbed his face. “Peter, I’ve got to get out of this. I don’t know if I can take another six months.”
Peter didn’t know what to tell Neal. They had talked about a transfer, but unless Neal wanted to leave DC, there was little opportunity for him to find another position.
Late April, 2008
In the six weeks since that night at Mozzie’s, Peter couldn’t stop thinking about Neal. He’d become an obsession. A very unhealthy one.
The morning after, Peter looked up his service record. Commander Neal Caffrey was an Annapolis graduate with honors, and he went right on to flight school. As Neal had said, he did two tours in the Persian Gulf, flying tactical support on bombing raids over Iraq and then Afghanistan. The list of service commendations was impressive. Graduated top of his class at Harvard and at the Naval Justice School in Newport, Rhode Island. He had four more years to give the Navy to complete his commitment.
Peter closed the record and tried to forget.
It was almost impossible.
It didn’t help that Neal lived in the same building and Peter hoped and feared that he could run into him at any time. Except that the Concord was like a small city and the odds of seeing Neal were statistically impossible, since he lived on the other side of the building. But still, Peter kept his eyes open for a head of dark hair, pale skin and a pair of pale blue eyes.
He didn’t go back to Mozzie’s, though. That would be too dangerous, for more than the obvious reasons. Peter realized that since his divorce, he was drinking too much – out of boredom, aggravation and disgust. The self-medicating had given him the start of an ugly beer gut and an uglier set of man boobs. He was offended by himself and started working out in the apartment building’s excellent gym. There were a lot of fine young things to look at, to keep him motivated and none of them, (thankfully and unfortunately), were Neal.
Tonight, though, he was going for a swim. The extra weight was replaced by a layer of muscle and Peter felt he looked good enough to go without his shirt again. The swimming pool had been one of the attractions that sold him on this building – it wasn’t a dank, smelly facility in the apartment building’s basement. The pool was on the middle floors, surrounded by windows and skylights – as close to being outdoors as possible.
Tonight, there was just one other person doing laps and the rest of the pool area was deserted. Peter shed his robe, donned his goggles and dove in. The water felt good, exhilarating, and he cut effortlessly through the water. Ten laps, then twenty, and he was able to let his mind go as his body moved without thought. At some point, he had matched the other swimmer’s stroke and pace and they were moving in accidental synchronization.
Peter lost count, maybe a hundred laps and he was beginning to feel winded. Another twenty-five laps, and his arms were like lead, his shoulders and legs burning, but the man next to him was still going strong, and Peter pushed himself to stay on the pace.
Until his right leg cramped and he couldn’t move. Peter was unable to turn over fast enough and he swallowed a mouthful of water. He choked and swallowed more, his other leg cramped and he felt himself sinking and losing consciousness.
A pair of strong arms grabbed him and pulled his head above water. Peter tried not to fight as he was pulled the few short feet to the pool’s edge.
He clung to the rough stone, letting his body float and the muscles relax.
“Are you all right?” He thought he recognized that voice through the ringing in his ears. He coughed, expelling the last bit of water in his throat and he lost his grip on the edge.
A hand steadied him and the question was repeated. “Are you all right?”
Peter turned to face his rescuer. Of course he recognized the voice. And of course it would be Neal.
“Yeah.” His own voice was scratchy from the water he inhaled. “Thank you.” He pulled his way towards the ladder and managed to climb out. Thankfully, his legs carried him to an empty lounge chair. What a dumb old fool.
Neal must have followed him out of the water. A hand with a towel appeared in front of his face. He took it and with pretend nonchalance, dried off.
Neal didn’t move and Peter couldn’t ignore him anymore. He looked up at him. “Thank you. I’m thinking that you saved my life.”
The slightest hint of a smile curved Neal’s lips. “Isn’t it the sailor’s ultimate nightmare, to drown on dry land?”
Peter smiled back. “How have you been?”
“Good, okay. Not bad, I guess.”
Peter gave a short bark of laughter. “Which is it?”
“All of the above?” Neal wrapped a towel around his waist and sat down next to Peter. “I’ve been looking for you. I wanted to see you again so badly it hurt.”
That simple sentence rocked his world. “Neal…”
“I know, I know. I’m being stupid and indiscreet and you’re probably thinking you should punch me in the face or do some other manly thing to signify your rejection.” He finished in a breathless huff.
“Neal…” Peter repeated. “This is foolish.”
“I know. We could end up …”
“No, I mean this is foolish. Sitting here, wet and cold. Come back to my apartment. We’ll talk there.” He couldn’t believe those words came out of his mouth.
“Are you sure?” Neal all but whispered.
“Do you want me to make it an order, Commander?”
Neal smiled. “Aye-aye, sir! Shall I snap to attention?”
Peter grinned and looked Neal up and down, taking in the smooth, hairless chest that could have been sculpted by Michelangelo. “I don’t think that would be such a good idea, here.”
They put on their robes and headed for the escalator. When Peter swiped his card to access the penthouse level apartments, Neal raised an eyebrow. “I’d like your pay grade, Admiral.”
Peter didn’t know why the statement irked him, or why he even felt the need to respond. “I’ve earned it. I’ve lived a lie for almost thirty fucking years, I’ve earned it.”
“Somehow, I don’t think there was a lot of fucking involved.”
“And you’re worried about my lack of discretion?” Peter shook his head, exasperated.
The elevator gave a melodious chime, signaling their arrival. The walk to his apartment was conducted in silence and he opened the door, letting Neal precede him. He shut the door, engaged the lock and fell on Neal like a ravening wolf.
He felt like he was going crazy. “Is this what you want?” He pushed the younger man back against the door, pinning him with his hips, his hot, aching erection burning through the thin material of his swimsuit. “Is it?”
“Peter…”
The sound of his name on Neal’s lips, begging, breathless, made him a little more insane. He pushed the robe off of Neal’s shoulder and put his mouth on the sweet spot between his neck and his ear. Neal’s skin was cool, then hot. He tasted a little like chlorine and a lot like heaven. Peter wanted to bite, to mark, to show the world his possession. But he didn’t – he wasn’t that far gone.
“Tell me you want this. Tell me.”
“Yes, please, God – yes.”
He finally let Neal step back from the door and take off his robe, his cock so erect that the head was poking out of his Speedo. Peter was shocked at the ferocity of his desire. He wanted to push Neal to the floor, to take him without thought or consideration, the word mine – mine – mine pounding in time with his heart. He forced himself to slow down, to take it easy.
Anger, desire – never a good combination – made him incautious, and he asked again. “You want this, you want me?”
“Yes. Yes.”
He pulled Neal into the bedroom, with its king-sized bed and bank of floor to ceiling windows. It wasn’t dark; the lights from the Capitol, the Monuments, the Mall cast a glow over the room. He stripped, struggling not to castrate himself with his still-damp swimsuit. Neal managed to get out of his in one graceful movement and stood by the bed, looking as nervous as a gazelle in a lion’s den.
Until he met Neal’s eyes, glowing and blue and filled with wicked promise.
Peter smiled, and he knew it wasn’t a nice one. He took one step, then another, tumbling them both onto the bed.
“Tell me you want this.” That question again burst from his lips. Peter didn’t even know if he could ever stop asking. “Tell me.”
“I want you, I want this.”
Neal’s head fell back against the pillows, his dark hair haloed by the pure white cotton. Peter set his teeth against his throat, his neck, the delicate lobe of his ear, closing gently, careful not to leave visible marks. Neal moved in restless waves beneath him, their bodies aligned, unjoined.
He released the precious flesh. “Tell me you want this.” Peter whispered against Neal’s skin, cool marble clothed in hot silk and velvet. “Tell me.”
“Yes, yes.” Neal repeated, a whine of desire.
He flipped Neal onto his stomach, but he wasn’t going to take him - not yet. Peter wanted to explore, to learn, to gather all that was Neal Caffrey into him.
It could have been Neal’s body that sent Peter’s senses into overdrive. He was like some beautiful, fey creature - narrow, not small, perfectly built. He still had the body of a fighter pilot, lean and compact, sharply defined but not grossly bulked up.
But it wasn’t Neal’s body. It was the back of his head - his dark curls still damp, exposing the nape of his neck. That delicious point where a man’s strength meets vulnerability.
Peter leaned over and pressed a kiss at that spot, flicking out his tongue, tasting again the residue from the swimming pool and the faint musk of new perspiration. The feel of those damp curls against his nose, so innocent, incited some atavistic, possessive beast in him. He fit his body onto Neal’s, his cock riding that hot, sweet crack. Neal shifted restlessly.
Peter had to ask again, “You want this?” He held his breath, waiting for the answer.
It was the same as the last time he asked, and the same as the time before that. “Yes, Peter, please. I want this, I want you.” Neal’s voice rose and fell like his hips against Peter’s body. “I want you, I need you. Please.”
As desperate as Neal sounded, Peter wanted to toy with him, to play, to drive them both insane. It had been so goddamned long.
He pressed one hand on the middle of Neal’s back, pressing him down into the mattress, impressing his strength on Neal. Neal stiffened, pushed back, refusing to fully submit. He pressed a little harder and Neal began to thrash, to fight him.
“Peter - let me go.”
He did instantly, moving completely off of Neal’s body. Neal flipped over, panting; there was a wariness in his eyes now. Peter felt his desire flag, then die. “I’m -- I’m sorry. I --” Words failed him. He had crossed the line.
“No - no. I just…” Neal stopped, grimaced. “I want this. I just … I’ve never done this before.” It all came out in a rush. Neal ducked his head.
Peter was appalled. Not at Neal - at himself. He’d just treated Neal like some anonymous guy he picked up in a club (and there was a dangerous time in his life when he’d do just that). It never occurred to him that Neal, a fellow officer deep in the closet, had such little experience.
“I don’t know what came over me - I’m not usually like this.”
“Like what?” Neal seemed genuinely curious.
“So possessive - I was like an animal.” Peter moved to get off the bed, to put some distance between them.
“Hey - no. Don’t go.” Neal held out a hand, grabbed his arm. Peter allowed himself to be pulled back. “I liked it. The last, though - I just wasn’t ready. Sorry for being such a girl.”
“I know a few girls who’d put you on the ground for saying that.”
Neal bit his lip and his eyelids dropped, those long and impossible lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. Peter licked his lips. There was nothing innocent about Neal, but the thought of being his first brought out that possessive beast in him again. “We’ll go slowly.”
“Slowly, I can do slowly.” Neal grinned and stretched out against the white bedding.
“You little shit - you’re going to drive me insane.” This time, Peter didn’t fall on him like an animal. He took his time, using his hands and mouth to build a fire in Neal, to make him want and know nothing that existed past this room.
Peter looked down at Neal’s cock, massively erect and tight against his belly. It was truly a thing of beauty and he thought about going down on him. His mouth watered, but they’d save that for later, because there would definitely be a later.
The lube and condoms in the night table drawer had been there since … years? He bought them one night after he moved in, when he thought that maybe - just maybe. But that was a stupid dream who was looking for a sugar daddy and Peter was no one’s daddy, sugar or otherwise. Neal writhed under him, impatient.
He soothed him. “Shh, shh. Gotta get you prepared. You want this? You still want this?” This time, the question wasn’t driven by compulsion, but by concern.
“Yes - don’t stop. I’ll die if you stop.”
That was all he needed to hear.
Neal spread his legs wide. It would be easier for both of them if Neal was on his belly, but for the first time, he wanted this face to face.
The slick was cool against his fingers and he warmed it before touching Neal.
“Nnn, Peter … ” His finger met natural resistance.
“Relax, can you relax?”
Neal tried and Peter was able to breach him. He worked gently, slowly stretching the tight muscles, adding more lube and another finger. Neal bit his lip and Peter thought he’d never see anything more beautiful. More lube, a third finger and Neal’s hips were humping the air as he worked them back and forth.
“I want you - I want your cock.” Neal tried to pull himself up, grabbing at Peter’s arms.
“Okay - you’re sure?”
“Yes, damn it. I want you. How many times am I going to have to tell you?”
Peter felt a grin spread across his face. “You’re damn bossy for a junior officer.”
“Well excuse me, Admiral, sir. May I please have your cock, sir?”
The humor was as powerful an aphrodisiac as anything he’d ever experienced. Despite the differences in age, in experience (and hell, yes - even in rank), at this moment Peter knew that Neal was his equal. He’d take and give and take some more - which is just what he had longed for all his life, someone who’d complete him. And he had to laugh at himself - what was he, a lesbian? It wasn’t even the second date and he was thinking about the damned U-Haul.
Peter kissed him - slowly devouring that mouth, sass and all. Neal was rubbing himself against his belly, leaving hot streaks of pre-come on his skin. He lifted Neal’s leg over his hip and rubbed the tip of it against his slicked up hole. And pulled back.
Neal whimpered in distress. “Hold on, baby - gotta get my garrison cap on.” Peter tore the foil packet, sheathed himself and added some slick.
In that first moment of penetration, Neal’s erection began to flag and he bit his lip, but this time it wasn’t in thwarted desire.
“Sorry baby - it’s going to hurt, just a bit.” Peter forced himself to go slowly, achingly so, giving Neal time to adjust with each millimeter of penetration.
They found their rhythm, slow, careful, like some exquisite tango. Neal was panting, urging him to go faster, wrapping his legs around his waist, drawing him closer. Peter resisted. “No, baby - don’t - I don’t want to hurt you.”
He kept up the long, slow thrusts, he wanted to imprint himself on Neal, he wanted this to never end. The slide of skin and slick and sweat, the taste of Neal, the scent of them, together was maddening. Once, long ago, Peter had trained for a HALO mission - he never forgot the rush of freefalling for miles, the exhilaration of the jerk and sudden snap of the parachute as it opened. This was even better.
Orgasm caught them both by surprise. Neal came first, his body clamping down tight on Peter, pulling it out of him, making the universe burn white.
(End Part 1 - Go to Part 2)
