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The only surprise when Peter tells Neal to stop flirting with Chuck is that it took so long for him to do it.
"Stop flirting with my tech guy," Peter orders after their trip downstairs to the tech department.
Neal gives Peter his best blank look. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Peter scowls, which is always fun to see, at least from Neal's perspective, although it's more fun when Neal's not in handcuffs. "You and Chuck. Don't think I don't see you sniffing around, and I'm telling you right now, quit it."
After a moment, Neal just smiles, hiding the fact that he's a little nettled, and holding back his first response, no, I’m not stopping. "Peter, you really should learn to relax more," he says, and before Peter can make a retort, Neal walks off, smooth and calm.
*
It doesn't start out as a con. Exactly.
It's just that the first time Neal's introduced to Chuck Bartowski—there's something in the smile that Chuck gives him, wide and guile-free, none of the wary suspicion everyone else at the FBI sent his way--there's something in it that catches Neal off-guard, makes him smile a little more in return.
That, for the record, is before Chuck points to Neal's tracker and blithely discloses, much to Peter's dismay, that he was the one to design it.
And really, the combination of Chuck's smile and essential...Chuck-ness, along with the fact that he's the one to design the anklet that has Neal pinned down, is impossible to resist.
But Chuck is...very easy to like, very easy to get along with. It's easy, to make his way downstairs to what many FBI agents call the Mad Scientist Lab, and listen to Chuck talk about the Goonies and Tron and Star Trek, hear him talk about his latest creations for the government.
It's easy, to listen to Chuck talk about the FBI recruiter at Stanford that brought him to the FBI, to hear him talk about the sister that raised him, the best friend who works as a chef in California, both of whom he talks to every day.
Easy to listen to Chuck's stories, his chatter, and get drawn in despite himself, lured in by the world Chuck paints for him, perfectly ordinary, perfectly normal—except the way that Chuck talks about it, it sounds—just perfect.
And the way that Chuck listens to Neal’s stories—Neal’s a good storyteller, always has been, but it’s a charge, seeing the awe in Chuck’s eyes, his honest delight and admiration—Neal gets a charge from it, he can’t lie.
But if it were just that, Neal could—could accept it, could put it into the same category as the affection and respect he feels for Peter, Elizabeth, June, even Diana and Jones, for everyone who is a part of his strange new existence here. Except it isn’t that, and Neal isn’t deluded enough—can’t afford to be—to think that it is.
*
There's a rainstorm one day. Peter, thankfully, offers Neal a ride to work that day, so Neal manages to stay mostly dry.
Chuck isn't so lucky.
"Jeez, Chuck, you look like you jumped into a pool," Jones remarks as Chuck finally comes in, just--dripping everywhere.
"I know," Chuck says unhappily. "My umbrella blew out and then there were no seats on the bus and I missed the subway train and just--ugh."
"Maybe you should go home," Peter offers. "Don't want you coming down with pneumonia--El will never let me live it down."
"I'll be fine," Chuck promises. "I've got an extra set of clothes here, don't worry."
Neal says nothing, mostly because he's trying hard not to stare, to look too long at the wet, slicked-back curls, the way Chuck's white button-down clings to his chest and shoulders, becoming translucent thanks to the water.
It's like a shock to his system, because Chuck is--Chuck is funny, and kind, and adorable in a nerdy-younger-brother sort of way--Neal's mouth shouldn't be going dry, looking at him right now. But it is, and Neal stares at his hands until Chuck leaves in search of a towel and some clothes that aren't waterlogged.
When he looks up, Peter's watching him closely, a furrow between his eyebrows. "You all right, Neal?"
It's easy for Neal to smile back. It always is. "Of course. Should we get started?"
But after that, things--shift, just a little. Neal finds himself invading Chuck's space a little more, standing a little closer, touching him just that little bit more. Chuck, meanwhile, seems to take this as an unconscious invitation to become as tactile as possible--Neal doesn't know if it's just Chuck being Chuck, or if he's somehow realized how touch-starved Neal is, since coming out of prison. How much he wants, sometimes, to just reach out in bed and touch someone, hear their quiet breathing in the dark.
*
Of course, that's not all it's about. Because the truth is that which Chuck is a lot of things that make him charming and nice and a delight to be around--he's also a genius with a gift for mechanical invention, as someone, Neal can't remember who, put it.
And it's true. Chuck has dozens of patents to his name, not just the tracker that's wrapped around Neal's ankle. Peter's complained enough about other agencies trying to snatch Chuck away that Neal has a good idea of just how valuable Chuck could be.
Neal has a very good idea of how valuable Chuck could be, to the right person--to Neal, if the opportunity arose, and his ankle, the one with the tracker encircled around it, always seems to get a little twinge at the thought.
It'd be easy, is the thing that Neal can't help but think, easy like snatching a painting, like stealing a priceless vase--Chuck's never hidden his admiration, how easy would it be to turn that into something more, focus Chuck's attention on him until Neal had what he wanted, until he had Chuck where he wanted him.
He could do it, Neal's done it before, except this time--this time Neal hesitates, this time he doesn't plot anything at all, and that way, every time he smiles at Chuck, his smiles are genuine.
*
When it finally happens, the shocking thing is that it's completely on impulse, no planning involved.
They're in Neal's apartment--Chuck's become a regular visitor, since his apartment's out of Neal's radius--watching one of the movies that Chuck insists is necessary for Neal's pop-culture knowledge.
"Come on, buddy, do you really want to be as clueless as Peter about pop culture?" he teases, and Neal scoffs.
"That's not possible," he declares, and Chuck laughs. "Yeah, okay, you've got a point."
"Of course I do," Neal agrees, admiring Chuck's smile, the long line of his throat at he tips his head back.
Neal watches the movie with only one eye on the TV, mostly working in his sketchbook--he's been sketching more these days, no copies of famous artworks, just harmless doodles that not even Peter could protest.
Once he's finished, he hands the sketchbook to Chuck. "Here. You said you dressed up as him for a costume party last year, right?"
Chuck stares down at the sketch of him, dressed as Han Solo, a Wookie in the background, his mouth falling open. "Yeah, I--I can't believe you remember that, wow, I--" He looks up, beaming smile in full force, nothing but surprise and delight on his face. "Neal, this is awesome, thank you."
That smile's in full force, and there's no one else around, maybe that's why Neal loses his head and leans in, pressing his mouth against Chuck's. It's not smooth and seductive, it's just--it just happens because Neal wants it to, because he wants this.
He opens his eyes as he pulls away, ready to make an apology, except that Chuck is--
Chuck's looking back at him, the smile gone but his expression surprised but still warm, still inviting, and now he's the one leaning in, murmuring, "I was wondering if you wanted--but I wasn't sure--"
"I do," Neal breathes, stunned, thinking, I do, I do, I want--
He wants this, Chuck's hands against his face, his mouth moving against Neal's, hot and soft, and Neal arches up into it, his skin buzzing as Chuck's hands slide into his hair.
In all the times he thought about this, Neal somehow knew Chuck would be like this, so eager, holding nothing back, and Neal doesn't either, can't, if he's being honest. And now Chuck's touching him, broad, warm hands resting in the center of Neal's back, and Neal just--he just wants more.
"Please," he's gritting out against Chuck's mouth, panting for breath, "Please, just--"
"Okay, okay," Chuck's saying now, soothing as he maneuvers them so that Neal's lying on top of Chuck on the couch, "It's okay, I've got you--"
And yes, this is much better, Neal can press in closer now, can grind his hips until Chuck's whimpering and pushing back up against him, can lean in and lick along Chuck's neck until Chuck whimpers, can--
He can slip his hands underneath Chuck's shirt, can fumble with the zipper to Chuck's jeans, can--can do anything, because he wants to, because Chuck wants him to.
Neal lets out a groan once he's got his and Chuck's cocks lined up, and he's stroking them both off, leaning his forehead against Chuck's, eyes closed tight as he gets them off, his hips jerking helplessly.
"I," he pants, "Chuck, I--" He can't remember the last time he felt this reckless, this out of control, and Chuck's holding him so tightly, and God, he just doesn't want this to stop--
Chuck's not saying anything, he's just making these soft, helpless little noises that are so perfect, that are sending sparks down Neal's spine and making him grit his teeth, because he doesn't want this to be over yet, he doesn't want to come yet--
"Neal," Chuck's chanting now, "Neal, God, I, just--please, c'mon--" He's squirming beneath Neal now, hips rising up, and Neal sets his teeth and moves his hand even faster between them until he feels Chuck coming in his hand, and that sets Neal off, his entire body stiffening before he abruptly relaxes, collapsing against Chuck in a boneless heap.
*
It's much later--after round two, after they've finally moved to the bed--that Chuck says it, almost whispers it into the darkness like a secret he's ashamed to admit out loud.
“I can’t help you get the tracker off,” Chuck says softly. “I just—Neal, I can’t.”
It's funny, Neal thinks--for all that he admires and respects Chuck--he seems to have still underestimated him at the same time.
“I’m not going to ask you to,” he replies, and Neal knows it to be true as he says it. “I won’t—“ he twists around, looks Chuck in the eye, and promises, “If I ever need to get the tracker off—I won’t come to you. I’ll find my own way to do it.”
Chuck stares at him for a moment, then slowly starts to smile, crooked and a little rueful, saying, “I should probably be alarmed, but under the circumstances, that’s—actually almost sweet.”
Neal feels an answering grin tug along his mouth. "Yeah, I try."
"Good," Chuck says, relaxing against Neal again, letting out a soft yawn. "That's good to know."
Yeah, Neal silently agrees. It is.