Work Text:
Five Kisses That Never Happened
1.
Gunfire sparks off parked cars, shattering windows and sending sparkling cascades of glass to the ground. Two car alarms are wailing. A woman screams. Police officers return fire.
Neal's out there, unprotected, and he's Peter's responsibility. Cruz and Jones speed by in the van, their pursuit of Zoltan's low-slung Ferrari and the stolen fragments of Dead Sea Scroll interrupting the firefight. By rights, Peter should be with them, but he's not. He's hunkering behind cars, waiting to see if the NYPD and Zoltan's accomplices are going to start bombarding each other with bullets again, and trying to locate Neal. Should've made him wear a vest, dammit.
Another volley of fire, another car alarm, and Peter thinks he hears someone swear, just up ahead. And yeah, it's Neal, crouched behind a green Honda, clutching his hands to his chest and cursing like he's in pain.
"Did you get hit?" Peter launches himself at him and starts patting him down, checking for wounds, blood, anything, but there's no sign of damage, and Neal shoves him off. "My hat," he says, holding up the crushed remains of his Fedora, a bullet hole right through the crown.
Peter's eyes widen. "Were you wearing it, when that—?"
The thought gives him chills, and without thinking, he leans in and presses a quick, hard kiss to Neal's mouth, not giving him time to respond. "I'll buy you a new one. Now, can we get the hell out of here?"
Neal sits back against the Honda's bumper, grabs Peter by the shirt and hauls him close. His lips are warm and eager, tongue sliding into Peter's mouth, and for a moment Peter forgets they're in an Upper West Side war zone and lets himself fall.
2.
Peter taps on the open door of Neal's room. It's past eleven, but there's a lamp casting a warm glow across the room, a bald man lying asleep on the couch. Neal sits at the table, contemplating the bottle Kate left him. He looks up at the knock. "Peter?"
"Neal, I need to tell you—"
But Neal's up, moving quietly forward, a finger pressed to his lips. He doesn't want to wake his friend. Probably wise—Peter has to maintain plausible deniability on a number of counts, and Neal's dubious sources are near the top of that list. They go outside and look across the array of city lights: Manhattan, the city that never lets you get a good night's sleep.
Neal's soft blue shirt is open at the throat, and combined with his pants and shoes, it probably cost more than Peter's weekly paycheck. Peter folds his arms.
Neal quirks an eyebrow. "What's going on?"
"Kate was arrested two hours ago, in San Diego."
A fraction of a second while the words sink in, and then Neal's lips part but nothing comes out, not words, not breath. Abruptly, he starts toward his room. "I need to—"
"You can't." Peter catches him by the arm and hauls him back, using all his strength to shove him against the wall and pin him there. "You can't leave. You know the rules."
Neal struggles. "Peter, I need to go to her!" and Peter loses it, forgets duty and responsibility and lets his feelings take over. He steps in, shoving his knee between Neal's legs, and kisses him, furious and hungry and terrified that Neal's going to land himself in jail again. Terrified Neal's going to leave him.
Neal opens to him at once, letting him in, kissing back, just as urgent, just as angry.
They've been dancing around this for weeks, this unspoken need, and this is the wrong time, the wrong reason, the wrong everything but Peter can't help himself. He tugs Neal's shirt free of his pants, desperate for skin, but Neal's already coming to his senses, pushing him away. His eyes are dark, his mouth red. "Kate—"
Peter struggles for composure, for thought. He takes a deep, unsteady breath and runs his hand through his hair. "Neal, she was arrested for murder."
3.
The Charity Masquerade Ball is a kaleidoscope of color and sounds, and the costumes are incredibly elaborate. Catwoman and Kermit the Frog stroll by, laughing together, and Andy Warhol dances past with Marilyn Monroe. Peter stations himself next to a potted palm, out of the way. El—whose company organized the event, and who was thrilled to get complementary tickets—was called away ten minutes ago to sort out a problem with the caterers, and he can't see her flamenco dancer costume anywhere in the crowd. He surreptitiously glances at his watch.
"That's a little anachronistic, isn't it?" asks a fairytale princess in a feathered mask, catching him out. Her voice is low and amused.
Peter pulls his shirt sleeve down to cover the watch. "Have we met?"
There's something familiar about the set of her shoulders, the thin curve of her mouth, but he can't place it. Her hairdo makes her look like a character from a Disney cartoon.
"Cinderella," she says, holding out her hand as if she expects him to kiss it, and in a moment of whimsy, he does exactly that, pressing his lips to her skin.
The skirt of her ballgown brushes his legs. "Care to dance?"
"Oh, I don't think I—" says Peter, alarmed, but she's already drawing him onto the dance floor, sure of herself and him. A suspicion starts to form, but it's too ridiculous to contemplate. He puts his hand on Cinderella's waist and leads her in a waltz. "I'm afraid I'm a little rusty."
"You're in character," she corrects him, patting the badge pinned to his leather vest. "Wild West sheriffs aren't exactly famous for their ballroom dancing skills, after all."
She's laughing at him, her eyes blue and mischievous behind her mask, and his stomach twists with recognition. "What are you doing?"
Her lips curve. "I should have known I couldn't fool you for long." They keep dancing. "It was Elizabeth's idea."
"But why?" Peter can't imagine voluntarily attending this crush of a party, especially not in drag. But then, Peter and Neal are very different people.
Cinderella bends her head forward until the feathers of her mask tickle Peter's cheek. "She knew I wanted to dance with you."
She smells of perfume and hairspray, and Peter's heart stutters.
"I think I prefer you in a suit," he says.
The music changes, and around them couples move into each other's arms and start to slow-dance. Cinderella rests her head on Peter's shoulder.
Peter looks around, wondering if anyone else can tell that the princess in his arms is actually a con artist, and he sees El standing by the tree fern, scanning the room for him. Their eyes lock. Peter raises his eyebrows. Did you know about this?
Elizabeth grins.
4.
Peter bursts through the door of the storage unit, registered to one Matthew Mosgarde, and it's worse than he feared. Neal's up to his elbows in an old-style printing press, ink smudges on his face and neck. Literally red-handed. "What—" says Peter, but he can't finish the question. What are you doing? is too obvious, and it's too late for What were you thinking?
Too damned late.
"You're supposed to be in Texas till Thursday," says Neal, eyes wide, startled stupid for once in his life.
"I came back early," says Peter grimly. Jones is outside and Cruz has the back covered: even if Peter wanted to let Neal get away, he couldn't. There's no escape. "You carrying?" he asks, fighting disappointment and déjà-vu, and something that cuts deeper.
"You know I don't like guns." It's the same line—the same script they played off last time, a year ago when Neal escaped from prison, before they teamed up.
Well, Peter had thought they were a team, until he got the call tonight. "Is it Kate? Is that why you're doing this?"
"Does it matter?" Neal looks worn ragged, a far cry from the smiling, devil-may-care charmer Peter left behind a week ago. Peter needs to know what happened, but Neal's got his stupid, stubborn lips pressed together. It's obvious he's protecting someone.
Peter reaches for his handcuffs, cold and heavy against his palm. Before he can use them, Neal drops the sheet of parchment, puts his hands on Peter's face, and presses their mouths together. "I'm sorry," he says, against Peter's lips. "Sorry."
He even tastes of ink, but at first Peter doesn't notice, aware only that Neal's marking him, incriminating him, oh God, kissing him. Neal's fingers are like ice, but his mouth is hot, desperate, and when Peter grabs his wrists and pulls them away, Neal takes a half-step back and he's panting. "So, this is it."
The click of the cuffs is like a knife falling on ice.
5.
Monday morning, Peter's early at the office, grim-faced, tired, and determined not to let it show. He's had four good years out of Neal Caffrey, and now it's over. Tracker's cut, Neal's free, off wreaking God only knows what kind of mayhem, and Peter—Peter's on his own.
He's grown accustomed to Neal's lightning wit, his presence, his companionship, and while he still has Elizabeth at home, the office is a gray, lonely place this early in the morning. A couple of people are talking by the photocopier, Jones is hunched over his desk reviewing the phone logs on the latest Barelli case. Same old, same old. It's barely eight o'clock, but Peter's pretty sure it won't get better.
He puts a new filter in the coffee maker and sets it going, stares out the window, waiting for nothing. Waiting for his years of professionalism to kick in and get him back on track.
It'll happen. He can do this.
The morning lasts forever.
Until, just after eleven-thirty, there's a familiar tread outside his office, and Neal's leaning on the doorframe, looking like he stepped out of a Cary Grant movie. Looking like he never left. There's a smile playing around the corner of his mouth, and he's got his hands dug deep in his pockets. "Miss me?" he says.
"What?" Peter's on his feet before he knows what he's doing. "What are you doing here?"
Neal's expression is as playful as ever, but he's watching Peter like a hawk. "Do you know how hard it is to break a habit?" he asks. "I fell off the wagon."
"What wagon?"
"The not-working wagon." Neal comes in and shuts the door behind him. "You spent four years expecting me to run. No, don't argue."
"All right." Peter circumnavigates his desk and perches on the front, nearest Neal. He folds his arms. "That's right. I never—" The words stick in his throat. "I thought I knew you, but you proved me wrong. I'm sorry."
Neal shakes his head. "You're missing the point. You were right about me. I'm exactly who you think I am, except for one thing."
His gaze is intense, and Peter has to look away. He places his pen carefully on the desk and takes a deep breath until he has the nerve to look Neal in the eye again.
Neal's waiting. Neal is more patient than Peter ever gave him credit for.
"What thing?" says Peter, and the words come out in a croak that makes Neal's eyes crinkle at the corners.
For once, Peter doesn't mind being laughed at. Something big is happening here, and he can't put his finger on it but when Neal speaks, all the jigsaw puzzle pieces tumble into place, and the picture is wild and wonderful and terrifying.
"You thought it was all about Kate," says Neal, simply. "It wasn't. It was about you."
Before Peter can reply or even think, Neal is right up in his space, his hand on Peter's bicep. Peter knows everything about this man, and while Neal might look calm to a casual observer, there's more tension in his body than Peter's ever seen outside of a Mexican standoff.
Neal swallows, and his eyelashes brush his cheeks. "I know you've been stuck with me for four years—" He holds up a hand to stop Peter from interrupting. "—and I know it's been tough at times. But." Neal opens his eyes, lets Peter see him. "This is everything I've wanted. Whether we keep doing what we've been doing, or we take it somewhere else." His gaze flicks to Peter's mouth, then up again. "I need this."
And something cracks open inside of Peter. He forgets about the office, the glass walls, the whole damned city. He forgets the miserable weekend he just forced himself through, knowing it was over. For a moment, he even forgets about Elizabeth, though they talked about this once, a long time ago. Back at the beginning. And he knows she'd be okay with it. All that matters is right here.
He lets himself touch Neal's neck, slide his fingers into Neal's hair, shaping his skull. Four years he hasn't been allowed this, and now—What the hell is he waiting for? He drags Neal forward, gasps at the explosion of feeling when their bodies collide, and presses his mouth to Neal's lips. Neal's hands are on him instantly, spreading across his back, pulling him closer as if he wants to merge their bodies, and Peter—Peter would be just fine with that. He wants it. He wants it now.
There's a dry cough from the doorway, and they spring apart, Peter's hand going to his mouth, then covering his eyes. Oh Jesus, what has he done?
But he's not a coward, so he makes himself look. Hughes is standing, file folder in one hand, no surprise on his face. "It looks like congratulations are in order," he says, drily.
"Sir?" That's not the response he was expecting, not in a million years. And Hughes isn't finished, either.
"Meet your new partner," he says, and hands Neal the folder. "It's official. You're on the payroll."
Neal darts a glance at Peter, then shakes Hughes' hand. "Thanks. I won't let you down."
"I know, I know." Hughes waves that aside. "Just—we do have a code of conduct, Caffrey. Burke, you might want to re-familiarize yourself with that, too."
"Uh, yeah," says Peter, but Hughes is already on the way out.
Peter can't move. What the hell just happened? Neal shuts the wooden door again, and drags Peter bodily away from his desk, turns him and pushes him against the door.
"What—?"
"Shut up," says Neal and leans into him, kisses him softly, over and over like he'll never get enough.
END