Fic: Remain Faithful, part eight, [White Collar]
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The knock on the studio's door barely registers. The next brush stroke fills Neal's mind instead. Noises aren't important, less even than voices, and he's getting better at ignoring even those. He can't bring himself to ignore June, though, or Mozzie, so sometimes he stops, sits and eats the food they put in front of him, lets Mozzie shove him in the shower. He can't sleep on the bed, but there's a chaise lounge in one corner of the studio that Byron sometimes used to pose a model; Neal passes out on it when he can't stay awake any longer.
He wakes with a soft blanket tucked around him every time, Mozzie's doing.
He knows he's scaring the hell out of his friend, but Neal can't feel sorry. If he lets himself feel that, he'll start feeling everything else, and that isn't a prospect he sees himself surviving. Right now he isn't dealing well, but at least he's dealing. The first week after Peter walked away from him he lived in perfect denial, sure that Peter would arrive at the loft at any moment. Of course he sent Diana or Clinton to take Neal's statement and everything else, he told himself, since Neal and he were too close for Peter to remain objective and Peter is always scrupulous in that way.
Denial gives way to an empty kind of acceptance after Diana calls with the news his paintings are being returned to him. They aren't necessary to the case against Adler.
Neal changes the angle of his brush, narrowing the line of Mars Black mixed with Hunter Green and Payne's Grey he's tracing into the cityscape he's working on. No more faces. He's tried, but he keeps turning everything into a picture of Peter. Pictures of the city's streets and parks occupy him now. A dozen lean against the walls, technically finished, though the oils aren't fully dry where Neal used an impasto technique to get the texture and light play he wants.
Byron's studio has fantastic light, but Neal works fast because all the windows in the world don't help when the quality of the light changes at the end of the day. Sunset adds a tinge of red to everything that throws him off the dull gray overcast he's replicating. It would be smarter to leave the painting and finish it the next day, but then Neal might have to stop and think about something that isn't painting. Getting through the days and nights means working until he drops.
If his hand wants to shake that means he's almost there.
A small hand closing with gentle determination around his wrist wrests him out of the zone. Neal stares at the color painted on Elizabeth's nails and tries to formulate how he'd recreate it on canvas.
"Neal, sweetie, stop," Elizabeth says. She plucks the brush out of his hand and sets it aside.
Neal opens his mouth to protest, whether her interference or the careless treatment of a camel hair brush, and stops. The last person he wants to see is Elizabeth, not because he doesn't like her, but she has Peter and seeing her is a reminder that he doesn't and won't ever. He can't even lift his eyes from her hand on his wrist, afraid she'll see how desperately jealous he is, when he has no right.
He knew every time Peter touched him that Peter still wanted Elizabeth more. Pathetic as it was, Neal was still willing to take what he could get. He still would, if Peter offered, as much as that shames him. Elizabeth is a friend but he'd still let Peter cheat on her with him, if Peter were that kind of man.
He hates himself and this is why he can't let himself think about anything but painting.
"When was the last time you ate, anyway?"
He has no idea. "Mozzie made me eat something. Breakfast?"
"When?" Elizabeth sounds impatient and concerned; Neal keeps his gaze down. He lets her tug him out of the studio and into the loft. "Sit, you're going to eat and listen to me."
Neal obeys because it's less exhausting than protesting. He risks a look up when she turns away to check in the refrigerator and then start something heating in a pot on the stove. Just like every time they've met, from that morning when he showed at her business to every lunch shared with her and Peter since, she looks wonderful. It's all too easy to see why Peter still loves her. If Neal wasn't in love with Peter, he could fall for Elizabeth easily.
It would be just as self-destructive, too.
He concentrates on the soup and the crusty bread Elizabeth sets down in front of him, alternating spoonfuls with tearing off pieces of the bread, failing to really taste either. Elizabeth seats herself opposite him. Head down, Neal sees her arms folded and resting on the table. Alizarin crimson, he thinks, that's the color he'd start with to get the color of her fingernails.
"You need to snap out of this," Elizabeth says. "Peter's a good man, but he's terrible at relationships. Much as I love him and always will, I wouldn't have him back on a plate with caviar and diamonds."
The spoon drops back into the soup with a messy splash. It occurs to Neal he just dropped it. He looks up at Elizabeth's face. She looks worried enough to make him want to run away.
"You're not... ?" He doesn't recognize his voice. He hasn't said much lately. June and Mozzie accept nods, head shakes, and shrugs. It sounds like his throat has been scoured with steel wool. Feels like it too. Helplessly, Neal finishes with a pathetic question, "Why?"
Elizabeth ignores the soup splashes and reaches over the table to take Neal's paint-stained hands in hers. Her grip is firm and determined. "I don't think even he really knows," she tells him.
So it's just him, Neal realizes. He's not enough or he's too much, too tied to the criminal side of life or to Kate or to his painting. Too male, maybe. Peter never acts like he cares about being labeled, but that doesn't mean he doesn't. It's probably different for an FBI agent than an artist. Artists can get away with a lot, including being gay, if it makes for a good story and they have enough talent.
This is worse than thinking Peter got back together with Elizabeth. Neal thought Peter loved Elizabeth more. Turns out Peter simply doesn't love him enough - at all - so he can't even comfort himself he would have been second choice.
Kate never hurt him this much. Kate dying didn't hurt this much, he thinks, aching at the betrayal.
"How long are you going to bury yourself in painting?" Elizabeth asks, yanking Neal's mind back to the loft and her presence.
"Until June throws me out, I guess," he replies.
"She's never going to do that."
He shrugs, certain June will grow sick of him sooner or later too. Even Mozzie probably just wants access to the accounts Kate left for Neal. No one stays, everyone lies.
"But you can't stay in this apartment the rest of your life. Even if you're going to do nothing except paint, you have to go out and see something to paint," Elizabeth goes on.
"I have a good memory," Neal tells her.
Elizabeth ignores his rejoinder, though she narrows her eyes and glares, and asks, "Remember when I said I should hire you?"
"Sure."
"I want to hire you."
"Seriously?" This a joke or something, Neal thinks, but just that, the unexpectedness of it, serves to knock a hole in the dull haze of misery that surrounds him. He squints at Elizabeth, trying to read her, but she seems to have said exactly what she meant. He almost laughs, because he isn't sure his life could be any stranger.
She rolls her eyes before meeting Neal's skeptical gaze. "Yes. My assistant is taking maternity leave in a couple of weeks. Even if she weren't, I could still use your help."
"Does... Peter know?" He doesn't want to see Peter now. Not until his heart scabs over. Ironic, because only an hour ago, he ached to see or talk to Peter again.
"It's none of his business," Elizabeth says, "what I or you do. Is it?"
"I guess not," he replies. Exhaustion drags at him. Maybe if he sleeps he could not think or feel anything for a while.
"Then you'll take the job?"
She's not going to take no for an answer, Neal realizes.
"I promise, I will work you until you collapse," Elizabeth adds. "I remember how it feels, even if I'm the one who did the leaving." Her eyes are sharp and knowing and filled with sympathy.
Neal summons a weak smile. "How can I say no?"
~*~
Mozzie means to hate Elizabeth Burke. It's simple; she's part of the life and people who have wounded his best friend. He won't hate her the way he hates Special Agent Peter Burke - he has every intention of wrecking that man starting with his career and continuing into every aspect of his life so that he ends up alone and hated by everyone in his pathetic existence, it's just going to take some time to orchestrate and he's currently preoccupied with keeping Neal from spiraling any further into the dark place - but it is necessary to hate her, since she's probably going to get caught in the collateral damage of whatever he does to Burke.
Even meeting her in person wouldn't change his mind, not even pleas and begging, but walking into Neal's loft and finding him there and not hiding from the world and himself in the studio does it. Neal, who makes looking terrible look good, has showered and shaved, dressed in something other than a paint-stained t-shirt and khakis, and there are dishes in the sink proving he ate, all without Mozzie forcing him. It's a sea change, and if the misery remains in his eyes, darkening the blue, at least Neal's coping again. Mozzie knows the pain won't disappear for a long time. He can live with it as long as Neal can.
The fear he's been carrying around in his gut lets go finally and he almost staggers.
"Ready to rejoin the world?" he asks, pretending a lack of concern.
"Elizabeth just hired me," Neal explains.
"Burke's wife?" Mozzie's horrified. The last thing Neal needs is Burke and his wife rubbing their happiness in his face.
"Ex," Neal says, with an air of melancholy, and adding, "Don't worry so much." Proving he did register Mozzie's concern the last couple weeks, which is frustrating and hopeful at the same time. "He didn't dump me to get her back."
"Oh."
He'll have to change his mind about Elizabeth Burke if she's been able to make this much difference in Neal with one visit and a job offer.
On the other hand, he adores June Ellington from the minute he meets her on the way up to Neal's loft and studio the first time. She's the epitome of class with a perfect soupçon of wickedness. Once the filthy feds return Neal's pictures, it isn't long before Mozzie and June have their heads together, planning Neal's future and, incidentally, Mozzie's as well.
June knows art, along with the art world, and she goes through Neal's paintings with bright eyes and soft sounds of approval.
"I knew I was right," she declares.
"He's amazing, isn't he?"
They both keep their eyes away from the portrait of Kate standing in one corner of the studio. It makes Mozzie miss his old protégée while reminding June of losing her Byron.
"Yes," she agrees, "and we're going to make him famous." June's eyes gleam and when she's done laying out her plans for Neal's career, Mozzie can only nod. It may be cynical to play on the drama and tragedy of Neal's relationship with Kate and her death, but they both know everyone will eat it up with a spoon. It won't hurt that Kate was beautiful and Neal's gorgeous. It's the art world after all: it is all about appearances.
"You would have made a great con," he tells her sincerely.
That makes June laugh. "My dear, what do you think the art world is but a big con?"
Mozzie switches his regular glasses for a set with heavier, black plastic frames and squints at June, donning an expression of squeezed annoyance that will be part of his newest persona. "My name is Robert French," he tells her. "I have the privilege of acting as Neal Caffrey's agent. I know you're going to be happy with my efforts too." From now on, anyone wanting to sell to June or a chance at buying or even displaying any of Byron's unsold works will have to deal with Mozzie.
Robert French that is.
If that means arranging and attending a showing for an up-and-coming artist that June has given her imprimatur to, they both know the cognoscente will bend over - forward or backward - to stay on her good side. After that, Neal's own talent will carry him.
June holds out her hand and lets Mozzie kiss it European-fashion.
"I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship," she says, laughing.
Now all they have to do is convince Neal. Mozzie admits Elizabeth is a great addition to their cabal when she bulldozes all of Neal's objections at one memorable breakfast.
Mozzie really could hate Elizabeth, if she wasn't so close to perfect, and instead, he ends up despising Peter Burke even more than he did before, now that he knows the man hurt her as well as Neal.
~*~
"He sent an invitation for me and Christie," Diana says. Peter doesn't pay any attention as he migrates between his office and the break room in search of enough caffeine to get him through the rest of the day. Diana's perched on the corner of Jones' desk, a file folder in one hand, talking idly while Jones runs a computer search. Peter would reprimand them, but Jones' attention is on his computer and he obviously is working and Diana is just as obviously waiting for him to finish. Agents are allowed to have friendly conversations while they work, even if Peter hasn't felt very friendly toward anyone in weeks.
"Got one too," Jones says absently.
Peter dismisses their conversation and passes them.
Diana has come around to the other side of Jones' desk and is reading over his shoulder when Peter returns, coffee mug in hand. "Black tie," Jones says. "More trouble than I want to go to just to see a bunch of paintings."
Peter slows, listening despite himself.
"Besides, I've seen all his paintings before they were returned."
"You just don't want to put on a tuxedo."
Diana glances at Peter and straightens, her expression becoming more solemn and professional, and asks, innocently, "So are you going to Neal's opening tomorrow night?"
His fingers tighten on his coffee mug - a real mug and not paper or it would be crushed - but Peter thinks he keeps his expression from giving too much away. "No."
No invitation, but he isn't going to explain that to his agents, or the reasons he decided to drive Neal away. He's deluding himself when he says 'decided'. Peter reacted at Adler's arrest and he's been too stubborn and frightened to examine his motives or admit he regrets anything since.
Elizabeth is right. He deserves to be alone.
Peter manages a polite nod for his two subordinates and continues back up to his own office, where the first thing he does is open his laptop and search out everything he can find on Neal's upcoming opening. It's enough to impress him; Mozzie and June have outdone themselves for Neal.
If the opening isn't a huge success, though, Peter thinks, Neal will be devastated. He won't turn to Mozzie or June, though, not after they've invested so much into it.
Peter can't name anyone Neal would turn to, except him, and he's removed himself.
There's no reason to think Neal will fail, of course. But Peter can't stop worrying over worst case scenarios.
No, the truth is, he can't stop worrying about, and caring about, Neal.
He tells himself to stop.
Twenty minutes before the end of the work day - and it's one of the quiet days no one ends up working late - he stops by Jones' desk and asks him for the invitation to Neal's art showing. Jones gives him a knowing look, but says nothing except, "Tell Neal congratulations from me."
~*~
He almost backs out at the last minute, but Peter's already in the monkey suit and knows that the longer he lets himself delay, the less likely he is to succeed. What he threw away won't be there to save much longer. If it still is. It's all on Neal now, unfair as that is. All Peter can do is lay himself out there, beg forgiveness, and let Neal make the decision.
If he has hope, it's because Neal has a generous heart. He forgave Kate, over and over, so Peter hopes Neal will give him another chance.
He'll beg if he needs to.
Up the steps, in through the doors, and presenting the hand written invitation to the gala opening for Neal Caffrey takes Peter maybe five minutes. The evidence of El's hand shines everywhere in the high-end gallery, from the warm lighting that mimics candlelight without a headache inducing flicker, to the omnipresent waiters and waitresses circulating unobtrusively with trays of champagne flutes and superb finger food to the live, classical music drifting through the rooms. Everything is superb, everything in perfect taste, every single aspect of the venue calculated to both give the attendees an exquisite experience and at the same time highlight and accentuate the quality of Neal's work.
The portrait of Kate reigns over everything, resting unframed and unadorned on a polished wooden easel and a wide, round, brown-veined marble plinth. Hidden lights illuminate her, so cleverly placed no one can throw a shadow over the painting, wherever or however they move. No one can pass by without stopping, not simply to stare or analyze, but in a nearly hypnotic fascination. The painting mesmerizes. It captures Kate Moreau, even some hint of her soul, and yet she's still an enigma holding out the promise that she could be known, if you only look long and hard enough. That... that was Kate. Neal is the only one who could have painted her like that and got her right.
Peter doesn't linger to look at her though.
Beyond the portrait, walking through rooms that display Neal's previous work, Peter hears snatches of talk. The story, elided and delicately spun, then propagated by word of mouth, has captured the minds and hearts - of those that have the latter - of the art world. Who doesn't love a tale of doomed and tragic love? The drama appeals, so do the illegalities and danger, and even Kate's absence is a plus, because anyone who looks at Neal and wants him can fantasize that they could have him without her in the way.
It isn't true, but the fantasy is still fun, Peter imagines. Of course, maybe he's harboring his own fantasy. Neal may punch him as soon as he sees him - another nugget of gossip for the gala - or, even if he lets Peter have his say, Neal may still just walk away. Peter really has no good excuse beyond cowardice.
Neal lost Kate to death. Peter drove Elizabeth away with his own mistakes. He doesn't get to compare their losses anymore. If he does, Neal should hit him.
He sees Diana and Christie through the crowd, both in formal cocktail gowns, Christie wearing red and Diana in something silky and saffron yellow, looking splendid. June is chatting with them, but Neal isn't there. Peter moves through the crowd, listening with half his attention to the uniformly approving and impressed chatter, while trying to find Neal among the press of people. He sees Elizabeth telling a waiter something that turns his face pale as paper. The sleek skirt of her deep blue gown provides a glimpse of leg when she turns away from her victim. She catches sight of Peter and, if anything, her expression becomes fiercer.
The waiter scurries away and Peter doesn't blame him. Elizabeth on a tear is a terror.
Finally, he finds Neal, lithe in a vintage black tuxedo complete with bow-tie and waistcoat, sandwiched between an art critic a full head shorter than him and a supermodel thin woman in four inch heels that make her taller than Neal and possibly taller than Peter. Neal is charming them both, laying it on thick, letting the woman hold on to his arm and the man rest a hand at his back. Peter would like to remove their hands, if not from their arms, at least from Neal's body. He breathes in deep and stuffs the jealousy and anger into a locked-box. Neal's a free agent and even if he weren't he isn't behaving any differently than Elizabeth sometimes does with demonstrative clients.
They pause in front of the picture of Adler, the one that makes Peter wonder what the man would think if he saw himself through Neal's work, since it wasn't among the pieces that were stolen. On the whole, Peter suspects Adler would be pleased with it; it's extraordinary art and if it highlights Adler's Machiavellian and venal sides, it also shows his intelligence, the force of personality, the ruthlessness and the charm. Adler's fist is closed around cherub-shaped key, vise-like.
"A modern day marauder," the critic says. "I believe you know him?"
"I worked for him, once," Neal replies, elusive as ever, "I'm not sure anyone could say they know him."
"The picture says it all."
"He looks fascinating," the model comments. "But isn't he in jail now?"
"That," Neal agrees. "He is."
Neal agreeably goes with the critic and the model until they're in front of the Kate portrait. Peter follows, unwilling to interrupt, hoping to catch Neal alone instead. Peter isn't sure if Neal sees him and chooses to ignore him or if the critic is important enough that Neal is too focused to notice him. One more penguin suit among the flock likely doesn't leap out and Neal has reason to be distracted. This is the most important night of his career.
"Amazing," the critic murmurs, sounding breathless. He lets go of Neal to step forward, nearly hypnotized by the painting.
The model scowls at the canvas and pigment. "You loved her," she accuses Neal playfully.
Amusement and melancholy color Neal's answer. "I did."
Proving she has some brains beneath the unreal red hair and avant-garde make-up, she glances at Neal and adds, "You hated her too."
Neal's mouth curves into a rueful smile. "I did. You see that?"
"Yes, and I can see you're in love with someone else." She leans close and presses a chaste kiss to Neal's cheek. "I need another drink and someone who will sleep with me tonight. Good luck with whoever it is and if you ever need a subject, remember me." She strides away in a flutter and swish of asymmetric, hand-painted sea foam satin that promises there is absolutely nothing between it and her skin where it bothers to actually cover said skin. An appreciative smile crosses Neal's face. Like Peter, he likes smart and beautiful.
The critic is lost in another world, studying Kate's image, so the coast is clear. Peter takes a place next to Neal and sees him startle subtly before recovering his aplomb. His voice isn't quite even. "Peter."
"Neal."
They stand shoulder to shoulder, Peter looking at Neal's handsome profile, until Neal finally gives him a sidelong look, barely turning his head. "I didn't think you'd come."
"You didn't send me an invitation."
That brings Neal around, brows drawn together, mouth opened in a nascent protest.
"Jones gave me his invite," Peter adds. "He sends his congratulations." He glances around again. Most of the paintings, except those reserved like Kate and Adler's portraits, have discreet markers next to them: sold. Despite Peter's worries, Neal's showing is a shining success. He should have known it would be, with June and El involved, along with Neal's talent. He adds, "You deserve this."
Neal doesn't demur. False modesty isn't one of Neal's flaws.
"Is that why you didn't send me an invitation?" Peter asks eventually, before admitting, "Because you deserved better than the way I acted?"
"You were supposed to get one." A lock of hair falls over Neal's eye as he shakes his head. "El and Moz did the invitations."
"That explains it." Peter suspects Neal's mysterious friend wouldn't, as Peter's Gran put it, cross the street to piss on him if he was on fire.
The critic turns back to them and physically recoils at Peter's stay-away glare. Neal ignores him, watching Peter intently now.
"Why did you come, Peter?" Neal's uncertain, his voice soft, and Peter thinks he's one wrong word away from bolting, one blow away from breaking, and curses himself.
He fears he'll say the wrong thing, imply something he doesn't mean, leave out what's critical, wound Neal again without meaning too. Wrapping Neal in a hug would be better, but not when he doesn't know if Neal would welcome it, not in the middle of his triumph. The last thing Peter wants is to chance ruining this for him.
Peter holds out his hand, fingers open, waiting for Neal to see. Neal looks bewildered, but sways closer, into Peter's space. Peter doesn't think Neal even knows what he's doing, but it makes hope come alive inside him. So close, Peter can pick out every tiny imperfection that makes Neal beautiful instead of plastic. He wants to smooth the pad of his thumb over Neal's cheekbone. He wants to rest his hand on the nape of Neal's neck and use its gentle weight to draw Neal to him.
Desperate, Peter waves his hand at Kate's picture to stop himself from touching and trying to take what Neal gave him before. He sees Neal realize what's gone, hears Neal's breathless, "You," and risks looking into his eyes again now that Neal gets it. Neal painted Kate to let her go. Peter did this, this small thing he should have done years ago, and definitely before he reached for Neal for the first time. He wonders if he somehow stopped breathing and didn't know it, because the wonder and forgiveness he finds in Neal's gaze loosens a tight knot in Peter's chest and he breathes out in relief that feels too big to be just from this moment.
Neal moves fast when he wants to. He catches Peter's gesturing hand and his fingers caress over the indentation left by Peter's wedding ring. The sensation makes Peter shudder with desire, desire Neal feels and recognizes too. Neal goes still, his pupils flaring huge and dark, and he inhales. The quiet sound of that tells Peter everything. "Yes?" he asks, to be sure though, because he's misread things with Neal more than once.
Neal's hand turns and clasps Peter's, warm dry palm pressing against Peter's, holding on tightly, and he gives a short, almost jerky nod. "Yes." The splint is gone; Neal's finger healed straight and strong again, flexing with the others.
Peter tugs Neal's hand. "Let's get out of here."
Neal doesn't shift, though Peter feels the shiver of want run through him. He shakes his head at Peter. "I'm not walking out on my gallery opening, Peter." He states it the way Peter would declare a case took priority.
Elizabeth told him, Peter realizes, more than once. His art fills the place in Neal that being an agent occupies in Peter.
He squeezes Neal's hand. "Okay. We're here for the long haul. If you want to, we'll be here until the cows come home."
Neal gives him a slightly disbelieving look. "The cows?" he repeats. A smile takes over his face. "You're so smooth."
A close-mouthed smile curls up the corners of Peter's mouth in response.
Peter sticks with Neal through the next hour, nodding when anyone asks who he is and Neal introduces him, but trying his best to fade into the background. Neal keeps him from succeeding most of the time, standing closer than casual, murmuring comments and asides about some of the art world mavens attending that have Peter swallowing guffaws, and never once letting go of his hand. Neal does everything except pin matching notes on their lapels saying 'together'.
Peter figures he is too damned lucky to believe and lets himself nudge Neal's shoulder, lean close, and go on holding Neal's hand.
Once, Neal even points out his old auction house boss, who has the gall to approach Neal.
"I didn't realize you knew June Ellington, Neal. If she's ever interested in moving any of her collection, we'd very much like to handle the sale."
Peter's amazed and kind of wants to punch the man, but Neal just answers serenely, "You'll need to speak with our agent, Mr. French."
"And who's this?" the man asks, looking over Peter and Neal's hands locked together with faint surprise.
Peter takes real pleasure in introducing himself and acquainting this jerk with a few facts. "I believe you met a ex-colleague of mine once. Fowler. He's no longer employed, though. I'm Special Agent Peter Burke, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Neal and I are together."
Neal turns to Peter, a question in his eyes, and whatever he finds in Peter's expression lights him from the inside. Neither of them pay any attention to Neal's old boss huffing and moving on.
"Who's French?" Peter asks when they're alone again.
"Mozzie." Neal answers but he's still, obviously, stuck on Peter acknowledging they're together. Peter realizes Neal expects absolutely nothing from his partners, nothing except eventual abandonment. Taking off the wedding ring showed Neal Peter had let go of dreaming of Elizabeth, but it hadn't told him Peter was committed to him. He's starting to see that Neal won't ask for what he needs, never mind what he wants.
"I'm not hiding who you are to me," Peter promises quietly.
"Oh." Neal pauses. "But your job."
"The FBI doesn't ask, because the FBI doesn't care." It's not totally true. Diana's faced plenty of shit over her orientation despite the official policies, and there are always the assholes that think two women together is hot but still object to two men, but Peter has enough seniority he isn't worried for himself. Hughes is a good boss and Diana's already done the hard work of being the first person out in the unit. Besides, "I'm not going to insult you or Diana by hiding or lying."
Neal's eyes widen. "Wow. That's... "
"What?"
"Really sexy," Neal whispers huskily.
Peter steals a quick kiss, because he can, smiling himself. He's damned glad he's always known he was bisexual. He isn't going to make Neal's life hell over worries about being called gay. At least there's one upside to being involved with Peter. "I'm proud of you. I'm proud to be with you."
"Really, really sexy," Neal repeats afterward, licking his lips, a flush coloring his cheekbones.
Well past two in the morning, the last guest totters out, leaving only the gallery staff, the caterers, June, Mozzie, El, Peter and Neal. Diana and Christie are long gone. Diana smirked at Peter when she saw him standing next to Neal, hand resting without thought at the small of Neal's back. She hugged Neal too. There was something whispered about a bet and Jones that Peter is certain he's better off not knowing. The words 'office betting pool' will make him blanch the rest of his life.
"I need to thank June before she goes home," Neal says.
Peter watches him go. Neal's doffed his coat, but left on his silk-backed waistcoat, though he's rolled his sleeves to his elbows and undone his tie. Peter wishes he'd been the one to do that. He watches Neal kiss June on both cheeks before offering her his arm and walking her to the door where her driver is waiting. She pats Neal's cheek and says something that has Neal laughing, the open collar of his shirt displaying the elegant line of his throat and jaw. Peter's mouth goes dry and he can't look away.
He snaps out of his reverie and finds himself being considered, not in a friendly fashion, by Neal's off the grid friend Mozzie, who is apparently styling himself Robert French, art agent, these days.
Mozzie straightens his silk cravat, heavy rings gleaming on his fingers, uses a silk handkerchief to polish the thick lenses of his black-framed glasses before putting them back on, and nods to himself.
"I will wreck you if you hurt him again," he states quite calmly. "And then your lovely ex-wife - you are an actual idiot, by the way - will really make you suffer."
"Believe him," Elizabeth says as she joins Mozzie.
"Of course," Peter agrees dryly.
"I always wanted a little brother," Elizabeth goes on. She's as beautiful as Peter has ever seen, glowing with the success of the event and happiness for Neal and a fierce protectiveness that once centered on Peter and their marriage. Neal has become hers in some way and Peter can't find it in him to be jealous. He can't find the ache and want he's felt toward Elizabeth since she left him either and it's a massive relief. His heart is his to give again; it always was, but he hadn't felt it before. Neal's not second best, the one he'll be with because he can't be with El; Neal's the only one Peter wants now.
He looks past El and smiles as Neal approaches them looking apprehensive along with tired and happy. He brightens as he meets Peter's gaze.
Elizabeth sweeps Neal into a tight hug immediately, dark head to dark head so alike they could be brother and sister, and Neal hugs her back blissfully, obviously soaking in the affection and support she's offering. It reminds Peter how little he knows about Neal's past, how much he has yet to learn about someone he loves. There will be time, though; he'll make it, for Neal. Strange to think, but he knows El will help; she'll keep him from forgetting and making the same mistakes he did with her.
"Well done, mon frère, well done," Mozzie declares once Elizabeth releases Neal, making Peter wonder again about all the things he doesn't know about Neal. How did Kate's sometime conman partner end up as Neal's best friend? Mozzie is a little more awkward than El but he folds Neal into an embrace that's obviously heartfelt.
Neal hugs Mozzie back without the thread of uncertainty that holds him back when he hugs Peter, sure of his welcome. Peter wants to blame Kate for that damage, but he thinks it's just part of Neal, how he was made well before Kate came into his life. Maybe she exacerbated Neal's fears, maybe she didn't, but she's gone, and Peter only made it worse. He'll have to work to convince Neal that he isn't going away again, but one day, he's going to make up for the mistakes he's made with Neal.
Neal lets go of Mozzie and the hesitation is there before Peter pulls him close, locking that lean warmth against him and holding on until Neal embraces him just as tightly. He understands how wired Neal's been only when he relaxes into Peter, ruffled hair silky against Peter's cheek. Peter rubs his face against it for a breath before Neal turns his head and kisses the line of his jaw.
"Get a room," Mozzie comments when Peter kisses Neal back, taking his time to do it thoroughly.
"Pay no attention to him," Elizabeth interrupts archly. "If I was still married to Peter, I'd be suggesting a threesome right now."
They ignore him, though Peter thinks the former is a great idea. His bedroom or Neal's loft, any place with the privacy to remove Neal's clothes piece by piece and press him down on clean sheets. Ignoring Elizabeth's risque comment is harder and Neal actually blushes. Peter rubs his back and gives Elizabeth a look telling her to stop teasing Neal, who isn't as familiar as Peter with her secretly raunchy sense of humor.
"Champagne?" El suggests, taking Peter's hint. "There are a couple bottles and some food left... "
Neal's stomach rumbles and he winces. Peter blinks and realizes how surreal their current situation is. He's just been kissing his boyfriend in front of his ex-wife, who wants to feed them all. It should be much more uncomfortable than it is. Neal's tense again and it isn't out of embarrassment because he's hungry.
"Did you eat anything today?" El demands.
"Too nervous." Nerves sound in Neal's voice right then too.
"Come on then." She waves them all toward the backrooms of the gallery, where the caterers are slowly packing up. Peter loops his arm around Neal's slim waist and, along with Mozzie, they follow.
Neal smiles as Elizabeth commandeers an open bottle of champagne, glasses, and a saran-covered plate of finger foods. Her hair has come down and she tucks it behind her ears, an old habit to keep it from tangling in her earrings.
"To a great success," she says.
They ring their glasses together and drink, then settle into eating and discussing how the showing went. Mozzie demanded a minimum of four figures for the larger canvases and got it for all of them. The offers for the Adler and Kate portraits edge higher. Mozzie looks smug and Neal keeps stopping and just smiling at everyone.
El kicks her high heels off and flexes her toes. It amuses Peter when he realizes Mozzie can't keep his eyes away from her. Neal leans against him, boneless and weary. Peter's getting the idea they may not be having hot sex when they get home - whichever home - because this showing has sapped even Neal's normally boundless energy. They work their way through the rest of the bottle and Neal's weight against his shoulder grows heavier and heavier, until Peter looks to the side and realizes Neal has slipped into sleep.
Peter picks up his glass and lifts it again, gathering Mozzie and El's attention with a simple look.
"To Neal Caffrey," he toasts softly and they join him.
~*~
Neal swings open the door to his loft and lets Peter follow him inside. It reminds him of the first night he followed Peter into his apartment. He pauses just inside and Peter crowds up behind him, one hand coming to rest on Neal's shoulder, the other on his hip.
Just to reassure himself, Neal turns his head and checks again that Peter's wedding ring is gone. It still doesn't seem real, the successful showing and then Peter appearing beside him, asking without words for Neal to accept him back.
Truthfully, Neal thinks he should tell Peter to go to hell. He isn't going to because he wants Peter here with him. It's a flaw in his personality, the same weakness for love that led him to taking Kate back over and over.
He'll give Peter this second chance.
Even as he leans back into Peter's arms, he's bracing himself, building new walls to protect himself if it all goes wrong. Not a good way to start a relationship.
"You get one more chance," Neal says. It's easier, not seeing Peter's face as he speaks.
Peter nuzzles against Neal's neck, making him shiver, and answers, "That's more than I deserve."
"You're my second chance too, I guess," Neal admits.
Peter kisses him with a dedicated care that melts Neal's doubts, a brush of lips and the rasp of stubble against Neal's chin, then his tongue delicately seeking a part in Neal's lips. The fabric of Peter's tuxedo jacket crumples under Neal's fingers. Peter pulls him in so close Neal's shirt studs dig into his sternum and Neal pulls away, laughing quietly, and rubs his chest.
Peter gets it, commenting, "Ow."
Neal smiles self-deprecatingly. "Yeah. You mind if we get undressed before this goes anywhere else?"
"As long as it's going to the bed eventually."
"Dog."
He begins stripping on the way to the high, luxurious bed he hasn't slept in for weeks. June's staff has been in, so he's sure the sheets are clean, though maybe stale by now. A soft rustle tells him Peter is undressing too. They should talk. Neal's too exhausted for that, he thinks. He takes off his cuff links - Byron's - and drops them onto the first flat surface. His waistcoat follows, then the shirt studs that derailed the kiss by the door.
Shirt, shoes, socks, undershirt, trousers, all gone, until Neal stands by the bed in his boxers, staring at Peter as he finishes undressing too. His gaze rests on that mole at the base of Peter's throat. Every time they've been in bed together, he's kissed it.
"Don't do that to me again," Neal blurts.
Peter pulls his undershirt over his head and gravely meets Neal's gaze across the bed, white cotton balled in his hands, fingers kneading. "Do you want me to promise?"
"Just don't." Neal doesn't believe in promises, not even from someone like Peter. He knows how intentions become corrupted.
"Okay," Peter says and tosses his undershirt away. "I shouldn't have acted the way I did, even if I wanted to end it. And I didn't, Neal - "
"Then why?"
Peter sits down on the edge of the bed. Neal stays on his side, on his feet, out of reach and well aware of it. This isn't when he meant to ask that question - he isn't sure he ever meant to ask - but it's out there now.
"It's not fair to say you scared me," Peter says while staring down at the coverlet. "You didn't. I scared me." He lifts his gaze. "Neal, I nearly shot to kill, I wanted Vincent Adler dead just because he'd threatened you."
"I don't understand."
"Everything I stand for, all the things I believe in... " Peter hesitates before finishing quietly, "I'd throw everything away for you. If you'd been running a con, I'd have let you go. I'd break rules for you I wouldn't have even for Elizabeth. If you ever break the law, I'll look the other way, I'll cover for you, I'll even run with you. I'd let you go if you didn't want me. All you need to do is ask."
Neal doesn't know what to say to that. It's so much more than he imagined Peter felt for him, but it's not entirely good. He doesn't want to be the guardian of Peter's morals. He doesn't want to be the reason Peter throws away any part of himself.
"I don't want you to do any of that," he says in a small voice. He gave Kate all that and it hurt. He doesn't want to hurt Peter.
"I know, Neal."
"Okay?"
Peter smiles and holds out his hand. Marshaling his confidence, Neal crawls onto the bed and takes Peter's warm, firm hand in his. He's about to wrap his arms around Peter when a yawn overtakes him.
Immediately, Peter stifles a yawn of his own. "I guess we can do the rest of this in the morning," Peter says with a hint of humor.
Neal isn't exactly a morning person, but he does like morning sex. He grins at Peter. "I'll hold you to that."
They pull each other in and down into a tangle of limbs and bare skin and comfort. Neal's filled with a hope, shining and delicate as a blown art glass ornament, that this time everything will be okay. Love is like glass too, paradoxically beautiful, brittle and enduring, forged in heat, and still fluid even when it appears solid. A sharp blow can shatter it, but remain faithful and with care it will last a lifetime.
He and Peter, they can remain faithful.
The End
The knock on the studio's door barely registers. The next brush stroke fills Neal's mind instead. Noises aren't important, less even than voices, and he's getting better at ignoring even those. He can't bring himself to ignore June, though, or Mozzie, so sometimes he stops, sits and eats the food they put in front of him, lets Mozzie shove him in the shower. He can't sleep on the bed, but there's a chaise lounge in one corner of the studio that Byron sometimes used to pose a model; Neal passes out on it when he can't stay awake any longer.
He wakes with a soft blanket tucked around him every time, Mozzie's doing.
He knows he's scaring the hell out of his friend, but Neal can't feel sorry. If he lets himself feel that, he'll start feeling everything else, and that isn't a prospect he sees himself surviving. Right now he isn't dealing well, but at least he's dealing. The first week after Peter walked away from him he lived in perfect denial, sure that Peter would arrive at the loft at any moment. Of course he sent Diana or Clinton to take Neal's statement and everything else, he told himself, since Neal and he were too close for Peter to remain objective and Peter is always scrupulous in that way.
Denial gives way to an empty kind of acceptance after Diana calls with the news his paintings are being returned to him. They aren't necessary to the case against Adler.
Neal changes the angle of his brush, narrowing the line of Mars Black mixed with Hunter Green and Payne's Grey he's tracing into the cityscape he's working on. No more faces. He's tried, but he keeps turning everything into a picture of Peter. Pictures of the city's streets and parks occupy him now. A dozen lean against the walls, technically finished, though the oils aren't fully dry where Neal used an impasto technique to get the texture and light play he wants.
Byron's studio has fantastic light, but Neal works fast because all the windows in the world don't help when the quality of the light changes at the end of the day. Sunset adds a tinge of red to everything that throws him off the dull gray overcast he's replicating. It would be smarter to leave the painting and finish it the next day, but then Neal might have to stop and think about something that isn't painting. Getting through the days and nights means working until he drops.
If his hand wants to shake that means he's almost there.
A small hand closing with gentle determination around his wrist wrests him out of the zone. Neal stares at the color painted on Elizabeth's nails and tries to formulate how he'd recreate it on canvas.
"Neal, sweetie, stop," Elizabeth says. She plucks the brush out of his hand and sets it aside.
Neal opens his mouth to protest, whether her interference or the careless treatment of a camel hair brush, and stops. The last person he wants to see is Elizabeth, not because he doesn't like her, but she has Peter and seeing her is a reminder that he doesn't and won't ever. He can't even lift his eyes from her hand on his wrist, afraid she'll see how desperately jealous he is, when he has no right.
He knew every time Peter touched him that Peter still wanted Elizabeth more. Pathetic as it was, Neal was still willing to take what he could get. He still would, if Peter offered, as much as that shames him. Elizabeth is a friend but he'd still let Peter cheat on her with him, if Peter were that kind of man.
He hates himself and this is why he can't let himself think about anything but painting.
"When was the last time you ate, anyway?"
He has no idea. "Mozzie made me eat something. Breakfast?"
"When?" Elizabeth sounds impatient and concerned; Neal keeps his gaze down. He lets her tug him out of the studio and into the loft. "Sit, you're going to eat and listen to me."
Neal obeys because it's less exhausting than protesting. He risks a look up when she turns away to check in the refrigerator and then start something heating in a pot on the stove. Just like every time they've met, from that morning when he showed at her business to every lunch shared with her and Peter since, she looks wonderful. It's all too easy to see why Peter still loves her. If Neal wasn't in love with Peter, he could fall for Elizabeth easily.
It would be just as self-destructive, too.
He concentrates on the soup and the crusty bread Elizabeth sets down in front of him, alternating spoonfuls with tearing off pieces of the bread, failing to really taste either. Elizabeth seats herself opposite him. Head down, Neal sees her arms folded and resting on the table. Alizarin crimson, he thinks, that's the color he'd start with to get the color of her fingernails.
"You need to snap out of this," Elizabeth says. "Peter's a good man, but he's terrible at relationships. Much as I love him and always will, I wouldn't have him back on a plate with caviar and diamonds."
The spoon drops back into the soup with a messy splash. It occurs to Neal he just dropped it. He looks up at Elizabeth's face. She looks worried enough to make him want to run away.
"You're not... ?" He doesn't recognize his voice. He hasn't said much lately. June and Mozzie accept nods, head shakes, and shrugs. It sounds like his throat has been scoured with steel wool. Feels like it too. Helplessly, Neal finishes with a pathetic question, "Why?"
Elizabeth ignores the soup splashes and reaches over the table to take Neal's paint-stained hands in hers. Her grip is firm and determined. "I don't think even he really knows," she tells him.
So it's just him, Neal realizes. He's not enough or he's too much, too tied to the criminal side of life or to Kate or to his painting. Too male, maybe. Peter never acts like he cares about being labeled, but that doesn't mean he doesn't. It's probably different for an FBI agent than an artist. Artists can get away with a lot, including being gay, if it makes for a good story and they have enough talent.
This is worse than thinking Peter got back together with Elizabeth. Neal thought Peter loved Elizabeth more. Turns out Peter simply doesn't love him enough - at all - so he can't even comfort himself he would have been second choice.
Kate never hurt him this much. Kate dying didn't hurt this much, he thinks, aching at the betrayal.
"How long are you going to bury yourself in painting?" Elizabeth asks, yanking Neal's mind back to the loft and her presence.
"Until June throws me out, I guess," he replies.
"She's never going to do that."
He shrugs, certain June will grow sick of him sooner or later too. Even Mozzie probably just wants access to the accounts Kate left for Neal. No one stays, everyone lies.
"But you can't stay in this apartment the rest of your life. Even if you're going to do nothing except paint, you have to go out and see something to paint," Elizabeth goes on.
"I have a good memory," Neal tells her.
Elizabeth ignores his rejoinder, though she narrows her eyes and glares, and asks, "Remember when I said I should hire you?"
"Sure."
"I want to hire you."
"Seriously?" This a joke or something, Neal thinks, but just that, the unexpectedness of it, serves to knock a hole in the dull haze of misery that surrounds him. He squints at Elizabeth, trying to read her, but she seems to have said exactly what she meant. He almost laughs, because he isn't sure his life could be any stranger.
She rolls her eyes before meeting Neal's skeptical gaze. "Yes. My assistant is taking maternity leave in a couple of weeks. Even if she weren't, I could still use your help."
"Does... Peter know?" He doesn't want to see Peter now. Not until his heart scabs over. Ironic, because only an hour ago, he ached to see or talk to Peter again.
"It's none of his business," Elizabeth says, "what I or you do. Is it?"
"I guess not," he replies. Exhaustion drags at him. Maybe if he sleeps he could not think or feel anything for a while.
"Then you'll take the job?"
She's not going to take no for an answer, Neal realizes.
"I promise, I will work you until you collapse," Elizabeth adds. "I remember how it feels, even if I'm the one who did the leaving." Her eyes are sharp and knowing and filled with sympathy.
Neal summons a weak smile. "How can I say no?"
~*~
Mozzie means to hate Elizabeth Burke. It's simple; she's part of the life and people who have wounded his best friend. He won't hate her the way he hates Special Agent Peter Burke - he has every intention of wrecking that man starting with his career and continuing into every aspect of his life so that he ends up alone and hated by everyone in his pathetic existence, it's just going to take some time to orchestrate and he's currently preoccupied with keeping Neal from spiraling any further into the dark place - but it is necessary to hate her, since she's probably going to get caught in the collateral damage of whatever he does to Burke.
Even meeting her in person wouldn't change his mind, not even pleas and begging, but walking into Neal's loft and finding him there and not hiding from the world and himself in the studio does it. Neal, who makes looking terrible look good, has showered and shaved, dressed in something other than a paint-stained t-shirt and khakis, and there are dishes in the sink proving he ate, all without Mozzie forcing him. It's a sea change, and if the misery remains in his eyes, darkening the blue, at least Neal's coping again. Mozzie knows the pain won't disappear for a long time. He can live with it as long as Neal can.
The fear he's been carrying around in his gut lets go finally and he almost staggers.
"Ready to rejoin the world?" he asks, pretending a lack of concern.
"Elizabeth just hired me," Neal explains.
"Burke's wife?" Mozzie's horrified. The last thing Neal needs is Burke and his wife rubbing their happiness in his face.
"Ex," Neal says, with an air of melancholy, and adding, "Don't worry so much." Proving he did register Mozzie's concern the last couple weeks, which is frustrating and hopeful at the same time. "He didn't dump me to get her back."
"Oh."
He'll have to change his mind about Elizabeth Burke if she's been able to make this much difference in Neal with one visit and a job offer.
On the other hand, he adores June Ellington from the minute he meets her on the way up to Neal's loft and studio the first time. She's the epitome of class with a perfect soupçon of wickedness. Once the filthy feds return Neal's pictures, it isn't long before Mozzie and June have their heads together, planning Neal's future and, incidentally, Mozzie's as well.
June knows art, along with the art world, and she goes through Neal's paintings with bright eyes and soft sounds of approval.
"I knew I was right," she declares.
"He's amazing, isn't he?"
They both keep their eyes away from the portrait of Kate standing in one corner of the studio. It makes Mozzie miss his old protégée while reminding June of losing her Byron.
"Yes," she agrees, "and we're going to make him famous." June's eyes gleam and when she's done laying out her plans for Neal's career, Mozzie can only nod. It may be cynical to play on the drama and tragedy of Neal's relationship with Kate and her death, but they both know everyone will eat it up with a spoon. It won't hurt that Kate was beautiful and Neal's gorgeous. It's the art world after all: it is all about appearances.
"You would have made a great con," he tells her sincerely.
That makes June laugh. "My dear, what do you think the art world is but a big con?"
Mozzie switches his regular glasses for a set with heavier, black plastic frames and squints at June, donning an expression of squeezed annoyance that will be part of his newest persona. "My name is Robert French," he tells her. "I have the privilege of acting as Neal Caffrey's agent. I know you're going to be happy with my efforts too." From now on, anyone wanting to sell to June or a chance at buying or even displaying any of Byron's unsold works will have to deal with Mozzie.
Robert French that is.
If that means arranging and attending a showing for an up-and-coming artist that June has given her imprimatur to, they both know the cognoscente will bend over - forward or backward - to stay on her good side. After that, Neal's own talent will carry him.
June holds out her hand and lets Mozzie kiss it European-fashion.
"I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship," she says, laughing.
Now all they have to do is convince Neal. Mozzie admits Elizabeth is a great addition to their cabal when she bulldozes all of Neal's objections at one memorable breakfast.
Mozzie really could hate Elizabeth, if she wasn't so close to perfect, and instead, he ends up despising Peter Burke even more than he did before, now that he knows the man hurt her as well as Neal.
~*~
"He sent an invitation for me and Christie," Diana says. Peter doesn't pay any attention as he migrates between his office and the break room in search of enough caffeine to get him through the rest of the day. Diana's perched on the corner of Jones' desk, a file folder in one hand, talking idly while Jones runs a computer search. Peter would reprimand them, but Jones' attention is on his computer and he obviously is working and Diana is just as obviously waiting for him to finish. Agents are allowed to have friendly conversations while they work, even if Peter hasn't felt very friendly toward anyone in weeks.
"Got one too," Jones says absently.
Peter dismisses their conversation and passes them.
Diana has come around to the other side of Jones' desk and is reading over his shoulder when Peter returns, coffee mug in hand. "Black tie," Jones says. "More trouble than I want to go to just to see a bunch of paintings."
Peter slows, listening despite himself.
"Besides, I've seen all his paintings before they were returned."
"You just don't want to put on a tuxedo."
Diana glances at Peter and straightens, her expression becoming more solemn and professional, and asks, innocently, "So are you going to Neal's opening tomorrow night?"
His fingers tighten on his coffee mug - a real mug and not paper or it would be crushed - but Peter thinks he keeps his expression from giving too much away. "No."
No invitation, but he isn't going to explain that to his agents, or the reasons he decided to drive Neal away. He's deluding himself when he says 'decided'. Peter reacted at Adler's arrest and he's been too stubborn and frightened to examine his motives or admit he regrets anything since.
Elizabeth is right. He deserves to be alone.
Peter manages a polite nod for his two subordinates and continues back up to his own office, where the first thing he does is open his laptop and search out everything he can find on Neal's upcoming opening. It's enough to impress him; Mozzie and June have outdone themselves for Neal.
If the opening isn't a huge success, though, Peter thinks, Neal will be devastated. He won't turn to Mozzie or June, though, not after they've invested so much into it.
Peter can't name anyone Neal would turn to, except him, and he's removed himself.
There's no reason to think Neal will fail, of course. But Peter can't stop worrying over worst case scenarios.
No, the truth is, he can't stop worrying about, and caring about, Neal.
He tells himself to stop.
Twenty minutes before the end of the work day - and it's one of the quiet days no one ends up working late - he stops by Jones' desk and asks him for the invitation to Neal's art showing. Jones gives him a knowing look, but says nothing except, "Tell Neal congratulations from me."
~*~
He almost backs out at the last minute, but Peter's already in the monkey suit and knows that the longer he lets himself delay, the less likely he is to succeed. What he threw away won't be there to save much longer. If it still is. It's all on Neal now, unfair as that is. All Peter can do is lay himself out there, beg forgiveness, and let Neal make the decision.
If he has hope, it's because Neal has a generous heart. He forgave Kate, over and over, so Peter hopes Neal will give him another chance.
He'll beg if he needs to.
Up the steps, in through the doors, and presenting the hand written invitation to the gala opening for Neal Caffrey takes Peter maybe five minutes. The evidence of El's hand shines everywhere in the high-end gallery, from the warm lighting that mimics candlelight without a headache inducing flicker, to the omnipresent waiters and waitresses circulating unobtrusively with trays of champagne flutes and superb finger food to the live, classical music drifting through the rooms. Everything is superb, everything in perfect taste, every single aspect of the venue calculated to both give the attendees an exquisite experience and at the same time highlight and accentuate the quality of Neal's work.
The portrait of Kate reigns over everything, resting unframed and unadorned on a polished wooden easel and a wide, round, brown-veined marble plinth. Hidden lights illuminate her, so cleverly placed no one can throw a shadow over the painting, wherever or however they move. No one can pass by without stopping, not simply to stare or analyze, but in a nearly hypnotic fascination. The painting mesmerizes. It captures Kate Moreau, even some hint of her soul, and yet she's still an enigma holding out the promise that she could be known, if you only look long and hard enough. That... that was Kate. Neal is the only one who could have painted her like that and got her right.
Peter doesn't linger to look at her though.
Beyond the portrait, walking through rooms that display Neal's previous work, Peter hears snatches of talk. The story, elided and delicately spun, then propagated by word of mouth, has captured the minds and hearts - of those that have the latter - of the art world. Who doesn't love a tale of doomed and tragic love? The drama appeals, so do the illegalities and danger, and even Kate's absence is a plus, because anyone who looks at Neal and wants him can fantasize that they could have him without her in the way.
It isn't true, but the fantasy is still fun, Peter imagines. Of course, maybe he's harboring his own fantasy. Neal may punch him as soon as he sees him - another nugget of gossip for the gala - or, even if he lets Peter have his say, Neal may still just walk away. Peter really has no good excuse beyond cowardice.
Neal lost Kate to death. Peter drove Elizabeth away with his own mistakes. He doesn't get to compare their losses anymore. If he does, Neal should hit him.
He sees Diana and Christie through the crowd, both in formal cocktail gowns, Christie wearing red and Diana in something silky and saffron yellow, looking splendid. June is chatting with them, but Neal isn't there. Peter moves through the crowd, listening with half his attention to the uniformly approving and impressed chatter, while trying to find Neal among the press of people. He sees Elizabeth telling a waiter something that turns his face pale as paper. The sleek skirt of her deep blue gown provides a glimpse of leg when she turns away from her victim. She catches sight of Peter and, if anything, her expression becomes fiercer.
The waiter scurries away and Peter doesn't blame him. Elizabeth on a tear is a terror.
Finally, he finds Neal, lithe in a vintage black tuxedo complete with bow-tie and waistcoat, sandwiched between an art critic a full head shorter than him and a supermodel thin woman in four inch heels that make her taller than Neal and possibly taller than Peter. Neal is charming them both, laying it on thick, letting the woman hold on to his arm and the man rest a hand at his back. Peter would like to remove their hands, if not from their arms, at least from Neal's body. He breathes in deep and stuffs the jealousy and anger into a locked-box. Neal's a free agent and even if he weren't he isn't behaving any differently than Elizabeth sometimes does with demonstrative clients.
They pause in front of the picture of Adler, the one that makes Peter wonder what the man would think if he saw himself through Neal's work, since it wasn't among the pieces that were stolen. On the whole, Peter suspects Adler would be pleased with it; it's extraordinary art and if it highlights Adler's Machiavellian and venal sides, it also shows his intelligence, the force of personality, the ruthlessness and the charm. Adler's fist is closed around cherub-shaped key, vise-like.
"A modern day marauder," the critic says. "I believe you know him?"
"I worked for him, once," Neal replies, elusive as ever, "I'm not sure anyone could say they know him."
"The picture says it all."
"He looks fascinating," the model comments. "But isn't he in jail now?"
"That," Neal agrees. "He is."
Neal agreeably goes with the critic and the model until they're in front of the Kate portrait. Peter follows, unwilling to interrupt, hoping to catch Neal alone instead. Peter isn't sure if Neal sees him and chooses to ignore him or if the critic is important enough that Neal is too focused to notice him. One more penguin suit among the flock likely doesn't leap out and Neal has reason to be distracted. This is the most important night of his career.
"Amazing," the critic murmurs, sounding breathless. He lets go of Neal to step forward, nearly hypnotized by the painting.
The model scowls at the canvas and pigment. "You loved her," she accuses Neal playfully.
Amusement and melancholy color Neal's answer. "I did."
Proving she has some brains beneath the unreal red hair and avant-garde make-up, she glances at Neal and adds, "You hated her too."
Neal's mouth curves into a rueful smile. "I did. You see that?"
"Yes, and I can see you're in love with someone else." She leans close and presses a chaste kiss to Neal's cheek. "I need another drink and someone who will sleep with me tonight. Good luck with whoever it is and if you ever need a subject, remember me." She strides away in a flutter and swish of asymmetric, hand-painted sea foam satin that promises there is absolutely nothing between it and her skin where it bothers to actually cover said skin. An appreciative smile crosses Neal's face. Like Peter, he likes smart and beautiful.
The critic is lost in another world, studying Kate's image, so the coast is clear. Peter takes a place next to Neal and sees him startle subtly before recovering his aplomb. His voice isn't quite even. "Peter."
"Neal."
They stand shoulder to shoulder, Peter looking at Neal's handsome profile, until Neal finally gives him a sidelong look, barely turning his head. "I didn't think you'd come."
"You didn't send me an invitation."
That brings Neal around, brows drawn together, mouth opened in a nascent protest.
"Jones gave me his invite," Peter adds. "He sends his congratulations." He glances around again. Most of the paintings, except those reserved like Kate and Adler's portraits, have discreet markers next to them: sold. Despite Peter's worries, Neal's showing is a shining success. He should have known it would be, with June and El involved, along with Neal's talent. He adds, "You deserve this."
Neal doesn't demur. False modesty isn't one of Neal's flaws.
"Is that why you didn't send me an invitation?" Peter asks eventually, before admitting, "Because you deserved better than the way I acted?"
"You were supposed to get one." A lock of hair falls over Neal's eye as he shakes his head. "El and Moz did the invitations."
"That explains it." Peter suspects Neal's mysterious friend wouldn't, as Peter's Gran put it, cross the street to piss on him if he was on fire.
The critic turns back to them and physically recoils at Peter's stay-away glare. Neal ignores him, watching Peter intently now.
"Why did you come, Peter?" Neal's uncertain, his voice soft, and Peter thinks he's one wrong word away from bolting, one blow away from breaking, and curses himself.
He fears he'll say the wrong thing, imply something he doesn't mean, leave out what's critical, wound Neal again without meaning too. Wrapping Neal in a hug would be better, but not when he doesn't know if Neal would welcome it, not in the middle of his triumph. The last thing Peter wants is to chance ruining this for him.
Peter holds out his hand, fingers open, waiting for Neal to see. Neal looks bewildered, but sways closer, into Peter's space. Peter doesn't think Neal even knows what he's doing, but it makes hope come alive inside him. So close, Peter can pick out every tiny imperfection that makes Neal beautiful instead of plastic. He wants to smooth the pad of his thumb over Neal's cheekbone. He wants to rest his hand on the nape of Neal's neck and use its gentle weight to draw Neal to him.
Desperate, Peter waves his hand at Kate's picture to stop himself from touching and trying to take what Neal gave him before. He sees Neal realize what's gone, hears Neal's breathless, "You," and risks looking into his eyes again now that Neal gets it. Neal painted Kate to let her go. Peter did this, this small thing he should have done years ago, and definitely before he reached for Neal for the first time. He wonders if he somehow stopped breathing and didn't know it, because the wonder and forgiveness he finds in Neal's gaze loosens a tight knot in Peter's chest and he breathes out in relief that feels too big to be just from this moment.
Neal moves fast when he wants to. He catches Peter's gesturing hand and his fingers caress over the indentation left by Peter's wedding ring. The sensation makes Peter shudder with desire, desire Neal feels and recognizes too. Neal goes still, his pupils flaring huge and dark, and he inhales. The quiet sound of that tells Peter everything. "Yes?" he asks, to be sure though, because he's misread things with Neal more than once.
Neal's hand turns and clasps Peter's, warm dry palm pressing against Peter's, holding on tightly, and he gives a short, almost jerky nod. "Yes." The splint is gone; Neal's finger healed straight and strong again, flexing with the others.
Peter tugs Neal's hand. "Let's get out of here."
Neal doesn't shift, though Peter feels the shiver of want run through him. He shakes his head at Peter. "I'm not walking out on my gallery opening, Peter." He states it the way Peter would declare a case took priority.
Elizabeth told him, Peter realizes, more than once. His art fills the place in Neal that being an agent occupies in Peter.
He squeezes Neal's hand. "Okay. We're here for the long haul. If you want to, we'll be here until the cows come home."
Neal gives him a slightly disbelieving look. "The cows?" he repeats. A smile takes over his face. "You're so smooth."
A close-mouthed smile curls up the corners of Peter's mouth in response.
Peter sticks with Neal through the next hour, nodding when anyone asks who he is and Neal introduces him, but trying his best to fade into the background. Neal keeps him from succeeding most of the time, standing closer than casual, murmuring comments and asides about some of the art world mavens attending that have Peter swallowing guffaws, and never once letting go of his hand. Neal does everything except pin matching notes on their lapels saying 'together'.
Peter figures he is too damned lucky to believe and lets himself nudge Neal's shoulder, lean close, and go on holding Neal's hand.
Once, Neal even points out his old auction house boss, who has the gall to approach Neal.
"I didn't realize you knew June Ellington, Neal. If she's ever interested in moving any of her collection, we'd very much like to handle the sale."
Peter's amazed and kind of wants to punch the man, but Neal just answers serenely, "You'll need to speak with our agent, Mr. French."
"And who's this?" the man asks, looking over Peter and Neal's hands locked together with faint surprise.
Peter takes real pleasure in introducing himself and acquainting this jerk with a few facts. "I believe you met a ex-colleague of mine once. Fowler. He's no longer employed, though. I'm Special Agent Peter Burke, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Neal and I are together."
Neal turns to Peter, a question in his eyes, and whatever he finds in Peter's expression lights him from the inside. Neither of them pay any attention to Neal's old boss huffing and moving on.
"Who's French?" Peter asks when they're alone again.
"Mozzie." Neal answers but he's still, obviously, stuck on Peter acknowledging they're together. Peter realizes Neal expects absolutely nothing from his partners, nothing except eventual abandonment. Taking off the wedding ring showed Neal Peter had let go of dreaming of Elizabeth, but it hadn't told him Peter was committed to him. He's starting to see that Neal won't ask for what he needs, never mind what he wants.
"I'm not hiding who you are to me," Peter promises quietly.
"Oh." Neal pauses. "But your job."
"The FBI doesn't ask, because the FBI doesn't care." It's not totally true. Diana's faced plenty of shit over her orientation despite the official policies, and there are always the assholes that think two women together is hot but still object to two men, but Peter has enough seniority he isn't worried for himself. Hughes is a good boss and Diana's already done the hard work of being the first person out in the unit. Besides, "I'm not going to insult you or Diana by hiding or lying."
Neal's eyes widen. "Wow. That's... "
"What?"
"Really sexy," Neal whispers huskily.
Peter steals a quick kiss, because he can, smiling himself. He's damned glad he's always known he was bisexual. He isn't going to make Neal's life hell over worries about being called gay. At least there's one upside to being involved with Peter. "I'm proud of you. I'm proud to be with you."
"Really, really sexy," Neal repeats afterward, licking his lips, a flush coloring his cheekbones.
Well past two in the morning, the last guest totters out, leaving only the gallery staff, the caterers, June, Mozzie, El, Peter and Neal. Diana and Christie are long gone. Diana smirked at Peter when she saw him standing next to Neal, hand resting without thought at the small of Neal's back. She hugged Neal too. There was something whispered about a bet and Jones that Peter is certain he's better off not knowing. The words 'office betting pool' will make him blanch the rest of his life.
"I need to thank June before she goes home," Neal says.
Peter watches him go. Neal's doffed his coat, but left on his silk-backed waistcoat, though he's rolled his sleeves to his elbows and undone his tie. Peter wishes he'd been the one to do that. He watches Neal kiss June on both cheeks before offering her his arm and walking her to the door where her driver is waiting. She pats Neal's cheek and says something that has Neal laughing, the open collar of his shirt displaying the elegant line of his throat and jaw. Peter's mouth goes dry and he can't look away.
He snaps out of his reverie and finds himself being considered, not in a friendly fashion, by Neal's off the grid friend Mozzie, who is apparently styling himself Robert French, art agent, these days.
Mozzie straightens his silk cravat, heavy rings gleaming on his fingers, uses a silk handkerchief to polish the thick lenses of his black-framed glasses before putting them back on, and nods to himself.
"I will wreck you if you hurt him again," he states quite calmly. "And then your lovely ex-wife - you are an actual idiot, by the way - will really make you suffer."
"Believe him," Elizabeth says as she joins Mozzie.
"Of course," Peter agrees dryly.
"I always wanted a little brother," Elizabeth goes on. She's as beautiful as Peter has ever seen, glowing with the success of the event and happiness for Neal and a fierce protectiveness that once centered on Peter and their marriage. Neal has become hers in some way and Peter can't find it in him to be jealous. He can't find the ache and want he's felt toward Elizabeth since she left him either and it's a massive relief. His heart is his to give again; it always was, but he hadn't felt it before. Neal's not second best, the one he'll be with because he can't be with El; Neal's the only one Peter wants now.
He looks past El and smiles as Neal approaches them looking apprehensive along with tired and happy. He brightens as he meets Peter's gaze.
Elizabeth sweeps Neal into a tight hug immediately, dark head to dark head so alike they could be brother and sister, and Neal hugs her back blissfully, obviously soaking in the affection and support she's offering. It reminds Peter how little he knows about Neal's past, how much he has yet to learn about someone he loves. There will be time, though; he'll make it, for Neal. Strange to think, but he knows El will help; she'll keep him from forgetting and making the same mistakes he did with her.
"Well done, mon frère, well done," Mozzie declares once Elizabeth releases Neal, making Peter wonder again about all the things he doesn't know about Neal. How did Kate's sometime conman partner end up as Neal's best friend? Mozzie is a little more awkward than El but he folds Neal into an embrace that's obviously heartfelt.
Neal hugs Mozzie back without the thread of uncertainty that holds him back when he hugs Peter, sure of his welcome. Peter wants to blame Kate for that damage, but he thinks it's just part of Neal, how he was made well before Kate came into his life. Maybe she exacerbated Neal's fears, maybe she didn't, but she's gone, and Peter only made it worse. He'll have to work to convince Neal that he isn't going away again, but one day, he's going to make up for the mistakes he's made with Neal.
Neal lets go of Mozzie and the hesitation is there before Peter pulls him close, locking that lean warmth against him and holding on until Neal embraces him just as tightly. He understands how wired Neal's been only when he relaxes into Peter, ruffled hair silky against Peter's cheek. Peter rubs his face against it for a breath before Neal turns his head and kisses the line of his jaw.
"Get a room," Mozzie comments when Peter kisses Neal back, taking his time to do it thoroughly.
"Pay no attention to him," Elizabeth interrupts archly. "If I was still married to Peter, I'd be suggesting a threesome right now."
They ignore him, though Peter thinks the former is a great idea. His bedroom or Neal's loft, any place with the privacy to remove Neal's clothes piece by piece and press him down on clean sheets. Ignoring Elizabeth's risque comment is harder and Neal actually blushes. Peter rubs his back and gives Elizabeth a look telling her to stop teasing Neal, who isn't as familiar as Peter with her secretly raunchy sense of humor.
"Champagne?" El suggests, taking Peter's hint. "There are a couple bottles and some food left... "
Neal's stomach rumbles and he winces. Peter blinks and realizes how surreal their current situation is. He's just been kissing his boyfriend in front of his ex-wife, who wants to feed them all. It should be much more uncomfortable than it is. Neal's tense again and it isn't out of embarrassment because he's hungry.
"Did you eat anything today?" El demands.
"Too nervous." Nerves sound in Neal's voice right then too.
"Come on then." She waves them all toward the backrooms of the gallery, where the caterers are slowly packing up. Peter loops his arm around Neal's slim waist and, along with Mozzie, they follow.
Neal smiles as Elizabeth commandeers an open bottle of champagne, glasses, and a saran-covered plate of finger foods. Her hair has come down and she tucks it behind her ears, an old habit to keep it from tangling in her earrings.
"To a great success," she says.
They ring their glasses together and drink, then settle into eating and discussing how the showing went. Mozzie demanded a minimum of four figures for the larger canvases and got it for all of them. The offers for the Adler and Kate portraits edge higher. Mozzie looks smug and Neal keeps stopping and just smiling at everyone.
El kicks her high heels off and flexes her toes. It amuses Peter when he realizes Mozzie can't keep his eyes away from her. Neal leans against him, boneless and weary. Peter's getting the idea they may not be having hot sex when they get home - whichever home - because this showing has sapped even Neal's normally boundless energy. They work their way through the rest of the bottle and Neal's weight against his shoulder grows heavier and heavier, until Peter looks to the side and realizes Neal has slipped into sleep.
Peter picks up his glass and lifts it again, gathering Mozzie and El's attention with a simple look.
"To Neal Caffrey," he toasts softly and they join him.
~*~
Neal swings open the door to his loft and lets Peter follow him inside. It reminds him of the first night he followed Peter into his apartment. He pauses just inside and Peter crowds up behind him, one hand coming to rest on Neal's shoulder, the other on his hip.
Just to reassure himself, Neal turns his head and checks again that Peter's wedding ring is gone. It still doesn't seem real, the successful showing and then Peter appearing beside him, asking without words for Neal to accept him back.
Truthfully, Neal thinks he should tell Peter to go to hell. He isn't going to because he wants Peter here with him. It's a flaw in his personality, the same weakness for love that led him to taking Kate back over and over.
He'll give Peter this second chance.
Even as he leans back into Peter's arms, he's bracing himself, building new walls to protect himself if it all goes wrong. Not a good way to start a relationship.
"You get one more chance," Neal says. It's easier, not seeing Peter's face as he speaks.
Peter nuzzles against Neal's neck, making him shiver, and answers, "That's more than I deserve."
"You're my second chance too, I guess," Neal admits.
Peter kisses him with a dedicated care that melts Neal's doubts, a brush of lips and the rasp of stubble against Neal's chin, then his tongue delicately seeking a part in Neal's lips. The fabric of Peter's tuxedo jacket crumples under Neal's fingers. Peter pulls him in so close Neal's shirt studs dig into his sternum and Neal pulls away, laughing quietly, and rubs his chest.
Peter gets it, commenting, "Ow."
Neal smiles self-deprecatingly. "Yeah. You mind if we get undressed before this goes anywhere else?"
"As long as it's going to the bed eventually."
"Dog."
He begins stripping on the way to the high, luxurious bed he hasn't slept in for weeks. June's staff has been in, so he's sure the sheets are clean, though maybe stale by now. A soft rustle tells him Peter is undressing too. They should talk. Neal's too exhausted for that, he thinks. He takes off his cuff links - Byron's - and drops them onto the first flat surface. His waistcoat follows, then the shirt studs that derailed the kiss by the door.
Shirt, shoes, socks, undershirt, trousers, all gone, until Neal stands by the bed in his boxers, staring at Peter as he finishes undressing too. His gaze rests on that mole at the base of Peter's throat. Every time they've been in bed together, he's kissed it.
"Don't do that to me again," Neal blurts.
Peter pulls his undershirt over his head and gravely meets Neal's gaze across the bed, white cotton balled in his hands, fingers kneading. "Do you want me to promise?"
"Just don't." Neal doesn't believe in promises, not even from someone like Peter. He knows how intentions become corrupted.
"Okay," Peter says and tosses his undershirt away. "I shouldn't have acted the way I did, even if I wanted to end it. And I didn't, Neal - "
"Then why?"
Peter sits down on the edge of the bed. Neal stays on his side, on his feet, out of reach and well aware of it. This isn't when he meant to ask that question - he isn't sure he ever meant to ask - but it's out there now.
"It's not fair to say you scared me," Peter says while staring down at the coverlet. "You didn't. I scared me." He lifts his gaze. "Neal, I nearly shot to kill, I wanted Vincent Adler dead just because he'd threatened you."
"I don't understand."
"Everything I stand for, all the things I believe in... " Peter hesitates before finishing quietly, "I'd throw everything away for you. If you'd been running a con, I'd have let you go. I'd break rules for you I wouldn't have even for Elizabeth. If you ever break the law, I'll look the other way, I'll cover for you, I'll even run with you. I'd let you go if you didn't want me. All you need to do is ask."
Neal doesn't know what to say to that. It's so much more than he imagined Peter felt for him, but it's not entirely good. He doesn't want to be the guardian of Peter's morals. He doesn't want to be the reason Peter throws away any part of himself.
"I don't want you to do any of that," he says in a small voice. He gave Kate all that and it hurt. He doesn't want to hurt Peter.
"I know, Neal."
"Okay?"
Peter smiles and holds out his hand. Marshaling his confidence, Neal crawls onto the bed and takes Peter's warm, firm hand in his. He's about to wrap his arms around Peter when a yawn overtakes him.
Immediately, Peter stifles a yawn of his own. "I guess we can do the rest of this in the morning," Peter says with a hint of humor.
Neal isn't exactly a morning person, but he does like morning sex. He grins at Peter. "I'll hold you to that."
They pull each other in and down into a tangle of limbs and bare skin and comfort. Neal's filled with a hope, shining and delicate as a blown art glass ornament, that this time everything will be okay. Love is like glass too, paradoxically beautiful, brittle and enduring, forged in heat, and still fluid even when it appears solid. A sharp blow can shatter it, but remain faithful and with care it will last a lifetime.
He and Peter, they can remain faithful.
The End