Fic: The Mended Heart
Title: The Mended Heart, or Five Times Neal Cried Over Leaving New York
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Peter/El, Moz, Gordon Taylor
Spoilers: Judgment Day
Content Notice: Some frottage
Word Count: ~3600
Summary: He didn’t really have much choice, did he?
A/N: Fill for this prompt on the White Collar kink meme, calling for Neal crying on the plane at the end of Judgment Day.
----
On the Plane
Moz dropped Leilana onto his tray and slid into the seat next to Neal. Neal's eyes slid over to Moz, who gave him a crooked smile as he settled his seatbelt around his hips, then back out the window, watching the clouds pass as their plane continued to climb.
He closed his eyes, but the image of Peter on the stairs at the hearing, warning him off sprang up like some sort of afterimage. He knew; somehow, Peter knew what this would mean and he let Neal go. Neal did too, but he didn’t think it would hurt this much.
He felt so empty. Bereft. Peter and Elizabeth gone from his life so suddenly, irrevocably. With no chance to say goodbye.
The first tear that fell surprised him when it splashed on his hand. He didn’t much care, so he didn’t bother wiping away the others that leaked from his eyes. All Neal could think of was what he’d lost, what he would never be able to get back, and the unfairness of it all. Damn it, he was in - ready to stay, to make a life, a home in New York. He had a job he liked, people who loved and cherished him, a purpose. All gone. He closed his eyes and shook his head, could feel the tears running down his throat and soaking his collar.
“I’m sorry for you, man, I really am,” Moz said, reaching out and squeezing his hand where it rested on his tray. His voice was low, filled with kindness and understanding. “But Kramer left you with no other choice.”
Neal glanced at him, then went back to staring out the window. “I know.”
“You’ll see them again. Some day.”
Neal wished he could believe that. But he knew it could never be. Right now, all he could think about was what he’d lost, what had been taken from him, and the tears kept coming. They didn’t stop until they were somewhere over Greenland.
Empty Bed
It took three connecting flights, four trains and a taxi to get them there, but in the end Neal and Moz - correction: Victor and Bob - settled in to a rented villa just outside Nice that overlooked the Mediterranean. Moz was prattling on about reaching out to their new friend Gordon Taylor to ask him over for tea, and Neal could only just stare at him blankly. The headache that had been threatening since morning was swiftly becoming a throbbing migraine, and he just couldn’t take much more of Moz’s giddy enthusiasm.
“I think I’m going to call it an early night,” Neal said, standing.
Moz looked at him, a flash of worry clouding his face. “You OK? You’ve been quiet this evening.”
“Jet lag,” Neal said, and it wasn’t much of a lie - he was tired and he felt like he could sleep for days. In reality, he just wanted to be alone.
“I’ll see you in the morning, then. Sleep well.”
Neal nodded and headed for the stairs, moving slowly but barely registering the art and rich furnishings in the place. He headed straight for the bathroom in his suite, filled the tub, stripped, and sank into the steaming water, hoping to thaw the chill in his soul. He’d been on auto-pilot since their first plane had landed in Dusseldorf, following Moz’s lead, answering the questions put to him, joking when required, eating, drinking, sleeping.
But despite all outward appearances, he was largely numb inside. None of his interactions with people had even registered, and if pressed, he wasn’t sure if he could report if they’d arrived here on the train from Paris or Lyon.
He lay in the tub until the water cooled, rose and donned the robe that was waiting there for him. He padded into the bedroom, pulled the covers back and climbed in, leaning back against the pillows at the center of the bed. Automatically, instinctively, he curled up on his left side and snaked his arm under the pillow there. When he slept at the Burkes’, he always lay between them, with Elizabeth on his left and Peter behind him, stacked together like nesting spoons.
Suddenly, he felt a large weight on his chest at the realization that he would never sleep with them again, never feel Peter’s strong arms around his waist or Elizabeth’s soft breath against his skin. Pulling the pillow against his face, he began to cry into it, letting it muffle the sobs as he clutched for loved ones that were not there. After a few minutes, the fact the bedding smelled nothing like his lovers became too much for him. He got out of the bed and went out on the terrace, lay down in the chaise and stared out at the darkened sea.
It was a week before he was able to sleep in the bed at all.
One Year Later
Neal smiled his thanks at the bartender and carefully poured a measure of water into his glass of pastis. He raised an eyebrow as an elegantly manicured hand appeared from behind him and dropped an ice cube from the small bowl the barman had provided into the glass. “Thank you?” he said, turning to regard his new companion.
“Victor,” said Gordon Taylor, emphasizing the name as he always did; he made no secret of having no liking for it.
“Gordon,” Neal replied, his smile genuine. “What brings you up to Paris?”
“Bit of this, bit of that. Bobby said I’d find you here.”
“Did ‘Bobby’?” Neal said with a smile. Moz hated his new identity but there was nothing he could do about it. Gordon delighted in teasing him. A lot. Over the last year, Moz, wanting to keep his skills sharp, had managed to keep a toe in as an adjunct member of Taylor’s crew. The three had forged a friendship in that time, one that Neal enjoyed. “And what else did he say?”
“That you weren’t interested in the Duchamp job no matter what.”
Neal nodded slowly. “And you think you can change my mind?”
Gordon smiled that crooked smile of his. “I know I can. Dinner?”
Neal finished his drink and they decamped to a local bistro that was a favorite of Gordon’s. Neal ordered the roasted duck, Gordon the steak au poivre, and they shared a bottle of Bordeaux that was simply too good to be true. “This.” Neal held up his glass. “This is why I live in Paris.” His eyes went soft, thinking of Kate and the dreams they shared. “It’s a long way from St. Louis.”
Gordon laughed. “Yeah, sometimes I wonder whether that postman’s son from Cobham I was would recognize me today.”
“Cobham, eh?” Neal asked, sitting forward. “How far you’ve come.”
“And yet not all that far. I still miss that quiet life from time to time. I like to sit with the old duffers outside the post office by my house sometimes, listen to the town gossip. Feels like home to me.”
“I haven’t felt at home for a long, long time. Years.”
“I find that hard to believe. Moz told me you meant to stay in New York.”
“New York was… an experiment.” Neal felt a twinge of guilt denying what he had there, but he didn’t want to share that with Gordon, not yet - they weren’t that close as friends. Just then, the waiter arrived with their starters, halting that line of conversation.
They chatted easily through the meal, discussing news and current events, sharing stories of their first jobs as kids. Surprisingly, each of them had attempted the same thing - stealing from a bully - but each of their stories ended very differently.
“So the kid is just sitting on my chest, pounding on me,” Neal was saying, laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes. “And the teacher comes in the room and pulls us apart, and I get yelled at for causing a disruption.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’ve got blood pouring from my mouth and nose, and I got detention. But I tell you, it was a learning experience.”
“What did you learn?”
“Always have an exit strategy. Moz’ll say he taught me that, but I learned it when I was 9.”
Gordon chuckled and finished off the brandy in his glass, eyeing the maître d’, who was hovering nearby with his eyebrows raised; the restaurant was empty and they were the last patrons. “Speaking of exits, I think it’s time we were going.”
Neal glanced around and smiled. “I completely lost track of the time. It’s been a while since that happened.” Gordon motioned the waiter over so he could pay. “Thanks for finding me tonight and for having dinner with me,” Neal continued, “it was nice.”
“You never gave me an answer on the Duchamp.”
“I’ll take a pass.”
“You always take a pass. Have you done anything since you got away from the Feds?”
Neal shrugged. “I’ve lost the taste for it.” In truth, he couldn’t bear to disappoint Peter by taking up that life again. He was aware of the hypocrisy - a crime funded his life now - but it was a means to an end, and he was determined to lead the kind of life he’d passed up if he could.
They left the restaurant and walked up the narrow street toward the main road. Gordon stopped, faced Neal. “Here’s my car,” he said, indicating the Maserati parked at the curb. “Can I drop you at home?”
“Think I’ll walk, it’s a nice night. Thanks again for dinner.” He squeezed the other man warmly on the shoulder and began to walk up the street.
As he passed, Gordon took him by the elbow, stopping him. He turned. “Gordon,” he began, but the man used Neal's momentum against him and backed him up against the car. Suddenly, his hands were on Neal's face and in his hair, and he was kissing him, his lips sliding over Neal's, coaxing them open. And Neal was kissing him back, angling his head to the side, leaning into the other man, sliding a hand around his back. It had been so long since he’d been this close with a person. So damn long. And Neal wanted that closeness so badly, he could taste it in Gordon’s intensity, feel it as his own body reacted, heart pounding and blood racing. But something within him - something he wasn’t sure if he ought to applaud or curse - made him freeze. He stiffened in Gordon’s embrace.
Gordon broke the kiss. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.” He stood back, hands on Neal's chest. “I wish you did, too.”
“Gordon -“
“I get it Neal, I do. More than you think, actually.” He took Neal's right hand in both of his and squeezed it gently. “When that torch you’re carrying begins to sputter, give me a call, yeah?” He dropped Neal's hand, got in his car, and drove away.
Neal stood and watched as the car pulled out of sight, felt the tears he hadn’t allowed himself to shed for months finally coming. “Damn it,” he whispered, and began walking slowly towards his apartment in Montmartre.
Here it was, a year later and he still felt the pain of his separation from Peter and Elizabeth as acutely as that day on the plane out of New York. It was like a bruise he compulsively pressed on every single day, just to feel the pain. Moz accused him of torturing himself, but he looked on it as never giving up on the people he loved.
Except he had given up, hadn’t he? When Gordon had kissed him, he’d felt such a deep longing to be with him, it nearly stole his breath away. Was it his loneliness finally seeking an outlet, or was it something else? A sign that he’d begun to move on? The prospect actually scared him.
He passed a boulangerie in his neighborhood and lingered in the doorway - at this time of the night they were baking the bread for the next day, and he often stopped for a loaf fresh from the oven when he couldn’t sleep. The baker, a stocky man in his 50’s named Matthias, spotted him and came out to meet him. Matthias was a simple yet wise man who had befriended Neal when he’d first moved into the area. Neal was helping him to learn English, and Matthias invited him to play in pickup football matches in a nearby park on Sundays. They had been friendly for nearly five months.
“You are out late tonight,” Matthias observed in French, lighting a cigarette.
“Yes. I was with a friend.”
“Oh?” The inflection in Matthias’ voice implied he hoped Neal had been with a lover, but at Neal’s expression, Matthias’ own face fell. “No, of course not, Victor. No.” He shook his head, admonishing himself. Matthias knew that Neal had left loved ones behind, Neal had admitted as much; he just didn’t know the particulars. “I am sorry.”
“Don’t be, it’s a natural assumption.”
Matthias dragged on his cigarette thoughtfully before speaking again. “The heart never heals completely when it is broken. It mends, but it is never whole. This is a part of life.”
“Those are very wise words, Matthias.”
“I read them on a packet of cereal.”
Neal laughed and Matthias went inside to fetch him a fresh loaf of Pain d’Epi. “For your breakfast, my friend. Keep it in the paper - it’s still warm,” Matthias said, pressing the bread into Neal's hands.
“Thank you, it smells delicious. I should get going. Good night, Matthias.”
“Good night, Victor.”
Neal continued on his way towards his apartment, thinking about the truth in what Matthias had said. No, his heart would never heal, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted it to mend either.
Reunion
Neal climbed the four flights of stairs up to his apartment, Matthias’ bread under his arm. He was bone tired and longing for his bed. When he got to the door, he noticed it was ajar. He didn’t think it likely that Gordon would be there after the way they left things, and he knew that Moz was in Monte Carlo. Heart hammering in his chest, he propped his bread up against the wall in the hall and pushed the door open as silently as he could.
A man stood with his back to him, staring at a sketch of a nude Neal had been working on that sat on an easel near the terrace. “You have El down to a tee, including the birthmark on her thigh,” he said, turning around. “Why haven’t you drawn her face?”
“Peter!”
“Hey.”
“I don’t… I -“
Whatever Neal was going to say was forgotten as Peter strode across the room and gathered him into his arms. He raised his chin to speak again, but his words were swallowed by Peter’s mouth as he kissed him so deeply Neal literally could not breathe. He could feel himself growing dizzy, so he pulled away, gasping for breath. “Peter, I -“
“Say nothing. I’ve finally found you, and I really don’t want to talk right now.”
Peter kissed him again, and this time Neal returned his passion, sliding his arms around his back and grinding his hips against Peter’s. After a few minutes, he pulled away. “Bedroom?” he suggested, pulling at his tie. Peter could only nod; Neal took his hand and led the way. They were naked within seconds, lying on Neal’s bed kissing, Neal on top and grinding against Peter frantically.
“Hey, you can slow down,” Peter murmured, but Neal shook his head. He held Peter’s face between his hands, was kissing him hard enough to bruise, thrusting his hips against Peter’s, desperate for the warmth, the contact. He was aware of his urgency, the raw, unadulterated neediness, and he didn’t care. To have Peter here, in his arms, in his bed, in his life again was the answer to more prayers than he’d admit, even to himself. It was like the empty vessel he called his heart had finally been stoppered, and he could feel it filling, bit by bit. He knew it couldn’t last, knew he wasn’t that guy - the one who got what he wanted - but he was going to make the most of it while he could.
When he came, with one long, last thrust against Peter, the emotional turmoil of the last months found a voice. He sobbed as his body shuddered through his orgasm, collapsed on top of Peter and buried his face in his neck for a minute, crying, shaking. Peter wrapped his arms around him, making soothing noises, but soon embarrassment made Neal want to get away. He pushed himself up with his hands, but Peter stayed him with a hand on his hip, so he lay on his side next to his lover. “I’m sorry,” he sniffed, leaning his face against the bedding to absorb his tears. But they wouldn’t stop and he was self-conscious of them. He rolled onto his back and stared at the cracks in the ceiling.
Peter turned onto his side and ran a fingertip along his cheek, tracing the trail of a tear, catching it. “It’s OK. Whatever it is, it’ll be OK.”
“It won’t be, but thank you for saying so.” This was too good to last, and he knew it.
Peter drew him into his arms and pulled him back on top of him, cradling Neal’s head on his chest. He kissed the top of his head and Neal could feel his words rumble in his chest as he spoke. “We’ll make it OK. We found each other again, and that’s got to add up to something.”
As Neal let the strong beating of Peter’s heart lull him to sleep, he half believed it.
On the Mend
“Where are you going?”
Neal looked up, startled. He was packing his suitcase - just the essentials. “Away.”
“What? Why?” Peter threw the covers off and got out of bed.
“I would think that’s obvious. You found me. The FBI won’t be far behind.”
“You’re a bit outside their jurisdiction.”
“Are you telling me there’s not a price on my head? If you’re here, then people interested in making a buck off bringing me back will be soon enough.”
“What makes you say so?”
“Why would you be in Paris, Peter? They’ll use you to get to me, track you here.”
“I am here on business.”
“Forgive me if I doubt that. Why would the FBI send you to France?”
“I didn’t say I was here on FBI business.”
“What?”
“I no longer work for the FBI.”
“Peter, no. You - the FBI is your life, you can’t leave -“
“My life is the people I love,” Peter interrupted him. “The FBI forced me to make a choice, and I chose my family.”
“You can’t do this for me.”
“I did it for me. What Kramer did - the way the Bureau backed him up - that’s not the reason I joined, and it’s not the man I am. I quit the day after you left.”
Neal pushed his battered leather duffel to the floor and sat down heavily on the chair he’d propped it on. “I’m sorry, then.”
“For what?”
“For ruining your life. When I ran, I forced you to make that choice.” Neal dropped his head, guilt over Peter’s situation bringing tears again. To think he was responsible for Peter’s downfall was unbearable.
“Did you not hear a word I said?” Peter crossed the room and got to his knees in front of Neal. He reached up and took his chin in his hand. “I made that choice, I did. After what happened, I could no longer work for them and look myself in the mirror in the morning. They used you, Neal, used you badly, and I wasn’t going to be a part of that for anything, not anymore.” He leaned forward and kissed Neal lightly on the lips. “You’re too important.”
Neal closed his eyes and laid his head on Peter’s shoulder. “I don’t know what to say now.” This wasn’t happening - he didn’t get everything he ever wanted, he just plain didn’t.
“Say you’ll come with me to meet El for breakfast. If we don’t leave in fifteen minutes, we’ll be late.”
Neal sat up, smiling happily. “Elizabeth’s here too?”
“Of course. You don’t think I’d be looking for an apartment in Paris without her?”
“Apartment? Paris?”
“You’re looking at the new Chief Security Officer for Sterling Bosch Europe. We’re moving here in a month.”
Words failed Neal.
“Close your mouth,” Peter said, kissing him. “You are adorable when you’re befuddled.” He got up to go and use the bathroom.
“Well, you might have mentioned that last night.”
“You didn’t seem interested in personal news. You were a little intense, babe.”
Neal could feel his cheeks coloring. “About that - I’m sorry. I was feeling a little sorry for myself.”
“I could tell. We’ve got the rest of our lives to make you forget about it.”
Neal smiled again. He was looking forward to that.
----
Thank you for your time.
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Peter/El, Moz, Gordon Taylor
Spoilers: Judgment Day
Content Notice: Some frottage
Word Count: ~3600
Summary: He didn’t really have much choice, did he?
A/N: Fill for this prompt on the White Collar kink meme, calling for Neal crying on the plane at the end of Judgment Day.
----
On the Plane
Moz dropped Leilana onto his tray and slid into the seat next to Neal. Neal's eyes slid over to Moz, who gave him a crooked smile as he settled his seatbelt around his hips, then back out the window, watching the clouds pass as their plane continued to climb.
He closed his eyes, but the image of Peter on the stairs at the hearing, warning him off sprang up like some sort of afterimage. He knew; somehow, Peter knew what this would mean and he let Neal go. Neal did too, but he didn’t think it would hurt this much.
He felt so empty. Bereft. Peter and Elizabeth gone from his life so suddenly, irrevocably. With no chance to say goodbye.
The first tear that fell surprised him when it splashed on his hand. He didn’t much care, so he didn’t bother wiping away the others that leaked from his eyes. All Neal could think of was what he’d lost, what he would never be able to get back, and the unfairness of it all. Damn it, he was in - ready to stay, to make a life, a home in New York. He had a job he liked, people who loved and cherished him, a purpose. All gone. He closed his eyes and shook his head, could feel the tears running down his throat and soaking his collar.
“I’m sorry for you, man, I really am,” Moz said, reaching out and squeezing his hand where it rested on his tray. His voice was low, filled with kindness and understanding. “But Kramer left you with no other choice.”
Neal glanced at him, then went back to staring out the window. “I know.”
“You’ll see them again. Some day.”
Neal wished he could believe that. But he knew it could never be. Right now, all he could think about was what he’d lost, what had been taken from him, and the tears kept coming. They didn’t stop until they were somewhere over Greenland.
Empty Bed
It took three connecting flights, four trains and a taxi to get them there, but in the end Neal and Moz - correction: Victor and Bob - settled in to a rented villa just outside Nice that overlooked the Mediterranean. Moz was prattling on about reaching out to their new friend Gordon Taylor to ask him over for tea, and Neal could only just stare at him blankly. The headache that had been threatening since morning was swiftly becoming a throbbing migraine, and he just couldn’t take much more of Moz’s giddy enthusiasm.
“I think I’m going to call it an early night,” Neal said, standing.
Moz looked at him, a flash of worry clouding his face. “You OK? You’ve been quiet this evening.”
“Jet lag,” Neal said, and it wasn’t much of a lie - he was tired and he felt like he could sleep for days. In reality, he just wanted to be alone.
“I’ll see you in the morning, then. Sleep well.”
Neal nodded and headed for the stairs, moving slowly but barely registering the art and rich furnishings in the place. He headed straight for the bathroom in his suite, filled the tub, stripped, and sank into the steaming water, hoping to thaw the chill in his soul. He’d been on auto-pilot since their first plane had landed in Dusseldorf, following Moz’s lead, answering the questions put to him, joking when required, eating, drinking, sleeping.
But despite all outward appearances, he was largely numb inside. None of his interactions with people had even registered, and if pressed, he wasn’t sure if he could report if they’d arrived here on the train from Paris or Lyon.
He lay in the tub until the water cooled, rose and donned the robe that was waiting there for him. He padded into the bedroom, pulled the covers back and climbed in, leaning back against the pillows at the center of the bed. Automatically, instinctively, he curled up on his left side and snaked his arm under the pillow there. When he slept at the Burkes’, he always lay between them, with Elizabeth on his left and Peter behind him, stacked together like nesting spoons.
Suddenly, he felt a large weight on his chest at the realization that he would never sleep with them again, never feel Peter’s strong arms around his waist or Elizabeth’s soft breath against his skin. Pulling the pillow against his face, he began to cry into it, letting it muffle the sobs as he clutched for loved ones that were not there. After a few minutes, the fact the bedding smelled nothing like his lovers became too much for him. He got out of the bed and went out on the terrace, lay down in the chaise and stared out at the darkened sea.
It was a week before he was able to sleep in the bed at all.
One Year Later
Neal smiled his thanks at the bartender and carefully poured a measure of water into his glass of pastis. He raised an eyebrow as an elegantly manicured hand appeared from behind him and dropped an ice cube from the small bowl the barman had provided into the glass. “Thank you?” he said, turning to regard his new companion.
“Victor,” said Gordon Taylor, emphasizing the name as he always did; he made no secret of having no liking for it.
“Gordon,” Neal replied, his smile genuine. “What brings you up to Paris?”
“Bit of this, bit of that. Bobby said I’d find you here.”
“Did ‘Bobby’?” Neal said with a smile. Moz hated his new identity but there was nothing he could do about it. Gordon delighted in teasing him. A lot. Over the last year, Moz, wanting to keep his skills sharp, had managed to keep a toe in as an adjunct member of Taylor’s crew. The three had forged a friendship in that time, one that Neal enjoyed. “And what else did he say?”
“That you weren’t interested in the Duchamp job no matter what.”
Neal nodded slowly. “And you think you can change my mind?”
Gordon smiled that crooked smile of his. “I know I can. Dinner?”
Neal finished his drink and they decamped to a local bistro that was a favorite of Gordon’s. Neal ordered the roasted duck, Gordon the steak au poivre, and they shared a bottle of Bordeaux that was simply too good to be true. “This.” Neal held up his glass. “This is why I live in Paris.” His eyes went soft, thinking of Kate and the dreams they shared. “It’s a long way from St. Louis.”
Gordon laughed. “Yeah, sometimes I wonder whether that postman’s son from Cobham I was would recognize me today.”
“Cobham, eh?” Neal asked, sitting forward. “How far you’ve come.”
“And yet not all that far. I still miss that quiet life from time to time. I like to sit with the old duffers outside the post office by my house sometimes, listen to the town gossip. Feels like home to me.”
“I haven’t felt at home for a long, long time. Years.”
“I find that hard to believe. Moz told me you meant to stay in New York.”
“New York was… an experiment.” Neal felt a twinge of guilt denying what he had there, but he didn’t want to share that with Gordon, not yet - they weren’t that close as friends. Just then, the waiter arrived with their starters, halting that line of conversation.
They chatted easily through the meal, discussing news and current events, sharing stories of their first jobs as kids. Surprisingly, each of them had attempted the same thing - stealing from a bully - but each of their stories ended very differently.
“So the kid is just sitting on my chest, pounding on me,” Neal was saying, laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes. “And the teacher comes in the room and pulls us apart, and I get yelled at for causing a disruption.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’ve got blood pouring from my mouth and nose, and I got detention. But I tell you, it was a learning experience.”
“What did you learn?”
“Always have an exit strategy. Moz’ll say he taught me that, but I learned it when I was 9.”
Gordon chuckled and finished off the brandy in his glass, eyeing the maître d’, who was hovering nearby with his eyebrows raised; the restaurant was empty and they were the last patrons. “Speaking of exits, I think it’s time we were going.”
Neal glanced around and smiled. “I completely lost track of the time. It’s been a while since that happened.” Gordon motioned the waiter over so he could pay. “Thanks for finding me tonight and for having dinner with me,” Neal continued, “it was nice.”
“You never gave me an answer on the Duchamp.”
“I’ll take a pass.”
“You always take a pass. Have you done anything since you got away from the Feds?”
Neal shrugged. “I’ve lost the taste for it.” In truth, he couldn’t bear to disappoint Peter by taking up that life again. He was aware of the hypocrisy - a crime funded his life now - but it was a means to an end, and he was determined to lead the kind of life he’d passed up if he could.
They left the restaurant and walked up the narrow street toward the main road. Gordon stopped, faced Neal. “Here’s my car,” he said, indicating the Maserati parked at the curb. “Can I drop you at home?”
“Think I’ll walk, it’s a nice night. Thanks again for dinner.” He squeezed the other man warmly on the shoulder and began to walk up the street.
As he passed, Gordon took him by the elbow, stopping him. He turned. “Gordon,” he began, but the man used Neal's momentum against him and backed him up against the car. Suddenly, his hands were on Neal's face and in his hair, and he was kissing him, his lips sliding over Neal's, coaxing them open. And Neal was kissing him back, angling his head to the side, leaning into the other man, sliding a hand around his back. It had been so long since he’d been this close with a person. So damn long. And Neal wanted that closeness so badly, he could taste it in Gordon’s intensity, feel it as his own body reacted, heart pounding and blood racing. But something within him - something he wasn’t sure if he ought to applaud or curse - made him freeze. He stiffened in Gordon’s embrace.
Gordon broke the kiss. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.” He stood back, hands on Neal's chest. “I wish you did, too.”
“Gordon -“
“I get it Neal, I do. More than you think, actually.” He took Neal's right hand in both of his and squeezed it gently. “When that torch you’re carrying begins to sputter, give me a call, yeah?” He dropped Neal's hand, got in his car, and drove away.
Neal stood and watched as the car pulled out of sight, felt the tears he hadn’t allowed himself to shed for months finally coming. “Damn it,” he whispered, and began walking slowly towards his apartment in Montmartre.
Here it was, a year later and he still felt the pain of his separation from Peter and Elizabeth as acutely as that day on the plane out of New York. It was like a bruise he compulsively pressed on every single day, just to feel the pain. Moz accused him of torturing himself, but he looked on it as never giving up on the people he loved.
Except he had given up, hadn’t he? When Gordon had kissed him, he’d felt such a deep longing to be with him, it nearly stole his breath away. Was it his loneliness finally seeking an outlet, or was it something else? A sign that he’d begun to move on? The prospect actually scared him.
He passed a boulangerie in his neighborhood and lingered in the doorway - at this time of the night they were baking the bread for the next day, and he often stopped for a loaf fresh from the oven when he couldn’t sleep. The baker, a stocky man in his 50’s named Matthias, spotted him and came out to meet him. Matthias was a simple yet wise man who had befriended Neal when he’d first moved into the area. Neal was helping him to learn English, and Matthias invited him to play in pickup football matches in a nearby park on Sundays. They had been friendly for nearly five months.
“You are out late tonight,” Matthias observed in French, lighting a cigarette.
“Yes. I was with a friend.”
“Oh?” The inflection in Matthias’ voice implied he hoped Neal had been with a lover, but at Neal’s expression, Matthias’ own face fell. “No, of course not, Victor. No.” He shook his head, admonishing himself. Matthias knew that Neal had left loved ones behind, Neal had admitted as much; he just didn’t know the particulars. “I am sorry.”
“Don’t be, it’s a natural assumption.”
Matthias dragged on his cigarette thoughtfully before speaking again. “The heart never heals completely when it is broken. It mends, but it is never whole. This is a part of life.”
“Those are very wise words, Matthias.”
“I read them on a packet of cereal.”
Neal laughed and Matthias went inside to fetch him a fresh loaf of Pain d’Epi. “For your breakfast, my friend. Keep it in the paper - it’s still warm,” Matthias said, pressing the bread into Neal's hands.
“Thank you, it smells delicious. I should get going. Good night, Matthias.”
“Good night, Victor.”
Neal continued on his way towards his apartment, thinking about the truth in what Matthias had said. No, his heart would never heal, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted it to mend either.
Reunion
Neal climbed the four flights of stairs up to his apartment, Matthias’ bread under his arm. He was bone tired and longing for his bed. When he got to the door, he noticed it was ajar. He didn’t think it likely that Gordon would be there after the way they left things, and he knew that Moz was in Monte Carlo. Heart hammering in his chest, he propped his bread up against the wall in the hall and pushed the door open as silently as he could.
A man stood with his back to him, staring at a sketch of a nude Neal had been working on that sat on an easel near the terrace. “You have El down to a tee, including the birthmark on her thigh,” he said, turning around. “Why haven’t you drawn her face?”
“Peter!”
“Hey.”
“I don’t… I -“
Whatever Neal was going to say was forgotten as Peter strode across the room and gathered him into his arms. He raised his chin to speak again, but his words were swallowed by Peter’s mouth as he kissed him so deeply Neal literally could not breathe. He could feel himself growing dizzy, so he pulled away, gasping for breath. “Peter, I -“
“Say nothing. I’ve finally found you, and I really don’t want to talk right now.”
Peter kissed him again, and this time Neal returned his passion, sliding his arms around his back and grinding his hips against Peter’s. After a few minutes, he pulled away. “Bedroom?” he suggested, pulling at his tie. Peter could only nod; Neal took his hand and led the way. They were naked within seconds, lying on Neal’s bed kissing, Neal on top and grinding against Peter frantically.
“Hey, you can slow down,” Peter murmured, but Neal shook his head. He held Peter’s face between his hands, was kissing him hard enough to bruise, thrusting his hips against Peter’s, desperate for the warmth, the contact. He was aware of his urgency, the raw, unadulterated neediness, and he didn’t care. To have Peter here, in his arms, in his bed, in his life again was the answer to more prayers than he’d admit, even to himself. It was like the empty vessel he called his heart had finally been stoppered, and he could feel it filling, bit by bit. He knew it couldn’t last, knew he wasn’t that guy - the one who got what he wanted - but he was going to make the most of it while he could.
When he came, with one long, last thrust against Peter, the emotional turmoil of the last months found a voice. He sobbed as his body shuddered through his orgasm, collapsed on top of Peter and buried his face in his neck for a minute, crying, shaking. Peter wrapped his arms around him, making soothing noises, but soon embarrassment made Neal want to get away. He pushed himself up with his hands, but Peter stayed him with a hand on his hip, so he lay on his side next to his lover. “I’m sorry,” he sniffed, leaning his face against the bedding to absorb his tears. But they wouldn’t stop and he was self-conscious of them. He rolled onto his back and stared at the cracks in the ceiling.
Peter turned onto his side and ran a fingertip along his cheek, tracing the trail of a tear, catching it. “It’s OK. Whatever it is, it’ll be OK.”
“It won’t be, but thank you for saying so.” This was too good to last, and he knew it.
Peter drew him into his arms and pulled him back on top of him, cradling Neal’s head on his chest. He kissed the top of his head and Neal could feel his words rumble in his chest as he spoke. “We’ll make it OK. We found each other again, and that’s got to add up to something.”
As Neal let the strong beating of Peter’s heart lull him to sleep, he half believed it.
On the Mend
“Where are you going?”
Neal looked up, startled. He was packing his suitcase - just the essentials. “Away.”
“What? Why?” Peter threw the covers off and got out of bed.
“I would think that’s obvious. You found me. The FBI won’t be far behind.”
“You’re a bit outside their jurisdiction.”
“Are you telling me there’s not a price on my head? If you’re here, then people interested in making a buck off bringing me back will be soon enough.”
“What makes you say so?”
“Why would you be in Paris, Peter? They’ll use you to get to me, track you here.”
“I am here on business.”
“Forgive me if I doubt that. Why would the FBI send you to France?”
“I didn’t say I was here on FBI business.”
“What?”
“I no longer work for the FBI.”
“Peter, no. You - the FBI is your life, you can’t leave -“
“My life is the people I love,” Peter interrupted him. “The FBI forced me to make a choice, and I chose my family.”
“You can’t do this for me.”
“I did it for me. What Kramer did - the way the Bureau backed him up - that’s not the reason I joined, and it’s not the man I am. I quit the day after you left.”
Neal pushed his battered leather duffel to the floor and sat down heavily on the chair he’d propped it on. “I’m sorry, then.”
“For what?”
“For ruining your life. When I ran, I forced you to make that choice.” Neal dropped his head, guilt over Peter’s situation bringing tears again. To think he was responsible for Peter’s downfall was unbearable.
“Did you not hear a word I said?” Peter crossed the room and got to his knees in front of Neal. He reached up and took his chin in his hand. “I made that choice, I did. After what happened, I could no longer work for them and look myself in the mirror in the morning. They used you, Neal, used you badly, and I wasn’t going to be a part of that for anything, not anymore.” He leaned forward and kissed Neal lightly on the lips. “You’re too important.”
Neal closed his eyes and laid his head on Peter’s shoulder. “I don’t know what to say now.” This wasn’t happening - he didn’t get everything he ever wanted, he just plain didn’t.
“Say you’ll come with me to meet El for breakfast. If we don’t leave in fifteen minutes, we’ll be late.”
Neal sat up, smiling happily. “Elizabeth’s here too?”
“Of course. You don’t think I’d be looking for an apartment in Paris without her?”
“Apartment? Paris?”
“You’re looking at the new Chief Security Officer for Sterling Bosch Europe. We’re moving here in a month.”
Words failed Neal.
“Close your mouth,” Peter said, kissing him. “You are adorable when you’re befuddled.” He got up to go and use the bathroom.
“Well, you might have mentioned that last night.”
“You didn’t seem interested in personal news. You were a little intense, babe.”
Neal could feel his cheeks coloring. “About that - I’m sorry. I was feeling a little sorry for myself.”
“I could tell. We’ve got the rest of our lives to make you forget about it.”
Neal smiled again. He was looking forward to that.
----
Thank you for your time.