White Collar Fic: The Wicked Lies We Tell, Part 1
Title:The Wicked Lies We Tell, Part 1
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Peter
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: Themes of addiction
Word Count: 11,400
Summary: Peter can’t live without Neal.
Part 1 | Part 2
A/N: This is a continuation of a series begun by another writer, the super-talented dmk0064. Link to Master Post for the Empathia series
She invited other writers to explore a slash relationship in that ‘verse, and being a huge fan of her stories, I jumped at the chance. I only hope I’ve done her creation justice.
It is useful to have read the other stories, but for the purposes of this one, Neal possesses the powers of an “Empathia,” a supernatural entity within him that allows him to heal others’ physical injuries. This is a special talent, has gotten his sentence commuted, but is not without complications - “Empathia” are feared and reviled in society, much the way ex-conmen are. This story takes place in an AU where Season 3 never happens.
Title is a lyric from the song “The Space Between” by Dave Matthews Band. This fills the “addiction” square on my H/C Bingo card. Special thanks to elrhiarhodan and dmk0064 for the quick beta'ing.
----
Neal entered the conference room on Peter’s heels, glanced around the packed room and found a place along the back wall next to Schulte the new probie. The room was abuzz with speculation - an all-hands meeting had been called unexpectedly and all casework was to be put on hold, but no one seemed to know why.
The room quieted as Hughes entered, another agent accompanying him that Neal didn’t recognize. “Settle down,” Hughes muttered, taking a position at the front of the room and waiting for everyone’s full attention. Neal noticed a look of recognition pass between Peter and the newcomer and carefully kept his expression neutral when Peter glanced his way.
“I’ll get right down to it,” Hughes said without preamble. “The reason you’ve all been called together is that our division has been requested to assist with the security surrounding the upcoming G-20 Summit in New York.” He paused for a reaction, which of course he got. Most of the younger agents made excited noises, and Neal was himself intrigued by what it might mean.
“I’d like to introduce you all to Special Agent Philip Kramer, who has been named to the task force with the Secret Service and other agencies. He’ll be managing the Bureau’s resources and you’ll be getting your assignments from him.”
Special Agent Kramer - Peter’s mentor, Neal thought, and glanced over at his partner. Peter had an inscrutable expression on his face, but Neal knew him better than anyone, and could tell he was secretly pleased to see his old friend. Neal measured up the man in question, who had begun to discuss the particulars of the project at hand to the assembled agents.
When the meeting was concluded, Peter called Neal over to be introduced. “Neal, I’d like to introduce you to an old friend. Philip Kramer, please meet Neal Caffrey.”
“Agent Kramer, your reputation precedes you,” Neal said, standing with his hands clasped behind his back.
“As does yours, Mr. Caffrey.” Kramer held out a hand to Neal, who eyed it with surprise before shaking it; most people avoided touching him, as too much contact with an Empathia was supposed to be harmful. The fact that Kramer clearly didn’t care about the risks raised him a few notches in Neal's esteem. Still, Neal kept the contact brief out of respect for the elder agent.
“An interesting assignment for the head of the DC Art Crimes unit,” Neal said.
Kramer shrugged. “The Director commented on my attention to detail when assigning me.”
“Yeah, that and the fact you can actually put up with those Secret Service assholes,” Peter laughed.
Kramer joined in, and Neal smiled as the two men enjoyed each other’s company and the private jokes he neither got nor cared to; Kramer was a part of Peter’s past, and Neal was secure in his role in Peter’s future. As the two friends reminisced, Neal excused himself, but Kramer stopped him with a hand on his sleeve. “A word, if you please, Neal.”
Neal raised his eyebrows in anticipation.
“I wanted to be sure to speak with you about your role in the upcoming operation. We’ll have need of your special talents when the time comes.”
“Oh? I suppose if you need someone to pick the German’s Chancellor’s pocket, I could be your guy, but I am reformed these days.”
“I was referring to your other talents.”
Neal could feel a flicker of annoyance cross his features before he could control it. To be exploited because of his Empathia was a new thing to him, and still rankled. “Of course.”
“With that many world leaders in one place, not to mention the protestors and nutjobs that generally accompany these conference, the Secret Service likes to be prepared.”
“I thought the President had a personal Empathia on staff,” Peter said.
“He does, and so do most of the meeting’s attendees. It’s just as an added precaution, nothing to be too concerned about.”
“Of course not,” Neal said, plastering on a smile. “Just let me know where and when.” He took his leave of them and found his way back to his desk.
xXxXxXxXxXx
At the end of the day, Peter caught up to Neal as the former conman stood at the elevators, preparing to leave. “On your way?” he asked, making conversation. He had noted Neal's dark mood all afternoon and didn’t have to guess at its cause.
“Unless the President needs me,” Neal snarked, his smile not reaching his eyes.
“I’m heading uptown, want a ride?” Peter said.
“Think I’ll walk, but thanks.”
Peter shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
They and two others got onto the already half-full elevator and rode down in relative silence. All the other people got off the elevator except them, and they eyed each other until the door closed. Peter only managed a raised eyebrow before Neal was in his arms, his lips sliding over Peter’s urgently, intense, passionate. He stepped forward, guiding Neal against the wall and stopped the elevator between parking levels 2 and 3.
“I thought you were walking?” he said when he came up for air.
“Had to keep up appearances, didn’t I?” Neal pointed out, kissing him again. “Can’t have anyone thinking we’re an item, can we?”
“Goodness me, no,” Peter said, angling his head to the side so that Neal could suckle at the space just beneath his ear. Neal's hot breath on that spot made him weak in the knees.
Just about everything about Neal made him weak in the knees lately. Their partnership had eased into friendship so gradually, he shouldn’t have been surprised when it had, in time, blossomed into love. He fully admitted he hadn’t seen it happening, not until Elizabeth mentioned that his protectiveness of Neal had its origins in feelings beyond friendship, and suggested that they pursue a relationship. And when he’d finally admitted it to Neal, intending to feel him out about it, Neal had smiled.
”Oh. Yeah, OK. That makes sense now,” he had said.
“What? What makes sense?”
Neal merely slid over on the couch in his apartment, slid his hand around Peter’s neck, and kissed him. “What my heart was telling me,” he said with a small smile.
That was a short three months ago, but Peter already couldn’t imagine his life without Neal in it. “We should get going before I embarrass myself,” Peter breathed, reluctantly pulling away from Neal and hoping his suit jacket hid his raging hard-on. He noticed a flicker of disquiet cross the younger man’s face. “What is it?” He hit the button to start the elevator up again, but stayed in Neal's personal space, leaning in toward him.
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing - you’ve been moody all afternoon.”
“Well, what Kramer said earlier - or perhaps ‘assumed’ is a more apropos word - it really burned my cheese.”
Peter sighed as the elevator arrived on Parking Level 3. “I know, babe. I guess it’s your new reality though, isn’t it?”
“I suppose,” Neal responded glumly, walking slowly out of the elevator. “Just feels more like exploitation than a vocation most of the time.”
They’d been down this conversational road many times in the past, and Peter sympathized, but he had nothing constructive to add other than his assurances that Neal was truly appreciated. He rested his hand at the small of Neal's back as they made their way towards the Taurus and felt the younger man relax at his touch.
----
The G-20 Summit began two weeks later, and the days leading up to it were busier than Peter would have thought possible. The seemingly endless drills and background checks that had to be scheduled and analyzed made personal interaction nearly impossible, and Peter found himself missing the attentions of both his wife and his lover acutely. But at least he had Neal with him - or at least in his sight - every day.
The morning of the Summit dawned clear and crisp, a spectacular late October day. Peter glanced up from pouring himself a cup of coffee as Neal arrived for the day, earlier than nearly anyone else, a garment bag slung over his shoulder. “Going somewhere?”
Neal shrugged. “Last minute change in plans - they want the Empathia to stay in the same hotel as the delegates, even if we’re local. Upside is I get to stay in a suite at the Ritz Carlton.”
“And the downside?”
“I’ll be a virtual prisoner. Security’s as tight as a mosquito’s bunghole.”
“Colorful imagery.”
“Colorful times. How old is that coffee?”
By 9:00, the office was empty, and Peter was swept up in the whirlwind of activity that surrounded the event. At 2:00, he finally got a chance to take a breather, and sat in a staging area with a cup of coffee clutched between his hands.
“Doing all right, Boss?” Diana asked, looking pointedly at his hands.
Peter looked down and saw that his hands were shaking. “I feel fine - maybe just a little shaky. I haven’t eaten anything since dinner last night.”
Diana went off and found him a sandwich and he spent the rest of the day in a meeting with Hughes, Kramer and all the department heads that were supporting the Summit.
Peter woke early the next morning with a splitting headache and an ache in his muscles that made him groan when he sat up in bed.
“Something wrong, hon?” El asked, rising with him.
He stretched, but it did little to alleviate the ache. “Guess I overdid it yesterday. I hurt all over.”
“Are you coming down with something?” El put a hand to his forehead and frowned. “You don’t feel like you have a temperature. “
“Good, because now is not the time to get the flu.” He groaned once more and dragged himself to the shower.
By lunchtime, Peter felt a little better if more tired than usual, but when he got home late that night, he fell asleep on top of the covers without even changing out of his clothes.
xXxXxXxXxXx
Neal was bored.
Sure, four years in prison taught him new appreciation for that word, but sitting on-call as an Empathia to world leaders came in at a close second. He occupied himself the first day by sketching portraits of the meetings and people he’d seen until the Secret Service confiscated his papers in the interest of national security.
Now he spent his time observing the staffers among the various delegations, sussing out their tells, listening in when conversations floated his way, learning secrets, not missing anything. On the third day, he was standing alone at yet another cocktail reception, apart from the others, when he heard a step behind him.
“Not joining the party, Neal?” It was Kramer.
Neal turned his head. “Not feeling sociable at the moment.”
“I would think these types of gatherings would be right up your alley,” Kramer observed with a rheumy chuckle. “An enterprising social engineer such as you would be able to get into all kinds of things.”
Neal made a face but then covered with a winning smile. “Who’s to say I haven’t already?”
“What do you mean?”
“Things have a way of coming to the surface at gatherings like this. I observe, I absorb, I process.”
“And have you processed anything of value?”
Neal sipped at the vodka rocks he had been nursing and then pointed at a young woman across the room. “She is with the French delegation, but is secretly having an affair with that man over there, who heads up their security detail. It’s only interesting because she is also screwing the Italian foreign minister on the side.” He sipped again and turned, indicated a pair of middle-aged men chatting with a woman about their age. “The men are with the German delegation, the woman is Brazilian. They’re looking for a fourth for golf tomorrow.” He turned again and pointed at a young woman with his chin. “And she is the British Prime Minister’s personal Empathia. She’s very new, on the job less than a month, and they really need to review their security processes.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She’s already cloned the man’s cell phone and has been sending tidbits to a tabloid journalist back home. The Prime Minister can expect a few surprising stories to break as soon as this is all over.”
Kramer’s eyes widened and he rushed off to have a word with the head of British security. Neal watched him go with a neutral expression on his face.
He was still bored.
xXxXxXxXxXx
Peter sat at his station in the Command and Control Center, trying to concentrate on the reports he was reviewing. Though the conference was wrapping up that afternoon, it didn’t seem to have added up to any lessening of the workload, and he had a lot more reports piling up than he would have liked. His lack of productivity was certainly not helped by the flu he had been fighting for days, the symptoms of which simply refused to lessen regardless of the remedies he tried - OTC or otherwise. To compound matters, he had since that morning been feeling a low-level anxiety he couldn’t put a name to.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up and behind him - Diana stood there holding out a cup of tea, which he accepted gratefully. “Thanks, Di.”
“No problem - I know how it goes. I had that stomach thing during the Mancini trial last month.”
Peter flinched - she had looked like death warmed over at the time. “I hope I don’t look that bad,” he said ruefully.
Diana shrugged noncommittally, but she had a twinkle in her eye that told him he probably did. “You should take a couple days to recuperate after this - the old man won’t mind.”
“I hate to admit it, but I think I’ll take that advice.” He ran a hand across his forehead. “I’ve never felt like this in my life.”
“Well, this too shall pass, boss. I’ll see you later.”
Peter watched her go and returned to his work, but got no farther as his vision was beginning to blur as he looked at the computer monitor in front of him. He sighed and sat back in his chair, trying to ease the ache in his shoulders and back. He closed his eyes and felt the room tilt as he lost his orientation. Opening them again, everything righted itself, but the vertigo he’d just experienced was a new symptom. He rose from his station and headed for the men’s room, intending to splash some cold water on his face, and barely made it without passing out. He stood leaning on the sinks heavily, staring at himself - and realized he looked as bad as he’d feared; his face was drawn, pale, and his eyes seemed to have sunken into his skull, making him think of a Jack-o-lantern. He turned the water on and shoveled handfuls of it into his mouth, then wet a paper towel and used it to mop his face.
He was about to finally admit to himself that he should think about heading home when he heard a familiar voice coming from outside the men’s room.
“Hey, Diana, Peter around?”
It was Neal, and it was probably the beginnings of self-pity at how ill he was feeling, but suddenly Peter wanted to weep with relief that his lover had shown up. It was silly, really, a man his age so desperate to be coddled by someone, but he was alone in the room and he didn’t think he gained anything by lying to himself. He grabbed a stack of dry towels to dry his face, made a half-hearted attempt at straightening out his hair and his tie and headed for the door.
“There he is,” Neal said with a smile when Peter emerged.
“Hey, buddy,” Peter said, his voice a little shaky.
“You OK? You don’t look so hot.” Neal raised a hand as if to touch Peter, but forced himself to put it back down, mindful of the room full of FBI and Secret Service personnel behind them.
“I don’t feel so hot. Been fighting this flu.”
“Want me to drive you home?” Neal's voice was low as he took a step toward Peter, his blue eyes widened in concern.
“Maybe, in about an hour? I’ve got some stuff I ought to finish up.”
Neal nodded and followed Peter back to his station, taking a seat at the now-vacant desk next to his. Peter was certain it was all in his imagination, but it seemed like the fog in his brain was beginning to lift now that Neal was there. Before long, he was able to come to a point in his work where he could feel less guilty for calling out for the afternoon, and looked up at Neal, who was staring at him. “What?”
Neal gave him the smile he knew was reserved only for him, and lowered his lashes. “Nothing. I - well, I missed you,” he said, his voice a low murmur.
Peter couldn’t help but smile back. “Me too.”
“You ready to go? I should get you home to El.”
“She’s got an event tonight.”
“Even better - now I can have you to myself. Prepare to be coddled to death.” Neal stood and held out his hand for Peter’s keys.
“I can’t wait,” Peter replied, his mood brightening immediately.
----
It was a month later when Peter got a call from Kramer, requesting Neal's assistance on a case. “He’s not some trained dog to be trotted out for special occasions, Phil.” He couldn’t help but bristle; he knew well Kramer’s attitude about subordinates - they were little more than a tool in his belt.
“That’s hardly fair, Petey. Honestly, Neal impressed me when I worked with him at the Conference. Do you know he single-handedly uncovered a serious breach in the UK contingent’s security?”
Peter didn’t know because Neal hadn’t mentioned it, and he couldn’t suppress a stab of pride as Kramer related the information. “Fine, fine. Maybe you can borrow him - what’s the case?”
It was a doozey - and right up Neal's alley. A rash of very good counterfeit paintings had been showing up in DC galleries; all were reproductions of works known to have been stolen from other parts of the country. There was no discernible pattern - the works were by a wide variety of artists, and even where they were stolen shed no light - which made it all the more frustrating for the FBI.
Peter had to grudgingly admit it was a case where Neal's talents would certainly come in handy. “But I don’t know if I can spare him for long.”
“A week. If I can have him here for a week, I’m sure his input will prove invaluable.”
Peter had to reluctantly agree to the temporary reassignment, subject to Neal's agreement. As a consultant, it wasn’t as if Peter could order him to participate, but, “It would be good politics if you did,” Peter explained to him later at lunch.
A brief expression of distaste flashed across Neal's face that Peter did not miss; he could tell Neal didn’t like Kramer, even if he’d never said anything to him. “You say the case is juicy?” Neal prodded.
“Kramer’ll email you a synopsis if you agree. Come on, a week in DC - what’s not to love?”
“A week working with a bunch of narrow minded pricks who will keep checking for their wallets every time I walk by? Color me excited. How much art are we talking?”
“Kramer thinks it could be millions. A Dali showed up only last week, for example.”
Neal's left eyebrow reached for his hairline. “OK. But only as a favor to you.”
Peter smirked. “And not at all because you’ll be able to get your hands dirty with a nice art forgery?” Cases of this magnitude came about only every ten years or so, and Peter knew it would pique Neal's interest.
“Yeah. OK. Whatever,” Neal said, failing miserably not to appear excited.
Neal was on a train to Union Station Monday morning. By the middle of the next day, Peter noticed a tremor in his hands that abated if he concentrated and that he chalked up to low blood sugar. On Friday, a folder whacking him on the shoulder shook him out of a fugue as he sat in Hughes’ weekly staff meeting.
“Earth to Burke,” Ruiz muttered under his breath and Peter realized with a start that it was his turn to present.
Later that night, he sat on the edge of his side of the bed, and if Elizabeth hadn’t slipped her arms around his torso from behind, he realized he’d be sitting staring at the shoe he held in his right hand for who knew how much longer.
“Something wrong, hon? You’ve been quiet all week.”
He shook his head to clear it and smiled back at her, leaning over to kiss her. “Good. I’m good. I guess I’m just… tired lately. Been spacing out, feeling run-down.”
El frowned. “Huh… couldn’t be that flu you had last month - maybe we should make an appointment with Dr. Rand. You’re about due for your annual physical anyway, right?”
He smiled as she began to massage the muscles at the back of his neck for him, arching into her touch and moaning like Satchmo when someone scratched around his tail. “That’s probably not a bad idea,” he agreed and let her ease him back onto their bed.
The next day, he woke early with a splitting migraine and a low-grade sense of anxiety; he took so many Advil his stomach ached, but nothing would ease the throbbing in his head. At least it was Saturday and, even as El was leaving to see to a client’s wedding in Manhattan, he was relieved to be able to be alone.
He drew the blinds and the curtains shut and burrowed into the bed, the duvet and pillows pulled over his head. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there - hoping and praying for sleep that stubbornly refused to come. Any movement was agony, and the few times he got up to use the bathroom or to get a glass of water, he felt like he might pass out from the dizziness that assailed him almost as soon as he was upright.
He found his thoughts straying more often to Neal’s absence that week. Perhaps more importantly, he found he missed his lover more acutely than he would have thought, more than when Elizabeth went on business trips. Perhaps it was because their romance was so new, but he was still at a bit of a loss as to why. Logically, he knew Neal would return soon enough, but his impatience about it, and something he could only give the name “angst” to were new to him and, he knew, out of character. He tossed and turned, trying to put such thoughts out of his head as well as to find a comfortable position to lie in.
The slight depression of the bed as someone sat on it behind him was Peter’s first clue that he’d fallen asleep. He stirred when he felt a hand rest on his shoulder.
“Hey, it’s me,” Neal said, his voice pitched low. “El said you had a migraine and that I ought to come and check in on you.”
The sound of Neal's voice was like a balm to his frazzled nerves. Peter fumbled to push the covers down and Neal assisted. “You’re home,” he said, blinking up at Neal.
Neal smiled kindly. “Well, yeah - you knew I’d only be gone a week.”
“And you’re here.” Peter felt relief spreading in his gut, soothing the pain and, yes, fear that had lodged there. The feeling was so sudden, the relief so complete, that it almost felt euphoric - it was the only word he had for it. He reached out for Neal, and when he took Peter’s hand, a similar feeling spread from that point of contact, up Peter’s outstretched arm and into his chest, energizing him. He sat up suddenly, and reached for Neal. “I’m so happy to see you.”
Happy. Yes, happiness was exactly what he was feeling. Pure happiness.
“Me too,” Neal said with a slight laugh, leaning forward to meet Peter.
“You smell so good,” Peter said, burying his face in Neal's neck, and he did - like home, and love, and comfort, and joy. Peter pulled him closer and kissed his throat, worked his way along Neal's jaw until he reached his ear, which he began to suck.
Neal squirmed away, his hands on Peter’s sides. “Hey, come on, plenty of time for that later. You’re sick.”
“I feel better, actually. I guess that nap really helped.”
The sudden clarity in his mind was astounding - almost dizzying, but not in the vertiginous and sickly way his migraine had affected him. He felt light, giddy. He moved his head to kiss Neal on the mouth; Neal’s lips parted for him and his tongue was soon brushing against Peter’s, against his teeth. Neal moaned softly, a sound that sent a white-hot stab of desire to pool somewhere south of Peter’s gut.
He let his hand trail down Neal's chest to rest on his belt, and he tugged at the buckle suggestively. “Come on, I really missed you.”
Neal rested his hand atop Peter’s and nonticed his erection, which was currently tenting his pajama pants. “Well, OK, but not like this. Not here. I’m not gonna - not in El’s bed. It’s not - it’s not right.”
“You know we have her blessing.”
Neal shook his head. “Your wife being OK with our relationship and us making love in the bed you both share are two separate things, Peter. You know I can’t.” Neal shook his head a little, giving Peter an odd look.
Ignoring him, Peter swung his legs out of the bed and stood, grabbing Neal's hand. “We’ve got two guest rooms,” he said, and pulled Neal to his feet.
They weren’t two feet out of the room before Peter stopped, turned and began kissing Neal until they were both breathless. He took steps backwards, leading them down the hall.
Neal broke the kiss, pushed Peter away slightly with two hands on his chest. “Peter, what’s gotten into you? To hear El tell it, you were at death’s door only this morning.”
“I’m fine now. Never better.” And it was true. He found himself savoring the sudden absence of pain - it was almost intoxicating. He nudged the guest room door open with his hip and pulled Neal with him. Dropping to his knees, he quickly undid Neal's pants and took him into his mouth. “I’ve been waiting for this all week,” he murmured as he kissed his way up and down the shaft.
“Me too. God, Peter, don’t stop!” Neal murmured, all reluctance melting away.
Peter sucked Neal for a few more minutes, then sat back on his heels and looked up at him. “Bed?”
They were both naked in seconds, grinding against each other on top of the guest room bed’s coverlet, when a sudden urge took him over and Peter found himself looking at Neal with lust-drunk eyes. “Neal, I want - I want you to fuck me,” he whispered against Neal's mouth.
“Uh, what?”
Now that he’d said it, he never wanted it more. “I want to feel you inside me. I need it.”
“Have - have you ever done that before?”
Peter didn’t understand Neal's hesitation. He rolled onto his back and pulled Neal with him, kissing him as he spoke, reveling in the feel of his weight on top of him, the hardness of him pressed against his belly. “Does it matter? Can’t we switch things up?”
“Of course, but… are you sure?”
As much as Peter loved making love to Neal, the thought of being on the receiving end, of possessing him fully in this way, was the most perfect thing he could think of. “I’ve never been so sure of anything,” he breathed, opening his legs and pulling Neal in closer, wrapping him up with his entire body and basking in the sensation of his smooth skin against his fevered flesh.
xXxXxXxXxXx
Neal lay horizontally across the guest room bed, Peter sprawled bonelessly beside him with his leg draped over him, sweat cooling on their bodies. Peter’s breathing had evened out considerably, and Neal knew he had fallen asleep. He pressed his lips against his head, and breathed in his scent, taking pleasure in it.
But the momentary buzz of post-coital satisfaction quickly faded as he began to process exactly what had happened this afternoon. Peter - usually so confident, assertive and, yes, toppy - seemed to have suddenly become something else: needy, pliant, clingy.
What did it mean? What could it mean?
He could flatter himself and say that it was because Peter had missed him so much. Neal certainly had missed Peter the entire week he was gone. But was there something more? Something insidious?
They said that those bonded with Empathia became addicted to them, but how that reliance manifested, if it did, Neal never knew, nor could he even believe it. It was the stuff of old wives’ tales, legends handed down by the ignorant to foment prejudice and hatred. Wasn’t it?
His grandfather had died when he was very small, so he never knew how he and his grandmother had behaved when apart. Had it hurt him to be parted from her? Did he go through any kind of withdrawal?
Peter certainly showed none of the classic signs of addiction Neal was familiar with - mood swings, irritability, anxiety, euphoria. Had they been together long enough for such a bond, if it existed, to even form?
Neal didn’t know, and he frankly didn’t want to think about it. He could research it - something inside him told him it’d be the responsible thing to do - but the selfish part of him didn’t really want to. He liked being with Peter, he loved Peter, he needed him - would the Empathia inside him have to ruin that too?
xXxXxXxXxXx
“You’re what?” Peter wasn’t sure he could believe his ears.
“I’m forming a task force to hunt down these art forgers, and I’d like to invite Neal to take part,” Kramer was saying, his voice tinny as it projected from the speaker of Peter’s desk phone two weeks later.
Peter snatched the receiver out of its cradle. “What for?” Peter flinched, realizing how rude he sounded, but he really couldn’t help it.
“For his insights, his skills. That young man impressed more than just me when he was down here last month, Petey, and I honestly think he advanced our investigation by leaps and bounds. He’s talented - and you know how much I like talented.”
Peter cringed. He knew well how Kramer liked to gather talent around him - had seen it from the inside. The problem was that working for him could become almost like a prison sentence for some - Art Crimes, though well-respected, offered less opportunities for advancement than would have been thought by anyone on the outside, and Peter had realized that early on. And Phil Kramer, though a well-respected and learned agent, was more a consumer of young talent than a nurturer. He didn’t think Neal could resist the opportunity to work some interesting cases, but he knew he wouldn’t thrive there either.
“He’s not on the anklet anymore, right? Not since his Empathia origins became known. I’d think he was free to make this decision.”
“You would be right,” Peter responded, hedging. He shook his head - why was he so opposed to this? It would surely be an opportunity for Neal, whose dedication to a future at the Bureau was never in doubt.
“It would be for the good of the Bureau,” Phil was saying, Peter realized as his attention was drawn back to the conversation at hand.
Peter rolled his eyes. “Fine, I’ll ask him.”
----
“A task force? Me?”
“You’ve impressed a lot of people.”
“Well, they didn’t impress me. Kramer’s team is insular and not half as clever as they pretend.”
“Then you’ll just have to show them all up, won’t you?” Peter said, and couldn’t keep the pride from his voice despite not wanting to do without him. “Neal, come on, this could be a landmark investigation. You could make your bones with this.”
“I don’t need bones, I need to stay in New York.”
“That’s your answer, then?” Peter tried to keep his voice even.
“You sound like you want me to go.”
Peter was a better actor than he thought - he didn’t want Neal to go, not at all. “I want you to do what you want to do. A case like this looks good on an agent’s jacket.”
“I’m not an agent,” Neal pointed out, but Peter kept looking at him. “Are you telling me I have a chance to join the Bureau as a full-fledged agent?”
“You’d have to go through the Academy, but a recommendation from Phil Kramer can go a long way.”
“And he’s told you this?”
I told him that, Peter thought, but didn’t elaborate, merely giving Neal a raised eyebrow.
“You sure you can do without me?” Neal asked, looking uneasy.
Peter was grateful the door was closed. He leaned across his desk, keeping his voice pitched so only Neal could hear him, and left the neediness he was feeling out of his tone. “I’ll miss you like hell, but this is a good opportunity, Neal.”
Neal stared into Peter’s eyes for fully a minute, nearly long enough to be unsettling. What he was looking for, Peter didn’t know, and when he spoke, he still didn’t seem very convinced. “I’ll do it, but only because it’s to finish what I already started last time.”
“Aces!” Peter said, smiling so broadly it made his eyes crinkle, but only so that he could hide the sudden tears that sprang up.
xXxXxXxXxXx
It took Peter another week of Neal being in DC - for the migraines and shakes and anxiety to recur - for him to finally realize why it was happening. It took two seconds in Neal's presence when he came home the first weekend - the touch of his hand that wiped all of his pain and exhaustion away - to confirm it.
Peter was addicted to Neal.
This was no prejudice and ignorance wrapped up in an old wives’ tale, as Peter had originally thought; this was real. What was said - what was feared - about prolonged, repeated physical exposure to a person with an Empathia within him had turned out to be true. Being away from Neal was making Peter sick.
Knowing it somehow made him feel better about it - he could endure it for the time being, if it meant that Neal could be allowed to shine. If it gave Neal the opportunity to prove to everyone who didn’t know - everyone who had written him off because he was a conman, or an Empathia, or both - how smart and valuable he was to the FBI.
What he didn’t know almost killed him.
He didn’t mention what he suspected to Neal or Elizabeth; he didn’t want to worry them. Who was he, after all, to complain? Neal returned each Friday night for the weekend - Peter could endure a few symptoms until then, couldn’t he? If their situations were switched, there was a time he’d have admonished Neal to “cowboy up,” right? So what if he felt like weeping every day he woke up, so bereft was he to face a day without Neal in it. So what if the pain in his head was a near constant, living thing, only varying in degree and intensity of pain.
So Peter reasoned he could cowboy up for five days out of the week. Hell, the headaches were almost bearable the first two days, so it was more like three when all was said and done. He swallowed his fear and he told himself it could work, until it didn’t any longer, and a chain of normal events nearly cost him everything.
Friday morning, a call came from Neal; they’d caught a break in the case and he was heading up to Boston for the weekend with Kramer to pursue a lead. Peter sighed and wished him luck, more disappointed not to be seeing Neal than anything. He ignored the shaking in his hands as he hung up the phone. Later in the afternoon, a call came from El, who’d been in the Hamptons for a meeting - her client invited her to stay the weekend, and did he mind? She’d have a great chance to network with a laundry list of potential new clients, would he be terribly disappointed if she stayed?
“Well, I’ll miss you, but you should stay - you’ll have fun.”
“Thanks for being understanding, hon. And now you and Neal will have the whole weekend ahead of you - that’ll be nice, right?”
He didn’t tell her Neal would not be coming home - he didn’t want her to miss out on a business opportunity because he was going to be alone.
Since it was a Friday in the summer in New York, most of the office was deserted by 3:00, which meant that Peter leaving early was barely noticed. He was beginning to feel the now-familiar itch beneath his skin that heralded the more severe symptoms of his withdrawal, and he would just as soon be at home before the migraine hit. He was home and in sweats by 4:00, watching afternoon chat shows and holding his glass of iced tea to his temple when his phone chimed - a text from Neal. He still felt bad for missing out on the weekend, and he was clearly in need of a minor bitch session about Kramer, who could be even more of a stickler for procedure than Peter was. Peter smiled thinly as he texted back and pretended that just this bit of contact with Neal made him feel better.
He ordered Chinese and called it an early night, chatting briefly with his wife before finally falling asleep at 9:00 with the telltale tightness beginning along the back of his skull. The throbbing of the migraine woke him around 4:00 am, and he barely made it to the bathroom to vomit up whatever remained in his stomach. It made him feel momentarily better, so he padded down the stairs to make some coffee. He had some of the migraine meds he’d asked the doctor for on his last visit on hand and popped two of them, hoping that those and the caffeine would get him through the day.
He took it easy on himself all day, kept the curtains drawn and caught up on all the episodes of Mythbusters he had on TiVo, and even took Satchmo out for a walk around sunset. Throughout the day, he heard from both his wife and his lover several times, and nearly forgot about his symptoms.
When Peter woke Sunday morning, however, he could barely move. His limbs felt leaden and his head felt like it had swollen to twice its normal size. It took all his energy and concentration to make it to the bathroom to empty his bladder, and the journey back to the bed was a lesson in stamina. He would never be so grateful he’d let Elizabeth talk him into getting a doggy door for Satchmo. He’d thankfully left the migraine meds beside the bed the night before so he took them; when they hadn’t taken the edge off in an hour, he took some more. At one point, he fell back to sleep, and when he woke again, the shadows in the room had lengthened. He glanced at the bedside clock and it read 6:15 - he’d slept the entire day.
He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, contemplating the need to get back to the bathroom. But he felt so weak, he didn’t think he could get out of bed, let alone make it across the room and down the hall. He thought belatedly of his cell phone, and realized he’d left it charging on the kitchen counter. A wet snuffling under his elbow made him turn his head - Satchmo had sensed he had awakened, and wanted attention. Peter held out a shaking hand and the dog stuck his head under it. Peter rubbed the dog’s ears weakly, but then he lost his energy and his hand just fell away. Satchmo nosed at his hand again, but Peter couldn’t summon the will to move.
Peter tried not to panic. This sensation was strange, like paralysis, but not; he was conscious but his awareness felt odd, somehow: borrowed, like he was observing himself. His muscles felt too heavy; moving felt like struggling through sand or something thick, like molasses. It was not unlike a dream he used to have when he was a teenager, one where he was lying prone on the floor and no one noticed him. He could never move in those dreams, couldn’t speak, even though he was conscious - friends and family would just ignore him, step over him as they went about their business.
A loud noise downstairs startled him and he realized he’d fallen asleep again. “I’m home!” Elizabeth called cheerfully, and he could hear her heels walk down the hallway toward the kitchen.
“Thank God,” Peter said, his voice sounding like a moan. Satchmo whined at him at his shoulder. “Satch,” he said softly. “Go get Mama.”
Satchmo marched on his front paws and then snuffled at Peter’s hand again; he clearly didn’t want to leave Peter alone, even with El home. Peter’d be touched at the loyalty of Man’s Best Friend if he didn’t want him to go bounding from the room in search of treats or walkies like he always did. “Go get Mama, buddy - go on!”
Satchmo made a gruff little woof and then trotted out of the room.
“Peter?” El said as she entered the room, Satchmo preceding her to the bed. She came to his side and sat on the edge of the bed. “Honey, what is it?”
“El,” he began, but his speech was suddenly sluggish, hard to get out. He wondered if he was having a stroke. “Help me.”
“Peter?!” she repeated, her voice taking on a sharp note of fear. She ran her hands over him, felt his pulse, his forehead. “Tell me what’s wrong? How long have you been like this?”
“Since this morning,” he said slowly around a growing breathlessness; it felt like his lungs had forgotten how to breathe.
“Honey, I don’t like this, I’m calling 911.”
He tried to nod, agreeing. He suddenly felt foolish for trying to deal with this alone. But before Elizabeth could pick up the phone, he managed with difficulty to grab her wrist with his left hand. “Call Neal first,” he said urgently, “I need Neal to fix it.”
Nodding, El hit the speed dial.
Part 2
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Peter
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: Themes of addiction
Word Count: 11,400
Summary: Peter can’t live without Neal.
Part 1 | Part 2
A/N: This is a continuation of a series begun by another writer, the super-talented dmk0064. Link to Master Post for the Empathia series
She invited other writers to explore a slash relationship in that ‘verse, and being a huge fan of her stories, I jumped at the chance. I only hope I’ve done her creation justice.
It is useful to have read the other stories, but for the purposes of this one, Neal possesses the powers of an “Empathia,” a supernatural entity within him that allows him to heal others’ physical injuries. This is a special talent, has gotten his sentence commuted, but is not without complications - “Empathia” are feared and reviled in society, much the way ex-conmen are. This story takes place in an AU where Season 3 never happens.
Title is a lyric from the song “The Space Between” by Dave Matthews Band. This fills the “addiction” square on my H/C Bingo card. Special thanks to elrhiarhodan and dmk0064 for the quick beta'ing.
----
Neal entered the conference room on Peter’s heels, glanced around the packed room and found a place along the back wall next to Schulte the new probie. The room was abuzz with speculation - an all-hands meeting had been called unexpectedly and all casework was to be put on hold, but no one seemed to know why.
The room quieted as Hughes entered, another agent accompanying him that Neal didn’t recognize. “Settle down,” Hughes muttered, taking a position at the front of the room and waiting for everyone’s full attention. Neal noticed a look of recognition pass between Peter and the newcomer and carefully kept his expression neutral when Peter glanced his way.
“I’ll get right down to it,” Hughes said without preamble. “The reason you’ve all been called together is that our division has been requested to assist with the security surrounding the upcoming G-20 Summit in New York.” He paused for a reaction, which of course he got. Most of the younger agents made excited noises, and Neal was himself intrigued by what it might mean.
“I’d like to introduce you all to Special Agent Philip Kramer, who has been named to the task force with the Secret Service and other agencies. He’ll be managing the Bureau’s resources and you’ll be getting your assignments from him.”
Special Agent Kramer - Peter’s mentor, Neal thought, and glanced over at his partner. Peter had an inscrutable expression on his face, but Neal knew him better than anyone, and could tell he was secretly pleased to see his old friend. Neal measured up the man in question, who had begun to discuss the particulars of the project at hand to the assembled agents.
When the meeting was concluded, Peter called Neal over to be introduced. “Neal, I’d like to introduce you to an old friend. Philip Kramer, please meet Neal Caffrey.”
“Agent Kramer, your reputation precedes you,” Neal said, standing with his hands clasped behind his back.
“As does yours, Mr. Caffrey.” Kramer held out a hand to Neal, who eyed it with surprise before shaking it; most people avoided touching him, as too much contact with an Empathia was supposed to be harmful. The fact that Kramer clearly didn’t care about the risks raised him a few notches in Neal's esteem. Still, Neal kept the contact brief out of respect for the elder agent.
“An interesting assignment for the head of the DC Art Crimes unit,” Neal said.
Kramer shrugged. “The Director commented on my attention to detail when assigning me.”
“Yeah, that and the fact you can actually put up with those Secret Service assholes,” Peter laughed.
Kramer joined in, and Neal smiled as the two men enjoyed each other’s company and the private jokes he neither got nor cared to; Kramer was a part of Peter’s past, and Neal was secure in his role in Peter’s future. As the two friends reminisced, Neal excused himself, but Kramer stopped him with a hand on his sleeve. “A word, if you please, Neal.”
Neal raised his eyebrows in anticipation.
“I wanted to be sure to speak with you about your role in the upcoming operation. We’ll have need of your special talents when the time comes.”
“Oh? I suppose if you need someone to pick the German’s Chancellor’s pocket, I could be your guy, but I am reformed these days.”
“I was referring to your other talents.”
Neal could feel a flicker of annoyance cross his features before he could control it. To be exploited because of his Empathia was a new thing to him, and still rankled. “Of course.”
“With that many world leaders in one place, not to mention the protestors and nutjobs that generally accompany these conference, the Secret Service likes to be prepared.”
“I thought the President had a personal Empathia on staff,” Peter said.
“He does, and so do most of the meeting’s attendees. It’s just as an added precaution, nothing to be too concerned about.”
“Of course not,” Neal said, plastering on a smile. “Just let me know where and when.” He took his leave of them and found his way back to his desk.
xXxXxXxXxXx
At the end of the day, Peter caught up to Neal as the former conman stood at the elevators, preparing to leave. “On your way?” he asked, making conversation. He had noted Neal's dark mood all afternoon and didn’t have to guess at its cause.
“Unless the President needs me,” Neal snarked, his smile not reaching his eyes.
“I’m heading uptown, want a ride?” Peter said.
“Think I’ll walk, but thanks.”
Peter shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
They and two others got onto the already half-full elevator and rode down in relative silence. All the other people got off the elevator except them, and they eyed each other until the door closed. Peter only managed a raised eyebrow before Neal was in his arms, his lips sliding over Peter’s urgently, intense, passionate. He stepped forward, guiding Neal against the wall and stopped the elevator between parking levels 2 and 3.
“I thought you were walking?” he said when he came up for air.
“Had to keep up appearances, didn’t I?” Neal pointed out, kissing him again. “Can’t have anyone thinking we’re an item, can we?”
“Goodness me, no,” Peter said, angling his head to the side so that Neal could suckle at the space just beneath his ear. Neal's hot breath on that spot made him weak in the knees.
Just about everything about Neal made him weak in the knees lately. Their partnership had eased into friendship so gradually, he shouldn’t have been surprised when it had, in time, blossomed into love. He fully admitted he hadn’t seen it happening, not until Elizabeth mentioned that his protectiveness of Neal had its origins in feelings beyond friendship, and suggested that they pursue a relationship. And when he’d finally admitted it to Neal, intending to feel him out about it, Neal had smiled.
”Oh. Yeah, OK. That makes sense now,” he had said.
“What? What makes sense?”
Neal merely slid over on the couch in his apartment, slid his hand around Peter’s neck, and kissed him. “What my heart was telling me,” he said with a small smile.
That was a short three months ago, but Peter already couldn’t imagine his life without Neal in it. “We should get going before I embarrass myself,” Peter breathed, reluctantly pulling away from Neal and hoping his suit jacket hid his raging hard-on. He noticed a flicker of disquiet cross the younger man’s face. “What is it?” He hit the button to start the elevator up again, but stayed in Neal's personal space, leaning in toward him.
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing - you’ve been moody all afternoon.”
“Well, what Kramer said earlier - or perhaps ‘assumed’ is a more apropos word - it really burned my cheese.”
Peter sighed as the elevator arrived on Parking Level 3. “I know, babe. I guess it’s your new reality though, isn’t it?”
“I suppose,” Neal responded glumly, walking slowly out of the elevator. “Just feels more like exploitation than a vocation most of the time.”
They’d been down this conversational road many times in the past, and Peter sympathized, but he had nothing constructive to add other than his assurances that Neal was truly appreciated. He rested his hand at the small of Neal's back as they made their way towards the Taurus and felt the younger man relax at his touch.
----
The G-20 Summit began two weeks later, and the days leading up to it were busier than Peter would have thought possible. The seemingly endless drills and background checks that had to be scheduled and analyzed made personal interaction nearly impossible, and Peter found himself missing the attentions of both his wife and his lover acutely. But at least he had Neal with him - or at least in his sight - every day.
The morning of the Summit dawned clear and crisp, a spectacular late October day. Peter glanced up from pouring himself a cup of coffee as Neal arrived for the day, earlier than nearly anyone else, a garment bag slung over his shoulder. “Going somewhere?”
Neal shrugged. “Last minute change in plans - they want the Empathia to stay in the same hotel as the delegates, even if we’re local. Upside is I get to stay in a suite at the Ritz Carlton.”
“And the downside?”
“I’ll be a virtual prisoner. Security’s as tight as a mosquito’s bunghole.”
“Colorful imagery.”
“Colorful times. How old is that coffee?”
By 9:00, the office was empty, and Peter was swept up in the whirlwind of activity that surrounded the event. At 2:00, he finally got a chance to take a breather, and sat in a staging area with a cup of coffee clutched between his hands.
“Doing all right, Boss?” Diana asked, looking pointedly at his hands.
Peter looked down and saw that his hands were shaking. “I feel fine - maybe just a little shaky. I haven’t eaten anything since dinner last night.”
Diana went off and found him a sandwich and he spent the rest of the day in a meeting with Hughes, Kramer and all the department heads that were supporting the Summit.
Peter woke early the next morning with a splitting headache and an ache in his muscles that made him groan when he sat up in bed.
“Something wrong, hon?” El asked, rising with him.
He stretched, but it did little to alleviate the ache. “Guess I overdid it yesterday. I hurt all over.”
“Are you coming down with something?” El put a hand to his forehead and frowned. “You don’t feel like you have a temperature. “
“Good, because now is not the time to get the flu.” He groaned once more and dragged himself to the shower.
By lunchtime, Peter felt a little better if more tired than usual, but when he got home late that night, he fell asleep on top of the covers without even changing out of his clothes.
xXxXxXxXxXx
Neal was bored.
Sure, four years in prison taught him new appreciation for that word, but sitting on-call as an Empathia to world leaders came in at a close second. He occupied himself the first day by sketching portraits of the meetings and people he’d seen until the Secret Service confiscated his papers in the interest of national security.
Now he spent his time observing the staffers among the various delegations, sussing out their tells, listening in when conversations floated his way, learning secrets, not missing anything. On the third day, he was standing alone at yet another cocktail reception, apart from the others, when he heard a step behind him.
“Not joining the party, Neal?” It was Kramer.
Neal turned his head. “Not feeling sociable at the moment.”
“I would think these types of gatherings would be right up your alley,” Kramer observed with a rheumy chuckle. “An enterprising social engineer such as you would be able to get into all kinds of things.”
Neal made a face but then covered with a winning smile. “Who’s to say I haven’t already?”
“What do you mean?”
“Things have a way of coming to the surface at gatherings like this. I observe, I absorb, I process.”
“And have you processed anything of value?”
Neal sipped at the vodka rocks he had been nursing and then pointed at a young woman across the room. “She is with the French delegation, but is secretly having an affair with that man over there, who heads up their security detail. It’s only interesting because she is also screwing the Italian foreign minister on the side.” He sipped again and turned, indicated a pair of middle-aged men chatting with a woman about their age. “The men are with the German delegation, the woman is Brazilian. They’re looking for a fourth for golf tomorrow.” He turned again and pointed at a young woman with his chin. “And she is the British Prime Minister’s personal Empathia. She’s very new, on the job less than a month, and they really need to review their security processes.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She’s already cloned the man’s cell phone and has been sending tidbits to a tabloid journalist back home. The Prime Minister can expect a few surprising stories to break as soon as this is all over.”
Kramer’s eyes widened and he rushed off to have a word with the head of British security. Neal watched him go with a neutral expression on his face.
He was still bored.
xXxXxXxXxXx
Peter sat at his station in the Command and Control Center, trying to concentrate on the reports he was reviewing. Though the conference was wrapping up that afternoon, it didn’t seem to have added up to any lessening of the workload, and he had a lot more reports piling up than he would have liked. His lack of productivity was certainly not helped by the flu he had been fighting for days, the symptoms of which simply refused to lessen regardless of the remedies he tried - OTC or otherwise. To compound matters, he had since that morning been feeling a low-level anxiety he couldn’t put a name to.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up and behind him - Diana stood there holding out a cup of tea, which he accepted gratefully. “Thanks, Di.”
“No problem - I know how it goes. I had that stomach thing during the Mancini trial last month.”
Peter flinched - she had looked like death warmed over at the time. “I hope I don’t look that bad,” he said ruefully.
Diana shrugged noncommittally, but she had a twinkle in her eye that told him he probably did. “You should take a couple days to recuperate after this - the old man won’t mind.”
“I hate to admit it, but I think I’ll take that advice.” He ran a hand across his forehead. “I’ve never felt like this in my life.”
“Well, this too shall pass, boss. I’ll see you later.”
Peter watched her go and returned to his work, but got no farther as his vision was beginning to blur as he looked at the computer monitor in front of him. He sighed and sat back in his chair, trying to ease the ache in his shoulders and back. He closed his eyes and felt the room tilt as he lost his orientation. Opening them again, everything righted itself, but the vertigo he’d just experienced was a new symptom. He rose from his station and headed for the men’s room, intending to splash some cold water on his face, and barely made it without passing out. He stood leaning on the sinks heavily, staring at himself - and realized he looked as bad as he’d feared; his face was drawn, pale, and his eyes seemed to have sunken into his skull, making him think of a Jack-o-lantern. He turned the water on and shoveled handfuls of it into his mouth, then wet a paper towel and used it to mop his face.
He was about to finally admit to himself that he should think about heading home when he heard a familiar voice coming from outside the men’s room.
“Hey, Diana, Peter around?”
It was Neal, and it was probably the beginnings of self-pity at how ill he was feeling, but suddenly Peter wanted to weep with relief that his lover had shown up. It was silly, really, a man his age so desperate to be coddled by someone, but he was alone in the room and he didn’t think he gained anything by lying to himself. He grabbed a stack of dry towels to dry his face, made a half-hearted attempt at straightening out his hair and his tie and headed for the door.
“There he is,” Neal said with a smile when Peter emerged.
“Hey, buddy,” Peter said, his voice a little shaky.
“You OK? You don’t look so hot.” Neal raised a hand as if to touch Peter, but forced himself to put it back down, mindful of the room full of FBI and Secret Service personnel behind them.
“I don’t feel so hot. Been fighting this flu.”
“Want me to drive you home?” Neal's voice was low as he took a step toward Peter, his blue eyes widened in concern.
“Maybe, in about an hour? I’ve got some stuff I ought to finish up.”
Neal nodded and followed Peter back to his station, taking a seat at the now-vacant desk next to his. Peter was certain it was all in his imagination, but it seemed like the fog in his brain was beginning to lift now that Neal was there. Before long, he was able to come to a point in his work where he could feel less guilty for calling out for the afternoon, and looked up at Neal, who was staring at him. “What?”
Neal gave him the smile he knew was reserved only for him, and lowered his lashes. “Nothing. I - well, I missed you,” he said, his voice a low murmur.
Peter couldn’t help but smile back. “Me too.”
“You ready to go? I should get you home to El.”
“She’s got an event tonight.”
“Even better - now I can have you to myself. Prepare to be coddled to death.” Neal stood and held out his hand for Peter’s keys.
“I can’t wait,” Peter replied, his mood brightening immediately.
----
It was a month later when Peter got a call from Kramer, requesting Neal's assistance on a case. “He’s not some trained dog to be trotted out for special occasions, Phil.” He couldn’t help but bristle; he knew well Kramer’s attitude about subordinates - they were little more than a tool in his belt.
“That’s hardly fair, Petey. Honestly, Neal impressed me when I worked with him at the Conference. Do you know he single-handedly uncovered a serious breach in the UK contingent’s security?”
Peter didn’t know because Neal hadn’t mentioned it, and he couldn’t suppress a stab of pride as Kramer related the information. “Fine, fine. Maybe you can borrow him - what’s the case?”
It was a doozey - and right up Neal's alley. A rash of very good counterfeit paintings had been showing up in DC galleries; all were reproductions of works known to have been stolen from other parts of the country. There was no discernible pattern - the works were by a wide variety of artists, and even where they were stolen shed no light - which made it all the more frustrating for the FBI.
Peter had to grudgingly admit it was a case where Neal's talents would certainly come in handy. “But I don’t know if I can spare him for long.”
“A week. If I can have him here for a week, I’m sure his input will prove invaluable.”
Peter had to reluctantly agree to the temporary reassignment, subject to Neal's agreement. As a consultant, it wasn’t as if Peter could order him to participate, but, “It would be good politics if you did,” Peter explained to him later at lunch.
A brief expression of distaste flashed across Neal's face that Peter did not miss; he could tell Neal didn’t like Kramer, even if he’d never said anything to him. “You say the case is juicy?” Neal prodded.
“Kramer’ll email you a synopsis if you agree. Come on, a week in DC - what’s not to love?”
“A week working with a bunch of narrow minded pricks who will keep checking for their wallets every time I walk by? Color me excited. How much art are we talking?”
“Kramer thinks it could be millions. A Dali showed up only last week, for example.”
Neal's left eyebrow reached for his hairline. “OK. But only as a favor to you.”
Peter smirked. “And not at all because you’ll be able to get your hands dirty with a nice art forgery?” Cases of this magnitude came about only every ten years or so, and Peter knew it would pique Neal's interest.
“Yeah. OK. Whatever,” Neal said, failing miserably not to appear excited.
Neal was on a train to Union Station Monday morning. By the middle of the next day, Peter noticed a tremor in his hands that abated if he concentrated and that he chalked up to low blood sugar. On Friday, a folder whacking him on the shoulder shook him out of a fugue as he sat in Hughes’ weekly staff meeting.
“Earth to Burke,” Ruiz muttered under his breath and Peter realized with a start that it was his turn to present.
Later that night, he sat on the edge of his side of the bed, and if Elizabeth hadn’t slipped her arms around his torso from behind, he realized he’d be sitting staring at the shoe he held in his right hand for who knew how much longer.
“Something wrong, hon? You’ve been quiet all week.”
He shook his head to clear it and smiled back at her, leaning over to kiss her. “Good. I’m good. I guess I’m just… tired lately. Been spacing out, feeling run-down.”
El frowned. “Huh… couldn’t be that flu you had last month - maybe we should make an appointment with Dr. Rand. You’re about due for your annual physical anyway, right?”
He smiled as she began to massage the muscles at the back of his neck for him, arching into her touch and moaning like Satchmo when someone scratched around his tail. “That’s probably not a bad idea,” he agreed and let her ease him back onto their bed.
The next day, he woke early with a splitting migraine and a low-grade sense of anxiety; he took so many Advil his stomach ached, but nothing would ease the throbbing in his head. At least it was Saturday and, even as El was leaving to see to a client’s wedding in Manhattan, he was relieved to be able to be alone.
He drew the blinds and the curtains shut and burrowed into the bed, the duvet and pillows pulled over his head. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there - hoping and praying for sleep that stubbornly refused to come. Any movement was agony, and the few times he got up to use the bathroom or to get a glass of water, he felt like he might pass out from the dizziness that assailed him almost as soon as he was upright.
He found his thoughts straying more often to Neal’s absence that week. Perhaps more importantly, he found he missed his lover more acutely than he would have thought, more than when Elizabeth went on business trips. Perhaps it was because their romance was so new, but he was still at a bit of a loss as to why. Logically, he knew Neal would return soon enough, but his impatience about it, and something he could only give the name “angst” to were new to him and, he knew, out of character. He tossed and turned, trying to put such thoughts out of his head as well as to find a comfortable position to lie in.
The slight depression of the bed as someone sat on it behind him was Peter’s first clue that he’d fallen asleep. He stirred when he felt a hand rest on his shoulder.
“Hey, it’s me,” Neal said, his voice pitched low. “El said you had a migraine and that I ought to come and check in on you.”
The sound of Neal's voice was like a balm to his frazzled nerves. Peter fumbled to push the covers down and Neal assisted. “You’re home,” he said, blinking up at Neal.
Neal smiled kindly. “Well, yeah - you knew I’d only be gone a week.”
“And you’re here.” Peter felt relief spreading in his gut, soothing the pain and, yes, fear that had lodged there. The feeling was so sudden, the relief so complete, that it almost felt euphoric - it was the only word he had for it. He reached out for Neal, and when he took Peter’s hand, a similar feeling spread from that point of contact, up Peter’s outstretched arm and into his chest, energizing him. He sat up suddenly, and reached for Neal. “I’m so happy to see you.”
Happy. Yes, happiness was exactly what he was feeling. Pure happiness.
“Me too,” Neal said with a slight laugh, leaning forward to meet Peter.
“You smell so good,” Peter said, burying his face in Neal's neck, and he did - like home, and love, and comfort, and joy. Peter pulled him closer and kissed his throat, worked his way along Neal's jaw until he reached his ear, which he began to suck.
Neal squirmed away, his hands on Peter’s sides. “Hey, come on, plenty of time for that later. You’re sick.”
“I feel better, actually. I guess that nap really helped.”
The sudden clarity in his mind was astounding - almost dizzying, but not in the vertiginous and sickly way his migraine had affected him. He felt light, giddy. He moved his head to kiss Neal on the mouth; Neal’s lips parted for him and his tongue was soon brushing against Peter’s, against his teeth. Neal moaned softly, a sound that sent a white-hot stab of desire to pool somewhere south of Peter’s gut.
He let his hand trail down Neal's chest to rest on his belt, and he tugged at the buckle suggestively. “Come on, I really missed you.”
Neal rested his hand atop Peter’s and nonticed his erection, which was currently tenting his pajama pants. “Well, OK, but not like this. Not here. I’m not gonna - not in El’s bed. It’s not - it’s not right.”
“You know we have her blessing.”
Neal shook his head. “Your wife being OK with our relationship and us making love in the bed you both share are two separate things, Peter. You know I can’t.” Neal shook his head a little, giving Peter an odd look.
Ignoring him, Peter swung his legs out of the bed and stood, grabbing Neal's hand. “We’ve got two guest rooms,” he said, and pulled Neal to his feet.
They weren’t two feet out of the room before Peter stopped, turned and began kissing Neal until they were both breathless. He took steps backwards, leading them down the hall.
Neal broke the kiss, pushed Peter away slightly with two hands on his chest. “Peter, what’s gotten into you? To hear El tell it, you were at death’s door only this morning.”
“I’m fine now. Never better.” And it was true. He found himself savoring the sudden absence of pain - it was almost intoxicating. He nudged the guest room door open with his hip and pulled Neal with him. Dropping to his knees, he quickly undid Neal's pants and took him into his mouth. “I’ve been waiting for this all week,” he murmured as he kissed his way up and down the shaft.
“Me too. God, Peter, don’t stop!” Neal murmured, all reluctance melting away.
Peter sucked Neal for a few more minutes, then sat back on his heels and looked up at him. “Bed?”
They were both naked in seconds, grinding against each other on top of the guest room bed’s coverlet, when a sudden urge took him over and Peter found himself looking at Neal with lust-drunk eyes. “Neal, I want - I want you to fuck me,” he whispered against Neal's mouth.
“Uh, what?”
Now that he’d said it, he never wanted it more. “I want to feel you inside me. I need it.”
“Have - have you ever done that before?”
Peter didn’t understand Neal's hesitation. He rolled onto his back and pulled Neal with him, kissing him as he spoke, reveling in the feel of his weight on top of him, the hardness of him pressed against his belly. “Does it matter? Can’t we switch things up?”
“Of course, but… are you sure?”
As much as Peter loved making love to Neal, the thought of being on the receiving end, of possessing him fully in this way, was the most perfect thing he could think of. “I’ve never been so sure of anything,” he breathed, opening his legs and pulling Neal in closer, wrapping him up with his entire body and basking in the sensation of his smooth skin against his fevered flesh.
xXxXxXxXxXx
Neal lay horizontally across the guest room bed, Peter sprawled bonelessly beside him with his leg draped over him, sweat cooling on their bodies. Peter’s breathing had evened out considerably, and Neal knew he had fallen asleep. He pressed his lips against his head, and breathed in his scent, taking pleasure in it.
But the momentary buzz of post-coital satisfaction quickly faded as he began to process exactly what had happened this afternoon. Peter - usually so confident, assertive and, yes, toppy - seemed to have suddenly become something else: needy, pliant, clingy.
What did it mean? What could it mean?
He could flatter himself and say that it was because Peter had missed him so much. Neal certainly had missed Peter the entire week he was gone. But was there something more? Something insidious?
They said that those bonded with Empathia became addicted to them, but how that reliance manifested, if it did, Neal never knew, nor could he even believe it. It was the stuff of old wives’ tales, legends handed down by the ignorant to foment prejudice and hatred. Wasn’t it?
His grandfather had died when he was very small, so he never knew how he and his grandmother had behaved when apart. Had it hurt him to be parted from her? Did he go through any kind of withdrawal?
Peter certainly showed none of the classic signs of addiction Neal was familiar with - mood swings, irritability, anxiety, euphoria. Had they been together long enough for such a bond, if it existed, to even form?
Neal didn’t know, and he frankly didn’t want to think about it. He could research it - something inside him told him it’d be the responsible thing to do - but the selfish part of him didn’t really want to. He liked being with Peter, he loved Peter, he needed him - would the Empathia inside him have to ruin that too?
xXxXxXxXxXx
“You’re what?” Peter wasn’t sure he could believe his ears.
“I’m forming a task force to hunt down these art forgers, and I’d like to invite Neal to take part,” Kramer was saying, his voice tinny as it projected from the speaker of Peter’s desk phone two weeks later.
Peter snatched the receiver out of its cradle. “What for?” Peter flinched, realizing how rude he sounded, but he really couldn’t help it.
“For his insights, his skills. That young man impressed more than just me when he was down here last month, Petey, and I honestly think he advanced our investigation by leaps and bounds. He’s talented - and you know how much I like talented.”
Peter cringed. He knew well how Kramer liked to gather talent around him - had seen it from the inside. The problem was that working for him could become almost like a prison sentence for some - Art Crimes, though well-respected, offered less opportunities for advancement than would have been thought by anyone on the outside, and Peter had realized that early on. And Phil Kramer, though a well-respected and learned agent, was more a consumer of young talent than a nurturer. He didn’t think Neal could resist the opportunity to work some interesting cases, but he knew he wouldn’t thrive there either.
“He’s not on the anklet anymore, right? Not since his Empathia origins became known. I’d think he was free to make this decision.”
“You would be right,” Peter responded, hedging. He shook his head - why was he so opposed to this? It would surely be an opportunity for Neal, whose dedication to a future at the Bureau was never in doubt.
“It would be for the good of the Bureau,” Phil was saying, Peter realized as his attention was drawn back to the conversation at hand.
Peter rolled his eyes. “Fine, I’ll ask him.”
----
“A task force? Me?”
“You’ve impressed a lot of people.”
“Well, they didn’t impress me. Kramer’s team is insular and not half as clever as they pretend.”
“Then you’ll just have to show them all up, won’t you?” Peter said, and couldn’t keep the pride from his voice despite not wanting to do without him. “Neal, come on, this could be a landmark investigation. You could make your bones with this.”
“I don’t need bones, I need to stay in New York.”
“That’s your answer, then?” Peter tried to keep his voice even.
“You sound like you want me to go.”
Peter was a better actor than he thought - he didn’t want Neal to go, not at all. “I want you to do what you want to do. A case like this looks good on an agent’s jacket.”
“I’m not an agent,” Neal pointed out, but Peter kept looking at him. “Are you telling me I have a chance to join the Bureau as a full-fledged agent?”
“You’d have to go through the Academy, but a recommendation from Phil Kramer can go a long way.”
“And he’s told you this?”
I told him that, Peter thought, but didn’t elaborate, merely giving Neal a raised eyebrow.
“You sure you can do without me?” Neal asked, looking uneasy.
Peter was grateful the door was closed. He leaned across his desk, keeping his voice pitched so only Neal could hear him, and left the neediness he was feeling out of his tone. “I’ll miss you like hell, but this is a good opportunity, Neal.”
Neal stared into Peter’s eyes for fully a minute, nearly long enough to be unsettling. What he was looking for, Peter didn’t know, and when he spoke, he still didn’t seem very convinced. “I’ll do it, but only because it’s to finish what I already started last time.”
“Aces!” Peter said, smiling so broadly it made his eyes crinkle, but only so that he could hide the sudden tears that sprang up.
xXxXxXxXxXx
It took Peter another week of Neal being in DC - for the migraines and shakes and anxiety to recur - for him to finally realize why it was happening. It took two seconds in Neal's presence when he came home the first weekend - the touch of his hand that wiped all of his pain and exhaustion away - to confirm it.
Peter was addicted to Neal.
This was no prejudice and ignorance wrapped up in an old wives’ tale, as Peter had originally thought; this was real. What was said - what was feared - about prolonged, repeated physical exposure to a person with an Empathia within him had turned out to be true. Being away from Neal was making Peter sick.
Knowing it somehow made him feel better about it - he could endure it for the time being, if it meant that Neal could be allowed to shine. If it gave Neal the opportunity to prove to everyone who didn’t know - everyone who had written him off because he was a conman, or an Empathia, or both - how smart and valuable he was to the FBI.
What he didn’t know almost killed him.
He didn’t mention what he suspected to Neal or Elizabeth; he didn’t want to worry them. Who was he, after all, to complain? Neal returned each Friday night for the weekend - Peter could endure a few symptoms until then, couldn’t he? If their situations were switched, there was a time he’d have admonished Neal to “cowboy up,” right? So what if he felt like weeping every day he woke up, so bereft was he to face a day without Neal in it. So what if the pain in his head was a near constant, living thing, only varying in degree and intensity of pain.
So Peter reasoned he could cowboy up for five days out of the week. Hell, the headaches were almost bearable the first two days, so it was more like three when all was said and done. He swallowed his fear and he told himself it could work, until it didn’t any longer, and a chain of normal events nearly cost him everything.
Friday morning, a call came from Neal; they’d caught a break in the case and he was heading up to Boston for the weekend with Kramer to pursue a lead. Peter sighed and wished him luck, more disappointed not to be seeing Neal than anything. He ignored the shaking in his hands as he hung up the phone. Later in the afternoon, a call came from El, who’d been in the Hamptons for a meeting - her client invited her to stay the weekend, and did he mind? She’d have a great chance to network with a laundry list of potential new clients, would he be terribly disappointed if she stayed?
“Well, I’ll miss you, but you should stay - you’ll have fun.”
“Thanks for being understanding, hon. And now you and Neal will have the whole weekend ahead of you - that’ll be nice, right?”
He didn’t tell her Neal would not be coming home - he didn’t want her to miss out on a business opportunity because he was going to be alone.
Since it was a Friday in the summer in New York, most of the office was deserted by 3:00, which meant that Peter leaving early was barely noticed. He was beginning to feel the now-familiar itch beneath his skin that heralded the more severe symptoms of his withdrawal, and he would just as soon be at home before the migraine hit. He was home and in sweats by 4:00, watching afternoon chat shows and holding his glass of iced tea to his temple when his phone chimed - a text from Neal. He still felt bad for missing out on the weekend, and he was clearly in need of a minor bitch session about Kramer, who could be even more of a stickler for procedure than Peter was. Peter smiled thinly as he texted back and pretended that just this bit of contact with Neal made him feel better.
He ordered Chinese and called it an early night, chatting briefly with his wife before finally falling asleep at 9:00 with the telltale tightness beginning along the back of his skull. The throbbing of the migraine woke him around 4:00 am, and he barely made it to the bathroom to vomit up whatever remained in his stomach. It made him feel momentarily better, so he padded down the stairs to make some coffee. He had some of the migraine meds he’d asked the doctor for on his last visit on hand and popped two of them, hoping that those and the caffeine would get him through the day.
He took it easy on himself all day, kept the curtains drawn and caught up on all the episodes of Mythbusters he had on TiVo, and even took Satchmo out for a walk around sunset. Throughout the day, he heard from both his wife and his lover several times, and nearly forgot about his symptoms.
When Peter woke Sunday morning, however, he could barely move. His limbs felt leaden and his head felt like it had swollen to twice its normal size. It took all his energy and concentration to make it to the bathroom to empty his bladder, and the journey back to the bed was a lesson in stamina. He would never be so grateful he’d let Elizabeth talk him into getting a doggy door for Satchmo. He’d thankfully left the migraine meds beside the bed the night before so he took them; when they hadn’t taken the edge off in an hour, he took some more. At one point, he fell back to sleep, and when he woke again, the shadows in the room had lengthened. He glanced at the bedside clock and it read 6:15 - he’d slept the entire day.
He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, contemplating the need to get back to the bathroom. But he felt so weak, he didn’t think he could get out of bed, let alone make it across the room and down the hall. He thought belatedly of his cell phone, and realized he’d left it charging on the kitchen counter. A wet snuffling under his elbow made him turn his head - Satchmo had sensed he had awakened, and wanted attention. Peter held out a shaking hand and the dog stuck his head under it. Peter rubbed the dog’s ears weakly, but then he lost his energy and his hand just fell away. Satchmo nosed at his hand again, but Peter couldn’t summon the will to move.
Peter tried not to panic. This sensation was strange, like paralysis, but not; he was conscious but his awareness felt odd, somehow: borrowed, like he was observing himself. His muscles felt too heavy; moving felt like struggling through sand or something thick, like molasses. It was not unlike a dream he used to have when he was a teenager, one where he was lying prone on the floor and no one noticed him. He could never move in those dreams, couldn’t speak, even though he was conscious - friends and family would just ignore him, step over him as they went about their business.
A loud noise downstairs startled him and he realized he’d fallen asleep again. “I’m home!” Elizabeth called cheerfully, and he could hear her heels walk down the hallway toward the kitchen.
“Thank God,” Peter said, his voice sounding like a moan. Satchmo whined at him at his shoulder. “Satch,” he said softly. “Go get Mama.”
Satchmo marched on his front paws and then snuffled at Peter’s hand again; he clearly didn’t want to leave Peter alone, even with El home. Peter’d be touched at the loyalty of Man’s Best Friend if he didn’t want him to go bounding from the room in search of treats or walkies like he always did. “Go get Mama, buddy - go on!”
Satchmo made a gruff little woof and then trotted out of the room.
“Peter?” El said as she entered the room, Satchmo preceding her to the bed. She came to his side and sat on the edge of the bed. “Honey, what is it?”
“El,” he began, but his speech was suddenly sluggish, hard to get out. He wondered if he was having a stroke. “Help me.”
“Peter?!” she repeated, her voice taking on a sharp note of fear. She ran her hands over him, felt his pulse, his forehead. “Tell me what’s wrong? How long have you been like this?”
“Since this morning,” he said slowly around a growing breathlessness; it felt like his lungs had forgotten how to breathe.
“Honey, I don’t like this, I’m calling 911.”
He tried to nod, agreeing. He suddenly felt foolish for trying to deal with this alone. But before Elizabeth could pick up the phone, he managed with difficulty to grab her wrist with his left hand. “Call Neal first,” he said urgently, “I need Neal to fix it.”
Nodding, El hit the speed dial.
Part 2