WC Fic: Until the End of Time, 1/2
Title: Until the End of Time, Part 1
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Jones
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: Major schmoop; smut
Word Count: 14,700
Summary: Neal and Clint finally get hitched. These are the steps along the way.
A/N: This is (much belated) Happy Birthday fic for my pal elrhiarhodan, as well as fulfillment for her generous donation to my Sandy Fic Sale. She’s been after me for MONTHS to write this, and it’s finally here. I hope you enjoy, bb!
----
Well, it was finally here. The day Neal knew would come eventually, but could never actually visualize.
“Hey, Neal,” Blake said to him as he got onto the elevator. “Big d-“
“Don’t say it,” Neal said, making a cutting gesture and scowling at Blake.
“There he is! The man of the hour!” Diana greeted Neal when he’d reached the 21st Floor. “So how does it feel to finally -“
“Shht!” Neal hissed, shaking his head and making a beeline for Peter’s office.
“What the heck is wrong with him?” Blake asked her as he passed her desk.
Diana was grinning from ear to ear. “He doesn’t want to jinx it.”
----
“Neal.” Peter’s smile was broader today, his eyes more sparkly than usual.
“Not you too?” Neal frowned.
“What? I don’t get to be a little proud of you today? It’s a big day!”
“I wish you wouldn’t make a big deal.”
Peter was unperturbed. “Fine. I’ll mention it no more.”
“Thank you,” Neal said, taking a seat and picking up a nearby case folder. “Now can we get to work? We’ve still got the whole day ahead of us.” He looked up at Peter, who was unsuccessfully suppressing a grin, and narrowed his eyes. “What?”
Peter gestured with his chin down at the bullpen. “Don’t think they got the memo.”
Neal turned in his seat to see that his fiancé had arrived, as well as his future mother- and sister-in-law, and Elizabeth Burke. “So much for this being like any other day,” he groaned.
“Neal,” Peter said patiently, “the anklet comes off today - it’s a big deal to a lot of people, even if you want to pretend it’s not.”
----
POP
Neal flinched as the champagne Elizabeth brought was opened - it was barely 11:00 - but he put on a smile as he entered the tight group of friends and soon-to-be-former colleagues that had formed around his desk. He accepted a paper cup full and managed not to flinch again as the toasts began. By the end of it, he’d be crying like a baby.
Diana went first: “Neal Caffrey: What’s not to loathe?” she began, getting a round of loud laughter. “The first time we met, you tried to pick me up, until Peter informed you you’d be barking up the wrong tree. But I have to say, you’ve grown on me over the years - not unlike a toe fungus. But you’re a pretty toe fungus, and I can’t really picture my life without you in it. Next time I do this, I’ll maybe write something down!” She laughed self-consciously. “But seriously, Neal, you’ve been a great colleague, and a better friend, and I wish you nothing but happiness.”
“Here-here!” everyone said and Diana kissed Neal on the cheek.
“Caffrey,” a gruff voice behind him said, and he turned to find Reese Hughes had hoisted a cup in his direction as well. “It’s undeniable that you’ve been a great asset to this division; you’ve risked your life for us, and we for you. That is not a bond that is forgotten - I’m proud to call you a brother in arms.”
“Thank you, sir,” Neal said humbly.
“And I’ll be glad to see the back of you!” Hughes chuckled. “You’re a one-man paperwork generator!”
Neal felt his face redden as laughter once again filled the room, including his own.
The tinkle of a key chain got everyone’s attention, and then all eyes were on Peter. Neal cringed inwardly, wondering how this impromptu roasting would now go.
“To say I’m proud today would be understating it. Neal, I’ve watched you grow from an impetuous con looking for an easy way out to a mature, thoughtful, brave, and forthright member of our team.”
“Looking for an easy way out,” Diana interjected, and everyone laughed but Peter, whose eyes on Neal's shone with emotion.
“My wife asked me this morning how I felt about today, and it took me a while to be able to answer, because I hadn’t really thought about it from my own perspective. I kind of feel sad… like I’m losing a family member. Not like you’re going anywhere, really, but kind of like when a kid goes off to college. I guess I feel like my nest is empty.” There was a chorus of awwws, and Peter blushed. “But then I realized that this is the next phase of your life,” he gestured to Clint and Myra and Imani, “and you’re getting a whole new family. And so I’m happy to send you off, Neal, because I know they’ll love you as much as El and me.” He raised his cup. “Congratulations, buddy, I’m so proud of you.”
Neal couldn’t say who moved first, but within a second, he was wrapped in Peter’s arms in one of his signature bear hugs, whispering, “Thank you,” into his ear. When they parted, he swiped a tear from his eye with a thumb, grinning from ear-to-ear. “That was really touching - but I feel like the other shoe hasn’t dropped yet - no snarky comments or jokes?”
“I’m saving that for my toast at your wedding.”
There was more laughter, and then Clint cleared his throat, taking Neal's hand in his, entwining their fingers. Neal prepared himself for another outpouring of emotion - man, he hated being the center of attention in this way, and Clint was a much more emotional man than he. “You know I’m really bad at saying how I feel,” he began; Neal would disagree, but he let it drop, “so I’ll stick to the facts. I love you, I’m proud of you, and I can’t believe I finally get to whisk you away from here.”
“Back to lovely Beantown?” Myra asked.
Neal's eyes shone with anticipation - he’d longed for this day for a long time, when he and Clint could be together every day without restrictions. Hells yeah, lovely Beantown. But the sly look in Clint’s eyes said something else. “I know that look - you’re planning something,” Neal said.
“I guess you’d know my tells better than anyone.”
“So what exotic port of call is it going to be?” Neal asked, excited. “Paris? Bali? Belize?”
Clint raised Neal's hands to his mouth, kissed his knuckles softly, and smiled. “Hoboken,” he said, exaggerating each syllable.
“Hoboken?” Neal said, deflating. “Ooo, I’m dying.”
Everyone laughed again. “What’s in Hoboken?” Peter asked.
“The best wedding planner in the business,” El said, her eyes alight with mischief. Neal looked at her, confused. “Clint asked me for a recommendation,” she explained.
“I thought you might plan our wedding?” Neal said.
“So did I, but when I asked, she refused,” Clint said.
All eyes were suddenly on Elizabeth. “Don’t look at me that way - planning a wedding’s a special kind of hell. I am not going there with you - I love you both too much.”
----
“How bad could it be? I mean, really?” Clint said to Neal as they pulled up in front of The Maine Event, an establishment located above a tiny storefront on a tree-lined stretch of Washington St. in Hoboken. The plaque on the front door was tasteful, the décor inside understated yet elegant, and the proprietress -
“Oh, I’m so pleased to meet you both, I’m Tracie Maine,” a stunning, petite blonde said, rising from the Louis XIV desk at the back and walking over smoothly to meet them on four-inch Christian Louboutin pumps. “Clint?” she asked, a hand outstretched.
“Yes,” Clint said, taking her hand and smiling broadly.
“Then you must be Neal,” she said, proffering the same hand to Neal. Her handshake was firm, confident, her blue eyes twinkly and intelligent. Something was definitely up.
“Yes, I am,” Neal said smoothly, and smiled his best fake smile. Clint eyed him curiously, picking up on it.
“Congratulations to you both! I’m so hoping we can help you make your wedding a memorable occasion. Will you have a seat?” She indicated a pair of chairs opposite her desk as she backed smoothly across the room, then took a seat at the desk herself. Pulling out an iPad, she called up some sort of planning app and looked up at them with a winning smile once again. “So. Tell me a bit about yourselves. I find that learning about my clients before we get into the nitty gritty of choosing cakes and place settings is a lot better way to start a relationship. How did you two meet?”
Neal looked at Clint, who grinned. “He was an internationally famous forger and thief, and I was the FBI agent who first slapped the cuffs on him,” Clint informed her.
Tracie blinked and her smile faded just a small amount as she dithered charmingly, “Well, that’s… that’s… unique.” She cleared her throat. “Was it love at first sight, then?”
“Oh no,” Neal said, picking up the story. “First I went to prison for four years.”
“Almost four years.”
“Right - I broke out with three months to go so that I could save my girlfriend, who was in trouble with a fugitive ex-billionaire.”
“Girlfriend?”
“It was a long time ago. She died.”
“Um.”
“Then he cut a deal to act as a Criminal Informant for my boss at the FBI,” Clint said, picking up the thread. “And we worked together for a while, but we didn't hook up until my ex-fiancée needed our help finding her missing husband, who turned out to be working for an ex-Navy SEAL CEO who was running an illegal mining operation overseas.” Tracie squinted at them and wrinkled her button nose in adorable confusion. “Neal had just broken up with another girlfriend, so we just kinda helped each other drown our sorrows.”
“After the ex-Navy SEAL CEO tried to kill me with a compound bow and arrow,” Neal added with a smile. “Good times.”
Tracie blinked, her mouth hanging open slightly, but quickly recovered her composure. “But you stuck it out, and here you are!” she said hopefully.
“Only two kidnappings, three bullet wounds…” Neal began.
“Four,” Clint corrected.
“Oh right,” Neal reached over and caressed the long-healed scar on Clint’s neck, hidden by his shirt collar, “four bullet wounds, and not a small amount of bad guys put away later! And we’ve only been together for two and a half years!”
Tracie’s uneasy smile was a bit less bright than before. Suddenly, the bang of the downstairs door, followed by a stream of colorful swearing, wafted up the stairs and made them all jump in their seats.
“Tracie! Jesus, that old battle axe at the linen rental is working my last fucking nerve!” a young redhead with pale skin, a pair of dark-rimmed glasses and a sleeve of intricate tattoos adorning her right arm said as she entered the office, struggling with several bolts of cloth and rolling her eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry - you’re with clients!”
“Yes, I told you I had a meeting for the Caffrey-Jones wedding today, Darlene,” Tracie said through clenched teeth.
Darlene eyed Clint and Neal and smiled welcomingly. “Mazal tov,” she said.
“Todah,” Clint answered, and Darlene raised a perfectly-plucked eyebrow in surprise. “Well, don’t let me interrupt, gentlemen,” Darlene said with a bow of her head and retreated to a back room, her knee-high Dr. Martens boots making clomping noises as she walked.
“So sorry for the interruption,” Tracie said, embarrassed. “It’s just getting into our busy season.”
“No worries,” Neal replied.
“OK. So, yours is a relationship that has seen a lot of tests,” Tracie went on. “What do you think might be the most difficult part of planning the wedding for you both?”
“Well, it’s a mixed marriage, of course,” Neal said.
“Mm-hmm,” Tracie said, nodding as she took notes.
“Since Clint’s Jewish,” he added.
She looked at them both with a raised eyebrow. “And you’re…?”
“Nothing. I mean, I don’t actively practice any religion, so I don’t mind what we do, as long as it’s what Clint wants.”
“You mean that? Isn’t there some tradition you want to honor?” Clint asked, looking concerned.
Neal eyed Tracie and chose his answer carefully - this was not something he had discussed with anyone, so he wasn’t comfortable doing it in front of a stranger. “Yours are enough for me,” he said truthfully, then shook his head. “You know how it was with my mom.”
Clint seemed to pick up on his mood and let it drop, but the determined expression in his eyes meant that they’d be talking about it soon enough.
Tracie was shrewd enough to change the subject. “Have we thought about timing?”
“The sooner the better,” Clint said. “I’ve been waiting long enough.”
In spite of his reluctance to display any sort of emotion in front of a virtual stranger - and something about Tracie was just rubbing him wrong - Neal smiled broadly at his love and lay his hand on Clint’s knee for a second before answering, “How about New Year’s Eve?”
“That’s only eight months away,” Tracie pointed out.
“And it’s perfect, babe!” Clint enthused. “That’s when I proposed,” he explained to Tracie, who made appropriate “awwws” and smiled at them both.
“Ohmygod, when are you going to move this place back to the civilized side of the riverrr?” a high-pitched man’s voice rang out from below, followed by a set of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.
The door opened and Tracie closed her eyes. “Gordon, I am with clients!” she hissed as a slender African American man entered the room and proceeded to fan himself with a paper fan he held that had an ad for a Mexican soft drink on it. He looked like a peacock to Neal, with a pair of cropped pants in a brightly colored madras pattern topped by a couple of equally-brightly-colored, layered golf shirts, both with their collars popped, and a short scarf tied at his throat.
“So you are,” Gordon observed, a hand on his hip. He leered at Clint, making Neal frown. “Hello, chocolatey goodness,” he said, flashing a large smile and throwing his well-muscled chest out.
Clint turned a few shades darker, but said nothing.
“These are my clients. Who are getting married,” Tracie pointed out to the newcomer, and at least she had the good grace to be annoyed by his rudeness.
“Mmm, too bad you like the white meat, honey, because I could take you places!” Gordon said to Clint with a flirty smile as he made his way across the room and into the back where Darlene had disappeared.
Neal began to wonder if he ought to start looking for hidden cameras. “Are we being punked?” he muttered to Clint, who shrugged.
“Sorry about that,” Tracie apologized. “He’s my best friend, and he’s also one of the best stylists in the city, in case you guys are looking for advice on wedding suits...?”
Neal pressed his lips together. He wasn’t one to let a first impression last, but the man had literally just hit on his fiancé. “Neal does all right on the fashion end of things,” Clint explained, and Neal wanted to kiss him.
“Where were we?”
“Dates,” Neal replied.
She smiled charmingly. “Yes, dates. New Year’s Eve - a tricky one to begin with - lots of venues will already be booked, so we should start making inquiries immediately. Have you thought about the guest list - how many people will attend?”
“Well, if it’s anything like my cousin’s wedding, there’ll be 200 people,” Clint answered.
Neal felt a small finger of panic poke him in the gut; he didn’t think he really knew 200 people - not the sort he’d invite to his wedding, anyway.
Clint seemed to see his reaction and said, “But that doesn’t mean we can’t pare that back.” When Neal still didn’t relax, he added, “By half?” Neal smiled with relief as a phone rang somewhere.
“Tracie, it’s your mother, the internationally famous author and philanthropist!” Darlene called out and Tracie visibly wilted.
“Will you excuse me?” she asked in a small voice, rose, straightened out her Donna Karan couture shirt dress, and walked to the back with as much dignity as she could muster.
“Let’s get out of here,” Neal said urgently as soon as she was out of earshot. He stood.
“Huh? Don’t you like Tracie?”
Neal could see Clint had been charmed by her, but he knew differently. “I like Tracie fine, it’s the rest of the package I’m losing patience with. It’s like this woman’s life is one big rom com and we’re the supporting cast.”
“Babe...”
“Don’t ‘babe’ me, Clint. The woman’s a walking trope, complete with snarky assistant and flamboyantly gay bestie! Plunk Reese Witherspoon in that seat over there and this movie is guaranteed to gross 30 mill its first weekend. Now let’s get out of here before we wind up with Gerard Butler landing in our wedding cake in front of our 200 guests!”
Clint looked confused but stood anyway. “Gerard Butler?”
“Too old? Channing Tatum? Anyway, I want a minimum of drama around this, OK? Can’t we just plan it all ourselves?”
Clint stood, leaned forward and pulled Neal into his arms, which immediately calmed him. “If that’s what you want to do, then I’m on board. We will plan our own wedding.”
Neal smiled, relieved. “I mean, how hard could it be?”
The Honeymoon
“I’m telling you, if we don’t plan the honeymoon first, we’ll never take one!” Clint insisted. Anyone he knew who’d gotten married - including Peter - had advised him of this, and he intended to follow his advice. Neal had merely smiled indulgently and gone off to Elizabeth’s to get her opinion on florists.
He settled himself at the table in Neal's apartment with his laptop and a variety of travel brochures. Now that Neal's sentence was done and he was free to come and go as he pleased, naturally Clint’s schedule in Boston had eased as well -unlike when he’d first moved there and they could barely find a weekend to spend together. Clint therefore found himself in New York nearly as often as Neal was in Boston. This week, he’d been asked by Peter to consult on a case, but he suspected his old boss had asked him so that he could spend the long Memorial Day weekend in New York - and have his friend Neal with him.
“Look at them,” Elizabeth had said fondly to Clint just the night before; she’d invited them to dinner, and Peter and Neal were out on the patio with their heads together, looking over a case that was currently stumping the team. “He lights up when Neal's around.”
“I know what you mean. Neal seems to miss working at the Bureau as well. It doesn’t help that he hasn’t found a job yet.”
El’s blue eyes clouded. “Has it been hard? Is it because he’s an ex-con?”
“He says no, but I suspect differently. Anyway, the wedding’s a distraction at least.”
“How go the wars?” she asked, a knowing, pitying look in her eyes.
“We still haven’t found the right place here in New York. Kind of puts a kibosh on hiring any other vendor when you don’t know where it will be. With our budget, and Neal's so picky - I’m beginning to think eloping to Vegas might be the thing to do.”
El laughed. “You really think your mom will sit still for that?”
“I mentioned it as a joke at Passover and she started crying.”
“So much for plan B. It’ll come together, honey, just you wait and see,” she’d said confidently, and Clint wanted to believe her, but he couldn’t even settle on a hemisphere for their honeymoon destination, let alone a resort.
Warm weather - that’s the only thing he knew he wanted. With the wedding in January, he wanted to get away to somewhere tropical. Mainly to see Neal in a swim suit, he reflected with a grin, then thought of Neal with a tan, and Neal emerging from the ocean, and Neal lying naked on a messy bed beneath a lazily-turning ceiling fan and needed to go get a cool drink to soothe his libido.
A jaunty knock at the door in iambic pentameter alerted him that Mozzie had come to visit, and he rose and went to let him in. “Neal's in Brooklyn, discussing florists with Elizabeth,” Clint said by way of greeting.
“Ah.”
“Did you two have plans?”
“Later,” Moz said evasively; Clint knew they were just going to dinner, but allowed Moz his air of mystery. Over the years, he’d gotten to like Moz quite a lot, and he suspected the feeling was mutual, but Moz still felt the need to keep up a cool, anti-law enforcement façade, and Clint was too polite to call him on it.
“What are you up to?” Moz said, eyeing the materials on the table with interest and wandering over. He began to sift through the brochures.
“Trying to find a good place for a honeymoon. I told Neal I’d take care of it, but I don’t even know where to begin.” He rubbed at the knot of tension that had suddenly manifested itself on the back of his neck.
“Well, it can’t be that hard. What are your criteria?”
“I want sun, and sand, and fruity drinks with umbrellas in them. And no cell reception.” The idea of two weeks away with Neal without interruption seemed almost too good to be true.
“Well, that rules out much of the Northern Hemisphere,” Moz said, and tossed half of the brochures onto one of the chairs. “What else?” He looked up at Clint, an avid expression in his eyes as he rose to this challenge, and Clint was grateful for the help.
“Someplace quiet, not too touristy.” Moz discarded a few more brochures. “Off the beaten path - unique but not too trendy either. And far enough away that we know we’re in another world, you know?”
“That narrows it down to one,” Moz said, and handed Clint the brochure.
----
“Cape Verde?” Neal said later that night when he’d gotten home. “Never heard of it.”
“Mozzie has. He says it’s quite beautiful and understated. Quiet and not too touristy - just what I wanted.” Clint ran a finger over photos of white sandy beaches and swaying palm trees. “It’s off the coast of Africa, and it sounds like heaven.”
“Well, if Moz is so keen on it, they must not have an extradition treaty with the US,” Neal snarked.
“Very likely.”
“Is it in our budget range?”
“It can be. If we double our budget range?”
“Clint!”
“Did I mention the bungalow with the infinity pool and private beach?” Clint blinked at Neal in his most appealing way and watched with satisfaction as his lover caved in.
“Fine - you know how I can’t resist the big eyes treatment,” Neal said, walking over and settling himself in Clint’s lap, placing his hands on Clint’s face as he kissed him. “We don’t need a fancy hotel as a venue.”
Clint smiled into their kiss. “I just thought of you diving into that pool, coming out all wet and dripping, swimsuit clinging...”
Neal shifted in his lap, grinding against Clint’s crotch. Clint threaded his arms around Neal's back and pulled him close, deepening their kiss. Neal's tongue pressed into his mouth, and Clint sucked at it lightly, then broke the kiss and pressed his lips along Neal's jaw and down his throat, groaning as Neal ground his ass against his growing erection. “Can’t wait ‘til I have you every day,” he said against Neal's skin. Neal made approving “mmm’ing” noises. “Should probably look for a bigger place, huh?” Clint felt Neal stiffen in his arms and he stopped kissing him. “What?”
“Nothing, I just - I realized I’m going to have to move out of here soon, aren’t I?”
“Well, yeah. We will be man and husband, we should probably live together when that happens.”
“I know, it’s just - it’s never really felt real to me until now.”
“Our marriage?”
“Leaving New York.”
“I am in Boston,” Clint pointed out, trying not to let his voice rise.
Neal kissed him lightly on the lips. “Of course you are, but New York has become… almost a part of me. I just didn’t think…”
Clint lowered his eyes.
“Hey,” Neal said, taking Clint’s face between his hands and forcing him to look him in the eye, “it’s a big change for me, that’s all I’m saying, and I just have to get used to the idea. I’ll love living with you whether you’re in New York or Boston or Grand Rapids!”
Clint hated himself for the relief he felt - when had he gotten so needy? He smiled up at Neal, who smiled back. “Though I might not feel the same way if you do get transferred to Grand Rapids, so, like, don’t, OK?”
Clint laughed. “Now where were we?”
“You were about to give me the blow job of my dreams,” Neal said.
“Was I now?” Clint purred, lifting his arms around Neal's back and easing him down to the couch.
The Venue
Neal sat at the table on the balcony of his apartment, head in his hands, trying to resist the temptation to tear his hair out. On the screen of his laptop was displayed a very polite email from the sales manager at Gotham Hall, informing him that the option on the space he had his eye on had been exercised by the larger (read: more lucrative) party that had also been scheduled for the night. Neal thought he might cry. Literally every halfway decent restaurant, hotel ballroom and gallery was booked that night, and he was seriously considering renting a party boat on the Hudson. He shuddered at the very thought, and moaned quietly to himself.
“What’s wrong, dear?” June asked as she swept through the doors at the far end of the balcony. She was bearing a tray on which was loaded a tea service and a plate of fresh-baked madeleines which she set on the table.
“Nothing,” he answered, rising and pulling a chair out for her. She poured them both a cup of tea. “Everything. I can’t seem to find a half-way decent place for the wedding, and unless the McDonald’s up the road gets back to me, we really will have to elope to Vegas.”
June wrinkled her nose as she laughed at his frustration. “Oh, when are you going to stop being silly and just ask to have it here?”
“What? No - you have your annual gala that night.”
“Which I’ll have to pass up if I’m going to attend the wedding,” she pointed out, patting him on the cheek. “If you think I would ever miss your wedding, Neal dear, for some silly party, I wonder what you must think of me,” she said lightly.
“June.”
“Do you know how important you are to me? I love you as I do my own children, Neal, and my grandbabies. You know you’re more than just a boarder to me, and you have been for a long time.”
Neal suddenly felt two inches tall. He stared at his teacup. “I know you do. And I feel as close to you as almost anyone. I guess I just didn’t want to impose.”
She reached across the table and laid a warm hand on his wrist. “Ask me.”
“June, may Clint and I have our wedding here, in your house?” he asked with a smile, turning his hand over and grasping onto hers.
“But of course. Now who’s your caterer? Because I have a few to recommend.”
The Best Man
“Hey, Peter.”
Peter looked up from the file he was perusing, his face lighting up as soon as he saw Neal. “Hey, buddy,” he said warmly.
“Doing anything for lunch?”
“El packed me some deviled ham, but I suppose it’ll keep until tomorrow.”
“That stuff’ll keep longer than Twinkies,” Neal said wryly.
“Let me just get my jacket.”
Fifteen minutes later, the two were seated on a bench in Columbus Park, a pair of slices from a favorite pizza place of Peter’s in their hands. “Wanna tell me what this is all about?” Peter asked, taking a large bite out of his slice.
“Can’t two old friends have lunch like old times?”
“Yes, two old friends can. But Neal Caffrey doesn’t sit on a park bench with a slice of greasy pizza voluntarily.”
“Peter Burke does.”
“Yes, he does, and he also knows when he’s being buttered up. Spill.”
Neal frowned and lay his pizza down on the paper bag it had been packed in. “I was wondering if you’d write a letter of recommendation for me. For a job.”
“What? Neal, that’s terrific! What’s the gig?”
Neal shook his head. “It’s only freelance, but Sterling Bosche needs an authenticator, and Sara recommended me. She thinks a letter from you will go a long way toward convincing her boss I’d be good for the job.”
“That’s awfully nice of her to do that for you, considering how you two left things.”
“Well, we weren’t exactly uncivil.”
“Still, a break-up’s a break-up.”
“…and she kinda maybe thinks I was struggling with my sexuality at the time.”
“What? Neal!” Peter scolded.
“Well, I did hook up with Clint right after breaking up with her.”
“You never told her you were bi?”
“It never came up!” Neal defended. “And when we got engaged, she contacted me to congratulate me and… well…”
“She was jumping around and landed on a conclusion?”
“Who was I to push her off?”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I didn’t do it to get the job - it happened months ago. And I haven’t had a chance to correct her assumptions.”
“My previous statement stands - you’re unbelievable. You can’t start this working relationship with her on a lie, Neal.”
“An assumption,” Neal insisted, but he knew Peter was right. Forging a friendship with Sara had taken a long time. When she’d admitted to him why she’d ultimately forgiven him, chalking up all his insecurities and avoidance in their relationship to the fact he was in denial of his sexuality and not what it really was - an inability to commit - he didn’t have the heart to set her straight. She had been so insistent it was the truth that he could hardly get a word in at the time. At least, that’s what he told himself. In fact, it was just easier this way, and their truce had turned into mutual forgiveness and, now, friendship, and he didn’t want to screw it up.
“You need to tell her.”
Neal winced. “I know.” He glanced sideways at Peter. “That’s not the only reason I wanted to talk to you,” he began.
“Oh boy, what now?” Peter had his stern look on, the one that made Neal feel like he was nine again and in the principal’s office. Peter laid his pizza crusts down atop his bag and brushed crumbs off his tie, sighing mightily. “Are you in trouble? Is Moz?”
“No. No, I just - there’s something important I wanted to ask you, and I meant to do it better, I guess, but… I’ll just ask. Peter, you’re my best friend - will you stand up for me at my wedding?”
Peter’s face went soft suddenly, and he blinked at Neal. “What?”
“I want you to be my best man.”
“Neal!” Neal watched a bevy of emotions play across Peter’s face in rapid succession: astonishment, doubt, happiness. “I woulda thought you’d ask Moz.”
“No, you’re my first choice. Anyway, Moz is going to officiate. Did you know he studied to be a cantor when he was younger? Yeah, me neither, but there ya go. So, will you do it? Will you be my best man?”
Neal thought he saw tears in Peter’s eyes, but it might have been the sunshine. “It would be my honor, buddy.” He laughed, suddenly, and clapped Neal on the shoulder, beaming.
Relieved to have that over with, Neal picked up his pizza slice and took a bite. Peter sighed happily, no doubt already planning the bachelor party. “Sooo,” Neal drawled, “about that letter of recommendation?”
The Best Woman
“Di?”
“Yeah, Jones?”
“Be my best woman at the wedding?”
“I don’t have to plan a shower or bachelor party or anything, do I?”
“Of course not.”
“I’m in.”
“Cool.”
Meet the Parents I
“Babe?” Neal had his serious face on, was sitting on the front edge of the couch with his hands clasped between his knees as Clint arrived at the apartment for the July 4th holiday, and Clint could feel the bottom of his stomach fall away.
“What?”
“Come here? Sit down.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘No’?”
“There are fewer syllables that are less plain in their meaning, Neal.”
“You’re beginning to sound like me. Get over here and sit down - I have to tell you something and you need to be sitting down for it.”
“That’s why I don’t want to sit down, because it’s always bad.”
During all the traumatic events in his life, Clint was bidden to sit and all he’d wanted to do was stand. When you were standing, you could run, or hit someone, or leave, or defend yourself. Like when his parents told him they were divorcing, all he wanted to do was go to his room for the rest of his life. Or when he and Isobel had decided to call it quits - she’d asked him to sit down then, too. Or when the doctor had told him Neal was close to dying - well, maybe that one was the exception to the rule, because he was pretty sure he’d have passed out if Peter hadn’t made him sit down.
“OK, fine, then I’m coming to you.” Neal got up and crossed over to him, took both his hands in his and kissed him on the knuckles, took a deep breath and said, “I met your Dad today.”
Clint staggered back against one of the dining room chairs and sat down heavily. “What?” he asked, peering up at Neal as if he’d started speaking Mandarin.
“He was standing outside when I left this morning. He knew my name and everything. He - said he missed you.”
Clint could feel his face freeze, that uncanny skill to remain neutral he’d honed after years of questioning suspects in the FBI somehow taking over. And Neal picked up on it immediately. “Come on, Clint, don’t shut down. He made an effort, that’s got to mean something.”
Clint wasn’t sure that it did. “What did he say to you?”
“He said he knew who I was, he knew what I was, and he thought if anyone could understand the need for second chances, it would be me.”
Clint closed his eyes. His father had always been a master at reading people - had he pegged Neal so easily? “What did you say?”
“I told him he was full of shit.”
Clint managed a weak smile, but Neal went on.
“But are you absolutely certain you want to cut him off so completely, Clint?”
“I wasn’t the one doing the cutting, Neal.”
“I know.”
“He called me a fag. To my face. And Lord knows the things he’s said or thought about you. He doesn’t get to show up now and pretend it’s all OK.”
Clint was upset, more than he’d been about anything in months. To think his father - who was a master manipulator, despite his career path - had been that close to the person he loved the most. To think this man who was capable of such hateful words - a man who had learned first-hand of the sting of words when he’d chosen to marry Clint’s mother, Myra - it wasn’t the use of the f-word that had hurt Clint as much as the hypocrisy. Well, that and the feeling of betrayal that the man he admired the most in the world had shown true colors that were far from appealing. Clint found himself shaking with anger.
But suddenly, Neal had his arms around him, his hand pulling Clint’s head into the crook of his shoulder, massaging the back of his neck softly with his fingertips. “I get it. Believe me, if anyone understands the bad choices fathers make, it’s me. He said he wanted to see you before the wedding. He has something to tell you.”
“I can’t.”
“I know, I get it. I guess I’m just the messenger here.”
“What else did he say?”
“I don’t know -“
“What else did he say, Neal?”
“He said he couldn’t believe you took up with a white boy, but at least I was pretty enough.”
“Jesus.”
“A real charmer, Admiral Jones.”
“Now you see where I get it from,” Clint said bitterly.
Neal shrugged his shoulder to dislodge Clint’s head and turned his own, catching Clint’s mouth and kissing him deeply. “You’re nothing like him, baby.”
“That’s just the thing. I think I am.”
“I think there are some very basic differences.”
“Well, yeah,” Clint said, thinking, I like boys, for one.
“You’re not an asshole,” Neal concluded, and Clint laughed.
“Not as far as you know.”
Smexy Interlude I
“So what the heck is all of this?” Clint asked, marveling at the sight of all the small boxes on Neal's table.
“Cake samples. We have to pick one we like.”
Clint’s eyes boggled. “There have to be a dozen!”
“Fifteen,” Neal corrected. “Come on, you love cake.”
“Here’s hoping I still do when this is over!” Clint loosened his tie and removed his jacket - the train ride down from Boston this weekend had been longer than usual owing to signaling problems from a mid-August heat wave - and he was tired and cranky and sweaty.
Neal, his sweet, sexy, thoughtful, and insightful fiancé, immediately picked up on Clint’s mood. “But we don’t have to do it now - you want a drink?” He crossed the room to the fridge and opened it up.
“I need a shower.” Neal handed him a cold bottle of beer and then put his hands on his shoulders to force him to turn around.
“Off you go, then. I’ll still be here, and so will the cake.”
Clint stopped at the massive, walk-in closet beside Neal's bathroom that was nearly the size of his current bedroom in Boston and disrobed, hanging up his pants and chucking his shirt in the laundry bag for the cleaners, his undies with Neal's other laundry in a nearby basket. He removed his socks and realized they were Neal's, stretched by his bigger feet, their heels situated somewhere around Clint’s ankles. The fact that nearly half of the space in the closet had been given over to his own clothes made him smile; even if he only spent weekends here, the fact Neal had made the room for him so readily had made him so happy, and the sight of his suits hanging beside Neal's filled him with warm hopes for their future together. And Neal insisted he only use his own dry cleaner for reasons so esoteric they were nearly meaningless.
With thoughts of how at-home he felt here in Neal's apartment at June’s - it really was a place he equated with their life together more than any other - he padded, naked, into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He didn’t make it very hot - he needed to cool off - and when he stepped under the spray, he nearly groaned in ecstasy. The water pelting his skin hit his overheated crotch just right, and before he knew it, his dick was at half-mast, and his mind was filled with fantasies of what he and Neal might do together later.
“Later, Young Clinton,” he admonished his dick, addressing it using Neal's ridiculous nickname for it - that had been a memorable weekend. When it refused to behave, even after a vigorous drying with fluffy towels, he promised, “Maybe not much later?” as he donned Neal's brown paisley robe and headed for the living room.
He found that Neal had arranged the cake samples on small plates on the table - all fifteen of them on the mismatched china that Neal not so much collected as wound up with from everybody. “Cake for dinner - every nine year old’s fantasy!” Neal said happily, replacing Clint’s half-empty beer with a glass of the Scotch he favored before settling down at the end of the table with a glass for himself.
“Where to begin?” Clint said, marveling. “Ooo, chocolate!” The cake in question was an unbelievably rich and moist Devil’s food with a malted milk frosting and a dense outer covering that stuck unpleasantly to Clint’s teeth. “What’s this stuff on the outside?” he asked distastefully, peeling it away and pushing it to the edges of the plate.
“Fondant,” Neal said around his mouthful. “They put it around the outside, so the cake looks nice and smooth. It’s edible.”
“But not very palatable,” Clint frowned.
“No fondant, check!” Neal said, and pushed over a delicate-looking creamy concoction with streaks of pink mousse between its layers. “I’ve had my eye on this lemon-raspberry thing,” he said as he sank his fork into it.
The flavors of lemon and raspberry exploded in Clint’s mouth, surprising him, and the frosting on this cake was so light as to be nearly non-existent. “Babe, this might be it,” Clint said.
“It’s only the second one,” Neal pointed out. Clint shrugged as he scooped two more forkfuls into his mouth.
“Palate cleanser,” Neal insisted, pushing Clint’s drink at him, and then they moved on to the next one, a very tasty red velvet that still paled in comparison to the last one.
“What’s next?” Clint asked, impatient to get back to the lemon-raspberry.
“Vanilla bean buttercream,” Neal said, indicating a very non-descript piece of cake to the side.
“Poor Mr. Vanilla Bean Butter-Cream,” Clint said, addressing it as if by name, “You are no Miss Lemon Raspberry Delight.”
Neal laughed. “Wait. Here,” he said, cutting off a large-ish piece with his fork and scooting his chair closer to Clint. “We might as well practice the cake-feeding thing.” He picked up the cake and held it against Clint’s lips; Clint opened his mouth and Neal pushed it in gently, waiting for Clint to take a bite.
“You’re not usually so timid when you put other things in my mouth,” Clint joked around a mouthful of cake, blushing at his own dirty talk, but then Neal did too, and his eyes flashed with humor. “We’ll see about that later. You like it?”
“It’s no Miss Lemon Raspberry Delight.”
They fed each other two more - some sort of spiced thing with pear (“too what-the-fuck” Neal said, rejecting it), and an Italian rum cake that, while delicious, Clint vetoed since a beloved uncle of his was a recovering alcoholic.
“Ick, what’s that? Coconut?”
“Yeah, coconut!” Neal enthused. “Everyone loves coconut.”
“I hate coconut. You never remember that I hate coconut.”
“That’s because I’m determined to make you see the error of your ways.”
Clint made a face and indicated another one. “What’s the filling there?” he said, picking up the piece he’d cut off and proffering it to Neal.
“Banana?” he guessed, taking the morsel into his mouth. The filling was too-warm and squished out over Clint’s fingers, so Neal took his hand and began to lick it off. Clint felt a familiar warmth in his lower belly as he watched the tip of Neal's pink tongue darting in and out, and suddenly Young Clinton was getting more interested in the proceedings.
Neal swallowed, then eyed Clint through his lashes, perfectly aware of the effect his performance was having. “Kinda bland,” Neal pointed out.
“Uh-huh,” Clint said, his mouth suddenly watering. He reached for his Scotch.
“I have an irrational desire to eat cake off your naked body,” Neal pronounced, and Clint spluttered into his glass.
“What?”
“Don’t you think that would be sexy?”
“I think that would be gross. And sticky.”
“There are other ways to get sticky,” Neal pointed out. He folded his legs under his chair and then slid to the floor on his knees, walking forward on them, eyes locked on Clint’s.
“I thought we were tasting cakes?”
“I’m down with Miss Lemon Raspberry Delight if you are,” Neal said, pushing Clint’s knees farther apart and situating himself between them.
“She is light and delicious,” Clint pointed out, leaning forward as their lips met in a passionate kiss. “Mmm, banana,” Clint muttered against Neal's mouth. He slid his hands around Neal’s back, hooking his ankles behind Neal's thighs and pulling him in. They kissed that way for a few minutes, and Clint began to grind his half-hard cock against Neal's crotch. Neal reached down and pushed Clint’s robe open, taking him in hand and stroking him to full hardness. “Want your skin on mine,” Clint insisted, fumbling for Neal's belt and failing.
Pulling away slightly but never taking his lips off Clint’s, Neal unfastened the belt and his pants, gasping as Clint’s greedy hands reached inside to free his half-hard dick. Lining both their dicks up in his hand, Clint moaned at the slide of skin-on-skin, the heat of Neal's skin like a brand against him. He could feel Neal's prick getting fully hard as they moved together, their rhythm by now a familiar thing to them both, the familiarity itself a turn-on for Clint.
“Want you inside me,” Clint gasped.
“So demanding,” Neal teased as his lips migrated to the right and he began sucking a mark on the side Clint’s throat.
Minutes later, Clint was on the bed on his back with two of Neal's fingers inside him, moaning as Neal prepped him so slowly it was almost frustrating. “Please,” he gasped, eyes rolling back as Neal added a third, “soon?” His next moan was swallowed by Neal's mouth as he kissed him, then Neal pulled away to find a condom and Clint whimpered a protest at his absence.
“God, I love you like this,” Neal said, his voice hoarse as he hovered over Clint, a hand on either side of his head. “All desperate and aching for me.”
“I ache for you every day,” Clint admitted. “You know that.”
“And it’s still the hottest thing,” Neal said, kissing him hard enough to elicit another high-pitched moan of protest from Clint when he broke it off, but then he was kneeling between Clint’s legs, spreading his thighs wide as he lined his cock up with Clint’s entrance, sliding in slowly against the initial resistance. Clint bore down, making his way easier, and a few minutes later, Neal was fully seated inside him, looking up at Clint with pupils blown wide and dark, a possessive gleam in his eyes.
Clint shuddered, closing his eyes as Neal began to move slowly inside him, reveling in the burn and the stretch - so good, so good he sometimes wished they could be fused together like this for all eternity.
“Look at me,” Neal ordered. When Clint opened his eyes, Neal was bending over him, close. His shallow thrusts were driving Clint mad.
“Harder,” Clint begged, and Neal obliged. As he did, he slid his right hand beneath Clint’s shoulders, levering his elbow so that Clint’s head rested in his hand, raised up from the pillow. Clint felt like he was being cradled. “God!” he gasped as the head of Neal's cock hit his prostate just right, and his own dick between them jumped and jolted in reaction.
“Look at me,” Neal whispered again when Clint had closed his eyes, and when Clint looked up, he found himself captivated by the thin rings of blue in Neal’s irises, as he always was, by the way the color changed according to Neal's mood. Their color now was as dark as sapphire, and Neal was looking at him with a passion and love and tenderness so intense it was humbling; Clint couldn’t look at it, couldn’t look at him. He turned his head and closed his eyes again.
“I love you. Hold me, hold me,” Clint whispered, trying for a misdirect. Neal obliged, pulling Clint’s head closer until his lips rested against Clint’s ear; Clint snaked his arms around Neal's neck and held on tightly. Neal eased him down on the bed, arms still cradling him. Clint shuddered again.
“Clint? Something wrong?” Neal asked, picking up on Clint’s change in mood; he began to pull out, pull away, but Clint clutched him tighter.
“Don’t. Don’t stop. I just… I just need to feel you.”
“Sure,” Neal said, nuzzling Clint’s ear as he pushed his dick once more into Clint as deep as he could and held it there. Clint wrapped his legs around him; they were so close, he could feel Neal's heart beating against his own chest. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
“It’s stupid,” Clint admitted, coloring, but he held Neal closer when he tried to pull back. “I can’t look at you when you’re like this.”
“You can’t look at me?” Neal asked. Clint shook his head. “Why?”
“Sometimes it’s too much.”
“Mmmm,” Neal hummed soothingly, shifting his weight so that he was supported by his elbows on either side of Clint’s head. He kissed Clint then, speaking into his mouth, “I love you more than my life, do you know that?”
“That’s why I can’t look at you. I sometimes think I don’t deserve it, what I see in your eyes.”
“Why? I see the same in your eyes.”
“I didn’t say it made sense, Neal.”
Suddenly, Neal's hands were on his face, petting him, soothing him. “Look at me?” he asked, but Clint still couldn’t, so he continued. “We’ve been through a lot, haven’t we? Stuff that would’ve torn other couples apart. But through it all, do you know the one thing that’s kept me going? The one thing that kept me straight, even when there were so, so many temptations?” He paused. “It was you.
“You know, Peter might deserve the credit for getting my ass out of four years of prison, but you were the one that kept me out. There have been so many temptations, Clint, and resisting them has been easier because of you, because of the look I see in your eyes, and the look I’d see there if I somehow managed to fuck it all up. I owe you so much, Clint - I owe you my freedom -“ he kissed Clint on his right eyelid. “I owe you my life,” he kissed his other eye. “And - look at me, baby, please.” Clint opened his eyes. “I owe you my heart.”
Clint stretched his head up to meet Neal's lips and they kissed, pouring all of their love into each other. When they parted, panting, Clint said, “God, weren’t we just supposed to be tasting cakes?”
“I blame Miss Lemon Raspberry Delight,” Neal said
“Where were we?” Clint laughed, tightening his legs around his love.
Neal renewed his thrusts inside Clint, each of them relaxing into their pleasure, and when they came, they were both staring into each other’s eyes.
Part 2
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Jones
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: Major schmoop; smut
Word Count: 14,700
Summary: Neal and Clint finally get hitched. These are the steps along the way.
A/N: This is (much belated) Happy Birthday fic for my pal elrhiarhodan, as well as fulfillment for her generous donation to my Sandy Fic Sale. She’s been after me for MONTHS to write this, and it’s finally here. I hope you enjoy, bb!
----
Well, it was finally here. The day Neal knew would come eventually, but could never actually visualize.
“Hey, Neal,” Blake said to him as he got onto the elevator. “Big d-“
“Don’t say it,” Neal said, making a cutting gesture and scowling at Blake.
“There he is! The man of the hour!” Diana greeted Neal when he’d reached the 21st Floor. “So how does it feel to finally -“
“Shht!” Neal hissed, shaking his head and making a beeline for Peter’s office.
“What the heck is wrong with him?” Blake asked her as he passed her desk.
Diana was grinning from ear to ear. “He doesn’t want to jinx it.”
----
“Neal.” Peter’s smile was broader today, his eyes more sparkly than usual.
“Not you too?” Neal frowned.
“What? I don’t get to be a little proud of you today? It’s a big day!”
“I wish you wouldn’t make a big deal.”
Peter was unperturbed. “Fine. I’ll mention it no more.”
“Thank you,” Neal said, taking a seat and picking up a nearby case folder. “Now can we get to work? We’ve still got the whole day ahead of us.” He looked up at Peter, who was unsuccessfully suppressing a grin, and narrowed his eyes. “What?”
Peter gestured with his chin down at the bullpen. “Don’t think they got the memo.”
Neal turned in his seat to see that his fiancé had arrived, as well as his future mother- and sister-in-law, and Elizabeth Burke. “So much for this being like any other day,” he groaned.
“Neal,” Peter said patiently, “the anklet comes off today - it’s a big deal to a lot of people, even if you want to pretend it’s not.”
----
POP
Neal flinched as the champagne Elizabeth brought was opened - it was barely 11:00 - but he put on a smile as he entered the tight group of friends and soon-to-be-former colleagues that had formed around his desk. He accepted a paper cup full and managed not to flinch again as the toasts began. By the end of it, he’d be crying like a baby.
Diana went first: “Neal Caffrey: What’s not to loathe?” she began, getting a round of loud laughter. “The first time we met, you tried to pick me up, until Peter informed you you’d be barking up the wrong tree. But I have to say, you’ve grown on me over the years - not unlike a toe fungus. But you’re a pretty toe fungus, and I can’t really picture my life without you in it. Next time I do this, I’ll maybe write something down!” She laughed self-consciously. “But seriously, Neal, you’ve been a great colleague, and a better friend, and I wish you nothing but happiness.”
“Here-here!” everyone said and Diana kissed Neal on the cheek.
“Caffrey,” a gruff voice behind him said, and he turned to find Reese Hughes had hoisted a cup in his direction as well. “It’s undeniable that you’ve been a great asset to this division; you’ve risked your life for us, and we for you. That is not a bond that is forgotten - I’m proud to call you a brother in arms.”
“Thank you, sir,” Neal said humbly.
“And I’ll be glad to see the back of you!” Hughes chuckled. “You’re a one-man paperwork generator!”
Neal felt his face redden as laughter once again filled the room, including his own.
The tinkle of a key chain got everyone’s attention, and then all eyes were on Peter. Neal cringed inwardly, wondering how this impromptu roasting would now go.
“To say I’m proud today would be understating it. Neal, I’ve watched you grow from an impetuous con looking for an easy way out to a mature, thoughtful, brave, and forthright member of our team.”
“Looking for an easy way out,” Diana interjected, and everyone laughed but Peter, whose eyes on Neal's shone with emotion.
“My wife asked me this morning how I felt about today, and it took me a while to be able to answer, because I hadn’t really thought about it from my own perspective. I kind of feel sad… like I’m losing a family member. Not like you’re going anywhere, really, but kind of like when a kid goes off to college. I guess I feel like my nest is empty.” There was a chorus of awwws, and Peter blushed. “But then I realized that this is the next phase of your life,” he gestured to Clint and Myra and Imani, “and you’re getting a whole new family. And so I’m happy to send you off, Neal, because I know they’ll love you as much as El and me.” He raised his cup. “Congratulations, buddy, I’m so proud of you.”
Neal couldn’t say who moved first, but within a second, he was wrapped in Peter’s arms in one of his signature bear hugs, whispering, “Thank you,” into his ear. When they parted, he swiped a tear from his eye with a thumb, grinning from ear-to-ear. “That was really touching - but I feel like the other shoe hasn’t dropped yet - no snarky comments or jokes?”
“I’m saving that for my toast at your wedding.”
There was more laughter, and then Clint cleared his throat, taking Neal's hand in his, entwining their fingers. Neal prepared himself for another outpouring of emotion - man, he hated being the center of attention in this way, and Clint was a much more emotional man than he. “You know I’m really bad at saying how I feel,” he began; Neal would disagree, but he let it drop, “so I’ll stick to the facts. I love you, I’m proud of you, and I can’t believe I finally get to whisk you away from here.”
“Back to lovely Beantown?” Myra asked.
Neal's eyes shone with anticipation - he’d longed for this day for a long time, when he and Clint could be together every day without restrictions. Hells yeah, lovely Beantown. But the sly look in Clint’s eyes said something else. “I know that look - you’re planning something,” Neal said.
“I guess you’d know my tells better than anyone.”
“So what exotic port of call is it going to be?” Neal asked, excited. “Paris? Bali? Belize?”
Clint raised Neal's hands to his mouth, kissed his knuckles softly, and smiled. “Hoboken,” he said, exaggerating each syllable.
“Hoboken?” Neal said, deflating. “Ooo, I’m dying.”
Everyone laughed again. “What’s in Hoboken?” Peter asked.
“The best wedding planner in the business,” El said, her eyes alight with mischief. Neal looked at her, confused. “Clint asked me for a recommendation,” she explained.
“I thought you might plan our wedding?” Neal said.
“So did I, but when I asked, she refused,” Clint said.
All eyes were suddenly on Elizabeth. “Don’t look at me that way - planning a wedding’s a special kind of hell. I am not going there with you - I love you both too much.”
----
“How bad could it be? I mean, really?” Clint said to Neal as they pulled up in front of The Maine Event, an establishment located above a tiny storefront on a tree-lined stretch of Washington St. in Hoboken. The plaque on the front door was tasteful, the décor inside understated yet elegant, and the proprietress -
“Oh, I’m so pleased to meet you both, I’m Tracie Maine,” a stunning, petite blonde said, rising from the Louis XIV desk at the back and walking over smoothly to meet them on four-inch Christian Louboutin pumps. “Clint?” she asked, a hand outstretched.
“Yes,” Clint said, taking her hand and smiling broadly.
“Then you must be Neal,” she said, proffering the same hand to Neal. Her handshake was firm, confident, her blue eyes twinkly and intelligent. Something was definitely up.
“Yes, I am,” Neal said smoothly, and smiled his best fake smile. Clint eyed him curiously, picking up on it.
“Congratulations to you both! I’m so hoping we can help you make your wedding a memorable occasion. Will you have a seat?” She indicated a pair of chairs opposite her desk as she backed smoothly across the room, then took a seat at the desk herself. Pulling out an iPad, she called up some sort of planning app and looked up at them with a winning smile once again. “So. Tell me a bit about yourselves. I find that learning about my clients before we get into the nitty gritty of choosing cakes and place settings is a lot better way to start a relationship. How did you two meet?”
Neal looked at Clint, who grinned. “He was an internationally famous forger and thief, and I was the FBI agent who first slapped the cuffs on him,” Clint informed her.
Tracie blinked and her smile faded just a small amount as she dithered charmingly, “Well, that’s… that’s… unique.” She cleared her throat. “Was it love at first sight, then?”
“Oh no,” Neal said, picking up the story. “First I went to prison for four years.”
“Almost four years.”
“Right - I broke out with three months to go so that I could save my girlfriend, who was in trouble with a fugitive ex-billionaire.”
“Girlfriend?”
“It was a long time ago. She died.”
“Um.”
“Then he cut a deal to act as a Criminal Informant for my boss at the FBI,” Clint said, picking up the thread. “And we worked together for a while, but we didn't hook up until my ex-fiancée needed our help finding her missing husband, who turned out to be working for an ex-Navy SEAL CEO who was running an illegal mining operation overseas.” Tracie squinted at them and wrinkled her button nose in adorable confusion. “Neal had just broken up with another girlfriend, so we just kinda helped each other drown our sorrows.”
“After the ex-Navy SEAL CEO tried to kill me with a compound bow and arrow,” Neal added with a smile. “Good times.”
Tracie blinked, her mouth hanging open slightly, but quickly recovered her composure. “But you stuck it out, and here you are!” she said hopefully.
“Only two kidnappings, three bullet wounds…” Neal began.
“Four,” Clint corrected.
“Oh right,” Neal reached over and caressed the long-healed scar on Clint’s neck, hidden by his shirt collar, “four bullet wounds, and not a small amount of bad guys put away later! And we’ve only been together for two and a half years!”
Tracie’s uneasy smile was a bit less bright than before. Suddenly, the bang of the downstairs door, followed by a stream of colorful swearing, wafted up the stairs and made them all jump in their seats.
“Tracie! Jesus, that old battle axe at the linen rental is working my last fucking nerve!” a young redhead with pale skin, a pair of dark-rimmed glasses and a sleeve of intricate tattoos adorning her right arm said as she entered the office, struggling with several bolts of cloth and rolling her eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry - you’re with clients!”
“Yes, I told you I had a meeting for the Caffrey-Jones wedding today, Darlene,” Tracie said through clenched teeth.
Darlene eyed Clint and Neal and smiled welcomingly. “Mazal tov,” she said.
“Todah,” Clint answered, and Darlene raised a perfectly-plucked eyebrow in surprise. “Well, don’t let me interrupt, gentlemen,” Darlene said with a bow of her head and retreated to a back room, her knee-high Dr. Martens boots making clomping noises as she walked.
“So sorry for the interruption,” Tracie said, embarrassed. “It’s just getting into our busy season.”
“No worries,” Neal replied.
“OK. So, yours is a relationship that has seen a lot of tests,” Tracie went on. “What do you think might be the most difficult part of planning the wedding for you both?”
“Well, it’s a mixed marriage, of course,” Neal said.
“Mm-hmm,” Tracie said, nodding as she took notes.
“Since Clint’s Jewish,” he added.
She looked at them both with a raised eyebrow. “And you’re…?”
“Nothing. I mean, I don’t actively practice any religion, so I don’t mind what we do, as long as it’s what Clint wants.”
“You mean that? Isn’t there some tradition you want to honor?” Clint asked, looking concerned.
Neal eyed Tracie and chose his answer carefully - this was not something he had discussed with anyone, so he wasn’t comfortable doing it in front of a stranger. “Yours are enough for me,” he said truthfully, then shook his head. “You know how it was with my mom.”
Clint seemed to pick up on his mood and let it drop, but the determined expression in his eyes meant that they’d be talking about it soon enough.
Tracie was shrewd enough to change the subject. “Have we thought about timing?”
“The sooner the better,” Clint said. “I’ve been waiting long enough.”
In spite of his reluctance to display any sort of emotion in front of a virtual stranger - and something about Tracie was just rubbing him wrong - Neal smiled broadly at his love and lay his hand on Clint’s knee for a second before answering, “How about New Year’s Eve?”
“That’s only eight months away,” Tracie pointed out.
“And it’s perfect, babe!” Clint enthused. “That’s when I proposed,” he explained to Tracie, who made appropriate “awwws” and smiled at them both.
“Ohmygod, when are you going to move this place back to the civilized side of the riverrr?” a high-pitched man’s voice rang out from below, followed by a set of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.
The door opened and Tracie closed her eyes. “Gordon, I am with clients!” she hissed as a slender African American man entered the room and proceeded to fan himself with a paper fan he held that had an ad for a Mexican soft drink on it. He looked like a peacock to Neal, with a pair of cropped pants in a brightly colored madras pattern topped by a couple of equally-brightly-colored, layered golf shirts, both with their collars popped, and a short scarf tied at his throat.
“So you are,” Gordon observed, a hand on his hip. He leered at Clint, making Neal frown. “Hello, chocolatey goodness,” he said, flashing a large smile and throwing his well-muscled chest out.
Clint turned a few shades darker, but said nothing.
“These are my clients. Who are getting married,” Tracie pointed out to the newcomer, and at least she had the good grace to be annoyed by his rudeness.
“Mmm, too bad you like the white meat, honey, because I could take you places!” Gordon said to Clint with a flirty smile as he made his way across the room and into the back where Darlene had disappeared.
Neal began to wonder if he ought to start looking for hidden cameras. “Are we being punked?” he muttered to Clint, who shrugged.
“Sorry about that,” Tracie apologized. “He’s my best friend, and he’s also one of the best stylists in the city, in case you guys are looking for advice on wedding suits...?”
Neal pressed his lips together. He wasn’t one to let a first impression last, but the man had literally just hit on his fiancé. “Neal does all right on the fashion end of things,” Clint explained, and Neal wanted to kiss him.
“Where were we?”
“Dates,” Neal replied.
She smiled charmingly. “Yes, dates. New Year’s Eve - a tricky one to begin with - lots of venues will already be booked, so we should start making inquiries immediately. Have you thought about the guest list - how many people will attend?”
“Well, if it’s anything like my cousin’s wedding, there’ll be 200 people,” Clint answered.
Neal felt a small finger of panic poke him in the gut; he didn’t think he really knew 200 people - not the sort he’d invite to his wedding, anyway.
Clint seemed to see his reaction and said, “But that doesn’t mean we can’t pare that back.” When Neal still didn’t relax, he added, “By half?” Neal smiled with relief as a phone rang somewhere.
“Tracie, it’s your mother, the internationally famous author and philanthropist!” Darlene called out and Tracie visibly wilted.
“Will you excuse me?” she asked in a small voice, rose, straightened out her Donna Karan couture shirt dress, and walked to the back with as much dignity as she could muster.
“Let’s get out of here,” Neal said urgently as soon as she was out of earshot. He stood.
“Huh? Don’t you like Tracie?”
Neal could see Clint had been charmed by her, but he knew differently. “I like Tracie fine, it’s the rest of the package I’m losing patience with. It’s like this woman’s life is one big rom com and we’re the supporting cast.”
“Babe...”
“Don’t ‘babe’ me, Clint. The woman’s a walking trope, complete with snarky assistant and flamboyantly gay bestie! Plunk Reese Witherspoon in that seat over there and this movie is guaranteed to gross 30 mill its first weekend. Now let’s get out of here before we wind up with Gerard Butler landing in our wedding cake in front of our 200 guests!”
Clint looked confused but stood anyway. “Gerard Butler?”
“Too old? Channing Tatum? Anyway, I want a minimum of drama around this, OK? Can’t we just plan it all ourselves?”
Clint stood, leaned forward and pulled Neal into his arms, which immediately calmed him. “If that’s what you want to do, then I’m on board. We will plan our own wedding.”
Neal smiled, relieved. “I mean, how hard could it be?”
The Honeymoon
“I’m telling you, if we don’t plan the honeymoon first, we’ll never take one!” Clint insisted. Anyone he knew who’d gotten married - including Peter - had advised him of this, and he intended to follow his advice. Neal had merely smiled indulgently and gone off to Elizabeth’s to get her opinion on florists.
He settled himself at the table in Neal's apartment with his laptop and a variety of travel brochures. Now that Neal's sentence was done and he was free to come and go as he pleased, naturally Clint’s schedule in Boston had eased as well -unlike when he’d first moved there and they could barely find a weekend to spend together. Clint therefore found himself in New York nearly as often as Neal was in Boston. This week, he’d been asked by Peter to consult on a case, but he suspected his old boss had asked him so that he could spend the long Memorial Day weekend in New York - and have his friend Neal with him.
“Look at them,” Elizabeth had said fondly to Clint just the night before; she’d invited them to dinner, and Peter and Neal were out on the patio with their heads together, looking over a case that was currently stumping the team. “He lights up when Neal's around.”
“I know what you mean. Neal seems to miss working at the Bureau as well. It doesn’t help that he hasn’t found a job yet.”
El’s blue eyes clouded. “Has it been hard? Is it because he’s an ex-con?”
“He says no, but I suspect differently. Anyway, the wedding’s a distraction at least.”
“How go the wars?” she asked, a knowing, pitying look in her eyes.
“We still haven’t found the right place here in New York. Kind of puts a kibosh on hiring any other vendor when you don’t know where it will be. With our budget, and Neal's so picky - I’m beginning to think eloping to Vegas might be the thing to do.”
El laughed. “You really think your mom will sit still for that?”
“I mentioned it as a joke at Passover and she started crying.”
“So much for plan B. It’ll come together, honey, just you wait and see,” she’d said confidently, and Clint wanted to believe her, but he couldn’t even settle on a hemisphere for their honeymoon destination, let alone a resort.
Warm weather - that’s the only thing he knew he wanted. With the wedding in January, he wanted to get away to somewhere tropical. Mainly to see Neal in a swim suit, he reflected with a grin, then thought of Neal with a tan, and Neal emerging from the ocean, and Neal lying naked on a messy bed beneath a lazily-turning ceiling fan and needed to go get a cool drink to soothe his libido.
A jaunty knock at the door in iambic pentameter alerted him that Mozzie had come to visit, and he rose and went to let him in. “Neal's in Brooklyn, discussing florists with Elizabeth,” Clint said by way of greeting.
“Ah.”
“Did you two have plans?”
“Later,” Moz said evasively; Clint knew they were just going to dinner, but allowed Moz his air of mystery. Over the years, he’d gotten to like Moz quite a lot, and he suspected the feeling was mutual, but Moz still felt the need to keep up a cool, anti-law enforcement façade, and Clint was too polite to call him on it.
“What are you up to?” Moz said, eyeing the materials on the table with interest and wandering over. He began to sift through the brochures.
“Trying to find a good place for a honeymoon. I told Neal I’d take care of it, but I don’t even know where to begin.” He rubbed at the knot of tension that had suddenly manifested itself on the back of his neck.
“Well, it can’t be that hard. What are your criteria?”
“I want sun, and sand, and fruity drinks with umbrellas in them. And no cell reception.” The idea of two weeks away with Neal without interruption seemed almost too good to be true.
“Well, that rules out much of the Northern Hemisphere,” Moz said, and tossed half of the brochures onto one of the chairs. “What else?” He looked up at Clint, an avid expression in his eyes as he rose to this challenge, and Clint was grateful for the help.
“Someplace quiet, not too touristy.” Moz discarded a few more brochures. “Off the beaten path - unique but not too trendy either. And far enough away that we know we’re in another world, you know?”
“That narrows it down to one,” Moz said, and handed Clint the brochure.
----
“Cape Verde?” Neal said later that night when he’d gotten home. “Never heard of it.”
“Mozzie has. He says it’s quite beautiful and understated. Quiet and not too touristy - just what I wanted.” Clint ran a finger over photos of white sandy beaches and swaying palm trees. “It’s off the coast of Africa, and it sounds like heaven.”
“Well, if Moz is so keen on it, they must not have an extradition treaty with the US,” Neal snarked.
“Very likely.”
“Is it in our budget range?”
“It can be. If we double our budget range?”
“Clint!”
“Did I mention the bungalow with the infinity pool and private beach?” Clint blinked at Neal in his most appealing way and watched with satisfaction as his lover caved in.
“Fine - you know how I can’t resist the big eyes treatment,” Neal said, walking over and settling himself in Clint’s lap, placing his hands on Clint’s face as he kissed him. “We don’t need a fancy hotel as a venue.”
Clint smiled into their kiss. “I just thought of you diving into that pool, coming out all wet and dripping, swimsuit clinging...”
Neal shifted in his lap, grinding against Clint’s crotch. Clint threaded his arms around Neal's back and pulled him close, deepening their kiss. Neal's tongue pressed into his mouth, and Clint sucked at it lightly, then broke the kiss and pressed his lips along Neal's jaw and down his throat, groaning as Neal ground his ass against his growing erection. “Can’t wait ‘til I have you every day,” he said against Neal's skin. Neal made approving “mmm’ing” noises. “Should probably look for a bigger place, huh?” Clint felt Neal stiffen in his arms and he stopped kissing him. “What?”
“Nothing, I just - I realized I’m going to have to move out of here soon, aren’t I?”
“Well, yeah. We will be man and husband, we should probably live together when that happens.”
“I know, it’s just - it’s never really felt real to me until now.”
“Our marriage?”
“Leaving New York.”
“I am in Boston,” Clint pointed out, trying not to let his voice rise.
Neal kissed him lightly on the lips. “Of course you are, but New York has become… almost a part of me. I just didn’t think…”
Clint lowered his eyes.
“Hey,” Neal said, taking Clint’s face between his hands and forcing him to look him in the eye, “it’s a big change for me, that’s all I’m saying, and I just have to get used to the idea. I’ll love living with you whether you’re in New York or Boston or Grand Rapids!”
Clint hated himself for the relief he felt - when had he gotten so needy? He smiled up at Neal, who smiled back. “Though I might not feel the same way if you do get transferred to Grand Rapids, so, like, don’t, OK?”
Clint laughed. “Now where were we?”
“You were about to give me the blow job of my dreams,” Neal said.
“Was I now?” Clint purred, lifting his arms around Neal's back and easing him down to the couch.
The Venue
Neal sat at the table on the balcony of his apartment, head in his hands, trying to resist the temptation to tear his hair out. On the screen of his laptop was displayed a very polite email from the sales manager at Gotham Hall, informing him that the option on the space he had his eye on had been exercised by the larger (read: more lucrative) party that had also been scheduled for the night. Neal thought he might cry. Literally every halfway decent restaurant, hotel ballroom and gallery was booked that night, and he was seriously considering renting a party boat on the Hudson. He shuddered at the very thought, and moaned quietly to himself.
“What’s wrong, dear?” June asked as she swept through the doors at the far end of the balcony. She was bearing a tray on which was loaded a tea service and a plate of fresh-baked madeleines which she set on the table.
“Nothing,” he answered, rising and pulling a chair out for her. She poured them both a cup of tea. “Everything. I can’t seem to find a half-way decent place for the wedding, and unless the McDonald’s up the road gets back to me, we really will have to elope to Vegas.”
June wrinkled her nose as she laughed at his frustration. “Oh, when are you going to stop being silly and just ask to have it here?”
“What? No - you have your annual gala that night.”
“Which I’ll have to pass up if I’m going to attend the wedding,” she pointed out, patting him on the cheek. “If you think I would ever miss your wedding, Neal dear, for some silly party, I wonder what you must think of me,” she said lightly.
“June.”
“Do you know how important you are to me? I love you as I do my own children, Neal, and my grandbabies. You know you’re more than just a boarder to me, and you have been for a long time.”
Neal suddenly felt two inches tall. He stared at his teacup. “I know you do. And I feel as close to you as almost anyone. I guess I just didn’t want to impose.”
She reached across the table and laid a warm hand on his wrist. “Ask me.”
“June, may Clint and I have our wedding here, in your house?” he asked with a smile, turning his hand over and grasping onto hers.
“But of course. Now who’s your caterer? Because I have a few to recommend.”
The Best Man
“Hey, Peter.”
Peter looked up from the file he was perusing, his face lighting up as soon as he saw Neal. “Hey, buddy,” he said warmly.
“Doing anything for lunch?”
“El packed me some deviled ham, but I suppose it’ll keep until tomorrow.”
“That stuff’ll keep longer than Twinkies,” Neal said wryly.
“Let me just get my jacket.”
Fifteen minutes later, the two were seated on a bench in Columbus Park, a pair of slices from a favorite pizza place of Peter’s in their hands. “Wanna tell me what this is all about?” Peter asked, taking a large bite out of his slice.
“Can’t two old friends have lunch like old times?”
“Yes, two old friends can. But Neal Caffrey doesn’t sit on a park bench with a slice of greasy pizza voluntarily.”
“Peter Burke does.”
“Yes, he does, and he also knows when he’s being buttered up. Spill.”
Neal frowned and lay his pizza down on the paper bag it had been packed in. “I was wondering if you’d write a letter of recommendation for me. For a job.”
“What? Neal, that’s terrific! What’s the gig?”
Neal shook his head. “It’s only freelance, but Sterling Bosche needs an authenticator, and Sara recommended me. She thinks a letter from you will go a long way toward convincing her boss I’d be good for the job.”
“That’s awfully nice of her to do that for you, considering how you two left things.”
“Well, we weren’t exactly uncivil.”
“Still, a break-up’s a break-up.”
“…and she kinda maybe thinks I was struggling with my sexuality at the time.”
“What? Neal!” Peter scolded.
“Well, I did hook up with Clint right after breaking up with her.”
“You never told her you were bi?”
“It never came up!” Neal defended. “And when we got engaged, she contacted me to congratulate me and… well…”
“She was jumping around and landed on a conclusion?”
“Who was I to push her off?”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I didn’t do it to get the job - it happened months ago. And I haven’t had a chance to correct her assumptions.”
“My previous statement stands - you’re unbelievable. You can’t start this working relationship with her on a lie, Neal.”
“An assumption,” Neal insisted, but he knew Peter was right. Forging a friendship with Sara had taken a long time. When she’d admitted to him why she’d ultimately forgiven him, chalking up all his insecurities and avoidance in their relationship to the fact he was in denial of his sexuality and not what it really was - an inability to commit - he didn’t have the heart to set her straight. She had been so insistent it was the truth that he could hardly get a word in at the time. At least, that’s what he told himself. In fact, it was just easier this way, and their truce had turned into mutual forgiveness and, now, friendship, and he didn’t want to screw it up.
“You need to tell her.”
Neal winced. “I know.” He glanced sideways at Peter. “That’s not the only reason I wanted to talk to you,” he began.
“Oh boy, what now?” Peter had his stern look on, the one that made Neal feel like he was nine again and in the principal’s office. Peter laid his pizza crusts down atop his bag and brushed crumbs off his tie, sighing mightily. “Are you in trouble? Is Moz?”
“No. No, I just - there’s something important I wanted to ask you, and I meant to do it better, I guess, but… I’ll just ask. Peter, you’re my best friend - will you stand up for me at my wedding?”
Peter’s face went soft suddenly, and he blinked at Neal. “What?”
“I want you to be my best man.”
“Neal!” Neal watched a bevy of emotions play across Peter’s face in rapid succession: astonishment, doubt, happiness. “I woulda thought you’d ask Moz.”
“No, you’re my first choice. Anyway, Moz is going to officiate. Did you know he studied to be a cantor when he was younger? Yeah, me neither, but there ya go. So, will you do it? Will you be my best man?”
Neal thought he saw tears in Peter’s eyes, but it might have been the sunshine. “It would be my honor, buddy.” He laughed, suddenly, and clapped Neal on the shoulder, beaming.
Relieved to have that over with, Neal picked up his pizza slice and took a bite. Peter sighed happily, no doubt already planning the bachelor party. “Sooo,” Neal drawled, “about that letter of recommendation?”
The Best Woman
“Di?”
“Yeah, Jones?”
“Be my best woman at the wedding?”
“I don’t have to plan a shower or bachelor party or anything, do I?”
“Of course not.”
“I’m in.”
“Cool.”
Meet the Parents I
“Babe?” Neal had his serious face on, was sitting on the front edge of the couch with his hands clasped between his knees as Clint arrived at the apartment for the July 4th holiday, and Clint could feel the bottom of his stomach fall away.
“What?”
“Come here? Sit down.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘No’?”
“There are fewer syllables that are less plain in their meaning, Neal.”
“You’re beginning to sound like me. Get over here and sit down - I have to tell you something and you need to be sitting down for it.”
“That’s why I don’t want to sit down, because it’s always bad.”
During all the traumatic events in his life, Clint was bidden to sit and all he’d wanted to do was stand. When you were standing, you could run, or hit someone, or leave, or defend yourself. Like when his parents told him they were divorcing, all he wanted to do was go to his room for the rest of his life. Or when he and Isobel had decided to call it quits - she’d asked him to sit down then, too. Or when the doctor had told him Neal was close to dying - well, maybe that one was the exception to the rule, because he was pretty sure he’d have passed out if Peter hadn’t made him sit down.
“OK, fine, then I’m coming to you.” Neal got up and crossed over to him, took both his hands in his and kissed him on the knuckles, took a deep breath and said, “I met your Dad today.”
Clint staggered back against one of the dining room chairs and sat down heavily. “What?” he asked, peering up at Neal as if he’d started speaking Mandarin.
“He was standing outside when I left this morning. He knew my name and everything. He - said he missed you.”
Clint could feel his face freeze, that uncanny skill to remain neutral he’d honed after years of questioning suspects in the FBI somehow taking over. And Neal picked up on it immediately. “Come on, Clint, don’t shut down. He made an effort, that’s got to mean something.”
Clint wasn’t sure that it did. “What did he say to you?”
“He said he knew who I was, he knew what I was, and he thought if anyone could understand the need for second chances, it would be me.”
Clint closed his eyes. His father had always been a master at reading people - had he pegged Neal so easily? “What did you say?”
“I told him he was full of shit.”
Clint managed a weak smile, but Neal went on.
“But are you absolutely certain you want to cut him off so completely, Clint?”
“I wasn’t the one doing the cutting, Neal.”
“I know.”
“He called me a fag. To my face. And Lord knows the things he’s said or thought about you. He doesn’t get to show up now and pretend it’s all OK.”
Clint was upset, more than he’d been about anything in months. To think his father - who was a master manipulator, despite his career path - had been that close to the person he loved the most. To think this man who was capable of such hateful words - a man who had learned first-hand of the sting of words when he’d chosen to marry Clint’s mother, Myra - it wasn’t the use of the f-word that had hurt Clint as much as the hypocrisy. Well, that and the feeling of betrayal that the man he admired the most in the world had shown true colors that were far from appealing. Clint found himself shaking with anger.
But suddenly, Neal had his arms around him, his hand pulling Clint’s head into the crook of his shoulder, massaging the back of his neck softly with his fingertips. “I get it. Believe me, if anyone understands the bad choices fathers make, it’s me. He said he wanted to see you before the wedding. He has something to tell you.”
“I can’t.”
“I know, I get it. I guess I’m just the messenger here.”
“What else did he say?”
“I don’t know -“
“What else did he say, Neal?”
“He said he couldn’t believe you took up with a white boy, but at least I was pretty enough.”
“Jesus.”
“A real charmer, Admiral Jones.”
“Now you see where I get it from,” Clint said bitterly.
Neal shrugged his shoulder to dislodge Clint’s head and turned his own, catching Clint’s mouth and kissing him deeply. “You’re nothing like him, baby.”
“That’s just the thing. I think I am.”
“I think there are some very basic differences.”
“Well, yeah,” Clint said, thinking, I like boys, for one.
“You’re not an asshole,” Neal concluded, and Clint laughed.
“Not as far as you know.”
Smexy Interlude I
“So what the heck is all of this?” Clint asked, marveling at the sight of all the small boxes on Neal's table.
“Cake samples. We have to pick one we like.”
Clint’s eyes boggled. “There have to be a dozen!”
“Fifteen,” Neal corrected. “Come on, you love cake.”
“Here’s hoping I still do when this is over!” Clint loosened his tie and removed his jacket - the train ride down from Boston this weekend had been longer than usual owing to signaling problems from a mid-August heat wave - and he was tired and cranky and sweaty.
Neal, his sweet, sexy, thoughtful, and insightful fiancé, immediately picked up on Clint’s mood. “But we don’t have to do it now - you want a drink?” He crossed the room to the fridge and opened it up.
“I need a shower.” Neal handed him a cold bottle of beer and then put his hands on his shoulders to force him to turn around.
“Off you go, then. I’ll still be here, and so will the cake.”
Clint stopped at the massive, walk-in closet beside Neal's bathroom that was nearly the size of his current bedroom in Boston and disrobed, hanging up his pants and chucking his shirt in the laundry bag for the cleaners, his undies with Neal's other laundry in a nearby basket. He removed his socks and realized they were Neal's, stretched by his bigger feet, their heels situated somewhere around Clint’s ankles. The fact that nearly half of the space in the closet had been given over to his own clothes made him smile; even if he only spent weekends here, the fact Neal had made the room for him so readily had made him so happy, and the sight of his suits hanging beside Neal's filled him with warm hopes for their future together. And Neal insisted he only use his own dry cleaner for reasons so esoteric they were nearly meaningless.
With thoughts of how at-home he felt here in Neal's apartment at June’s - it really was a place he equated with their life together more than any other - he padded, naked, into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He didn’t make it very hot - he needed to cool off - and when he stepped under the spray, he nearly groaned in ecstasy. The water pelting his skin hit his overheated crotch just right, and before he knew it, his dick was at half-mast, and his mind was filled with fantasies of what he and Neal might do together later.
“Later, Young Clinton,” he admonished his dick, addressing it using Neal's ridiculous nickname for it - that had been a memorable weekend. When it refused to behave, even after a vigorous drying with fluffy towels, he promised, “Maybe not much later?” as he donned Neal's brown paisley robe and headed for the living room.
He found that Neal had arranged the cake samples on small plates on the table - all fifteen of them on the mismatched china that Neal not so much collected as wound up with from everybody. “Cake for dinner - every nine year old’s fantasy!” Neal said happily, replacing Clint’s half-empty beer with a glass of the Scotch he favored before settling down at the end of the table with a glass for himself.
“Where to begin?” Clint said, marveling. “Ooo, chocolate!” The cake in question was an unbelievably rich and moist Devil’s food with a malted milk frosting and a dense outer covering that stuck unpleasantly to Clint’s teeth. “What’s this stuff on the outside?” he asked distastefully, peeling it away and pushing it to the edges of the plate.
“Fondant,” Neal said around his mouthful. “They put it around the outside, so the cake looks nice and smooth. It’s edible.”
“But not very palatable,” Clint frowned.
“No fondant, check!” Neal said, and pushed over a delicate-looking creamy concoction with streaks of pink mousse between its layers. “I’ve had my eye on this lemon-raspberry thing,” he said as he sank his fork into it.
The flavors of lemon and raspberry exploded in Clint’s mouth, surprising him, and the frosting on this cake was so light as to be nearly non-existent. “Babe, this might be it,” Clint said.
“It’s only the second one,” Neal pointed out. Clint shrugged as he scooped two more forkfuls into his mouth.
“Palate cleanser,” Neal insisted, pushing Clint’s drink at him, and then they moved on to the next one, a very tasty red velvet that still paled in comparison to the last one.
“What’s next?” Clint asked, impatient to get back to the lemon-raspberry.
“Vanilla bean buttercream,” Neal said, indicating a very non-descript piece of cake to the side.
“Poor Mr. Vanilla Bean Butter-Cream,” Clint said, addressing it as if by name, “You are no Miss Lemon Raspberry Delight.”
Neal laughed. “Wait. Here,” he said, cutting off a large-ish piece with his fork and scooting his chair closer to Clint. “We might as well practice the cake-feeding thing.” He picked up the cake and held it against Clint’s lips; Clint opened his mouth and Neal pushed it in gently, waiting for Clint to take a bite.
“You’re not usually so timid when you put other things in my mouth,” Clint joked around a mouthful of cake, blushing at his own dirty talk, but then Neal did too, and his eyes flashed with humor. “We’ll see about that later. You like it?”
“It’s no Miss Lemon Raspberry Delight.”
They fed each other two more - some sort of spiced thing with pear (“too what-the-fuck” Neal said, rejecting it), and an Italian rum cake that, while delicious, Clint vetoed since a beloved uncle of his was a recovering alcoholic.
“Ick, what’s that? Coconut?”
“Yeah, coconut!” Neal enthused. “Everyone loves coconut.”
“I hate coconut. You never remember that I hate coconut.”
“That’s because I’m determined to make you see the error of your ways.”
Clint made a face and indicated another one. “What’s the filling there?” he said, picking up the piece he’d cut off and proffering it to Neal.
“Banana?” he guessed, taking the morsel into his mouth. The filling was too-warm and squished out over Clint’s fingers, so Neal took his hand and began to lick it off. Clint felt a familiar warmth in his lower belly as he watched the tip of Neal's pink tongue darting in and out, and suddenly Young Clinton was getting more interested in the proceedings.
Neal swallowed, then eyed Clint through his lashes, perfectly aware of the effect his performance was having. “Kinda bland,” Neal pointed out.
“Uh-huh,” Clint said, his mouth suddenly watering. He reached for his Scotch.
“I have an irrational desire to eat cake off your naked body,” Neal pronounced, and Clint spluttered into his glass.
“What?”
“Don’t you think that would be sexy?”
“I think that would be gross. And sticky.”
“There are other ways to get sticky,” Neal pointed out. He folded his legs under his chair and then slid to the floor on his knees, walking forward on them, eyes locked on Clint’s.
“I thought we were tasting cakes?”
“I’m down with Miss Lemon Raspberry Delight if you are,” Neal said, pushing Clint’s knees farther apart and situating himself between them.
“She is light and delicious,” Clint pointed out, leaning forward as their lips met in a passionate kiss. “Mmm, banana,” Clint muttered against Neal's mouth. He slid his hands around Neal’s back, hooking his ankles behind Neal's thighs and pulling him in. They kissed that way for a few minutes, and Clint began to grind his half-hard cock against Neal's crotch. Neal reached down and pushed Clint’s robe open, taking him in hand and stroking him to full hardness. “Want your skin on mine,” Clint insisted, fumbling for Neal's belt and failing.
Pulling away slightly but never taking his lips off Clint’s, Neal unfastened the belt and his pants, gasping as Clint’s greedy hands reached inside to free his half-hard dick. Lining both their dicks up in his hand, Clint moaned at the slide of skin-on-skin, the heat of Neal's skin like a brand against him. He could feel Neal's prick getting fully hard as they moved together, their rhythm by now a familiar thing to them both, the familiarity itself a turn-on for Clint.
“Want you inside me,” Clint gasped.
“So demanding,” Neal teased as his lips migrated to the right and he began sucking a mark on the side Clint’s throat.
Minutes later, Clint was on the bed on his back with two of Neal's fingers inside him, moaning as Neal prepped him so slowly it was almost frustrating. “Please,” he gasped, eyes rolling back as Neal added a third, “soon?” His next moan was swallowed by Neal's mouth as he kissed him, then Neal pulled away to find a condom and Clint whimpered a protest at his absence.
“God, I love you like this,” Neal said, his voice hoarse as he hovered over Clint, a hand on either side of his head. “All desperate and aching for me.”
“I ache for you every day,” Clint admitted. “You know that.”
“And it’s still the hottest thing,” Neal said, kissing him hard enough to elicit another high-pitched moan of protest from Clint when he broke it off, but then he was kneeling between Clint’s legs, spreading his thighs wide as he lined his cock up with Clint’s entrance, sliding in slowly against the initial resistance. Clint bore down, making his way easier, and a few minutes later, Neal was fully seated inside him, looking up at Clint with pupils blown wide and dark, a possessive gleam in his eyes.
Clint shuddered, closing his eyes as Neal began to move slowly inside him, reveling in the burn and the stretch - so good, so good he sometimes wished they could be fused together like this for all eternity.
“Look at me,” Neal ordered. When Clint opened his eyes, Neal was bending over him, close. His shallow thrusts were driving Clint mad.
“Harder,” Clint begged, and Neal obliged. As he did, he slid his right hand beneath Clint’s shoulders, levering his elbow so that Clint’s head rested in his hand, raised up from the pillow. Clint felt like he was being cradled. “God!” he gasped as the head of Neal's cock hit his prostate just right, and his own dick between them jumped and jolted in reaction.
“Look at me,” Neal whispered again when Clint had closed his eyes, and when Clint looked up, he found himself captivated by the thin rings of blue in Neal’s irises, as he always was, by the way the color changed according to Neal's mood. Their color now was as dark as sapphire, and Neal was looking at him with a passion and love and tenderness so intense it was humbling; Clint couldn’t look at it, couldn’t look at him. He turned his head and closed his eyes again.
“I love you. Hold me, hold me,” Clint whispered, trying for a misdirect. Neal obliged, pulling Clint’s head closer until his lips rested against Clint’s ear; Clint snaked his arms around Neal's neck and held on tightly. Neal eased him down on the bed, arms still cradling him. Clint shuddered again.
“Clint? Something wrong?” Neal asked, picking up on Clint’s change in mood; he began to pull out, pull away, but Clint clutched him tighter.
“Don’t. Don’t stop. I just… I just need to feel you.”
“Sure,” Neal said, nuzzling Clint’s ear as he pushed his dick once more into Clint as deep as he could and held it there. Clint wrapped his legs around him; they were so close, he could feel Neal's heart beating against his own chest. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
“It’s stupid,” Clint admitted, coloring, but he held Neal closer when he tried to pull back. “I can’t look at you when you’re like this.”
“You can’t look at me?” Neal asked. Clint shook his head. “Why?”
“Sometimes it’s too much.”
“Mmmm,” Neal hummed soothingly, shifting his weight so that he was supported by his elbows on either side of Clint’s head. He kissed Clint then, speaking into his mouth, “I love you more than my life, do you know that?”
“That’s why I can’t look at you. I sometimes think I don’t deserve it, what I see in your eyes.”
“Why? I see the same in your eyes.”
“I didn’t say it made sense, Neal.”
Suddenly, Neal's hands were on his face, petting him, soothing him. “Look at me?” he asked, but Clint still couldn’t, so he continued. “We’ve been through a lot, haven’t we? Stuff that would’ve torn other couples apart. But through it all, do you know the one thing that’s kept me going? The one thing that kept me straight, even when there were so, so many temptations?” He paused. “It was you.
“You know, Peter might deserve the credit for getting my ass out of four years of prison, but you were the one that kept me out. There have been so many temptations, Clint, and resisting them has been easier because of you, because of the look I see in your eyes, and the look I’d see there if I somehow managed to fuck it all up. I owe you so much, Clint - I owe you my freedom -“ he kissed Clint on his right eyelid. “I owe you my life,” he kissed his other eye. “And - look at me, baby, please.” Clint opened his eyes. “I owe you my heart.”
Clint stretched his head up to meet Neal's lips and they kissed, pouring all of their love into each other. When they parted, panting, Clint said, “God, weren’t we just supposed to be tasting cakes?”
“I blame Miss Lemon Raspberry Delight,” Neal said
“Where were we?” Clint laughed, tightening his legs around his love.
Neal renewed his thrusts inside Clint, each of them relaxing into their pleasure, and when they came, they were both staring into each other’s eyes.
Part 2