STORY: A Night Like This, Part I (Neal/Peter, PG-13, slashorific2016)
Summary: An evening spent in “Ellington’s Cotton Club” is bound to be something special, but they all certainly hadn’t this in mind.
Notes: Written for slashorific2016. Set to the backdrop of the clubs and bars of the late 1930’s and early 1940’s. You’ll meet a lot of our favorite characters, though in roles quite different from those we know. Title comes from a song by Caro Emerald (which would be so fitting for this time period). Artwork by the wonderful kanarek13, beta reading by the best beta ever, sherylyn. Thank you, sweeties, for everything!!
Warnings: Mention of hate-crimes, rape, period-related homophobia and racism, suicide, violence against women.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part I - I’m In The Mood For Love
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ellington’s Cotton Club
Even behind the stage, where the orchestra was playing a best-of the current hits on the still new media called “radio,” one could feel it. A certain current of tension was running through the whole club, getting everyone - guests, singers, dancers, even the waiting staff - in the right mood for a jolly good evening.
While the singers and musicians had their own small rooms to get prepared, the dancers and variète artists all got ready right behind the stage, and more than once, the whole, cramped space resembled a chicken corral more than anything else, though not in volume.
Nonetheless, it was one of Neal Caffrey’s favorite places before he took the stage, in the persona of “Nick Halden.” The constant stream of soft voices was kind of a balm for his nerves, even after having more than ten years of singing and entertaining under his belt.
“Neal, honey?”
The soft, melodic voice of Elizabeth Mitchell brought Neal out of his reverie. Ever since he saved her from the unwanted advances of two drunken soldiers, they were technically inseparable. Wherever Neal went, Elizabeth went too, and more than once, they were mistaken for a happy couple.
But the truth was far from it. Sure, Elizabeth knew Neal’s body inside out, but only because she (along with Reese Hughes, a seasoned Broadway tailor who took her under his wing) was responsible for all the wonderful, form-fitting suits and shirts he was wearing on stage. There was not even a bit of romance between them, kisses on the cheek on special occasions notwithstanding.
“What’s up, Elizabeth? Any problems?”
“No, not at all.” She smiled, a shy smile, and if it wasn’t quite dark in this corner of the backstage area, Neal would win any bet that she was blushing slightly. “June just told me that we have a special group out in the audience.”
“And? Who is it?”
“A group of FBI agents, celebrating the promotion of one of them.”
“Is June fearing some trouble?”
“No, no, she even knows the one who’s been promoted.” Despite the darkness, Neal raised an eyebrow. “She said that he knows what’s going on in some of the rooms upstairs, but they have, and I quote, ʻbigger fish to fry than to hunt down some small-time crooks.ʼ They just want to have a good time tonight, and for that, they asked you to sing a song or two for him.”
“June knows that I hardly do that anymore,” Neal replied with a slight shudder. Back in the day, when he was on the rise, he did take requests for songs, but he’d learned the hard way that even when the recipient is happy about the dedication, others might not be.
“That’s why Jones and Keller are going to be close to the stage,” Elizabeth answered with a smile.
“All right, tell her I do it,” Neal finally conceded. Elizabeth turned to go and look for June, the so-called “First Lady” of the club, when Neal stopped her with a hand on her upper arm. She turned back to him. “But only one song.”
“Okay. Good luck.” And with that, she was gone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Out in the main room of the club, the mood was rising by the second. More and more tables were filled with people from all over the town, and the wait staff was hurrying around to get drinks and snacks to the guests as quickly as possible.
At one table slightly left of the middle, five men sat down, all of them visibly happy. And they had all reason to be - one of them, Peter Burke, had just gotten promoted to “Special Agent” within the relatively young Art Crimes unit. With the war raging across the pond in Europe, the FBI bosses in Washington thought it would be good to form a new unit focused on every kind of crime with artworks involved. First reports from the warzone told about tons of paintings, statues and other artworks being forcefully taken away from their rightful owners and collected in semi-secret places, probably until they would find a new place in a museum or be destroyed.
“So, Peter,” David Siegel started while getting rid of both his jacket and tie, “how does it feel to be a ʻSpecial Agentʼ?” To drive the point home, the young man made air quotes with his fingers, causing the whole table to laugh.
“Well, David, if you must know,” Peter Burke shot back, “it feels great. Though I’m not exactly sure what a Special Agent actually has to do on a daily base.”
“Gentlemen?”
All five men looked up to see a young African-American woman standing at the table.
“Yeah?” Carson Blake, the youngest member of Peter’s new team, asked.
“I’ve been told that one of you has reason to celebrate tonight,” the young woman said while rummaging around in her portable basket.
“Well, sugar,” David Siegel piped up, a smile spreading on his face, “that would be this gentleman here,” he continued while pointing at Peter.
The young woman made her way over to Peter, set down the basket and sat down on his lap.
“Hi, my name is Diana and I’ll gladly be at your service tonight, sir,” she offered with a smile.
Peter returned the smile, even though his heart already felt sorry for her, considering his next actions.
“Thanks for the offer, Diana, but I have to decline.” His answer was met with both a slight frown from the woman and a round of “boo’s” from his colleagues.
“I understand, sir, if you want another girl, maybe one of the white ones…” Diana began, but Peter interrupted her immediately.
“No, no, not at all. And please don’t think it has something to do with the color of your skin.”
In his mind, Peter could rattle off a whole list of colleagues who couldn’t stand even being on the same floor with people of color. He, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about that. Spending more than one summer down in Georgia on his paternal grandfather’s plantation had taught him that these people were (a) hard-working folks and (b) not treated right. He hoped that one day, they would be seen as equals to everyone else, but Peter was also sure that he wouldn’t see that day. The rifts between black and white were just too deep to overcome in the near future.
Diana nodded, but her eyes conveyed that she was thankful for Peter’s clarification. Her best friend Christie was the latest “victim” to the hate, taking her own life the day after three men raped her in an alley near the club. It still was a mystery to her how June and Byron could keep the club, but some of the other girls said that Byron had some kind of deal with both the Police Commissioner and the Mayor.
After collecting herself and her things, Diana got up from Peter’s lap, placing five cigars on the table before making her way to the side-exit.
“Hey, Diana!”
With a quick jog, Clinton Jones, one of the bouncers at the club, was at her side. He had a soft spot for her, ever since she came in the club one day, asking for any kind of job.
“Yeah, Clinton?” Diana said while turning around to him.
“You okay? What happened over there?”
“Yeah, I’m okay, Jones. My offers just got denied, but in a friendly way.”
“You still believe the crap all the white guys tell you? That it’s not because of your color?”
“No, I don’t. And you should know me better than that. But this guy over there, he really meant it.” She paused, handing her basket to Alex to get a refill. “And I would win every bet that he has a big secret of his own.”
“What kind of secret can an FBI agent have?”
Diana smiled. Bless his heart, but sometimes, Clinton Jones could be so adorably naïve.
“One that would cost him his job in the blink of an eye,” she finally answered while touching her upper chest, indicating that she meant the heart.
“Oh.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The orchestra finally finished their last piece (“Moon Glow”), and for some seconds, nearly the whole club was shrouded in darkness, before a spotlight focused on the bandleader, a French immigrant going by the name of George Dorsett. Neal couldn’t really stand him, and he always compared him with an eel in his mind, but the Paris-born conductor was a genius when it came to get the right mix for the evening.
“Merci, mesdames et messieurs, ladies and gentlemen, merci!” Dorsett said as an introduction once the applause slowly ebbed. After almost three years working in the club, George finally came to love everything in here, including the audience. It wasn’t exactly his dream job, but it paid his bills, and that was, at the moment, the most important thing to him.
“The regulars among you already know what’s coming next: our very own star. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome on stage a man everyone calls ʻthe Diamondʼ or ʻthe precious one,ʼ” he gave a signal to his musicians, “Mr. Nick Halden!”
Once again, the stage was shrouded in darkness, and while the band played some tunes, Neal made his way to the microphone, taking a deep breath while waiting for the spotlight to find him - which it did only heartbeats later.
Traditionally, Neal’s first song was “I Got Rhythm,” which usually didn’t fail in getting the audience in the right mood for his show. Mostly midway into the song, and you could hear the guests on the tables near the stage snapping their fingers to the tune.
By the time Neal ended his second and third song (“Summertime” and “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy”), the whole audience was wired. Chancing a look over to the bar, Neal saw June, a smile on her face. From the moment he’d stepped into the club, the matriarch of this establishment had had a soft spot for him, and he knew that he could only repay her and Byron by entertaining the guests with the best he could.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen!” Neal said while letting his gaze sweep over the audience, looking out for the group he was supposed to sing for. Sensing his troubles, June got up and went over to stand behind Peter’s table. Giving her a short nod, Neal continued. “The next song is for one of you who has something to celebrate tonight - a promotion!” As predicted, the audience cheered the lucky one. “Can you just stand up, please?” Due to the blinding white of the spotlight, Neal had to step to the side, just in time to see Peter following his request, though a bit reluctantly. “Okay, any particular favorites in music?” Peter shook his head no, which caused the other men at his table to chuckle. “All right, then I’ll choose one for you. That’s okay with you?” This time, Peter nodded yes, and Neal released the breath he didn’t know he was holding.
Coming back to his usual spot in the middle, Neal gave a series of hand signals to both Dorsett and the musicians, telling them which song he chose without any words. There was a short pause as the whole band shuffled their sheets of music before launching into the first notes of “Puttin’ On The Ritz.”
Down at their table, Peter was kind of smitten. First of all, this was the first time ever that someone had dedicated a song to him. He had a hunch that one of his colleagues, most likely Siegel (or probably all of them) had something to do with it, but he couldn’t care less about it, not with such a wonderful result. Which brought him to the second reason for him being smitten - Nick Halden. Before this evening, Peter had heard about him, but he had too much on his own plate to get invested in following the career of yet another promising singer. Maybe he should reconsider that for the future.
Like no one before, Neal had put a spell on Peter, who watched the younger man’s every step, every move up on the stage with ardent eyes. This man up there had a magic to him, an out-of-this-world grace that had Peter’s complete attention. And for the first time in forever, Peter wanted to get to know a man better - much better.
The song ended (which Peter registered only with a delay), and before he could even react properly, Neal launched into the next one, a slow piece called “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” And just like before, Peter’s eyes were glued to every single move Neal made, this time mostly caressing the microphone and its stand like a lover - and Peter wished it would be him who could get the very same ministrations from the handsome singer.
Before long, Neal’s gig for the night drew to an end, and into another tradition. As on so many nights before, June joined the man she considered a son on the stage. Together, they gave Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers as well as Benny Goodman and Helen Forrest, respectively, a run for their money, if the reaction of the audience was anything to go by.
With one last bow, they both left the stage, and the band picked up where they’d left off before Neal’s show. Coming down the few steps into the backstage area, Neal was a bit confused. Usually, either Elizabeth or Mozzie was waiting for him, getting him out of the jacket and handing him his robe instead. But not this time, apparently.
“Hey, there you are.”
Elizabeth’s cheerful voice brought Neal back to reality, and he turned in her direction - and froze. Because next to her stood the very man he’d sung for just minutes before.
“There’s someone who wants to meet you.”
“I see, Elizabeth, I see,” Neal finally answered, surprising himself with having found his voice again. “Hi, Nick Halden,” he said to the other man while extending his hand.
Once again, Peter registered everything around him with delay, this time due to the fact that the man in front of him had the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen.
“Oh, hi, Peter Burke, and it’s a pleasure to meet you too.” They shook hands, and Peter would swear upon the Holy Bible that there were sparks running through both their bodies in that moment. “I… I just wanted to thank you for singing a song for me. That’s something that has nobody ever done to me, so… thank you, once again.”
“No problem, Peter - I can call you Peter, right?” Peter only nodded, and a nagging voice in the back of his head questioned Neal why the heck he reverted back to the insecure teenager he once was right now. Unfortunately, the better part of his brain couldn’t come up with any answer at all for that.
“You wanna go for a drink?” Neal asked while heading down to his dressing room, intent on getting out of the starched shirt, which clung to his back to the point of pain.
“Sure,” Peter answered, a tad too quickly for Neal’s liking, before he realized that he hadn’t given the other man any details on the location of this “drink.”
“Oh, I probably should add that I was talking about a more private location for this drink,” Neal added with a smile, which got a bit bigger once he saw Peter’s reaction.
Peter couldn’t believe what he just had heard. Did this absolutely gorgeous man really invite him to go with him, wherever that might be? Apparently he had, if the smile spreading on Nick’s face was anything to go by.
“And… and where would that be?” Peter finally managed to ask, his throat suddenly as dry as the whole Sahara Desert.
“At my apartment,” Neal answered, matter-of-factly, as if rattling off something else.
“Okay,” Peter replied, and before he knew it, he was following the younger man through a hidden staircase to the uppermost level of the mansion.
TBC
Notes: Written for slashorific2016. Set to the backdrop of the clubs and bars of the late 1930’s and early 1940’s. You’ll meet a lot of our favorite characters, though in roles quite different from those we know. Title comes from a song by Caro Emerald (which would be so fitting for this time period). Artwork by the wonderful kanarek13, beta reading by the best beta ever, sherylyn. Thank you, sweeties, for everything!!
Warnings: Mention of hate-crimes, rape, period-related homophobia and racism, suicide, violence against women.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part I - I’m In The Mood For Love
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ellington’s Cotton Club
Even behind the stage, where the orchestra was playing a best-of the current hits on the still new media called “radio,” one could feel it. A certain current of tension was running through the whole club, getting everyone - guests, singers, dancers, even the waiting staff - in the right mood for a jolly good evening.
While the singers and musicians had their own small rooms to get prepared, the dancers and variète artists all got ready right behind the stage, and more than once, the whole, cramped space resembled a chicken corral more than anything else, though not in volume.
Nonetheless, it was one of Neal Caffrey’s favorite places before he took the stage, in the persona of “Nick Halden.” The constant stream of soft voices was kind of a balm for his nerves, even after having more than ten years of singing and entertaining under his belt.
“Neal, honey?”
The soft, melodic voice of Elizabeth Mitchell brought Neal out of his reverie. Ever since he saved her from the unwanted advances of two drunken soldiers, they were technically inseparable. Wherever Neal went, Elizabeth went too, and more than once, they were mistaken for a happy couple.
But the truth was far from it. Sure, Elizabeth knew Neal’s body inside out, but only because she (along with Reese Hughes, a seasoned Broadway tailor who took her under his wing) was responsible for all the wonderful, form-fitting suits and shirts he was wearing on stage. There was not even a bit of romance between them, kisses on the cheek on special occasions notwithstanding.
“What’s up, Elizabeth? Any problems?”
“No, not at all.” She smiled, a shy smile, and if it wasn’t quite dark in this corner of the backstage area, Neal would win any bet that she was blushing slightly. “June just told me that we have a special group out in the audience.”
“And? Who is it?”
“A group of FBI agents, celebrating the promotion of one of them.”
“Is June fearing some trouble?”
“No, no, she even knows the one who’s been promoted.” Despite the darkness, Neal raised an eyebrow. “She said that he knows what’s going on in some of the rooms upstairs, but they have, and I quote, ʻbigger fish to fry than to hunt down some small-time crooks.ʼ They just want to have a good time tonight, and for that, they asked you to sing a song or two for him.”
“June knows that I hardly do that anymore,” Neal replied with a slight shudder. Back in the day, when he was on the rise, he did take requests for songs, but he’d learned the hard way that even when the recipient is happy about the dedication, others might not be.
“That’s why Jones and Keller are going to be close to the stage,” Elizabeth answered with a smile.
“All right, tell her I do it,” Neal finally conceded. Elizabeth turned to go and look for June, the so-called “First Lady” of the club, when Neal stopped her with a hand on her upper arm. She turned back to him. “But only one song.”
“Okay. Good luck.” And with that, she was gone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Out in the main room of the club, the mood was rising by the second. More and more tables were filled with people from all over the town, and the wait staff was hurrying around to get drinks and snacks to the guests as quickly as possible.
At one table slightly left of the middle, five men sat down, all of them visibly happy. And they had all reason to be - one of them, Peter Burke, had just gotten promoted to “Special Agent” within the relatively young Art Crimes unit. With the war raging across the pond in Europe, the FBI bosses in Washington thought it would be good to form a new unit focused on every kind of crime with artworks involved. First reports from the warzone told about tons of paintings, statues and other artworks being forcefully taken away from their rightful owners and collected in semi-secret places, probably until they would find a new place in a museum or be destroyed.
“So, Peter,” David Siegel started while getting rid of both his jacket and tie, “how does it feel to be a ʻSpecial Agentʼ?” To drive the point home, the young man made air quotes with his fingers, causing the whole table to laugh.
“Well, David, if you must know,” Peter Burke shot back, “it feels great. Though I’m not exactly sure what a Special Agent actually has to do on a daily base.”
“Gentlemen?”
All five men looked up to see a young African-American woman standing at the table.
“Yeah?” Carson Blake, the youngest member of Peter’s new team, asked.
“I’ve been told that one of you has reason to celebrate tonight,” the young woman said while rummaging around in her portable basket.
“Well, sugar,” David Siegel piped up, a smile spreading on his face, “that would be this gentleman here,” he continued while pointing at Peter.
The young woman made her way over to Peter, set down the basket and sat down on his lap.
“Hi, my name is Diana and I’ll gladly be at your service tonight, sir,” she offered with a smile.
Peter returned the smile, even though his heart already felt sorry for her, considering his next actions.
“Thanks for the offer, Diana, but I have to decline.” His answer was met with both a slight frown from the woman and a round of “boo’s” from his colleagues.
“I understand, sir, if you want another girl, maybe one of the white ones…” Diana began, but Peter interrupted her immediately.
“No, no, not at all. And please don’t think it has something to do with the color of your skin.”
In his mind, Peter could rattle off a whole list of colleagues who couldn’t stand even being on the same floor with people of color. He, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about that. Spending more than one summer down in Georgia on his paternal grandfather’s plantation had taught him that these people were (a) hard-working folks and (b) not treated right. He hoped that one day, they would be seen as equals to everyone else, but Peter was also sure that he wouldn’t see that day. The rifts between black and white were just too deep to overcome in the near future.
Diana nodded, but her eyes conveyed that she was thankful for Peter’s clarification. Her best friend Christie was the latest “victim” to the hate, taking her own life the day after three men raped her in an alley near the club. It still was a mystery to her how June and Byron could keep the club, but some of the other girls said that Byron had some kind of deal with both the Police Commissioner and the Mayor.
After collecting herself and her things, Diana got up from Peter’s lap, placing five cigars on the table before making her way to the side-exit.
“Hey, Diana!”
With a quick jog, Clinton Jones, one of the bouncers at the club, was at her side. He had a soft spot for her, ever since she came in the club one day, asking for any kind of job.
“Yeah, Clinton?” Diana said while turning around to him.
“You okay? What happened over there?”
“Yeah, I’m okay, Jones. My offers just got denied, but in a friendly way.”
“You still believe the crap all the white guys tell you? That it’s not because of your color?”
“No, I don’t. And you should know me better than that. But this guy over there, he really meant it.” She paused, handing her basket to Alex to get a refill. “And I would win every bet that he has a big secret of his own.”
“What kind of secret can an FBI agent have?”
Diana smiled. Bless his heart, but sometimes, Clinton Jones could be so adorably naïve.
“One that would cost him his job in the blink of an eye,” she finally answered while touching her upper chest, indicating that she meant the heart.
“Oh.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The orchestra finally finished their last piece (“Moon Glow”), and for some seconds, nearly the whole club was shrouded in darkness, before a spotlight focused on the bandleader, a French immigrant going by the name of George Dorsett. Neal couldn’t really stand him, and he always compared him with an eel in his mind, but the Paris-born conductor was a genius when it came to get the right mix for the evening.
“Merci, mesdames et messieurs, ladies and gentlemen, merci!” Dorsett said as an introduction once the applause slowly ebbed. After almost three years working in the club, George finally came to love everything in here, including the audience. It wasn’t exactly his dream job, but it paid his bills, and that was, at the moment, the most important thing to him.
“The regulars among you already know what’s coming next: our very own star. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome on stage a man everyone calls ʻthe Diamondʼ or ʻthe precious one,ʼ” he gave a signal to his musicians, “Mr. Nick Halden!”
Once again, the stage was shrouded in darkness, and while the band played some tunes, Neal made his way to the microphone, taking a deep breath while waiting for the spotlight to find him - which it did only heartbeats later.
Traditionally, Neal’s first song was “I Got Rhythm,” which usually didn’t fail in getting the audience in the right mood for his show. Mostly midway into the song, and you could hear the guests on the tables near the stage snapping their fingers to the tune.
By the time Neal ended his second and third song (“Summertime” and “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy”), the whole audience was wired. Chancing a look over to the bar, Neal saw June, a smile on her face. From the moment he’d stepped into the club, the matriarch of this establishment had had a soft spot for him, and he knew that he could only repay her and Byron by entertaining the guests with the best he could.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen!” Neal said while letting his gaze sweep over the audience, looking out for the group he was supposed to sing for. Sensing his troubles, June got up and went over to stand behind Peter’s table. Giving her a short nod, Neal continued. “The next song is for one of you who has something to celebrate tonight - a promotion!” As predicted, the audience cheered the lucky one. “Can you just stand up, please?” Due to the blinding white of the spotlight, Neal had to step to the side, just in time to see Peter following his request, though a bit reluctantly. “Okay, any particular favorites in music?” Peter shook his head no, which caused the other men at his table to chuckle. “All right, then I’ll choose one for you. That’s okay with you?” This time, Peter nodded yes, and Neal released the breath he didn’t know he was holding.
Coming back to his usual spot in the middle, Neal gave a series of hand signals to both Dorsett and the musicians, telling them which song he chose without any words. There was a short pause as the whole band shuffled their sheets of music before launching into the first notes of “Puttin’ On The Ritz.”
Down at their table, Peter was kind of smitten. First of all, this was the first time ever that someone had dedicated a song to him. He had a hunch that one of his colleagues, most likely Siegel (or probably all of them) had something to do with it, but he couldn’t care less about it, not with such a wonderful result. Which brought him to the second reason for him being smitten - Nick Halden. Before this evening, Peter had heard about him, but he had too much on his own plate to get invested in following the career of yet another promising singer. Maybe he should reconsider that for the future.
Like no one before, Neal had put a spell on Peter, who watched the younger man’s every step, every move up on the stage with ardent eyes. This man up there had a magic to him, an out-of-this-world grace that had Peter’s complete attention. And for the first time in forever, Peter wanted to get to know a man better - much better.
The song ended (which Peter registered only with a delay), and before he could even react properly, Neal launched into the next one, a slow piece called “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” And just like before, Peter’s eyes were glued to every single move Neal made, this time mostly caressing the microphone and its stand like a lover - and Peter wished it would be him who could get the very same ministrations from the handsome singer.
Before long, Neal’s gig for the night drew to an end, and into another tradition. As on so many nights before, June joined the man she considered a son on the stage. Together, they gave Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers as well as Benny Goodman and Helen Forrest, respectively, a run for their money, if the reaction of the audience was anything to go by.
With one last bow, they both left the stage, and the band picked up where they’d left off before Neal’s show. Coming down the few steps into the backstage area, Neal was a bit confused. Usually, either Elizabeth or Mozzie was waiting for him, getting him out of the jacket and handing him his robe instead. But not this time, apparently.
“Hey, there you are.”
Elizabeth’s cheerful voice brought Neal back to reality, and he turned in her direction - and froze. Because next to her stood the very man he’d sung for just minutes before.
“There’s someone who wants to meet you.”
“I see, Elizabeth, I see,” Neal finally answered, surprising himself with having found his voice again. “Hi, Nick Halden,” he said to the other man while extending his hand.
Once again, Peter registered everything around him with delay, this time due to the fact that the man in front of him had the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen.
“Oh, hi, Peter Burke, and it’s a pleasure to meet you too.” They shook hands, and Peter would swear upon the Holy Bible that there were sparks running through both their bodies in that moment. “I… I just wanted to thank you for singing a song for me. That’s something that has nobody ever done to me, so… thank you, once again.”
“No problem, Peter - I can call you Peter, right?” Peter only nodded, and a nagging voice in the back of his head questioned Neal why the heck he reverted back to the insecure teenager he once was right now. Unfortunately, the better part of his brain couldn’t come up with any answer at all for that.
“You wanna go for a drink?” Neal asked while heading down to his dressing room, intent on getting out of the starched shirt, which clung to his back to the point of pain.
“Sure,” Peter answered, a tad too quickly for Neal’s liking, before he realized that he hadn’t given the other man any details on the location of this “drink.”
“Oh, I probably should add that I was talking about a more private location for this drink,” Neal added with a smile, which got a bit bigger once he saw Peter’s reaction.
Peter couldn’t believe what he just had heard. Did this absolutely gorgeous man really invite him to go with him, wherever that might be? Apparently he had, if the smile spreading on Nick’s face was anything to go by.
“And… and where would that be?” Peter finally managed to ask, his throat suddenly as dry as the whole Sahara Desert.
“At my apartment,” Neal answered, matter-of-factly, as if rattling off something else.
“Okay,” Peter replied, and before he knew it, he was following the younger man through a hidden staircase to the uppermost level of the mansion.
TBC