Fic (White Collar): The Exception
Title: The Exception
Author: cookielaura
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, pre-Peter/Neal
Wordcount: 1,493
Rating: PG, no warnings
Summary: AU. Peter gets a journalism assignment to review a new band with an interesting lead singer
Notes: Written for nywcgirl's fandom stocking, and also filling the "au: band" square on my trope_bingo card
Peter Burke glanced around the club and grimaced. He stuck out like a sore thumb. If it wasn’t for his press pass, he doubted he’d have even got past the door.
If he’d had a little more notice, he could have worn something more appropriate. Not that he owned anything that would really make him look at home here; he wasn’t the sort of guy who thought it was worth paying a hundred dollars for a plain tee or three hundred for a pair of jeans. Still, he wished he’d been able to put on something other than the suit and tie he’d been wearing at the office, which was standard attire for his job as a finance journalist, but didn’t work quite so well when he was asked to cover his colleague’s entertainment column. The request for him to step in had come at the last minute though, whilst Peter was working late, and he hadn’t had time to stop off at home before heading to the club.
He hated these places. His friends told him that maybe if he gave them more of a chance he wouldn’t still be single, but Peter couldn’t imagine how anyone could make a meaningful connection in a place like this. Give him a quiet sports bar any day.
He rolled his shoulders and checked his watch. The music - some wordless dance track - was being pumped out at a volume that made the insides of his ears hurt, and though he held out little hope for the quality of the band he’d been assigned to review, he figured anything had to be better than this. They were called The Exception and were due on any minute now.
The pounding bass died away suddenly, and Peter focused his attention on the stage as the band started to emerge from the wings, accompanied by a somewhat lukewarm reception from the crowd. The band weren’t well known - well, “not yet”, as Peter’s boss had said. He seemed to think they were going to be the next big thing. There were a few obvious fans in the club though, who were screaming the name of the lead singer - Nick someone. Said singer hadn’t appeared so far - he probably wanted to make a dramatic entrance. Peter shifted impatiently; the sooner the band began, the sooner it would be over and he could leave.
The bass player started up first, a string of deep, throbbing root notes that sounded more promising than Peter had imagined. The drums and keys kicked in next, and Peter cocked his head to the side, pleasantly surprised by the presence of an actual tune - more than he’d been expecting. But his interest in the music stopped as suddenly as it had started, and though the volume was rising, it felt to Peter as though the room had lapsed into silence.
The singer had appeared on stage. Peter hadn’t noticed him walk on - he’d been looking at the bass player - but as soon as he turned his head and saw him, the breath left Peter in a rush, and his head span. He’d never seen a man who looked like that. His dark hair seemed to glow under the stage lights; his eyes seared blue in the dark room; his half-open shirt revealed smooth, lightly-bronzed skin and lean but hard muscles. And his mouth - damn, his mouth. Peter heard, as if from a long way away, the man’s voice, which was rich and velvety and hinted at an unexpected ratpack style, but it was the mouth it came from that got him - perfectly sculpted lips, somehow smirking even when they sang.
It was a long time since Peter had wanted to kiss someone so badly.
----
Neal Caffrey was used to looking out at a crowd; his band had been slowly booking bigger venues, moving from tiny, cramped bars to larger clubs. Aside from the handful of loyal fans that followed them around from place to place, most of the crowds had never heard of the band and were indifferent at best to start with. But Neal knew how to play a room, how to draw people in, how to get a throng of people eating out of his hand within minutes. He was adept at picking out a person in the crowd to sing straight to, hypnotizing them with his voice and eyes for a moment before moving onto the next chosen one, leaving a string of captivated women, and sometimes men, hanging on his every note. Afterwards, though, he could never remember which of the cute girls or guys he’d sung to.
Tonight was different. Not the first two people he picked - a girl with pink streaks in her hair and a lot of eyeliner, and a thin man with a ripped Ramones tee - but the third one who caught his eye, he was different. An older guy, who was wearing a suit for some reason - and not even a well-fitting one - with a press pass hung around his neck. He was only a couple feet back from the edge of the stage. He was tall, obviously well-built beneath the dated outfit, with a strong jawline emphasized by the low lighting in the club, and a stance that said he was completely in control of the room, even though he should have looked utterly out of place. His lips were parted slightly in what seemed to be surprise, and his eyes - sharp, dark eyes - were focused on Neal in a way that made Neal feel seen in a way that he normally didn’t.
Neal hoped that the sudden hitch in his voice would just sound like a part of the song.
----
Peter didn’t need an interview with the band. All he needed to do was go home and write a short review about their performance - which had been good, he thought, though he was also aware that he might have been somewhat distracted. He told himself to leave, to go home and open a bottle of beer and forget about singers with silky voices and silkier hair. Instead he felt his fingers close around his press pass, and he found himself striding through the club, weaving his way through the crowd and using his credentials to sidestep the small group of sequin-clad girls who were waiting for the band outside their dressing room. His laminated press pass got him a nod from the bored-looking security guard, and then before he’d really registered what he was doing, Peter found himself standing in the small, dimly lit green room with the door swinging shut behind him.
He stopped still, and stared. The lead singer - Nick Holden, he’d said his name was on stage - was lounging in a tattered armchair, talking to his drummer. His eyes were brighter up close, and he was laughing, perfect teeth flashing. For a moment, all Peter could do was watch. And then Nick looked up and noticed him.
“I’m press,” Peter said, stumbling over the words as he tried to justify his presence. “Peter Burke.”
The singer stared up at him for a moment, then murmured something to the drummer, who shrugged, beckoned to the other two band members and left the room.
Peter blinked.
“Sorry,” the singer said, with a smile that didn’t look sorry at all. “Did you want to interview the whole band? I can call them back?”
“No,” Peter said immediately, and then felt the heat rising in his face. “I mean, you’re fine. You’ll be fine. For the interview. I - ” He stopped and shut up, deciding this had been a terrible idea.
But the singer’s smile only increased, and unlike on stage, where it had been overconfident, closer to a smirk, this one was a sweet grin, amused but in a gentle way.
“I’m Neal,” he said, standing and holding out a hand for Peter to shake. Peter grasped it, and it was soft, warm, and fitted inside his perfectly.
“I thought you were Nick?” he asked, wrong-footed by the name and reluctant to let go of the hand that was still in his.
Neal made no attempt to remove his hand either.
“Stage name,” he said. “Not that it’s all that stagey, but I just wanted something different. So that I don’t forget that I’m not really that guy on stage.” He looked Peter straight in the eyes, and there was an openness there that was entirely different from the practised heartthrob look Peter had seen on the singer earlier - but just as inviting. Peter wondered how many people got to see it.
“So…who are you really?” he asked, finally releasing Neal’s hand, and feeling the loss of it instantly.
Neal tilted his head. “Do you wanna find out?” he asked, and somehow, to Peter’s mystification, his expression seemed to echo what Peter was sure could be seen on his own face. Desire - and hope.
“Yes,” Peter said, with all the certainty in the world.
Author: cookielaura
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, pre-Peter/Neal
Wordcount: 1,493
Rating: PG, no warnings
Summary: AU. Peter gets a journalism assignment to review a new band with an interesting lead singer
Notes: Written for nywcgirl's fandom stocking, and also filling the "au: band" square on my trope_bingo card
Peter Burke glanced around the club and grimaced. He stuck out like a sore thumb. If it wasn’t for his press pass, he doubted he’d have even got past the door.
If he’d had a little more notice, he could have worn something more appropriate. Not that he owned anything that would really make him look at home here; he wasn’t the sort of guy who thought it was worth paying a hundred dollars for a plain tee or three hundred for a pair of jeans. Still, he wished he’d been able to put on something other than the suit and tie he’d been wearing at the office, which was standard attire for his job as a finance journalist, but didn’t work quite so well when he was asked to cover his colleague’s entertainment column. The request for him to step in had come at the last minute though, whilst Peter was working late, and he hadn’t had time to stop off at home before heading to the club.
He hated these places. His friends told him that maybe if he gave them more of a chance he wouldn’t still be single, but Peter couldn’t imagine how anyone could make a meaningful connection in a place like this. Give him a quiet sports bar any day.
He rolled his shoulders and checked his watch. The music - some wordless dance track - was being pumped out at a volume that made the insides of his ears hurt, and though he held out little hope for the quality of the band he’d been assigned to review, he figured anything had to be better than this. They were called The Exception and were due on any minute now.
The pounding bass died away suddenly, and Peter focused his attention on the stage as the band started to emerge from the wings, accompanied by a somewhat lukewarm reception from the crowd. The band weren’t well known - well, “not yet”, as Peter’s boss had said. He seemed to think they were going to be the next big thing. There were a few obvious fans in the club though, who were screaming the name of the lead singer - Nick someone. Said singer hadn’t appeared so far - he probably wanted to make a dramatic entrance. Peter shifted impatiently; the sooner the band began, the sooner it would be over and he could leave.
The bass player started up first, a string of deep, throbbing root notes that sounded more promising than Peter had imagined. The drums and keys kicked in next, and Peter cocked his head to the side, pleasantly surprised by the presence of an actual tune - more than he’d been expecting. But his interest in the music stopped as suddenly as it had started, and though the volume was rising, it felt to Peter as though the room had lapsed into silence.
The singer had appeared on stage. Peter hadn’t noticed him walk on - he’d been looking at the bass player - but as soon as he turned his head and saw him, the breath left Peter in a rush, and his head span. He’d never seen a man who looked like that. His dark hair seemed to glow under the stage lights; his eyes seared blue in the dark room; his half-open shirt revealed smooth, lightly-bronzed skin and lean but hard muscles. And his mouth - damn, his mouth. Peter heard, as if from a long way away, the man’s voice, which was rich and velvety and hinted at an unexpected ratpack style, but it was the mouth it came from that got him - perfectly sculpted lips, somehow smirking even when they sang.
It was a long time since Peter had wanted to kiss someone so badly.
----
Neal Caffrey was used to looking out at a crowd; his band had been slowly booking bigger venues, moving from tiny, cramped bars to larger clubs. Aside from the handful of loyal fans that followed them around from place to place, most of the crowds had never heard of the band and were indifferent at best to start with. But Neal knew how to play a room, how to draw people in, how to get a throng of people eating out of his hand within minutes. He was adept at picking out a person in the crowd to sing straight to, hypnotizing them with his voice and eyes for a moment before moving onto the next chosen one, leaving a string of captivated women, and sometimes men, hanging on his every note. Afterwards, though, he could never remember which of the cute girls or guys he’d sung to.
Tonight was different. Not the first two people he picked - a girl with pink streaks in her hair and a lot of eyeliner, and a thin man with a ripped Ramones tee - but the third one who caught his eye, he was different. An older guy, who was wearing a suit for some reason - and not even a well-fitting one - with a press pass hung around his neck. He was only a couple feet back from the edge of the stage. He was tall, obviously well-built beneath the dated outfit, with a strong jawline emphasized by the low lighting in the club, and a stance that said he was completely in control of the room, even though he should have looked utterly out of place. His lips were parted slightly in what seemed to be surprise, and his eyes - sharp, dark eyes - were focused on Neal in a way that made Neal feel seen in a way that he normally didn’t.
Neal hoped that the sudden hitch in his voice would just sound like a part of the song.
----
Peter didn’t need an interview with the band. All he needed to do was go home and write a short review about their performance - which had been good, he thought, though he was also aware that he might have been somewhat distracted. He told himself to leave, to go home and open a bottle of beer and forget about singers with silky voices and silkier hair. Instead he felt his fingers close around his press pass, and he found himself striding through the club, weaving his way through the crowd and using his credentials to sidestep the small group of sequin-clad girls who were waiting for the band outside their dressing room. His laminated press pass got him a nod from the bored-looking security guard, and then before he’d really registered what he was doing, Peter found himself standing in the small, dimly lit green room with the door swinging shut behind him.
He stopped still, and stared. The lead singer - Nick Holden, he’d said his name was on stage - was lounging in a tattered armchair, talking to his drummer. His eyes were brighter up close, and he was laughing, perfect teeth flashing. For a moment, all Peter could do was watch. And then Nick looked up and noticed him.
“I’m press,” Peter said, stumbling over the words as he tried to justify his presence. “Peter Burke.”
The singer stared up at him for a moment, then murmured something to the drummer, who shrugged, beckoned to the other two band members and left the room.
Peter blinked.
“Sorry,” the singer said, with a smile that didn’t look sorry at all. “Did you want to interview the whole band? I can call them back?”
“No,” Peter said immediately, and then felt the heat rising in his face. “I mean, you’re fine. You’ll be fine. For the interview. I - ” He stopped and shut up, deciding this had been a terrible idea.
But the singer’s smile only increased, and unlike on stage, where it had been overconfident, closer to a smirk, this one was a sweet grin, amused but in a gentle way.
“I’m Neal,” he said, standing and holding out a hand for Peter to shake. Peter grasped it, and it was soft, warm, and fitted inside his perfectly.
“I thought you were Nick?” he asked, wrong-footed by the name and reluctant to let go of the hand that was still in his.
Neal made no attempt to remove his hand either.
“Stage name,” he said. “Not that it’s all that stagey, but I just wanted something different. So that I don’t forget that I’m not really that guy on stage.” He looked Peter straight in the eyes, and there was an openness there that was entirely different from the practised heartthrob look Peter had seen on the singer earlier - but just as inviting. Peter wondered how many people got to see it.
“So…who are you really?” he asked, finally releasing Neal’s hand, and feeling the loss of it instantly.
Neal tilted his head. “Do you wanna find out?” he asked, and somehow, to Peter’s mystification, his expression seemed to echo what Peter was sure could be seen on his own face. Desire - and hope.
“Yes,” Peter said, with all the certainty in the world.