White Collar fic: "Magic Hands"
Fandom: White Collar
Title: Magic hands
Genre: futurefic; Neal & Peter hurt/comfort; pre-OT3 (Neal/Peter/Elizabeth)
Rating: PG-13 for sexual references and swearing
Spoilers: minor ones for 1x10 ('Vital Signs') only
Warnings / Enticements: pining and angst, but with a hopeful ending
Word Count: 3,600 words
Summary: Neal offers to give Peter a massage after a tough week at work.
Author's notes: thanks to china_shop for a thoughtful and thorough beta job. Any mistakes in the significantly revised final version are entirely my fault.
I started this a week ago as a quick comment!fic for elrhiarhodan, who was having a bad day. But it soon grew into an actual story, so now it's a belated birthday present! Happy birthday, dear.
This is a prequel to In the middle of your deep blue sea, but you can read it as a standalone story.
***
It's a Saturday night in late May, and Peter is just about as tired and stressed-out as Neal's ever seen him. Neal's pretty worn out too, thanks to this massive case they're working on - a complex multi-million dollar insurance fraud that's taken months to untangle.
And now they're up against a deadline, which makes things even tougher. Reliable sources have reported that the scheme's mastermind is about to relocate his base of operations. Come next Friday, he'll be living in a tropical tax haven which has no extradition treaty with the US. So Neal, Peter and the team have to gather enough evidence to arrest their big fish before he gets away, or they'll only catch the minnows.
After spending all day at work on this sunny Saturday, Peter sends the other agents home around 9pm. He and Neal grab a box of files each and head back to the Burkes', where they eat Thai take-out on the couch. They have the house to themselves, as Elizabeth is at a big fundraising dinner she's been planning for weeks.
Neal wishes he could have seen her in the new dress she bought for tonight; he bets she looked stunning. But he pushes that thought to the back of his mind.
Peter wants to go straight back to the case after dinner, despite the fact he's in a bad way. He'd shown up at the office this morning with a sore neck and back, explaining to Neal that he'd fallen asleep at the dining table over a stack of documents. Elizabeth had found him a couple of hours later and helped him upstairs, but the damage had been done.
Although he's popped painkillers at regular intervals all day, Peter's clearly still suffering. He's holding his upper body stiffly, and the strain is showing around his eyes.
If Elizabeth were here, she'd take one look at Peter and send him straight to bed. Neal sadly doesn't have that much power over his workaholic partner. Still, he tries.
"No more work, Peter. You need to take it easy, and get a decent night's sleep," he says firmly.
"I can manage a few more hours," Peter argues, stifling a yawn. "I should at least go over the claims figures again - I could have missed something."
"You've studied them a dozen times already. The evidence will still be there in the morning, and you can come at it with fresh eyes."
Peter slumps back against the cushions, obviously too exhausted to fight Neal any further. Pulling the collar of his faded old T-shirt aside, he rubs at the base of his neck with a wince. He looks like he could doze off right there on the couch, which wouldn't help his aching muscles any.
And that's when Neal has his idea.
***
"You look like a man who could use a back rub," he ventures, before he can talk himself out of it.
Peter looks up at him, surprised. "Are you offering?"
"Sure. You're not the only one with 'magic hands', you know." Neal waggles his outstretched fingers in Peter's direction. It's been over two years since Peter posed as Dr. Tanenbaum, the suave chiropractor, but Neal still finds it amusing.
Peter mock-scowls at him. "Uh-huh. Wait, let me guess - you once worked as a massage therapist on a cruise ship or something."
"Or something," Neal agrees. "Let's just say that I come highly recommended by an exclusive clientele." This is true, in a sense: only his previous lovers have received back rubs from him, and they all seemed to enjoy the experience. The massage was almost always foreplay, of course, but Peter doesn't need to know that.
Peter looks at him for a long moment, his expression suggesting that he's having a silent debate with himself.
"My back does feel like one solid knot," he finally admits, "so yeah, that'd be great."
Peter's not really a tactile kind of guy, or not recently anyway. Despite the closeness that's developed between them, Peter seems to touch Neal less often now than when they first started working together. So him letting Neal do this tonight speaks volumes about the pain he's in and the lowered state of his inhibitions.
Neal removes his tie and rolls up his shirt sleeves, then grabs a cushion and lays it on the carpet in front of him. "If you sit here, I can get good access to your neck and shoulders."
When Peter casts a dubious glance at the set-up, Neal shrugs and says, "The alternative is lying flat on your stomach with me kneeling over you. Take your pick."
Peter's mouth twists, but he offers no further argument. Carefully, he maneuvers himself onto the floor, back against the couch's base and shoulders bracketed by Neal's knees.
If Neal were massaging a lover, he would ease into it with gentle, sweeping strokes over bare skin. But Peter is a) straight and b) happily married. Neal can't let himself presume upon an intimacy that doesn't exist outside of his fantasies.
He flexes his hands, and begins a back rub intended to be therapeutic rather than sensual. With only the thin cotton of Peter's tee as a barrier, Neal presses his thumbs and fingertips to the skin between his shoulder blades. The muscles are as taut as he expected, and Peter groans.
Neal pauses momentarily. "Too hard?"
"No," Peter says, a little short of breath, "just right."
So Neal continues, slowly working his way down both sides of Peter's spine. Peter holds himself rigid, barely breathing, but Neal trusts him to say if it's too painful. He rubs at each trouble spot until the tension is released, and then moves down to the next set of knots.
He doesn't know how much time passes; all he cares about is Peter, and making him feel better. Neal knows he's over-invested in Peter's wellbeing, but it's hardly a surprise. He's been carrying a hopeless torch for months now, maybe even years. It developed so gradually that Neal honestly can't tell when it began.
What's worse is that he feels the same way about Elizabeth as well. Wanting two people who only want each other is an exquisite kind of torture. Neal gets to be close to them and spend time in their company, but he also has to pretend that seeing them kiss and touch doesn't bother him - or turn him on.
In just over eleven months the anklet comes off, and Neal can get out of New York. For all that he's felt cooped up here, these past three years, it'll be one hell of a wrench when he finally escapes. Leaving Mozzie and June, and the work he's actually come to enjoy, will be hard; saying goodbye to Peter and Elizabeth will be almost unbearable.
But he can't keep going like this.
***
Lost in these familiar, depressing thoughts, he massages most of the way down Peter's back almost on autopilot. Despite this detachment, touching Peter has aroused him far more than it should. Neal shifts his knees further apart, wishing he'd worn looser pants today.
When he can't reach any further down Peter's spine from this angle, he stops and asks, "Okay, so, what needs more attention: your lower back or your neck?"
"My neck, please," Peter says, quiet and raspy. Hearing 'please' in that voice makes Neal's heart beat faster. He swallows, mouth gone dry.
He grasps Peter's upper arms to pull him flush against the couch, and Peter moves willingly. Neal works his way along the top of each tight shoulder, before focusing on the slope between shoulder and neck for a while.
Then he moves up, past the collar of Peter's tee, and touches his warm smooth skin for the first time. Neal shivers involuntarily; God, it feels so good. Peter's body also jerks a little at the contact, making Neal wonder if he ever gets professional massages. Maybe nobody else touches him like this except his wife.
Neal bites his lip hard, trying to dispel a mental image of Peter lying naked on the bed upstairs, with Elizabeth - also naked - straddling him and spreading massage oil across his back. He takes a deep calming breath, lifts one hand off Peter's skin, and adjusts himself in his pants.
"The best way to treat your neck," he tells Peter, "is for me to hold your forehead with one hand, to maximize the leverage. Is that okay?"
"Yeah," Peter says, and leans back against Neal unprompted. The increased pressure of his body makes the tracker dig into Neal's ankle. Neal doesn't ask him to move, though; the discomfort is a useful reminder of the boundaries he has to respect.
Neal's palms are a little sweaty now, so he surreptitiously wipes them on his shirt before placing his left hand on Peter's forehead. It takes all his self-control to hold his fingers still. He wants to soothe away those worry lines, to caress Peter's temples, to stroke the hair back off his face.
It's even possible that Peter would let him, now that Neal's got him all relaxed and vulnerable. But Neal just can't do it. He can't risk the partnership, the friendship that he and Peter have built against all the odds; he can't violate Elizabeth's trust.
Neal uses his other hand to inch up the column of muscle on the right side of Peter's neck, reading his body language and easing off or applying more pressure accordingly. Then he switches hands and starts working on the left side.
He stops when he gets to the hairline once more, meaning to end it there. But then he considers the high likelihood of Peter having a lingering low-level headache, and realizes that there's one more thing he can do for Peter tonight.
Neal lays both hands on the nape of Peter's neck and trails his fingertips up, past the strip of paler skin testifying to a recent haircut and through two inches of short brown hair sprinkled with gray. Peter's hair is soft and silky, and Neal commits the sensation to memory. He might never get this chance again.
When Neal reaches the twin pressure points located at the base of the skull, he splays his fingers across Peter's scalp and digs his thumbs in hard.
"Oh, God!" Peter moans, in a kind of agonized delight. Neal can't help but imagine Peter saying that in bed, which leads him to picture other ways of eliciting such a response. Sex so slow and sensual that Peter begs for release...a blow job that leaves him teetering on the edge for long minutes...Neal using his fingers and mouth to make Elizabeth come, again and again, while Peter has to watch and not touch.
Neal shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and grits his teeth. He can't remember the last time he was so turned on. It's inappropriate, creepy even, to have this reaction while helping a friend who's in pain. But Christ, Neal just can't help himself.
He keeps working on Peter's pressure points until his wrists start to shake, then slowly eases off and lets his aching hands drop.
Peter slumps forward like his strings have been cut. "That was fantastic, Neal," he exclaims hoarsely. "Is there anything you're not good at?"
"Well, parallel parking was never my forte," Neal says, prompting a tired but genuine laugh that makes Neal smile at the back of Peter's head. Damn, he loves this man, gray hairs and worry lines and all.
***
He's still wearing that fond, sappy expression when Peter suddenly turns his head to look at him. Neal quickly slots his usual mask back into place, but it's too late. Peter inhales sharply, and it's clear from his widened eyes that he's guessed the truth.
Even worse, Peter's position means that Neal can't move his legs. There's no way to hide the erection clearly outlined by his close-fitting pants, and the flush on Peter's cheeks after he glances down means he's definitely noticed.
Oh fuck, Neal thinks, caught again.
He stares down at his trembling hands, cursing himself for letting his emotions show and fearing the consequences. All his hard work could be undone by this momentary lapse. Neal knows he needs to run before the horribly awkward conversation - or the yelling - can take place. But he's frozen, his usual bravado swamped by a surge of shame and panic.
Surprisingly, though, Peter just says, "Thank you for the massage, Neal." His voice is gruffer than usual, but he doesn't sound angry. He shifts his whole body around so he's kneeling on the cushion, and puts a hand on Neal's knee. Neal tries not to flinch.
"Want to stay in the spare room tonight? You need a decent night's sleep too."
Neal says, "No, it's fine, I'll get a cab -" but stops when Peter squeezes his leg gently.
"Please, Neal, wait; listen to me." Peter pauses, as though he's carefully weighing his next words. "I get the impression you have feelings for me. Is that right?"
And maybe Neal should deny everything, tell Peter he's hallucinating from lack of sleep or too many pain pills. There's a chance he could get away with it; he can lie as easy as breathing. But Neal's sick of pretending.
So he nods slightly, without meeting Peter's gaze.
Then Peter asks, "Only me, or El too?" Something about his tone suggests that telling the whole truth is a risk worth taking.
Still staring at his hands, Neal admits, "Elizabeth too. I want you both." Peter exhales like he's been holding his breath, prompting Neal to finally dare look at him. He is astonished to see Peter smiling warmly.
"That's okay, Neal; better than okay," Peter says, the words tumbling out in a rush. "It's not just you. Both El and I feel that there's something between the three of us - something special. We've wanted you for a while now, but I wasn't certain how you felt until tonight."
Neal's shock must show - hell, it's probably visible from space - because Peter says, "Huh...you really didn't know? El and I must be better actors than I thought. But it's the truth, Neal, I swear."
He picks up Neal's hand and kisses the palm, then holds it against his cheek. Peter has stubble on his jaw and dark circles under his eyes, but he's still perfect to Neal. And the openly affectionate and tender look on his face suggests that he means it, that Peter and Elizabeth really want Neal like he wants them.
It's such an overwhelming sight that Neal has to close his eyes. All kinds of thoughts begin to swirl around in his overtired head; hope and delight, yes, but also doubt and fear.
Why would this happy couple, these two respectable professionals, want to expand their marriage to include someone like him? Can they really do this while Neal's still on parole and in Peter's custody? If the Bureau finds out, Neal might be sent back to prison and Peter might lose his job.
Maybe they should wait until he's free...but would a year's delay be bearable, when they've wasted so much time already?
"Hey, no, stop," Peter says, snapping Neal out of it. He clasps Neal's hands tightly between both of his. "You just got me all relaxed and now I've set your brain whirring like crazy - I shouldn't have sprung this on you without warning. El should be back soon, and we can talk then."
All Neal's words have left him; he can only nod silently at Peter. Maybe his mind will be back online by the time Elizabeth arrives.
***
Satchmo's been asleep in the corner since they got home, but chooses this moment to get up and pad across to the front door. He looks at Peter and whines softly.
Peter winces, and says, "Excuse me, duty calls," as he struggles to his feet. He yawns and stretches, and Neal is pleased to see that he can move his shoulders much more freely now. Then Peter heads over to take Satchmo outside.
Alone with his thoughts for the first time all night, Neal finds he can't sit still anymore. He gathers up the dinner things and goes into the kitchen, putting the take-out containers in the trash and stacking the dishwasher. The familiar rituals calm him until his pulse is no longer thudding in his ears. He pours himself a glass of water and leans back against the counter to sip it slowly.
The clock on the wall says it's 11:59, and Neal has a moment of childish superstitious fear - that the unbelievably wonderful thing that's happened tonight will be undone at the stroke of midnight, forcing him to flee the scene in disgrace. Then he shakes his head, smiling at himself; if he's Cinderella, does that make Peter the prince or the pumpkin? Damn, he needs to sleep.
Before the clock can tick over to 12:00, Neal refills his glass and walks into the living room. Satchmo is settling back down in the corner and Peter is pulling off his shoes.
"Drink this," he tells Peter. "You need to rehydrate after a deep tissue massage."
Peter doesn't argue, just gulps the water and puts the empty glass down. "So how are you doing?" he asks.
Neal searches for the right term to encompass his state of mind. "Discombobulated," he says.
Peter raises an eyebrow at him. "Ah. Well, luckily, I know just the thing for that." And he reaches out to wrap Neal in his arms. Peter's hugged him three times in the past three years; on each occasion, one or both of them had just narrowly escaped death. This embrace is totally different, warm and shockingly intimate, and it leaves Neal breathless.
He buries his face against the side of Peter's neck and holds on tight, dizzy with desire and overwhelmed by all the things he's been unable to say. Peter rubs his back and makes wordless soothing noises, and Neal never wants to let him go.
The front door opens, then, and Elizabeth walks in. Neal looks at her over Peter's shoulder, a little nervous about her seeing him and Peter so closely entwined. But Elizabeth just smiles at them both.
"Hey hon, hey Neal," she says, kicking off her heels with a sigh of relief. "Is this a private party, or can anyone join?"
"C'mere," Peter replies softly, extending a hand to her and pulling her in. Elizabeth wraps one arm around Neal and one around Peter. Neal has never held both of them before, but it feels so right.
Peter bends to kiss her cheek, and asks, "How was your dinner?"
"Great! We raised a lot of money for children's charities, even more than last year's event, and the new caterers lived up to their excellent reputation." Elizabeth looks from Peter to Neal. "But something tells me that you guys are having an interesting night too. What's going on?"
"Neal and I had a brief conversation about his attraction to us and vice versa," Peter says. "But I wanted to wait until you got here to discuss things in more detail."
Elizabeth sucks in her breath, eyes wide. "Wow," she says faintly, like she can't quite believe it, and then adds, "Thanks for waiting for me."
Her hand tightens against Neal's waist, drawing their bodies closer together, and she leans her head against his shoulder. "And thank you," she murmurs. Peter had sworn to Neal that Elizabeth felt the same way, but hearing her say those words in that affectionate tone is still a great relief.
Neal wonders how long ago Peter and Elizabeth confessed their shared feelings for him to each other, and if they'd had a plan; she clearly wasn't expecting this to happen yet, though she hardly seems disappointed.
He also wonders how he could possibly have missed seeing how they felt - he prides himself on his people-reading skills, after all. But he's deliberately withdrawn into his shell around the two of them in recent months. Maybe trying to hide his love made him oblivious to this incredible thing developing right in front of him.
Elizabeth tilts her head back and studies Neal's face closely, and then Peter's. "Talking sounds like an excellent idea," she says, "but you both look ready to collapse and I'm super tired too. Why don't we get some sleep, and pick this up again over breakfast?"
Peter is looking a little better than he did before the massage, but still pretty shattered. His expression suggests that he wants to argue, but then he sighs.
"Yeah, okay. I already offered Neal the spare room," Peter says. Elizabeth nods her approval.
Neal frowns, reluctant to delay. He feels like he's on the brink of something amazing, and he doesn't want to risk losing it.
Elizabeth strokes Neal's back, the touch reassuring rather than sensual. When her hand meets Peter's, they clasp each other so that Neal is encircled in their arms.
"I promise we won't change our minds, Neal," Elizabeth says, and damn, when did she get so good at reading him? "We'll still feel the same way in the morning."
Peter just looks at him steadily and calmly, saying the same thing without words.
Neal takes a deep breath, inhaling the sweet scent of Elizabeth's perfume and the lingering traces of Peter's cologne. Their bodies are warm and solid and comforting against his - a different kind of promise, but just as meaningful.
"Okay," Neal says. "Tomorrow."
***
You can read the sequel here.
Title: Magic hands
Genre: futurefic; Neal & Peter hurt/comfort; pre-OT3 (Neal/Peter/Elizabeth)
Rating: PG-13 for sexual references and swearing
Spoilers: minor ones for 1x10 ('Vital Signs') only
Warnings / Enticements: pining and angst, but with a hopeful ending
Word Count: 3,600 words
Summary: Neal offers to give Peter a massage after a tough week at work.
Author's notes: thanks to china_shop for a thoughtful and thorough beta job. Any mistakes in the significantly revised final version are entirely my fault.
I started this a week ago as a quick comment!fic for elrhiarhodan, who was having a bad day. But it soon grew into an actual story, so now it's a belated birthday present! Happy birthday, dear.
This is a prequel to In the middle of your deep blue sea, but you can read it as a standalone story.
***
It's a Saturday night in late May, and Peter is just about as tired and stressed-out as Neal's ever seen him. Neal's pretty worn out too, thanks to this massive case they're working on - a complex multi-million dollar insurance fraud that's taken months to untangle.
And now they're up against a deadline, which makes things even tougher. Reliable sources have reported that the scheme's mastermind is about to relocate his base of operations. Come next Friday, he'll be living in a tropical tax haven which has no extradition treaty with the US. So Neal, Peter and the team have to gather enough evidence to arrest their big fish before he gets away, or they'll only catch the minnows.
After spending all day at work on this sunny Saturday, Peter sends the other agents home around 9pm. He and Neal grab a box of files each and head back to the Burkes', where they eat Thai take-out on the couch. They have the house to themselves, as Elizabeth is at a big fundraising dinner she's been planning for weeks.
Neal wishes he could have seen her in the new dress she bought for tonight; he bets she looked stunning. But he pushes that thought to the back of his mind.
Peter wants to go straight back to the case after dinner, despite the fact he's in a bad way. He'd shown up at the office this morning with a sore neck and back, explaining to Neal that he'd fallen asleep at the dining table over a stack of documents. Elizabeth had found him a couple of hours later and helped him upstairs, but the damage had been done.
Although he's popped painkillers at regular intervals all day, Peter's clearly still suffering. He's holding his upper body stiffly, and the strain is showing around his eyes.
If Elizabeth were here, she'd take one look at Peter and send him straight to bed. Neal sadly doesn't have that much power over his workaholic partner. Still, he tries.
"No more work, Peter. You need to take it easy, and get a decent night's sleep," he says firmly.
"I can manage a few more hours," Peter argues, stifling a yawn. "I should at least go over the claims figures again - I could have missed something."
"You've studied them a dozen times already. The evidence will still be there in the morning, and you can come at it with fresh eyes."
Peter slumps back against the cushions, obviously too exhausted to fight Neal any further. Pulling the collar of his faded old T-shirt aside, he rubs at the base of his neck with a wince. He looks like he could doze off right there on the couch, which wouldn't help his aching muscles any.
And that's when Neal has his idea.
***
"You look like a man who could use a back rub," he ventures, before he can talk himself out of it.
Peter looks up at him, surprised. "Are you offering?"
"Sure. You're not the only one with 'magic hands', you know." Neal waggles his outstretched fingers in Peter's direction. It's been over two years since Peter posed as Dr. Tanenbaum, the suave chiropractor, but Neal still finds it amusing.
Peter mock-scowls at him. "Uh-huh. Wait, let me guess - you once worked as a massage therapist on a cruise ship or something."
"Or something," Neal agrees. "Let's just say that I come highly recommended by an exclusive clientele." This is true, in a sense: only his previous lovers have received back rubs from him, and they all seemed to enjoy the experience. The massage was almost always foreplay, of course, but Peter doesn't need to know that.
Peter looks at him for a long moment, his expression suggesting that he's having a silent debate with himself.
"My back does feel like one solid knot," he finally admits, "so yeah, that'd be great."
Peter's not really a tactile kind of guy, or not recently anyway. Despite the closeness that's developed between them, Peter seems to touch Neal less often now than when they first started working together. So him letting Neal do this tonight speaks volumes about the pain he's in and the lowered state of his inhibitions.
Neal removes his tie and rolls up his shirt sleeves, then grabs a cushion and lays it on the carpet in front of him. "If you sit here, I can get good access to your neck and shoulders."
When Peter casts a dubious glance at the set-up, Neal shrugs and says, "The alternative is lying flat on your stomach with me kneeling over you. Take your pick."
Peter's mouth twists, but he offers no further argument. Carefully, he maneuvers himself onto the floor, back against the couch's base and shoulders bracketed by Neal's knees.
If Neal were massaging a lover, he would ease into it with gentle, sweeping strokes over bare skin. But Peter is a) straight and b) happily married. Neal can't let himself presume upon an intimacy that doesn't exist outside of his fantasies.
He flexes his hands, and begins a back rub intended to be therapeutic rather than sensual. With only the thin cotton of Peter's tee as a barrier, Neal presses his thumbs and fingertips to the skin between his shoulder blades. The muscles are as taut as he expected, and Peter groans.
Neal pauses momentarily. "Too hard?"
"No," Peter says, a little short of breath, "just right."
So Neal continues, slowly working his way down both sides of Peter's spine. Peter holds himself rigid, barely breathing, but Neal trusts him to say if it's too painful. He rubs at each trouble spot until the tension is released, and then moves down to the next set of knots.
He doesn't know how much time passes; all he cares about is Peter, and making him feel better. Neal knows he's over-invested in Peter's wellbeing, but it's hardly a surprise. He's been carrying a hopeless torch for months now, maybe even years. It developed so gradually that Neal honestly can't tell when it began.
What's worse is that he feels the same way about Elizabeth as well. Wanting two people who only want each other is an exquisite kind of torture. Neal gets to be close to them and spend time in their company, but he also has to pretend that seeing them kiss and touch doesn't bother him - or turn him on.
In just over eleven months the anklet comes off, and Neal can get out of New York. For all that he's felt cooped up here, these past three years, it'll be one hell of a wrench when he finally escapes. Leaving Mozzie and June, and the work he's actually come to enjoy, will be hard; saying goodbye to Peter and Elizabeth will be almost unbearable.
But he can't keep going like this.
***
Lost in these familiar, depressing thoughts, he massages most of the way down Peter's back almost on autopilot. Despite this detachment, touching Peter has aroused him far more than it should. Neal shifts his knees further apart, wishing he'd worn looser pants today.
When he can't reach any further down Peter's spine from this angle, he stops and asks, "Okay, so, what needs more attention: your lower back or your neck?"
"My neck, please," Peter says, quiet and raspy. Hearing 'please' in that voice makes Neal's heart beat faster. He swallows, mouth gone dry.
He grasps Peter's upper arms to pull him flush against the couch, and Peter moves willingly. Neal works his way along the top of each tight shoulder, before focusing on the slope between shoulder and neck for a while.
Then he moves up, past the collar of Peter's tee, and touches his warm smooth skin for the first time. Neal shivers involuntarily; God, it feels so good. Peter's body also jerks a little at the contact, making Neal wonder if he ever gets professional massages. Maybe nobody else touches him like this except his wife.
Neal bites his lip hard, trying to dispel a mental image of Peter lying naked on the bed upstairs, with Elizabeth - also naked - straddling him and spreading massage oil across his back. He takes a deep calming breath, lifts one hand off Peter's skin, and adjusts himself in his pants.
"The best way to treat your neck," he tells Peter, "is for me to hold your forehead with one hand, to maximize the leverage. Is that okay?"
"Yeah," Peter says, and leans back against Neal unprompted. The increased pressure of his body makes the tracker dig into Neal's ankle. Neal doesn't ask him to move, though; the discomfort is a useful reminder of the boundaries he has to respect.
Neal's palms are a little sweaty now, so he surreptitiously wipes them on his shirt before placing his left hand on Peter's forehead. It takes all his self-control to hold his fingers still. He wants to soothe away those worry lines, to caress Peter's temples, to stroke the hair back off his face.
It's even possible that Peter would let him, now that Neal's got him all relaxed and vulnerable. But Neal just can't do it. He can't risk the partnership, the friendship that he and Peter have built against all the odds; he can't violate Elizabeth's trust.
Neal uses his other hand to inch up the column of muscle on the right side of Peter's neck, reading his body language and easing off or applying more pressure accordingly. Then he switches hands and starts working on the left side.
He stops when he gets to the hairline once more, meaning to end it there. But then he considers the high likelihood of Peter having a lingering low-level headache, and realizes that there's one more thing he can do for Peter tonight.
Neal lays both hands on the nape of Peter's neck and trails his fingertips up, past the strip of paler skin testifying to a recent haircut and through two inches of short brown hair sprinkled with gray. Peter's hair is soft and silky, and Neal commits the sensation to memory. He might never get this chance again.
When Neal reaches the twin pressure points located at the base of the skull, he splays his fingers across Peter's scalp and digs his thumbs in hard.
"Oh, God!" Peter moans, in a kind of agonized delight. Neal can't help but imagine Peter saying that in bed, which leads him to picture other ways of eliciting such a response. Sex so slow and sensual that Peter begs for release...a blow job that leaves him teetering on the edge for long minutes...Neal using his fingers and mouth to make Elizabeth come, again and again, while Peter has to watch and not touch.
Neal shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and grits his teeth. He can't remember the last time he was so turned on. It's inappropriate, creepy even, to have this reaction while helping a friend who's in pain. But Christ, Neal just can't help himself.
He keeps working on Peter's pressure points until his wrists start to shake, then slowly eases off and lets his aching hands drop.
Peter slumps forward like his strings have been cut. "That was fantastic, Neal," he exclaims hoarsely. "Is there anything you're not good at?"
"Well, parallel parking was never my forte," Neal says, prompting a tired but genuine laugh that makes Neal smile at the back of Peter's head. Damn, he loves this man, gray hairs and worry lines and all.
***
He's still wearing that fond, sappy expression when Peter suddenly turns his head to look at him. Neal quickly slots his usual mask back into place, but it's too late. Peter inhales sharply, and it's clear from his widened eyes that he's guessed the truth.
Even worse, Peter's position means that Neal can't move his legs. There's no way to hide the erection clearly outlined by his close-fitting pants, and the flush on Peter's cheeks after he glances down means he's definitely noticed.
Oh fuck, Neal thinks, caught again.
He stares down at his trembling hands, cursing himself for letting his emotions show and fearing the consequences. All his hard work could be undone by this momentary lapse. Neal knows he needs to run before the horribly awkward conversation - or the yelling - can take place. But he's frozen, his usual bravado swamped by a surge of shame and panic.
Surprisingly, though, Peter just says, "Thank you for the massage, Neal." His voice is gruffer than usual, but he doesn't sound angry. He shifts his whole body around so he's kneeling on the cushion, and puts a hand on Neal's knee. Neal tries not to flinch.
"Want to stay in the spare room tonight? You need a decent night's sleep too."
Neal says, "No, it's fine, I'll get a cab -" but stops when Peter squeezes his leg gently.
"Please, Neal, wait; listen to me." Peter pauses, as though he's carefully weighing his next words. "I get the impression you have feelings for me. Is that right?"
And maybe Neal should deny everything, tell Peter he's hallucinating from lack of sleep or too many pain pills. There's a chance he could get away with it; he can lie as easy as breathing. But Neal's sick of pretending.
So he nods slightly, without meeting Peter's gaze.
Then Peter asks, "Only me, or El too?" Something about his tone suggests that telling the whole truth is a risk worth taking.
Still staring at his hands, Neal admits, "Elizabeth too. I want you both." Peter exhales like he's been holding his breath, prompting Neal to finally dare look at him. He is astonished to see Peter smiling warmly.
"That's okay, Neal; better than okay," Peter says, the words tumbling out in a rush. "It's not just you. Both El and I feel that there's something between the three of us - something special. We've wanted you for a while now, but I wasn't certain how you felt until tonight."
Neal's shock must show - hell, it's probably visible from space - because Peter says, "Huh...you really didn't know? El and I must be better actors than I thought. But it's the truth, Neal, I swear."
He picks up Neal's hand and kisses the palm, then holds it against his cheek. Peter has stubble on his jaw and dark circles under his eyes, but he's still perfect to Neal. And the openly affectionate and tender look on his face suggests that he means it, that Peter and Elizabeth really want Neal like he wants them.
It's such an overwhelming sight that Neal has to close his eyes. All kinds of thoughts begin to swirl around in his overtired head; hope and delight, yes, but also doubt and fear.
Why would this happy couple, these two respectable professionals, want to expand their marriage to include someone like him? Can they really do this while Neal's still on parole and in Peter's custody? If the Bureau finds out, Neal might be sent back to prison and Peter might lose his job.
Maybe they should wait until he's free...but would a year's delay be bearable, when they've wasted so much time already?
"Hey, no, stop," Peter says, snapping Neal out of it. He clasps Neal's hands tightly between both of his. "You just got me all relaxed and now I've set your brain whirring like crazy - I shouldn't have sprung this on you without warning. El should be back soon, and we can talk then."
All Neal's words have left him; he can only nod silently at Peter. Maybe his mind will be back online by the time Elizabeth arrives.
***
Satchmo's been asleep in the corner since they got home, but chooses this moment to get up and pad across to the front door. He looks at Peter and whines softly.
Peter winces, and says, "Excuse me, duty calls," as he struggles to his feet. He yawns and stretches, and Neal is pleased to see that he can move his shoulders much more freely now. Then Peter heads over to take Satchmo outside.
Alone with his thoughts for the first time all night, Neal finds he can't sit still anymore. He gathers up the dinner things and goes into the kitchen, putting the take-out containers in the trash and stacking the dishwasher. The familiar rituals calm him until his pulse is no longer thudding in his ears. He pours himself a glass of water and leans back against the counter to sip it slowly.
The clock on the wall says it's 11:59, and Neal has a moment of childish superstitious fear - that the unbelievably wonderful thing that's happened tonight will be undone at the stroke of midnight, forcing him to flee the scene in disgrace. Then he shakes his head, smiling at himself; if he's Cinderella, does that make Peter the prince or the pumpkin? Damn, he needs to sleep.
Before the clock can tick over to 12:00, Neal refills his glass and walks into the living room. Satchmo is settling back down in the corner and Peter is pulling off his shoes.
"Drink this," he tells Peter. "You need to rehydrate after a deep tissue massage."
Peter doesn't argue, just gulps the water and puts the empty glass down. "So how are you doing?" he asks.
Neal searches for the right term to encompass his state of mind. "Discombobulated," he says.
Peter raises an eyebrow at him. "Ah. Well, luckily, I know just the thing for that." And he reaches out to wrap Neal in his arms. Peter's hugged him three times in the past three years; on each occasion, one or both of them had just narrowly escaped death. This embrace is totally different, warm and shockingly intimate, and it leaves Neal breathless.
He buries his face against the side of Peter's neck and holds on tight, dizzy with desire and overwhelmed by all the things he's been unable to say. Peter rubs his back and makes wordless soothing noises, and Neal never wants to let him go.
The front door opens, then, and Elizabeth walks in. Neal looks at her over Peter's shoulder, a little nervous about her seeing him and Peter so closely entwined. But Elizabeth just smiles at them both.
"Hey hon, hey Neal," she says, kicking off her heels with a sigh of relief. "Is this a private party, or can anyone join?"
"C'mere," Peter replies softly, extending a hand to her and pulling her in. Elizabeth wraps one arm around Neal and one around Peter. Neal has never held both of them before, but it feels so right.
Peter bends to kiss her cheek, and asks, "How was your dinner?"
"Great! We raised a lot of money for children's charities, even more than last year's event, and the new caterers lived up to their excellent reputation." Elizabeth looks from Peter to Neal. "But something tells me that you guys are having an interesting night too. What's going on?"
"Neal and I had a brief conversation about his attraction to us and vice versa," Peter says. "But I wanted to wait until you got here to discuss things in more detail."
Elizabeth sucks in her breath, eyes wide. "Wow," she says faintly, like she can't quite believe it, and then adds, "Thanks for waiting for me."
Her hand tightens against Neal's waist, drawing their bodies closer together, and she leans her head against his shoulder. "And thank you," she murmurs. Peter had sworn to Neal that Elizabeth felt the same way, but hearing her say those words in that affectionate tone is still a great relief.
Neal wonders how long ago Peter and Elizabeth confessed their shared feelings for him to each other, and if they'd had a plan; she clearly wasn't expecting this to happen yet, though she hardly seems disappointed.
He also wonders how he could possibly have missed seeing how they felt - he prides himself on his people-reading skills, after all. But he's deliberately withdrawn into his shell around the two of them in recent months. Maybe trying to hide his love made him oblivious to this incredible thing developing right in front of him.
Elizabeth tilts her head back and studies Neal's face closely, and then Peter's. "Talking sounds like an excellent idea," she says, "but you both look ready to collapse and I'm super tired too. Why don't we get some sleep, and pick this up again over breakfast?"
Peter is looking a little better than he did before the massage, but still pretty shattered. His expression suggests that he wants to argue, but then he sighs.
"Yeah, okay. I already offered Neal the spare room," Peter says. Elizabeth nods her approval.
Neal frowns, reluctant to delay. He feels like he's on the brink of something amazing, and he doesn't want to risk losing it.
Elizabeth strokes Neal's back, the touch reassuring rather than sensual. When her hand meets Peter's, they clasp each other so that Neal is encircled in their arms.
"I promise we won't change our minds, Neal," Elizabeth says, and damn, when did she get so good at reading him? "We'll still feel the same way in the morning."
Peter just looks at him steadily and calmly, saying the same thing without words.
Neal takes a deep breath, inhaling the sweet scent of Elizabeth's perfume and the lingering traces of Peter's cologne. Their bodies are warm and solid and comforting against his - a different kind of promise, but just as meaningful.
"Okay," Neal says. "Tomorrow."
***
You can read the sequel here.