FIC: on the road to better, 2/4, NC-17
Title: on the road to better
Author: hoosierbitch
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Neal/Peter
Series: Broken Road: Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3.
Warnings: Consent issues, angst, reference to rough sex and fisting (full warnings can be found in the first part).
Word Count: 3,500
Notes: For those of you waiting for the happy ending: there will be a third part, and it should be up before the end of the weekend. Title for this part taken from a song by "A Fine Frenzy," series title (I am ashamed to say) is taken from the Rascal Flatts song. Huge thanks to gyzym for reading it and telling me it didn't suck.
Summary: Neal's hurt because Peter hurt him.
Neal falls asleep in his arms.
Worn out and limp, tear tracks drying on his face, wrapped in Peter's arms like he's found some sort of haven. Like he finally feels safe enough to let go, as if Peter's presence was a comfort.
Neal falls asleep in his arms and Peter hates himself. He stays still until his legs fall asleep and the sky turns black. Then he gently eases himself out from underneath Neal and settles him carefully under the comforter. He looks peaceful.
He goes into the bathroom, locks the door, gets on his knees, and vomits. Until all that's coming up is bile and his throat and stomach burn and all he can see is Neal, spreading his thighs and licking his lips and saying please. Until all he can see is the fear and pain and panic in Neal's eyes and he's dry heaving like he wants to purge the memory of it from his body, Neal saying please like - like he was afraid. Afraid of Peter.
The sun's beginning to come out when he leaves the bathroom. He gets dressed slowly and goes out onto the porch. He calls El. She sounds bleary and worried and tired.
"What's wrong? Are you okay?
"I need you to come over."
"Why? What's wrong?" And he can hear her getting out of bed and grabbing her bag. "Peter, talk to me! Are you at Neal's?"
"Yes," he says, even though it's June's, not Neal's, he should have - he should have remembered how little Neal has to call his own. "I raped him," he says, after she's turned the car on. He can hear the engine purr in the background, hear an echo of his own voice.
"You wouldn't do that," she says, like this is one of those times where he's being unintentionally dense and if she explains it correctly she can fix it, make it better, make all his worries disappear.
"I raped him," he repeats. "Until he couldn't fake it anymore." The lights of NYC blur and he realizes he's crying. "I hurt him," he whispers. He's never hurt anyone he loved before. Not like this. It's the worst thing he's ever done.
"I'm on my way," she says. "Don't do anything stupid, okay? I'll be there in a few minutes."
It doesn't feel terribly different. Being a rapist. He doesn't feel powerful or strong, he doesn't - he doesn't want to do it again. He feels cold, out on the veranda without a coat, cold and tired. It had been a long week. He'd been looking forward to spending time with Neal. Knocking back a few beers and watching the game and falling asleep together, sated and worn and comfortable.
It wasn't love, what they had. Not yet. But Peter - he'd been falling. And it had been an easy romance, so much easier than his paranoid courtship of Elizabeth had been - everything with Neal had seemed...effortless. He knew why, now. Peter'd been falling in love and Neal had been playing him. He thinks of all the times Neal looked away or tensed up when Peter surprised him with an unexpected caress. Remembers Neal saying that he wanted whatever Peter wanted (saying he wanted Peter, the first lie, the one that made the rest possible).
El calls him when she arrives and he goes downstairs to open the door. She's sleep-rumpled, still in her pajamas, pillowcase creases on her cheek. And she holds his face in her hands and kisses him and he knows he doesn't deserve it but he takes that comfort, closes his eyes and lets her hold him.
"Tell me what happened," she says when they're settled on the couch.
"I don't know," he says, which he knows is a coward's answer. "Everything seemed okay - we fooled around a bit," Neal had sucked his dick - he'd cried while sucking his dick. And hadn't complained about how roughly Peter had pulled his hair and fucked his mouth, and suddenly he realizes how many little lies their relationship was built on. How blind with passion he'd been. "And then I tried to do something he didn't like. I pushed him too far."
"What did he say? How do you know he didn't like it?"
"He started crying," he says. "He tried to hide it from me - " He'd tried so hard to hide everything he thought Peter might not like. "And I stopped, and he - he kept trying to get me to keep going." He can tell El doesn't get it. "He begged me to keep going because he didn't want me to get tired of him and send him back to prison." Every touch and gesture and gasp had been choreographed. Every invitation and basketball game and lunch date, the small gifts, the hours they spent making out on the couch. "It was all a ruse," he says. "A con. And I was just another mark."
"No," Elizabeth says. "He couldn't have been faking. He likes you, Peter, he trusts you - no one's that good an actor."
"Neal is," he says, and he knows it's the truth. Neal set his goals and went about achieving them as ruthlessly as he could. And his goal had been to get Peter on his side, to get him emotionally attached, some extra insurance against the constant threats to send him back to prison. "I should go. I don't want to be here when he wakes up." El nods. "He shouldn't have to see me."
"I'll stay." She nods decisively, mind made up.
He hesitates before continuing. "Be careful with him. He was - he's pretty messed up. Physically and emotionally." She kisses his cheek and he takes some comfort in that small gesture. "And El - will you tell him that if he wants to press charges, I'll back him up? I'll give testimony, plead guilty, whatever - he just has to say the word."
And El starts crying and he thinks okay. Okay. Now she gets it. "And if he wants a transfer to another unit I can put the order in but it'll take a few days. If he wants to stay home instead of coming in to work until then, I'll cover for him. He shouldn't have to work with me."
"I'll tell him," she says, and he trusts that she won't try to protect Peter. She'll do what's best for Neal. He has to trust that, because he has to get out of June's house before he pukes all over her expensive couch.
He drives home on autopilot. It's a familiar route at this point. He knows the shortcuts, the stop signs, the best places to stop for coffee on his way. He drives home and parks his car and gets in the shower and washes away the dried semen on his cock, the lube on his hands, the sweat and saliva and yes, tears, both his and Neal's (I want you to do me without a condom, the flinches he hadn't been able to hide, the truth of it all over his body). He stays in the shower until the water runs cold and he can blame that for his shaking.
*
He walks the dog and charges his cell phone and throws up the yogurt he ate for breakfast. Tries to read case files or watch tv or read, but his phone doesn't ring and he doesn't know what that means.
He thinks about the fact that his wife is going to see the bruises he left on Neal's body. Hear how hoarse his voice is from deep-throating Peter's dick. See what he'd done to Neal's - his whole hand, practically, forced inside a hole that just wasn't open enough. El's going to know. He might have lost both of them, he realizes.
El comes home mid-afternoon. And they sit on opposite sides of the couch and don't look at each other and he thinks he understands why Neal did it. Why Neal would do whatever he could to hang onto his life. The lengths he'd go to in order to protect it. Peter could lose both of them and deserve every agony that would bring but god, please, don't let that happen. Please.
"He says it's not your fault," she says. And he can tell she didn't believe Neal any more than Peter did. Neal was still playing the game. Still trying to play Peter. "He says it was just a misunderstanding. And I don't know how good he was at hiding pain from you, but he was - he was obviously hurt. He had trouble just standing up."
Peter stares at his hands and doesn't pray for it to be over, for forgiveness, for a way to go back in time so he could pinch himself and realize that the Neal he had was a dream. Doesn't pray for things he doesn't deserve. "Is he going to press charges?"
"No. And he doesn't want a transfer. He - he said he didn't want to lose you." And he knows how Neal would say it, too. How sincere and heartfelt and and vulnerable he could sound. He was the best conman Peter'd ever met.
"Are we okay? You and me?" The moment before she answers seems to stretch on forever. Out of the corner of his eye he can see El looking at him. Sizing him up. Taking stock of who she thought he was and what she knows now, and he hopes she'll come to a different conclusion than he did.
"We will be," she says, and he gives into the tears that have been threatening all night, and she pulls him down to lie in her lap and pets his hair and kisses him. He hopes Neal will call Moz or talk to June or Diana or someone he trusts enough to cry to. Some friendly shoulder. But Neal is probably alone in a dead man's apartment, aching and worried and desperate to hold on to a freedom Peter took for granted.
*
He calls Neal on Sunday night. Neal answers on the third ring, a little out of breath. "Peter, I'm so glad you called! I need to apologize for what happened on Friday. I guess was a bit drunk, and - "
"We're not going to have sex again," Peter says, and it may be the weirdest non sequitur he's ever thrown into conversation but at least it gets Neal to stop apologizing. "And I'm not going to put you back in prison."
"I'm sorry El got involved," Neal says after a long pause, as if that was the reason why Peter was ending things. "I promise, we can keep things on the down-low from now on."
"Neal. I raped you."
"I don't remember ever saying no," Neal says, and he sounds - smug. Amused, like Peter's being cute or playing some sort of game. "I can remember saying yes, though. And please and harder, but not no."
"What do you think would have happened if you did say it?"
"I think you would have stopped," Neal says slowly, like Peter's being particularly stupid.
"Stopped what? Stopped fucking you? Stopped liking you? Stopped working with you and vouching for you and keeping you out of prison? You didn't say no because you thought you couldn't. I'm your superior, Neal, I hold your fate in my hands." And he'd abused that power. Whether he'd meant to or not. He'd taken advantage of someone who couldn't refuse him.
"I thought - I thought you liked what we were doing." And Neal's definitely off his game now. Guessing at what will keep Peter happy, but fuck if he just doesn't get it.
"Neal, I liked it because I thought you liked it, too. I thought we were - that we were dating."
"Sure, okay, we can do that. I can - I can make that work."
It feels a bit like kicking a puppy, the desperation clear now in Neal's voice, and Peter wants to go to June's and kiss him until his eyes close and he can't stifle his moans and just pretend that nothing happened. Agree and say it was just a misunderstanding, a bump in the road, no big deal. But the desperation in Neal's voice is probably fake. He'd seemed happy while he was being violated, smiled when he had to have been terrified - Peter had to end it.
"I'm not mad at you and I don't blame you. I understand why you did what you did. But it's not going to happen again. Okay?"
"I'm sorry," Neal says again, and this time Peter almost believes him.
"You shouldn't be sorry, Neal. It's not your fault. I - I know there's nothing I can do to make up for what I did, but I'll - I'll do the best I can. If you'll let me. Will I see you at work tomorrow?" He's got the transfer papers on the table in front of him.
"Bright and early." And Neal says goodbye and hangs up and Peter tries to think of any way they can all get back to normal. He draws a blank.
*
At work they pretend like everything's okay. Neal does a much better job of it than Peter. He sings in the elevator, switches the salt and pepper shakers in the lounge, forwards his favorite lolcat videos to Jones. But their rhythm is undeniably off. They do awkward 'you first' dances at every door, sit on opposite sides of the conference table (which makes the rest of the team stare at them nervously), and every time Peter starts to pat Neal on the back or sling his arm over his shoulders they both freeze.
On Tuesday Neal asks Peter to drive him home. It's awkward, at first, and they both fidget with the radio. "I'm sorry Friday was so disappointing," Neal says.
"It wasn't disappointing, Neal, it was - revealing."
"But I'm - I'm ready, if you want to try again. I'm wearing a plug right now, you could just slide right in - "
Peter comes about six inches away from rear-ending a taxi. "Shut up. I don't want to fuck you. I'm not playing hard to get, Neal - we're done. You don't have to do this anymore. Just - just stop."
Neal nods and stays quiet and when he gets out of the car Peter doesn't notice any hesitation in his movement, any sign that he's wearing a plug. He hates that it makes him hard.
*
It is, without contest, the worst week of Peter's life.
He barely sleeps, Elizabeth has to remind him to eat, he feels nauseous every time he thinks about what happened and he can't think about anything else. His cases or El or his life - he can't stop thinking about what he did. How he could have hurt another human being that badly. He's afraid to sleep in the same bed with her but she refuses to let him sleep on the couch.
It's the first week in years that they don't have sex. Don't even kiss. He doesn't miss it - can't, when every thought of intimacy morphs into him hurting the people he loves. His hands around Neal's throat, his dick in his ass, his handcuffs keeping him from getting away. He wakes up hard every morning and takes cold showers until his erection subsides.
On Wednesday Peter hands Neal a copy of his contract. A revised copy, the ink still wet, with the criteria for a violation of the contract resulting in a return to prison highlighted. "Your job's safe," he says. Neal nods and takes the contract. "Just do your work," he says again. "Try not to break too many rules, and you'll be fine." Neal holds the contract like it's something precious and Peter kicks himself for not giving it to him sooner.
*
Weeks pass and the jolt that hits him whenever he looks at Neal (it used to be arousal, now it's just regret) subsides. They don't go out for lunch alone and Neal always takes cabs to and from work, but - but they manage. They get by. Peter'd thought - he'd hoped - that Neal would get better as time passed. That he'd realize Peter wasn't a monster out to get him, that he didn't expect anything from Neal except his expertise on their cases, that he was safe.
But Neal doesn't get better. He gets worse. He works like a maniac, bringing home stacks of files coming back the next morning with pages and pages of illegible, brilliant notes that Jones and Cruz spend the rest of the day deciphering. He throws himself into each new case wholeheartedly, but he seems - subdued. Quiet. His cheer seems forced and his jokes start to fall flat. Peter tries to get him to talk about what happened, stumbling over the words and blushing with shame, but Neal brushes him off like it's no big deal.
It's not until they've been stuck in the car together for five hours on a stake-out that Neal says anything about it. And when he does, it's not what Peter expects. "It wasn't rape," Neal says quietly. Peter has to bite his tongue to keep from arguing. "Not exactly. When I - when I play a role or do a con - I'm in control. I call the shots." He remembers that Neal had been the one to suggest each new thing they'd tried in bed. So that he'd have some control over what they did, how fast they went. Neal shrugs. "I made a choice. You or prison. I've done a lot worse for a lot less."
Peter tries to adjust his perception of himself to include the kind of ruthlessness that Neal expected of him, the cruelty that he'd read into Peter's motivations. "Did I - did I do something to make you think that - that you needed to do what you did?"
Neal sighs and fiddles with his binoculars. "I learned a long time ago that nothing's free. And nobody gives you anything without expecting something in return." Peter wishes Neal would look at him, but he won't. "And you gave me - you gave me a better life. You're a good man, Peter, but that doesn't mean you don't have some dark fantasies you want to indulge that your wife doesn't know about."
He's quiet and looks tired and he hasn't made a single complaint about Peter's deviled ham sandwich. He's worlds away from okay. "All you seemed to want from me was my company." Neal tries to smile but it comes out more like a grimace. "No one wants to just be my friend, Peter. Everybody wants something. And I thought that's what you wanted. I'm a felon, I taunted you for three years. everything I do means piles of paperwork for you - you could have made my life a living hell." Peter thinks of the motel he'd try to stick Neal in with a wince. "But instead...you were nice to me. You and Elizabeth both. I didn't - I still don't understand how you could do that without wanting something in return."
And Neal's staring at his hands and Peter realizes how lonely he must be. How often he used to randomly show up on their doorstep with a classic movie or a bottle of champage or no excuse besides a smile. How surprised and flustered he'd been the one time Peter'd taken him out on a date (they'd tried to have a picnic but sat on red ants and ended up just having sex in the Taurus). Remembers the nights after long, hard cases when they'd been too tired to do anything but cuddle on the couch and fall asleep together. "So you weren't faking that?"
"Faking what?"
"That you like me."
"I like you, Peter," Neal whispers, and his voice is hoarse. "I miss you."
"I miss you, too." If Peter wanted to he could reach out and grab Neal. Could hit him or kiss him or force him to suck his cock. Peter's spent so long questioning every move he makes that he just - freezes, in that moment of painful honesty and hope.
But then Neal puts his hand, palm up, on the middle of the seat. And Peter clasps it and it's sweaty and Neal holds on too tightly and honestly they're not middle schoolers anymore, but it - it feels right. And maybe this, too, is a lie - but it doesn't feel like one. It's uncomfortable and imperfect and not like anything he and Neal have ever shared before. It feels...real.
He still can't see any way they can all get back to normal. But that doesn't mean they can't get better.
*
(feedback is loved and adored!)
Part 3 is here: history of us
Author: hoosierbitch
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Neal/Peter
Series: Broken Road: Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3.
Warnings: Consent issues, angst, reference to rough sex and fisting (full warnings can be found in the first part).
Word Count: 3,500
Notes: For those of you waiting for the happy ending: there will be a third part, and it should be up before the end of the weekend. Title for this part taken from a song by "A Fine Frenzy," series title (I am ashamed to say) is taken from the Rascal Flatts song. Huge thanks to gyzym for reading it and telling me it didn't suck.
Summary: Neal's hurt because Peter hurt him.
Neal falls asleep in his arms.
Worn out and limp, tear tracks drying on his face, wrapped in Peter's arms like he's found some sort of haven. Like he finally feels safe enough to let go, as if Peter's presence was a comfort.
Neal falls asleep in his arms and Peter hates himself. He stays still until his legs fall asleep and the sky turns black. Then he gently eases himself out from underneath Neal and settles him carefully under the comforter. He looks peaceful.
He goes into the bathroom, locks the door, gets on his knees, and vomits. Until all that's coming up is bile and his throat and stomach burn and all he can see is Neal, spreading his thighs and licking his lips and saying please. Until all he can see is the fear and pain and panic in Neal's eyes and he's dry heaving like he wants to purge the memory of it from his body, Neal saying please like - like he was afraid. Afraid of Peter.
The sun's beginning to come out when he leaves the bathroom. He gets dressed slowly and goes out onto the porch. He calls El. She sounds bleary and worried and tired.
"What's wrong? Are you okay?
"I need you to come over."
"Why? What's wrong?" And he can hear her getting out of bed and grabbing her bag. "Peter, talk to me! Are you at Neal's?"
"Yes," he says, even though it's June's, not Neal's, he should have - he should have remembered how little Neal has to call his own. "I raped him," he says, after she's turned the car on. He can hear the engine purr in the background, hear an echo of his own voice.
"You wouldn't do that," she says, like this is one of those times where he's being unintentionally dense and if she explains it correctly she can fix it, make it better, make all his worries disappear.
"I raped him," he repeats. "Until he couldn't fake it anymore." The lights of NYC blur and he realizes he's crying. "I hurt him," he whispers. He's never hurt anyone he loved before. Not like this. It's the worst thing he's ever done.
"I'm on my way," she says. "Don't do anything stupid, okay? I'll be there in a few minutes."
It doesn't feel terribly different. Being a rapist. He doesn't feel powerful or strong, he doesn't - he doesn't want to do it again. He feels cold, out on the veranda without a coat, cold and tired. It had been a long week. He'd been looking forward to spending time with Neal. Knocking back a few beers and watching the game and falling asleep together, sated and worn and comfortable.
It wasn't love, what they had. Not yet. But Peter - he'd been falling. And it had been an easy romance, so much easier than his paranoid courtship of Elizabeth had been - everything with Neal had seemed...effortless. He knew why, now. Peter'd been falling in love and Neal had been playing him. He thinks of all the times Neal looked away or tensed up when Peter surprised him with an unexpected caress. Remembers Neal saying that he wanted whatever Peter wanted (saying he wanted Peter, the first lie, the one that made the rest possible).
El calls him when she arrives and he goes downstairs to open the door. She's sleep-rumpled, still in her pajamas, pillowcase creases on her cheek. And she holds his face in her hands and kisses him and he knows he doesn't deserve it but he takes that comfort, closes his eyes and lets her hold him.
"Tell me what happened," she says when they're settled on the couch.
"I don't know," he says, which he knows is a coward's answer. "Everything seemed okay - we fooled around a bit," Neal had sucked his dick - he'd cried while sucking his dick. And hadn't complained about how roughly Peter had pulled his hair and fucked his mouth, and suddenly he realizes how many little lies their relationship was built on. How blind with passion he'd been. "And then I tried to do something he didn't like. I pushed him too far."
"What did he say? How do you know he didn't like it?"
"He started crying," he says. "He tried to hide it from me - " He'd tried so hard to hide everything he thought Peter might not like. "And I stopped, and he - he kept trying to get me to keep going." He can tell El doesn't get it. "He begged me to keep going because he didn't want me to get tired of him and send him back to prison." Every touch and gesture and gasp had been choreographed. Every invitation and basketball game and lunch date, the small gifts, the hours they spent making out on the couch. "It was all a ruse," he says. "A con. And I was just another mark."
"No," Elizabeth says. "He couldn't have been faking. He likes you, Peter, he trusts you - no one's that good an actor."
"Neal is," he says, and he knows it's the truth. Neal set his goals and went about achieving them as ruthlessly as he could. And his goal had been to get Peter on his side, to get him emotionally attached, some extra insurance against the constant threats to send him back to prison. "I should go. I don't want to be here when he wakes up." El nods. "He shouldn't have to see me."
"I'll stay." She nods decisively, mind made up.
He hesitates before continuing. "Be careful with him. He was - he's pretty messed up. Physically and emotionally." She kisses his cheek and he takes some comfort in that small gesture. "And El - will you tell him that if he wants to press charges, I'll back him up? I'll give testimony, plead guilty, whatever - he just has to say the word."
And El starts crying and he thinks okay. Okay. Now she gets it. "And if he wants a transfer to another unit I can put the order in but it'll take a few days. If he wants to stay home instead of coming in to work until then, I'll cover for him. He shouldn't have to work with me."
"I'll tell him," she says, and he trusts that she won't try to protect Peter. She'll do what's best for Neal. He has to trust that, because he has to get out of June's house before he pukes all over her expensive couch.
He drives home on autopilot. It's a familiar route at this point. He knows the shortcuts, the stop signs, the best places to stop for coffee on his way. He drives home and parks his car and gets in the shower and washes away the dried semen on his cock, the lube on his hands, the sweat and saliva and yes, tears, both his and Neal's (I want you to do me without a condom, the flinches he hadn't been able to hide, the truth of it all over his body). He stays in the shower until the water runs cold and he can blame that for his shaking.
*
He walks the dog and charges his cell phone and throws up the yogurt he ate for breakfast. Tries to read case files or watch tv or read, but his phone doesn't ring and he doesn't know what that means.
He thinks about the fact that his wife is going to see the bruises he left on Neal's body. Hear how hoarse his voice is from deep-throating Peter's dick. See what he'd done to Neal's - his whole hand, practically, forced inside a hole that just wasn't open enough. El's going to know. He might have lost both of them, he realizes.
El comes home mid-afternoon. And they sit on opposite sides of the couch and don't look at each other and he thinks he understands why Neal did it. Why Neal would do whatever he could to hang onto his life. The lengths he'd go to in order to protect it. Peter could lose both of them and deserve every agony that would bring but god, please, don't let that happen. Please.
"He says it's not your fault," she says. And he can tell she didn't believe Neal any more than Peter did. Neal was still playing the game. Still trying to play Peter. "He says it was just a misunderstanding. And I don't know how good he was at hiding pain from you, but he was - he was obviously hurt. He had trouble just standing up."
Peter stares at his hands and doesn't pray for it to be over, for forgiveness, for a way to go back in time so he could pinch himself and realize that the Neal he had was a dream. Doesn't pray for things he doesn't deserve. "Is he going to press charges?"
"No. And he doesn't want a transfer. He - he said he didn't want to lose you." And he knows how Neal would say it, too. How sincere and heartfelt and and vulnerable he could sound. He was the best conman Peter'd ever met.
"Are we okay? You and me?" The moment before she answers seems to stretch on forever. Out of the corner of his eye he can see El looking at him. Sizing him up. Taking stock of who she thought he was and what she knows now, and he hopes she'll come to a different conclusion than he did.
"We will be," she says, and he gives into the tears that have been threatening all night, and she pulls him down to lie in her lap and pets his hair and kisses him. He hopes Neal will call Moz or talk to June or Diana or someone he trusts enough to cry to. Some friendly shoulder. But Neal is probably alone in a dead man's apartment, aching and worried and desperate to hold on to a freedom Peter took for granted.
*
He calls Neal on Sunday night. Neal answers on the third ring, a little out of breath. "Peter, I'm so glad you called! I need to apologize for what happened on Friday. I guess was a bit drunk, and - "
"We're not going to have sex again," Peter says, and it may be the weirdest non sequitur he's ever thrown into conversation but at least it gets Neal to stop apologizing. "And I'm not going to put you back in prison."
"I'm sorry El got involved," Neal says after a long pause, as if that was the reason why Peter was ending things. "I promise, we can keep things on the down-low from now on."
"Neal. I raped you."
"I don't remember ever saying no," Neal says, and he sounds - smug. Amused, like Peter's being cute or playing some sort of game. "I can remember saying yes, though. And please and harder, but not no."
"What do you think would have happened if you did say it?"
"I think you would have stopped," Neal says slowly, like Peter's being particularly stupid.
"Stopped what? Stopped fucking you? Stopped liking you? Stopped working with you and vouching for you and keeping you out of prison? You didn't say no because you thought you couldn't. I'm your superior, Neal, I hold your fate in my hands." And he'd abused that power. Whether he'd meant to or not. He'd taken advantage of someone who couldn't refuse him.
"I thought - I thought you liked what we were doing." And Neal's definitely off his game now. Guessing at what will keep Peter happy, but fuck if he just doesn't get it.
"Neal, I liked it because I thought you liked it, too. I thought we were - that we were dating."
"Sure, okay, we can do that. I can - I can make that work."
It feels a bit like kicking a puppy, the desperation clear now in Neal's voice, and Peter wants to go to June's and kiss him until his eyes close and he can't stifle his moans and just pretend that nothing happened. Agree and say it was just a misunderstanding, a bump in the road, no big deal. But the desperation in Neal's voice is probably fake. He'd seemed happy while he was being violated, smiled when he had to have been terrified - Peter had to end it.
"I'm not mad at you and I don't blame you. I understand why you did what you did. But it's not going to happen again. Okay?"
"I'm sorry," Neal says again, and this time Peter almost believes him.
"You shouldn't be sorry, Neal. It's not your fault. I - I know there's nothing I can do to make up for what I did, but I'll - I'll do the best I can. If you'll let me. Will I see you at work tomorrow?" He's got the transfer papers on the table in front of him.
"Bright and early." And Neal says goodbye and hangs up and Peter tries to think of any way they can all get back to normal. He draws a blank.
*
At work they pretend like everything's okay. Neal does a much better job of it than Peter. He sings in the elevator, switches the salt and pepper shakers in the lounge, forwards his favorite lolcat videos to Jones. But their rhythm is undeniably off. They do awkward 'you first' dances at every door, sit on opposite sides of the conference table (which makes the rest of the team stare at them nervously), and every time Peter starts to pat Neal on the back or sling his arm over his shoulders they both freeze.
On Tuesday Neal asks Peter to drive him home. It's awkward, at first, and they both fidget with the radio. "I'm sorry Friday was so disappointing," Neal says.
"It wasn't disappointing, Neal, it was - revealing."
"But I'm - I'm ready, if you want to try again. I'm wearing a plug right now, you could just slide right in - "
Peter comes about six inches away from rear-ending a taxi. "Shut up. I don't want to fuck you. I'm not playing hard to get, Neal - we're done. You don't have to do this anymore. Just - just stop."
Neal nods and stays quiet and when he gets out of the car Peter doesn't notice any hesitation in his movement, any sign that he's wearing a plug. He hates that it makes him hard.
*
It is, without contest, the worst week of Peter's life.
He barely sleeps, Elizabeth has to remind him to eat, he feels nauseous every time he thinks about what happened and he can't think about anything else. His cases or El or his life - he can't stop thinking about what he did. How he could have hurt another human being that badly. He's afraid to sleep in the same bed with her but she refuses to let him sleep on the couch.
It's the first week in years that they don't have sex. Don't even kiss. He doesn't miss it - can't, when every thought of intimacy morphs into him hurting the people he loves. His hands around Neal's throat, his dick in his ass, his handcuffs keeping him from getting away. He wakes up hard every morning and takes cold showers until his erection subsides.
On Wednesday Peter hands Neal a copy of his contract. A revised copy, the ink still wet, with the criteria for a violation of the contract resulting in a return to prison highlighted. "Your job's safe," he says. Neal nods and takes the contract. "Just do your work," he says again. "Try not to break too many rules, and you'll be fine." Neal holds the contract like it's something precious and Peter kicks himself for not giving it to him sooner.
*
Weeks pass and the jolt that hits him whenever he looks at Neal (it used to be arousal, now it's just regret) subsides. They don't go out for lunch alone and Neal always takes cabs to and from work, but - but they manage. They get by. Peter'd thought - he'd hoped - that Neal would get better as time passed. That he'd realize Peter wasn't a monster out to get him, that he didn't expect anything from Neal except his expertise on their cases, that he was safe.
But Neal doesn't get better. He gets worse. He works like a maniac, bringing home stacks of files coming back the next morning with pages and pages of illegible, brilliant notes that Jones and Cruz spend the rest of the day deciphering. He throws himself into each new case wholeheartedly, but he seems - subdued. Quiet. His cheer seems forced and his jokes start to fall flat. Peter tries to get him to talk about what happened, stumbling over the words and blushing with shame, but Neal brushes him off like it's no big deal.
It's not until they've been stuck in the car together for five hours on a stake-out that Neal says anything about it. And when he does, it's not what Peter expects. "It wasn't rape," Neal says quietly. Peter has to bite his tongue to keep from arguing. "Not exactly. When I - when I play a role or do a con - I'm in control. I call the shots." He remembers that Neal had been the one to suggest each new thing they'd tried in bed. So that he'd have some control over what they did, how fast they went. Neal shrugs. "I made a choice. You or prison. I've done a lot worse for a lot less."
Peter tries to adjust his perception of himself to include the kind of ruthlessness that Neal expected of him, the cruelty that he'd read into Peter's motivations. "Did I - did I do something to make you think that - that you needed to do what you did?"
Neal sighs and fiddles with his binoculars. "I learned a long time ago that nothing's free. And nobody gives you anything without expecting something in return." Peter wishes Neal would look at him, but he won't. "And you gave me - you gave me a better life. You're a good man, Peter, but that doesn't mean you don't have some dark fantasies you want to indulge that your wife doesn't know about."
He's quiet and looks tired and he hasn't made a single complaint about Peter's deviled ham sandwich. He's worlds away from okay. "All you seemed to want from me was my company." Neal tries to smile but it comes out more like a grimace. "No one wants to just be my friend, Peter. Everybody wants something. And I thought that's what you wanted. I'm a felon, I taunted you for three years. everything I do means piles of paperwork for you - you could have made my life a living hell." Peter thinks of the motel he'd try to stick Neal in with a wince. "But instead...you were nice to me. You and Elizabeth both. I didn't - I still don't understand how you could do that without wanting something in return."
And Neal's staring at his hands and Peter realizes how lonely he must be. How often he used to randomly show up on their doorstep with a classic movie or a bottle of champage or no excuse besides a smile. How surprised and flustered he'd been the one time Peter'd taken him out on a date (they'd tried to have a picnic but sat on red ants and ended up just having sex in the Taurus). Remembers the nights after long, hard cases when they'd been too tired to do anything but cuddle on the couch and fall asleep together. "So you weren't faking that?"
"Faking what?"
"That you like me."
"I like you, Peter," Neal whispers, and his voice is hoarse. "I miss you."
"I miss you, too." If Peter wanted to he could reach out and grab Neal. Could hit him or kiss him or force him to suck his cock. Peter's spent so long questioning every move he makes that he just - freezes, in that moment of painful honesty and hope.
But then Neal puts his hand, palm up, on the middle of the seat. And Peter clasps it and it's sweaty and Neal holds on too tightly and honestly they're not middle schoolers anymore, but it - it feels right. And maybe this, too, is a lie - but it doesn't feel like one. It's uncomfortable and imperfect and not like anything he and Neal have ever shared before. It feels...real.
He still can't see any way they can all get back to normal. But that doesn't mean they can't get better.
*
(feedback is loved and adored!)
Part 3 is here: history of us