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Neal wasn't sure how they ended up in the back-ass of western Virginia.
He knew why they ended up there, he just wasn't sure what bad decision-making had gone into it. He knew there had been a lot of paperwork involved. And he'd had to stand in the little motel room he and Peter were stuck in, with two shabby twin beds, while Peter called the Marshals and told them to trap Neal's tracker and extend his radius two miles in every direction from the spot he was standing in.
For a man who had spent years conning his way into penthouse suites, it was a little humiliating.
It was, therefore, kind of fortunate in his view that the case they were investigating here in the back-ass of western Virginia was a hard one -- long hours, no end of work to do, suspects to question, documents to study, all of which kept them out of the motel room. Neal didn't necessarily enjoy working twelve hours days reading financial reports, but the guys out from the Norfolk branch of the Bureau were interesting, they were new people to talk to, new marks to try and run little harmless cons on. They weren't as good as the team in New York, of course, nobody was, but Neal was beginning to get that the FBI wasn't Podunk PD, even outside of New York. The Norfolk crew were smart enough to keep him entertained.
On the other hand, they had rotating stakeouts every night, which was boring and awful, and also meant that since he and Peter took the ten-to-two shift they got five hours of sleep a night, if that (Peter, who was an early riser by nature, rarely got more than three). By the fourth day, the exhaustion was beginning to show, but if they didn't pin Norovin down within another few days, the guy would skip the country and two months of work by the Norfolk office and another month's worth of work in New York would be down the drain.
"I'm almost relieved we're on a deadline," Neal said, sitting on the end of his bed and wondering if it was worth the effort to pull his leg up and unlace his shoe. At two-thirty in the morning, everything felt like weight-lifting. The motel room smelled like old takeaway and unwashed clothing. "One way or another, in three days I'm going to get to go home and sleep for twelve hours straight."
"Cowboy up," Peter told him, looking like he wasn't having much more luck taking his tie off than Neal was with his shoelaces. He finally pulled the knot loose and started on his shirt, fumbling with the buttons one by one. "You're about to hit the part where it gets fun."
"How's that?" Neal asked. He'd taken his own tie off hours ago, but his belt buckle was giving him trouble.
"You lose enough sleep, things get a little shiny," Peter answered, stepping out of his pants. He stretched, rolling his shoulders, and pulled back the threadbare sheets on his bed. "You start to wake up with a whole lot of energy. I do, anyway."
"I hear cocaine has the same effect, but that's illegal," Neal told him, folding his own pants across the back of a chair. He slithered out of his undershirt and under the blankets, pressing his face into the pillow. "G'night. If you wake me up at five again I will kill you."
Peter didn't answer; he was already out. Neal stretched -- toes leaving the end of the bed, stupid tiny twin beds -- and tried to ignore the cramped muscles from hours in the surveillance van. He kept shifting, looking for a comfortable position, but of course now that he could sleep without Peter poking him awake in the van, he couldn't.
Peter didn't snore; he said Neal did, but Neal had decided he was lying. Peter was obnoxiously cheerful in the mornings, while Neal was still fumbling around for coffee and trying to feel human, but other than that sharing rooms wasn't so bad. Neal had shared with worse. Still, tonight Peter seemed to sleep restlessly -- moving, mumbling under his breath, the noise just frequent enough to keep Neal awake every time he started to drift off. Neal was about to throw something at him or possibly smother him with a pillow when Peter's head jerked back and he made a sharp, distressed-sounding noise, high up in his throat.
Neal pushed himself up on one elbow. As far as he knew, Peter didn't have nightmares; Peter wouldn't allow that kind of crap to go on in his subconscious. Neal watched as he jerked back against the pillows again, the sound lower now but no less intense.
"Peter?" he called across the gap between the beds. No reply. "Wake up so I can get some sleep," he added, in his most annoying I'm Neal Caffrey, Here To Make Your Life Miserable voice. Peter thrashed a little against the blankets, which he'd already mostly thrown off.
Neal eased out of the bed, giving up on sleep for the moment, and bent over Peter, shaking him by one arm. "Peter. Hey Peter. Burke! Peter! Wake the hell up!"
Peter's hand shot up, grabbing Neal's wrist; Neal gaped at it for a second before noticing that Peter's eyes were open, blurry and unfocused but open. He leaned forward.
"You want to let go of me?" he asked. Peter stared up at him, looking puzzled. "Peter. My arm, please. I only have two, I'd like this one back."
He didn't notice, for a second, that Peter's other hand was on his hip, skin on bare skin, until Peter tugged on his arm and shoved on his hip and Neal tumbled off his feet. He flipped across Peter's body -- holy crap Peter was strong -- and ended up underneath him, Peter's legs pinning his, chest to chest.
"Okay, this is a little..." Neal trailed off as Peter buried his face in Neal's shoulder, mouthing along the line of muscle. Neal had been about to say uncomfortable but Peter still had hold of his wrist and was nudging an erection against Neal's thigh, which pushed things very quickly into adulterous. "Um, Peter?"
Peter didn't respond, just nuzzled his way up Neal's throat. Neal tipped his jaw back on instinct, allowing better access to the soft spot just below his ear, even as he studied his options. On the one hand, Peter was strong but Neal wasn't exactly a wilting flower, and he could shove Peter off onto the floor and this would be something they never talked about again. On the other hand, he was beginning to get hard, and this felt really good, and -- oh, that was Peter's tongue in his mouth. Neal was pretty sure Peter wasn't allowed to put his tongue in anyone's mouth without Elizabeth knowing about it, so maybe this was something he...did, or had permission to do.
Back on the first hand, Neal couldn't be sure of that, and also they had to sleep.
But in the end, Neal had a very specific code of ethics regarding motel rooms, and how nothing you did inside one actually counted outside of it, and while that rule had been made up about ten seconds ago it was a good rule that let him slide one hand up into Peter's startlingly soft hair, lift his thigh to get them aligned a little better, and kiss back. Peter's hips rocked against his, not urgent but definitely demanding.
One of his wrists was still pinned above them, against the headboard, but Neal skated his other hand back down Peter's t-shirt, catching the waistband of his briefs. He tugged and Peter grunted into his mouth, hitching his hips up enough for Neal to work them down, one handed. Neal risked a possessive palm on his ass for a minute before he slid around to the front, hooking his thumb in his own boxers. He was reasonably adept at one-handed undressing but a little help would have been nice.
Instead, Peter lifted his other hand and cupped Neal's jaw, holding him still. Neal tried to shift a little for better leverage, but apparently Peter was going to do this his way. Which was fine, Neal could work with that, could work with the spike of pleasure at the idea of Peter holding him down, taking what he wanted. God, that was Peter's cock rubbing against his, a little slick, bumping against his fingers as they bucked together, Neal's hips almost leaving the bed. He rubbed his knuckles up against their cocks, going for a little more friction.
Peter let go of his wrist -- thankfully -- and Neal brought his arm down around Peter's shoulders, still mostly unable to talk as Peter kissed him and kissed him and then Peter's fingers were sliding around his cock and Neal might die, might actually die if he didn't get to come with Peter jerking them off together. He moaned, writhing a little, and Peter made a small, almost helpless sound of pleasure.
Neal twisted again, grinning against Peter's mouth, and Peter's fingers tightened on his pulsepoint and around his dick and Neal had to breathe through his nose so that he wouldn't pass out as he came. Peter just kept pushing, touching, taking and then he was coming too, still and tense, face pressed to Neal's cheek.
"Holy shit," Neal managed, as Peter came down from it, body going limp across his, Peter's head dropping to his shoulder. He drifted his hand up from Peter's back to his hair again, trying to catch his breath with an entire other person lying on top of him. "Peter, are you...?"
There were a few seconds of silence, maybe stretching out into a minute, and then Neal heard the unmistakable sound of a quiet snore.
"You've got to be kidding me," he mumbled, but he couldn't spend all night being personal bedwarmer to the man who'd just held him down and come all over him. "Your bed manners suck, I'm telling Elizabeth," he said, and carefully edged his way out from under him, letting Peter tumble to the bed.
He stepped out of his underwear, tossed them on the floor on the other side of his own bed, and then tugged the blankets up over Peter's shoulders. Peter could take care of himself in the morning; Neal was a mess, and it was now past three in the morning.
He cleaned himself up, studying his reflection, grinning at the sore spot where Peter had bit down on his lip, and went back to bed -- his own bed, where sleep suddenly beckoned.
---
When Neal woke the next morning, Peter was already dressed, eating breakfast out of a styrofoam tray at the motel's little table while he studied the casefile. Neal pushed himself up to sitting and blinked in the morning light.
"How late is it?" he slurred, running a hand through his hair.
"Only eight, you've got time," Peter remarked, eating a forkful of scrambled egg.
"Ngh," Neal managed.
"Coffee?" Peter offered, holding out a cup. Neal took it gratefully and sipped, leaning against the pillows. "It's not good coffee," he added, as Neal grimaced.
"It's caffeine, I'll be fine," Neal said, studying the curved line of Peter's back, the fold of his arm against the table. "More reports today?"
"It has to be in here somewhere," Peter replied, scowling down at the file.
"We'll find it," Neal told him. He hesitated. "Hey, so...should we talk?"
"About what?" Peter asked absently, not looking up from the file. Neal decided it was too early in the morning for this kind of thing anyway.
"Guess not," he muttered, grateful in a way, and slid out of bed to pad naked to the shower.
"Hey, cover it up," Peter called, looking up and then away again. "I don't need to see little Caffrey while I'm eating my breakfast."
Neal tossed a grin over his shoulder and disappeared into the bathroom for a shower. Peter was, at least, entirely predictable. Except when he wasn't.
So they weren't talking about it; that was fine. Maybe it was a one-time thing. What happened in motel rooms stayed in motel rooms. The sex had been awesome, but Neal was an opportunist. No expectations.
---
Except it happened again. Once was opportunism; twice was either taking advantage or pressing his luck, he wasn't sure which.
At some point, probably while they were eating dinner, Norovin had slashed the tires on Peter's rental car. Neal could appreciate deviousness; he'd tried that trick himself once (not on Peter, but someone almost as annoyingly persistent). But it meant that they made the call to stay at the office after dinner, putting in a few more hours, and just go straight to surveillance, which meant no sleep. By the time one of the Norfolk agents picked them up to drive them back to the motel, both of them were barely keeping their eyes open.
Peter fell asleep in the passenger's seat on the way, and Neal rolled his eyes as they pulled to a stop.
"It's fine, I got it," he told the driver, leaning in past the open door and shaking Peter gently. "Come on, Peter, I'm not carrying you."
Peter shifted a little, and his eyes opened; he tried to sit up and found himself trapped by the chest strap of his seatbelt. The other agent helpfully popped the button, and for a second Neal and Peter were a tangle of elbows and neckties as he tried to help Peter out of the car. When they were finally free, Peter leaning exhaustedly on Neal's shoulder, Neal slammed the door shut and lightly picked the motel room keys out of Peter's pocket, turning to guide them inside.
Once they were in, he gave Peter a gentle elbow, a hint to stop leaning on him; Peter stepped backwards and sat abruptly on the bed, head drooping.
"This is what you get for being a morning person," Neal told him as he undressed, expecting at least some kind of annoyed noise in reply. Silence from the Federal end of the motel room. Neal, shirt off, walked into the bathroom to pee (so much coffee, he'd need some kind of detox when this was over) and when he emerged Peter had managed to stand back up and was struggling out of his pants, fingers uncoordinated. Neal went to edge past him, between Peter and the dresser, and he didn't really intend to look, but it was kind of hard to avoid seeing the erection trapped in Peter's underwear.
"Seriously?" Neal asked, pausing. Peter glanced up at him, pupils huge and unfocused with exhaustion.
"S'fine, I got it," Peter mumbled, or that was what Neal thought he mumbled; he wasn't positive. Neal gave him a careful look and then rested a hand on his hip.
"You want some help?" he asked. Peter made a strange, questioning noise, an interrogative without words. Neal ran his fingers low enough to get Peter's clothing off and then slid his hand up to Peter's chest and pushed him, gently, back to sit on the bed again. He leaned over him, gave him a quick kiss -- more of an offer than anything, and Peter caught the back of Neal's head and held him there, kissing him with the same intense focus as the night before, until Neal ducked a little and pulled free.
"Not helping," he said with a grin, and dropped to his knees. He nosed up the inside of Peter's thigh while he undid his own belt buckle, raised his head to lick the smooth skin of Peter's stomach while he lifted his hips to tug his trousers and underwear down enough that he could touch himself if he wanted. One of Peter's hands kept running through his hair, over and over, while Neal sucked the head of Peter's cock into his mouth.
"Yeah, good," Peter said, voice low and rough, his other hand on Neal's shoulder as if to steady him. Neal curled both his hands on his thighs, resisting the urge to touch until he absolutely had to. He wasn't going to lie to himself; Peter was the guy who'd caught him, one of the few people in the world worth telling the truth to and perhaps the only one Neal would submit to so readily. In a weird way, the fact that Peter had caught him inspired a great deal of trust. And lust. And this was way better than fantasy.
Peter kept making encouraging noises, occasionally slurring a word or two of approval, while Neal licked and sucked and then yeah, there it was, a deep moan, desire mixed up with dominance, and Neal started jerking himself, Peter's hand still sweeping through his hair. Neal got a little caught up in his own pleasure, and when he panted and groaned around Peter's cock Peter said Neal! soft, sharp, coming about a half second after Neal did, hand tightening in Neal's hair.
Neal sat back, licking his lips, grinning. Peter's face was weirdly...open, fondness in every line as he released Neal's head. His hand drifted down, cheek-throat-shoulder, as Neal stood up and leaned in for a last kiss, letting Peter taste himself on his tongue.
"Bed," Neal said, and Peter nodded against him. By the time Neal was undressed, Peter was already under the blankets, sleeping like the dead. Neal was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.
---
The next day Neal felt dumb, numb-skinned, and spectacularly incompetent; the lack of sleep was wearing him down and Peter's promised energy hadn't appeared, though Peter seemed to be doing all right as long as he had a hot cup of coffee with him for the periodic exhaustion crashes. The Norfolk guys looked worn out. Hell, even Norovin looked tired on the morning surveillance tapes. Neal wondered if Peter would put him back in prison for going to Norovin's base of operations and explaining to him that everyone was tired and this game was not fun. Maybe if he told Norovin they let you go to bed at nine-thirty in supermax, it would tempt the guy into giving himself up.
These thoughts were madness. This was what happened when you got no sleep.
That afternoon, Neal was napping -- feet up on the table at their own makeshift base of operations, chair tipped back, hat tilted over his face -- when he heard, with the small corner of his mind that was still conscious, a cry from Peter's side of the table. Neal flailed himself awake, hat going flying as his feet slipped off the table and his chair shot forward.
"What is it, I'm here," he managed, casting around wildly. Peter was gazing steadily at him across the table, lips tilted up in a tiny smile.
"Back with us?" he asked.
"The hell with you," Neal told him.
"I just found our evidence," Peter said, holding up one of the million financial reports they'd been going over.
A local agent leaned in the doorway.
"Norovin's running," he said.
And so that was a whole thing, with Peter shouting at a district attorney on the phone while one of the Norfolk guys drove them madly down back-country roads in pursuit of Norovin, who was heading for a private airstrip that they needed clearance to go onto. And then there was a gunfight at the airstrip, and Neal had never been so glad in his life that he was a consultant and got to stay behind a bunch of crates full of smuggled antiquities and keep his head down.
But they got him, they got Norovin and put him in cuffs and opened up all the evidence crates, which were full of beautiful things that Neal got to appraise and admire. It was late into the evening before the adrenaline fully wore off and both Neal and Peter crashed hard.
"We can drive back to Norfolk tomorrow," Peter said, around a yawn. "Get the evidence documented, fly out in the afternoon."
"What are you saying?" Neal groaned, sitting on his bed and letting himself flop backwards.
"The earlier we get up tomorrow, the faster we can get home," Peter answered.
"I hate you so, so very much," Neal told him. Peter chuckled.
"One more day," he said. "I'll take you home from the airport, you can have day after tomorrow off."
"Ohhh that's a good idea," Neal said, tilting his head back to look at Peter upside-down. "So I guess we should sleep?"
Peter looked a little confused. "Yeah, unless you were planning on going jogging or something."
"Nah, but you know," Neal answered, and shifted his hips a little -- just suggestive, nothing overt. He frowned when Peter turned away, back to his own bed, as he slid his jacket off.
"Sleep's good," Peter said, and Neal sighed and sat up, feeling like all the forces of nature wanted him to just lean back again and fall asleep like that, half-across the bed, shoes still on. Okay; he was tired, Peter was tired, sex three nights running was maybe a little much for Peter or something. After all, he reasoned as he pulled the blankets over himself, Peter had Elizabeth and presumably they had a healthy sex life. Neal couldn't expect him to be as enthusiastic as someone who'd spent the last few years of his life in a prison cell with only his hand for company.
---
Neal woke to predawn light, a still quiet in the room, and Peter leaning over him in nothing but a t-shirt and, weirdly, his shoulder holster (he must have forgotten to take it off). It was kind of like some of the anxiety dreams he'd had back when Peter was chasing him, and kind of like some of the pornographic mental images he'd had since getting out of prison, and totally startling, and a huge turn-on.
"Did you want something?" he asked, grinning, and Peter bit his jaw. He grasped Peter by the empty holster and pulled him down, legs spreading, thighs tight on either side of Peter's hips, and it took them about two very good minutes of brutal wrestling against each other before Neal came in his boxers and Peter came all over them.
Which was embarrassing, but totally worth it.
"You are going to kill me," Neal gasped, chest still heaving. Peter was biting his way down Neal's shoulder. "And pay for my laundry," he added, as Peter pulled away a little, tumbling back onto his own bed. Neal checked the time -- god, five am -- and decided he wasn't even going to bother trying to go back to sleep.
"Shower," he said, and Peter didn't even answer. Neal decided fair torment was to sing showtunes at the top of his lungs while he washed; by the time he got out, a towel knotted around his waist, Peter was dressed and looking annoyed.
"What's with the musical revue?" he asked.
"What, you don't like I Feel Pretty?" Neal asked, grinning. He slung an arm around Peter's shoulder, and Peter shrugged him off.
"No touching without pants," Peter said. Neal gave him a puzzled look, because touching without pants was basically what they'd been doing half an hour ago and repeatedly for several days, but maybe Peter had some thing about how at least one person in the adulterous and illegal gay relationship had to be wearing pants, and then it was somehow okay. Who knew what feds thought about.
All Neal thought of, all day long, while he filled out evidence forms and offered his opinions on the contents of the smuggling crates, was his bed at home with its big soft comforter and reassuringly solid wood frame and how good it was going to feel to get into that bed and never leave it again. He had to stay awake on the drive to Norfolk, because he had to help Peter stay awake, but once they were on a plane back to New York he pulled his hat down over his face and drifted, blissful, totally unheeding of the uncomfortable seat and the canned air and the wailing baby somewhere in the back of the plane.
"Did you sleep at all?" he asked, as they trudged off the plane in New York.
"I had a lot of coffee on the drive out," Peter said thoughtfully.
"So that's a no," Neal confirmed. Peter was opening his mouth to reply when they passed through the security gate and suddenly a grin split his face, his eyes drifting over Neal's shoulder. Elizabeth was standing just outside the nylon barrier separating passengers from their families.
"Oh," Neal said quietly, as Peter led them over to her, wrapping his arms around her tightly. He watched, half-pleased, half-envious, as Peter kissed Elizabeth's hair and brushed it back from her face and kissed her hello.
"Missed you," Peter said, and Neal wondered if he should give them a moment.
"Missed you more," she replied, and pulled back to smile at Neal, stepping around her husband to hug him. Neal, startled, barely managed to reciprocate.
"Survive okay?" she asked, tipping his chin up to look him in the eyes. "You look exhausted, sweetie."
"We didn't get much sleep," Peter said. "Couple of hours of catch-up, we'll be fine."
"Come on, I'll take you home," Elizabeth said, stroking Neal's arm and smiling. Neal glanced at Peter, but Peter only had eyes for Elizabeth, and if he was going to be this good at keeping that secret then Neal could play along. After all, that was kind of what Neal did.
---
They left Neal at June's, where he barely managed to strip out of his clothing before falling into bed. It was still light out.
When he woke it was dark and he was starving; it was also one in the morning. He raided June's kitchen in his pajamas, ate two sandwiches and the last of a bag of sweet potato chips, left a note of apology where the bag had been promising to replace them, and went back to bed.
The next time he woke, it was to Mozzie rummaging in his wardrobe.
"I need a boiler suit, two badger brushes, and a tube of Bismuth Yellow," Mozzie said, when he saw Neal staring at him through one bleary eye.
"Suit's in the second drawer," Neal mumbled. "Only got one badger brush, s'in the brush box. Paints are under the brushes."
"How can you only have one badger brush?" Mozzie asked.
"Hnnn, Mozzie, lemme sleep," Neal groaned. He closed his eyes. A second later, Mozzie poked him in the shoulder.
"Are you dying? Do you have malaria?" Mozzie asked. Neal shook his head.
"Just got home," he managed. "Sooo tired, Moz."
"Yeah? How was Virginia?" Mozzie asked, abandoning him to rummage loudly through his brush box.
"Exhausting," Neal said, into his pillow.
"Anything interesting happen, or was it all mortgage fraud?"
"Lots of paperwork, very tired," Neal insisted, and he would never have let this slip if he wasn't dying of exhaustion, "got laid though."
"You what?" Mozzie demanded. The rummaging in the box stopped. Neal waved an arm.
"I had sex, now go away," he said. This time, when Mozzie poked him, it was with the blunt end of a paintbrush.
"Who with?" he asked. Neal didn't answer, which got him another half a dozen pokes before he grabbed the brush and threw it across the room. "Neal Caffrey, that paintbrush is one hundred percent badger bristle and very delicate," Mozzie scolded. "I trained you better than that!"
"What happens in motel rooms stays in motel rooms," Neal replied, and buried his head in the blankets.
"I hope you at least got her name," Mozzie said, and Neal ignored him until he left in a cloud of unsatisfied curiosity and outrage. He wasn't sure what time it was or even what day it was or why Mozzie needed his art supplies, but he decided he didn't care, and went back to sleep.
---
The next few days were...strange. Readjusting to a normal sleep schedule was surprisingly difficult. Peter didn't seem to be struggling with it, but Neal kept waking up at three am and crashing around two in the afternoon. By the time he'd straightened that out, he'd become aware that Peter was acting decidedly weird.
It wasn't like they were touchy-feely kinds of guys, or that Neal thought three days of really hot and kind of possessive sex in Virginia was a license to get handsy in the office, but it felt like Peter was compensating. He didn't look guilty, he didn't look anything other than his usual half-frustrated look around Neal, but he seemed to be avoiding him. If Neal walked into a room, Peter tended to leave soon after; when Neal touched him, even just the usual hand-on-arm to get his attention, he pulled away. Neal wondered if he'd told Elizabeth. Hell, Neal wondered if Peter realized he was doing it.
It hurt. That was surprising, because Neal was the one who had made up the rule about motel rooms being an alternate universe that didn't impact this one. Neal was used to taking momentary advantage and giving up the field when he had to. So it shouldn't hurt that Peter apparently regretted what they'd done. But he watched Peter meet Elizabeth in the bullpen to go out to lunch, or he saw Peter put a hand on Jones's back to guide him through a door, and he felt unaccountably jealous.
It wasn't like he'd wanted some illicit motel-room assignation. Peter had started it; before that, Neal had never really put any thought to executing his idle fantasies of himself and Peter, of Elizabeth and Peter, of himself and Elizabeth and Peter. Neal was acting perfectly ordinary and not bringing it up or making a big deal out of it and Peter was treating him like a stranger.
He was used to the idea of being needed for his skills and ignored the rest of the time, by other cons, by the FBI. He wasn't used to being used by Peter.
So finally, a week later, when he stepped into Peter's office and went to close the door, Peter said, "Leave the door open." And Neal snapped.
He closed it -- he didn't slam it, but he closed it hard enough for Peter to look up from his work, and then he threw himself into the chair across the desk from Peter.
"Did I not just tell you -- " Peter began, and Neal talked right over the top of him.
"What is going on with you?" he asked.
"Me?" Peter demanded. "What's going on with you?"
"Nothing's going on with me," Neal said. "I'm fine. Meanwhile, you can barely be in the same room with me. So what gives? Did I screw up somehow?"
"Every time I'm in a room with you you're attached to me at the hip. Ever heard of personal space?" Peter asked. "Open the door, Neal."
"No," Neal retorted. "What the hell -- "
"Listen, I don't know what you're playing with, but you can stop acting like you're my girlfriend, Caffrey. I'm not a mark you can con."
Neal stopped halfway through opening his mouth for a well-reasoned fuck you, Peter Burke and just sat there for a second, processing.
"You think this is a con?" he asked, really startled now.
"So you are -- "
"I'm not doing anything!" Neal insisted, and then realized he was close to shouting. He lowered his voice. "Is this about what happened in Virginia?"
Peter looked baffled. "What happened in Virginia?" he asked, and there was genuine confusion in his voice. Neal stared at him. "Did you steal something in Virginia?" Peter asked sharply.
"Did I -- " Neal managed, and then stood up. "No. I didn't steal anything in Virginia."
"Where do you think you're going?" Peter asked, as Neal opened the door.
"Out for the afternoon," Neal told him. "Page me if you need your pet consultant. I'll leave the door open," he added, and walked away. By the time he got to the elevators he was furious; by the time he made it downstairs and outside he was just confused.
It was like -- it was almost like Peter didn't remember.
But if he didn't remember, why would he bother freaking out every time Neal tried to look him in the eye?
He was about to go back upstairs and pick another fight when he almost ran into Elizabeth, who wasn't looking where she was going as she tucked something in her purse.
"Hey, hi," he said, as he caught her arm to steady her.
"Neal! Hi," she said, beaming at him. "I thought I'd surprise Peter for lunch, is he up there?"
Neal let go of her arm, nodding. "Yeah, he'd probably like that."
Elizabeth peered at his face, and Neal put on his blandest, most harmless grin.
"What's wrong?" she asked immediately.
"Nothing," he assured her.
"Yeah, because a smile that fake is totally going to convince me," she said. Neal let it drop, looking away.
"We had a fight. It'll blow over," he said.
She crossed her arms. "Who screwed up? If you don't tell me, I'll make Peter tell me."
"Seriously, it's fine."
"Neal, it's obviously not. Peter screwed up, didn't he?"
"Elizabeth..." Neal shook his head. "That's complicated."
Her fierce look softened a little. "You can't tell me?"
Neal studied her face. She didn't look like a woman who was looking at the guy who'd had sex with her husband on a business trip (the whole thing sounded so tawdry, put like that). She also didn't look like she knew she was looking at the guy who'd had sex with her husband on a business trip.
"Can we talk?" he asked.
"Are you busy now?" she said. "Come on, I'll buy you lunch instead. Peter gets the pleasure of my company all the time, he won't miss me for a lunch break."
Neal found himself half-dragged out of the building and stuffed into a tiny booth in a nearby cafe that he hadn't known existed, and he thought he knew every place there was to eat in his entire radius. Elizabeth ordered for him, reached across to take his hat off, and then propped her chin on her hands.
"So?" she said. "What's this complicated story?"
Neal couldn't quite meet her eyes. "Did Peter talk to you about Virginia?"
She giggled.
That was not a reaction he was expecting.
"Was that funny?" he asked carefully.
"Sorry, sorry," she said, sipping some water. "Just a -- never mind. Go on. What happened in Virginia? Peter didn't say there was anything out of the ordinary."
"Now you're screwing with me," he said. "What did he say?"
Elizabeth glanced away quickly, like she was making sure Peter wasn't going to jump out from behind a plant and surprise them. "He's been acting weird, hasn't he?"
"Yeah," Neal agreed, relieved. "Around you too?"
"No, not especially, just..." she giggled again. "Sorry. This is totally inappropriate. Peter would kill me, you can't tell him we talked."
"Elizabeth, if you don't explain why he's treating me like last year's prom date, seriously, I might kill you," Neal said. Elizabeth took a deep breath.
"He'll calm down," she assured him. "He's feeling nervous, that's all. Peter said you two didn't get much sleep while you were there."
"He got less than I did. He's an obnoxious morning person," Neal complained.
"He's less obnoxious when he's had more sleep. You know he talks in his sleep, right?" she asked.
"Mozzie said you said something about it," Neal said.
"Well, when he doesn't get much sleep, it's not talking, really," Elizabeth said. "It's a little more...primal than that. It doesn't happen often," she added hastily. "Just when he's really tired."
Neal felt the world tilt a little bit.
Oh god, Peter had been asleep.
"It's a clinical thing. It's not just a quirk, it's medical," Elizabeth was saying, but Neal's hearing was a little cloudy. Peter had been asleep, he'd been -- oh god. "But you seemed totally fine, so I thought maybe you didn't notice," she continued. "Anyway, it gets pretty vivid for him. Usually he's home with me, and I just..."
Neal watched her blush a little.
"Well, normally I sit back and enjoy it," she murmured. "If I'm not in the mood, a cold splash of water snaps him out of it. But that's not the point," she added. "I'm just saying, he said he had a few moments, he had some...dreams. Everybody has them, you know?"
"Dreams?" Neal repeated numbly.
"He had dreams about you. It's making him uptight." Elizabeth smiled at him. "It's okay, though, you don't have to worry. I mean, if he were dreaming about another woman, I might get jealous, but it's you. That's totally different. Obviously, he was staying in the same room as you, and you two are so close, it's only natural. He'd never actually -- "
"We had sex," Neal blurted, probably more loudly than he should have. Elizabeth stared at him. "Look, I didn't -- I didn't know, and he just sort of...pinned me, and I thought maybe you guys had some kind of...what happens in motel rooms stays in motel rooms," he said desperately.
Elizabeth was still staring at him.
"I'm really sorry, really sorry -- and I probably should -- I mean, is that -- he couldn't..." Neal sat back. "You know what, I should probably go and tell him about this and maybe when he's done killing me you can kill me some more. Does that work for you?"
She reached out and took his hand before he could even slide out of the booth. "Wait, Neal, don't go."
"Or if you want to kill me first, that's okay," Neal said.
"Nobody's going to kill you," she said, thumb rubbing across his knuckles. Neal took a few deep breaths, waiting for her to let go of his hand so he could run. He could, of course, just start running and probably get away from her, she was fast but she was wearing heels, but then that hardly made the chase fair...
"So those dreams he had weren't dreams?" she asked, with a smile.
"Probably not," Neal said.
"He pinned you, huh?"
"That's really no excuse," Neal said. "I could have pushed him off. I didn't even try to say no. I didn't want to. And I'm sorry..."
"Sweetie, try really hard to do what I tell you, okay?" she said. "One, stop feeling guilty. It's okay. I'm not mad at you. Two, stop thinking Peter's mad at you. Half the problem with Peter's behavior right now, which is very unfair to you, is how much he enjoyed those...dreams. He knew it was you, he knew on some level what was going on, and he liked it. Three, really, stop feeling guilty. You didn't know you were taking advantage. It's not your fault."
Neal gave her a wary look. "No killing?"
"No killing, I promise," she laughed. "Oh, sorry, no, it's not funny," she added, as Neal frowned. "I know it isn't. Poor Peter's been miserable about it, and you look like you have too. We'll fix it, okay? I'll help."
"How do we...why would you help?" he asked. "Did you skip the part where I slept with your husband?"
Elizabeth tilted her head. "Do I need to worry you're going to steal him from me?"
"God, no," Neal said, genuinely horrified at the idea.
She smiled down at her hand, which was still holding onto his -- like an anchor, or a very advanced restraint device. It was her left hand. Her wedding ring was warm against his skin.
"Are you bi?" she asked.
"I think empirically the answer to that's already been proven," Neal managed. Elizabeth looked disapproving. "Yeah, okay, fine, I am. Peter's not my first guy."
"What do you think about threesomes?" she asked.
Neal's brain shut down.
"Are you seriously asking me that?" he said.
"Peter wants you," she said, very quiet and very serious. "A lot. More than he wanted to catch you while he was chasing you, though I think it started there, too. I don't mind -- I like the idea. I like you too. It seems...I think it would be easier if we got to share you, don't you? Less guilt all around."
Neal licked his lips. Elizabeth stared at his mouth. He was in so, so much trouble.
"That does sound fair," he said.
"You don't mind having me along?" she asked, smiling.
"No, I don't -- it's so much more than not minding," he said, quickly, so that she couldn't say anything else. "I really, I'm through not minding and out the other side."
"Good," she said. "I'll make Peter bring you home for dinner tonight. Let me handle it, okay?"
"Tonight?" Neal asked, hoarse, and about a million images went through his head.
Peter and Elizabeth, together, naked, that little helpless noise Peter made swallowed in her mouth.
Elizabeth watching him touch Peter everywhere.
Peter watching, telling him what to do as he kissed Elizabeth.
Peter inside him, Elizabeth underneath him. Oh. Both of them inside Elizabeth.
"Dazed is a good look on you," she told him, as their food arrived. "Now. No more talk about sex. Did you see there's a new exhibit coming to the Channing?"
Neal let her navigate them through small talk for the rest of the meal, trying to calm down the frantic and very adult-rated filmstrip running through his head.
"Neal," she said, as she was paying the check. "You're a con man. Just run one little con for me this afternoon, and pretend we didn't have this talk, okay?"
He nodded. "I can do that."
"Good. I promise it'll be worth it," she said, and leaned across the little table and kissed him. On the mouth. With tongue. This was unreal.
She smiled. "Go and be good. See you this evening."
---
Neal didn't know what Elizabeth said to Peter, but at the end of the day Peter stopped at his desk, where he'd been doing a very good impression of sulking the entire afternoon, and said, "You're coming to dinner."
"Don't do me any favors," Neal answered, enjoying the charade. Conning Peter rarely worked, but it was fun when it did.
"I'm not. Elizabeth's orders," Peter replied. "Come on."
The ride out of Manhattan was excruciatingly silent, and Neal revelled just a little bit in the awkwardness, because this was practically normal compared to what was going to happen when they got there. Peter just looked tense.
Elizabeth had brought Chinese, which did clear a few of the stormclouds off Peter's face. He went to get the plates while she set out the cartons and greasy waxed-paper bags, and she winked at Neal while Peter was out of the room.
"Just let me handle it," she said, and then Peter was back, setting out plates and helping himself to an eggroll. Neal scooped some cashew chicken onto his plate.
"So, how was your day?" Peter asked Elizabeth, grabbing a little mustard packet and biting into it to get it open.
"We had sex," Neal said, helping himself to some rice. Peter froze with the packet in his mouth, then slowly lowered his hands, packet half-open.
"You...?" he glanced back and forth between Elizabeth, who had a forkful of General Tso's halfway to her mouth, and Neal, who was pouring soy sauce on his rice.
"What part of letting me handle this did you not understand?" Elizabeth asked Neal.
"You and me," Neal continued, keeping his hands busy, unwrapping a pair of chopsticks. "In Virginia. We had sex."
Peter turned to Elizabeth. "You told him? Why would you tell him?"
Elizabeth sighed. "This would be much easier if Neal wasn't trigger-happy," she said. Neal failed to look ashamed. "I didn't tell him. He told me. Sweetie, the sleep clinic went over this with you, remember?"
Peter moved so slowly that it was almost a surprise when Neal found he was suddenly the object of Peter's gaze.
"We had sex in Virginia," Peter repeated.
"While you were asleep, apparently," Neal said, and took a bite of food. "Way more interesting than talking in your sleep, by the way," he added.
He was hoping for a laugh, or at least a skeptical snort; instead Peter slowly pushed his chair back, stood up, and walked away, towards the kitchen, rubbing his face with his hands. Neal got up to follow, or protest, or something, but Elizabeth took his hand again and shook her head. Both of them waited.
"I'm sorry," Peter said, without turning around.
"I'm not," Neal answered. "Well. A little. Not very much though, and mostly for taking advantage of you."
Peter still had his back to them, but he put his hands on his hips and bowed his head. "That was inappropriate. And this is embarrassing."
"Sweetie," Elizabeth sighed, and Neal felt it wasn't fair that she wouldn't let him get up but she got up and went to him, leaning against his arm, head propped on his shoulder. "Come back and sit down. Hear Neal out. If you really think you did something that bad, you owe him that."
Neal watched her coax Peter back to the table, and half-regretted his haste. Not totally; it was best to just say these things, especially to Peter, but he hadn't counted on embarrassment. Anger, yes; shame, no.
Peter wouldn't meet his eyes.
"So?" Peter said, resting his arms on the table, looking at his hands instead of Neal.
"I enjoyed it," Neal declared. Peter did snort, this time. "I did. I thought it was some kind of..."
"Affair?" Peter asked.
"Well, I figured you didn't do that kind of thing without permission," Neal said. "Not you."
"Neal has a very high opinion of my emotional stability," Elizabeth put in.
"Did I hold you down?" Peter asked quietly. "I remember..."
"I let you," Neal replied. Peter's head jerked up. "I'm not made of glass, you know. If I didn't want to be there I'd have shoved you on your ass. Besides, the second time -- " he broke off abruptly.
"Oh, tell me about what happened the second time," Elizabeth said, scooting forward.
"This isn't a fantasy," Peter said sharply, even as Neal was opening his mouth to say something dirtier than Elizabeth probably expected. "Neal, you're in my custody."
"Look, if you didn't put me in prison for stealing the Haustenberg you're not going to put me in prison because I didn't blow you. And I did. And it was great," Neal insisted. Elizabeth's breath hitched. "Fine, freak out if you want. I did, this afternoon, because guess who didn't know that you get horny in your sleep? The guy sleeping in the bed two feet from yours."
"It's not something you bring up over coffee!" Peter burst out.
"Boys," Elizabeth drawled, and they both looked at her. "The point I was going to make, before Neal ruined my carefully crafted plan, is that apparently you both had a great time, so why are you forcing yourself to be miserable about it now?"
Neal caught the look in her eye and leaned back, carefully casual.
"She has a point," he said.
"You, keep your mouth shut for a moment," Peter said, and then turned back to Elizabeth. "You seem very calm about all this."
"Neal and I did lunch," she replied. "I've had time to adjust. And since I'm the only one who didn't get laid in Virginia last week, I get to call the shots."
Peter just sat there, watching her. Neal was impressed. Peter Burke might have caught him, but Elizabeth Burke held Peter's leash.
Oooh, Peter on a leash. Time for that later.
"And I think we should have a nice dinner," Elizabeth said, "and then you can show me what I missed."
Peter made a noise Neal hadn't even heard when they'd been humping each other crazily in a motel room four hundred miles away. Apparently Peter didn't talk during sex even when he was awake for it.
"Can we skip dinner?" Neal asked.
---
Peter's no-touching-without-pants rule, while not actually intended to apply to sex, had more or less been observed in Virginia. They'd never managed to get completely naked, and watching Elizabeth undress her husband made Neal a little insane.
He just stood there in their bedroom, tie off, shoes and socks discarded, half the buttons of his shirt undone, and watched Peter shyly kiss his wife as she unbuckled his belt.
"I'm not sure about this," he heard Peter murmur. He didn't hear Elizabeth's reply, but it made Peter lean into her a little more, like he could hide in her somehow.
"We don't have to," Neal said, worried now that it really was some kind of coercion, that Peter was doing this but didn't really want to. "I can...I'm good at situations that we never talk about again."
He was actually turning to leave, to go home and try to reassemble himself into something resembling normal, when Peter's hand shot out and closed around his wrist. Neal froze.
"Like this," Peter said to Elizabeth, and turned to Neal. "It was like this."
He tugged and Neal stumbled forward, into him -- into them, Elizabeth laughing a little as she braced him with a hand on his chest. Peter flipped him onto the bed again, apparently enjoying being able to throw Neal around like a favorite toy, and rested his other hand on Neal's belt buckle. He looked down at Neal and if Neal had any lingering doubts that Peter wanted this, the lucid clarity of his eyes said otherwise.
Neal pulled his wrist out of Peter's grasp, gently, and tugged his shirt over his head. Peter's hand opened his belt-buckle, pulled down his pants, and then it was like Virginia all over again. Peter's hand holding his wrist up, Peter's body pinning his down, their hips already shifting and sliding together. But better, because Peter was really looking at him now, kissing him with entirely conscious intent, and Elizabeth was sitting with her arms on the edge of the bed, chin on her crossed wrists, watching. Gleefully. Naked.
"I thought I should say no," Neal managed, between kisses. "I didn't want to say no."
Peter's hand gripped his jaw, silencing him. Neal twisted his hips and Peter moaned against him. If he could just move a little faster, he could really put on a show for Elizabeth --
Then Peter stopped, suddenly, and Neal opened his eyes and groaned. Peter was sitting back, releasing him, looking down at Elizabeth. If he was going to have a morality moment, Neal was going to throw something.
No -- Peter was offering a hand to Elizabeth, like a gentleman, helping her up on the bed. Helping her to straddle Neal, wrapping both his arms around her from behind. They looked down at him together, and Neal closed his eyes because it was too much. So much.
"How do you want him?" Peter asked. Neal tried not to pass out.
"Who says I want him first?" Elizabeth replied. Peter actually laughed.
"That's -- you can't just say things like that," Neal said. He pushed himself up on his elbows, almost indignant now. "How do you say that?"
"I think he wants to watch," Elizabeth whispered over her shoulder. Peter kissed her neck.
"Neal, do you want to watch?" he asked, in the same tone he used when Neal was being especially recalcitrant at work. He didn't really wait for a reply; instead he flipped Elizabeth too (who was apparently used to it, and fell like some kind of ballet dancer or something) so that she lay next to Neal, grinning up at both of them. Peter slid off Neal's thighs and bent over Elizabeth instead, and Neal turned into them, watching Elizabeth's face as Peter pushed inside her, the way the muscles in Peter's arms knotted and tensed.
Peter kissed differently, awake; in Virginia it had been hard for Neal to breathe, at times, but now with Elizabeth he kissed her mouth, the side of her jaw, her throat, shoulders, her temple, moaning against her skin as he rocked his hips, as her body rose to meet him. Neal, fascinated, was startled to feel Elizabeth's hand on his stomach, fingers searching lower until they wrapped around his cock and her thumb slid up over his head, tugging a sharp gasp out of him.
"Neal, c'mere," she said, and Peter grunted into the side of her throat. Neal tipped forward and Elizabeth turned her head a little -- Peter slid a hand up behind to support her -- and then he was kissing Elizabeth, thrusting into her hand while Peter fucked her, reaching between their bodies to cup her breast. One of Peter's nipples brushed against the back of his hand, which was almost unbearably good.
"He's not very good at watching," Elizabeth said, still kissing Neal.
"He's a thief," Peter answered, around a groan. "Doesn't like to look -- fuck, Elizabeth -- if he can't touch."
Elizabeth's thumb slid up over a sweet, sensitive spot just under the crown of his cock, and Neal panted for breath. Peter was swearing, Peter never swore, and half the time he was saying his wife's name and the other half of the time he was saying Neal's. Elizabeth sounded like she had to be close, words suddenly gone in a series of sharp cries as her body shuddered into her husband's.
"El," Peter said, and Neal had never heard that tone in his voice before. It sounded like begging. Peter didn't beg. Still, he had only a second to register this before Peter shifted his weight and suddenly Peter's arm, which had been between Neal and Elizabeth, was around Neal's shoulders, pulling him tight against them. It should have been awkward; Elizabeth was almost pinned against him, but instead Neal writhed into their bodies and came against Peter's hip, across Elizabeth's thigh, head spinning, warmth spreading outwards from a single hot ache in his belly.
Peter shuddered, silent except for harsh breaths. Neal, deciding bold action was better than no action, pushed himself up and kissed him. Peter bit down on his lip, just like that first time, and his fingers clenched in Neal's back as he came.
Neal leaned back slowly. Peter was still, his eyes closed, looking like he was hardly daring to breathe.
"That was stupidly hot," Elizabeth said, somewhere below them. Neal let his head drop, laughed, and nuzzled up against her shoulder. "I mean, I was a little sad about the lack of foreplay but really. Foreplay is overrated."
Peter slid down on top of Elizabeth, a little, head resting on her other shoulder. She laid a hand on his head, fingers rubbing his ear fondly. He was watching Neal.
"You like foreplay?" he asked.
"I love foreplay," Neal said firmly.
"Good." Peter yawned. "Tomorrow morning, you go first."
Neal blinked at him, but Peter's eyes were closing, so he looked up at Elizabeth instead. She shrugged.
"Stay," she said quietly. "We want you to stay. Anyway, he'll be dead to the world in a minute, and I'm not going to drive you home. Pass me a tissue."
Neal grinned and propped himself up again, reaching for the tissues on the bedside table, cleaning them up as well as he could with Peter a dead weight tangled up in Elizabeth.
"How do you breathe?" he asked.
"If he gets heavy I shove him off," she replied, looking down at Peter fondly. Peter's fingers twitched. "Honey?"
No reply.
"Is he always like that?" Neal asked.
"You should have seen him when I made him go to the sleep clinic," she said, lifting her other hand to pet Neal's hair away from his face. Neal leaned into it, resting his head next to hers on the pillow. "They wanted to sign him up for every clinical study they had. Watching them explain sexomnia to him was one of the funniest moments of our marriage, and you can never tell him I said that."
"Sexomnia?" Neal asked. "That's really what they call it?"
"I know, it sounds like a low-budget adult movie," she said. "The doctor turned to me at one point and said, has he ever initiated sexual intercourse while asleep? and Peter turned bright red. It was so hard not to laugh, but that would have hurt him," she added, and kissed the top of Peter's head. She glanced at Neal. "You don't see that he's breakable. You're going to need to work on that."
Neal nodded. "I can try."
"Good." She kissed Neal's forehead too. "Can you sleep?"
"Just keep him on the other side of you," Neal warned. Elizabeth laughed.
"Goodnight, Neal," she said.
"Night, Elizabeth," he replied, closing his eyes. A few minutes later her breathing evened out. Neal was almost asleep himself when he heard Peter shift, and felt a seeking hand slide over his hip, Peter's fingers curling against his back.
"Caffrey," Peter mumbled. Neal opened his eyes, grinned at Peter's unconscious, open face, and closed his eyes again, drifting off to sleep.