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There are two empty bottles of wine on the table, and a white bandage on the side of Peter's throat.
It was too close. Too fucking close, and Peter doesn't even seem to understand that. Maybe he's used to it, Neal doesn't know, but he was under the impression Peter was in White Collar because he didn't have a death wish. The opposite of a death wish. A life wish. Peter is very determined to be alive, which Neal is glad enough of in the general course of things. He likes Peter alive.
The blade was a palette knife. Neal's worked with palette knives all his adult life and he knows they're not very sharp, but if you use one long enough around enough chemicals it becomes very sharp. And some small-time two-bit art forger from the boondocks, some talentless fucking hack, thought he could take down Peter with a palette knife.
Peter had just shrugged it off, slapped some gauze on it and gone on with his day, because they had business to take care of, but every time Neal had looked at the bandage it made his fingers twitch, made him angry, anxious, upset. He'd kept it down well enough, and he's sure Peter didn't notice, but it wasn't okay. It isn't.
So he offered to bring the wine if Peter would bring him home for dinner and Peter said fine, whatever, Elizabeth would be happy to see him. And all through dinner Neal has been drinking, not overtly but steadily, trying to calm the anxiety when he looks at the bandage, white against the warm tan of Peter's throat. Far too fucking close to his jugular.
"Neal?" Elizabeth asks, and Neal looks up from the bandage. He has reached a pleasantly warm state where yeah, okay, his reaction to the wound is distant and muffled and everything's fine. He wonders speculatively how much of the two empty bottles (oh, wow, there's a third half-full, too) he's had. Peter hasn't had any, he knows, and Elizabeth looks pretty sober.
"Sorry, what?" he asks, speaking a little more slowly than usual, to hide the slur.
"Ice cream," Elizabeth says, obviously repeating herself. "Want some?"
"Oh..." he glances at his plate, where the very, very few remains of a salad and some amazing poached salmon are strewn. "No, I'm good, thank you. This was great."
She smiles and stands, picking up the empty bottles to carry to the kitchen. Peter, belatedly, gathers up the plates, leaning across Neal to take his, and Neal inhales quietly, leaning back. Peter is warm and alive, he reminds himself, and that's what matters; not the anger or the fear he's felt all day, and not his reaction to Peter's warmth.
"Hon, I have the -- " Peter starts, elbowing through the door, but he runs into Elizabeth on the threshold, and he laughs and she laughs and with his free hand he steadies her hip, leans in and kisses her. Neal doesn't bother looking away. He likes how unself-conscious they are. Peter returns after a moment and picks up the wine bottle -- ah, dessert wine, from their stash, not one of the two he brought. He shakes it gently, offering to pour, and Neal edges his wineglass over.
"You don't usually drink this much," Peter says, as he pours. A generous amount, actually, and Neal is confused by the mixed messages for a second.
"Gotta unwind sometime," Neal says with a shrug, and sips. Peter rests his chin on his palm, fingers curling around his cheek. A steady stare. Neal looks away.
"I wasn't -- I was just observing," Peter says slowly. "It's fine. We broke a good case, tomorrow's the weekend."
"Not a school night, huh?" Neal asks, smiling a little. Peter shifts, inhales -- that sound that means he knows something, Neal is well-versed in it by now -- and takes his weight off his hand, picking up Neal's instead. Neal, startled, turns as Peter presses their hands together to the bandage.
The thumb has its own individual pulse, which is why doctors don't take pulses with their thumbs. Neal can feel his own pulse alongside Peter's, pressed up against his throat. Both strong and steady, but in Peter's case that is no longer a given, not today.
"I'm fine," Peter says. "Just a scratch."
Neal wants to curl his fingers around the skin of Peter's neck and pull him in and -- there's Elizabeth, coming through the door.
"Something you boys need to tell me?" she asks with a grin. Neal snatches his hand back, busying it with the wineglass as Elizabeth sets a bowl in front of Peter, one in front of herself.
"Neal's a little agitated," Peter says, and Neal knows when he's being teased, even if he is edging along the brink of regrettably drunk. "Big bad con man, worried because I got a paper cut."
"Hmm, watch it," Elizabeth replies. "Neal's not the only one."
"Flesh wound," Peter says.
"We'll see when I change that bandage later," she replies. Neal wonders how often she's patched up her husband, fingers careful on his skin.
He had a palette knife once that was sharp enough to cut canvas, and he can't dissociate the rip of his knife, sure and steady through cloth, from the rip of the knife across Peter's throat. He can't separate any of it from the image in his mind of Elizabeth, either -- the frantic look on her face the time Peter was poisoned, the fear she's hiding right now. At least some of his fear is for her, because he doesn't want either of them hurt.
So he sits quietly, sipping his wine while they eat ice cream with bananas sliced on top of it, while they talk about other things. The wine helps, softens the edges until he can't quite remember why he was so afraid. The anxious knot in his stomach is replaced by warm satisfaction.
After all, Peter is alive. And Peter's reaction was pretty funny, when the guy they were after sliced Peter's throat. Peter just pressed a palm to the wound and said, "You little punk!" and knocked him flat with the sweep of his other hand.
Peter's eyes are on his, and Neal realizes he was laughing quietly to himself.
"Just thinking about it," he says. "When he went after you and you shoved him on his ass."
Peter's mouth tilts, a dry smile. "He was what, five foot five? Hundred pounds soaking wet."
"Peter just went..." Neal swipes a hand through the air, a quick gesture to demonstrate for Elizabeth, and then laughs again. "Didn't even punch him."
"Didn't have to," Peter replies, leaning back. He settles a hand on his stomach, looking satisfied with the world. Elizabeth kisses his cheek and gathers up his ice-cream bowl; Neal picks up his wineglass and Peter's, ready to follow her into the kitchen. He's not quite steady on his feet, and he can tell Peter's amused by that, but he walks slowly and anyway, it's nice.
"Oh, thank you," Elizabeth says, accepting the glasses from him. "You want some coffee?"
"Hmm?" Neal asks, because he was distracted momentarily by her hands.
"Coffee," she repeats, and he shakes his head.
"Kind of enjoying it," he says.
"Good." She pats his cheek. "Peter's pretty steady, you know," she adds, putting the glasses in the sink. "He's not going anywhere. At least, that's what I tell myself. Helps me get through..." she tips her head at the kitchen door. "Most of the time it doesn't bother me."
"Did this?" Neal asks.
"I don't know yet," she admits. "But it bothers you, and that's...sort of the point right now."
Neal tries to articulate that it's not just Peter that bothers him, it's not just the danger they both put themselves in. It's Elizabeth too.
"He tried to take something," he says. Elizabeth frowns. "Something that's ours. Yours, more. But he -- " he takes a deep breath, slows himself down again. "He cut Peter with a palette knife. That's a tool. It's meant for a special use. He used it wrong," he says. "It...that belongs to me. Those tools. I would never, ever -- "
"Oh, Neal," Elizabeth says, looking stricken. "Sweetie, Peter knows that. I know that."
She pulls him close to hug him but Neal twists a little and cups her face and kisses her, roughly. He wants to prove that he's here and alive too, and that he cares, and that she matters as much as Peter. He wants her to feel safe and this is the wrong way to do it but it's the only way he knows how, crowding her up against the counter and just holding her and kissing, trying to prove something.
He's not thinking clearly. It takes him a long time to figure out that she should be pushing him away, she's a married woman and his partner's wife, but she's not. She's fluid in his arms, pressed up against him, one hand on his chest. He just can't seem to stop. He's not that good a person. Elizabeth's mouth is cool and sweet from the ice cream, her tongue is soft, and she's really good at kissing.
And when he finally feels a hand on his arm, it's not her pushing him away -- it's Peter, tugging him back just a little. Neal tenses, turns, mouth open -- but he has no excuse for this. No lie, no con. At this point it's hard just to stay upright.
"Figures," Peter says, which doesn't make a whole lot of sense given he's just found Neal with his tongue in Elizabeth's mouth. And Peter has a gun.
But Peter runs his hand down Neal's arm, pulling his fingers up again to touch the bandage.
"Are you frightened?" Peter asks, and Neal can't help the small, high desperate noise he makes, tightening his hand around Peter's neck. He tugs Peter forward and quiets Peter's "Ah!" of pain with a harsh kiss, forcing his mouth open as Peter's fingers clench around his. This is crazy, but --
This is crazy. He breaks away and presses his face to Peter's, the side of his head, nose against his temple. Peter smells like antiseptic.
"I think I'm wasted," he says softly, and as if to prove it his legs start to give. Peter just grabs him around the shoulders and turns, leaning him up against the counter. Neal stumbles unsteadily, leaning on Elizabeth for a second before he regains his footing.
"Yeah, I think so," Peter agrees, smiling. He moves forward a little, and Neal finds himself pressed up against Peter's body, Peter's thigh between his legs. He bucks once, twice, helplessly; it's been years since he was this close to anyone, since anyone else has touched him like this. Elizabeth has burrowed her way under his arm and is kissing his neck and Peter's got his face in his hands, kissing his mouth.
The world is a little dizzy -- this isn't how it's supposed to be. He's Neal Caffrey. He does the seducing, not the other way around. He controls who kisses him. If he were going to seduce the man who holds his freedom in his hand, it would be to trick him, to get something over Peter Burke so he could get free. If he were going to kiss Elizabeth, it'd be so he could destroy Peter. There would be no thrumming need to stay like this forever, held down by his captor, desperate for another man's wife to keep touching him. This isn't how this was supposed to happen. He's supposed to be in control.
"Say no now," Peter murmurs into his mouth.
"Or what?" Neal slurs, body already betraying him, back arching so he can rub against Peter's thigh again.
"Or I take you upstairs and take advantage of you," Peter answers. Neal hears Elizabeth laugh, delighted, into his neck. He turns to her, questioning, and Peter steadies his hip. He's not too drunk to remember that this began with Elizabeth, and the whole idea was to make sure she was okay.
"Don't worry," she says, ruffling his hair. "I've been telling him for months he should hold you down and rip your tie off."
Neal swallows a moan. "I couldn't say no anyhow," he manages.
This isn't how it's supposed to be, but it's better. This is better than some cold hollow thing with a motive, knowing that he didn't make them touch him, and if they are that must mean they care, they want this. He's touching Peter everywhere, cupping Elizabeth's face to kiss her, his hands are shaking...
He doesn't remember getting up the stairs and he's down to his briefs, Peter's shirt is half off, he doesn't even know where Elizabeth is, when it hits him.
"Oh, my God," he says, and his breath is quick and short. "Oh, my God, oh my God."
"What?" Peter stops him, pushes him away a little. "What is it?"
"I'm in love with you," Neal blurts, shocked.
Peter smiles, slow. "Took you long enough," he drawls.
"I'm -- I'm in -- and Peter, Peter, listen," Neal says, grasping at Peter's sleeves. "I'm in love with your wife."
Peter looks uncertain. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say, almost definitely it was the wrong thing to say.
"And?" Peter says. He sounds puzzled.
"But I don't do that," Neal says, looking around wildly for Elizabeth. He turns to find her on the bed, watching them, all naked and stretched out and gorgeous. Peter's arm slides around his waist from behind.
"Gotcha," Peter says in his ear. Neal's heart nearly stops because for a second that means this is a trick, they were going to do this to him and then leave him hanging, laugh and tell him it was a joke, that they're married and he's just some guy Peter has to work with. Which would mean -- they have so much power, they could destroy him, and the last time anyone had that much pull on him she nearly did.
But then Peter bends his head into the crook of Neal's throat from behind and inhales, and bites him. Right where the wound on Peter's own throat is.
It is a con. He's been conned by a cop. While he wasn't looking, Peter and Elizabeth got under his skin and tricked him into falling in love and the best part of the con is that they only did it because they want him too. Trust Peter to con a con just to make him happy. That's all it means: Peter caught him. Again.
"Three and oh," Peter says, as if he can read his mind. Smug asshole.
He gives Neal a gentle shove that tumbles him onto the bed. Elizabeth kisses him, breasts swaying against his arm, and when she leans back Peter's there, one hand running appreciatively down Neal's chest, fingers exploring the ridges of muscle, the edge of his ribcage. Like it's the last thing Peter needs to learn before he knows everything.
It's probably just as well he's hammered. Otherwise he'd already have come just from the way Peter is looking at him. As it is, when Elizabeth tugs off his briefs, he arches and moans even though he's not quite hard yet. Peter's fingers, still exploratory, trace a line up his cock to the head, and Neal closes his eyes.
He's uncoordinated, and it's evident Peter is inexperienced, but Neal finds himself on the receiving end of the most fantastic inept blowjob ever, and Elizabeth's making it very easy to kiss her. He can't speak, can barely manage to remember to breathe, and then Peter slides up his body and pulls Elizabeth's hair back behind her ear, gently urging her aside with a kiss. She laughs.
"Greedy," she says, as Peter kisses Neal.
"You'll get yours," Peter replies, and Neal wonders how they can be so coherent about all this. He can feel someone grab his hand and lift it, guide it up between Elizabeth's thighs.
"Get with the program, blue-eyes," Peter says. Neal is willing to do his very best as long as Peter doesn't stop hitching their hips together, as long as Elizabeth keeps moaning every time his fingers brush her clit. Peter wraps an arm around her and cups her breast, proving that while he might not be familiar with threesomes he's an exceptional multi-tasker. Neal tips his head back and tries just to concentrate, but they're both so warm and everything's a little blurry.
Peter's body goes rigid against his, and Peter's low, desperate moan is almost too much -- and then Neal feels warm stickiness on his stomach. Peter came on him. Neal curls his fingers tightly, eliciting a high pleased noise from Elizabeth, and rolls his hips up against Peter's and shatters.
When he opens his eyes, Peter is collapsed on his chest, breathing hard. Elizabeth is running a hand through Neal's hair gently.
"Sweetie, scoot," she says, elbowing Peter in the ribs, and Peter groans and rolls away. The shock of cool air on his skin is welcome, as is the rub of something soft against his stomach, cleaning him up. Neal's skin is buzzing, limbs heavy, but he manages to turn towards Elizabeth, nuzzling in close.
"You conned me," he mumbles into her breasts. She laughs. He hears a matching rumble from Peter, and then a knee digs into his thigh and he gets an elbow against his shoulderblade before Peter settles behind him.
"Smarter than you," Peter sing-songs. He's going to be insufferable about this forever, Neal can tell.
A worrying thought occurs to Neal, attached to the concept of 'forever'. "Hey," he ventures, lifting his head a little. "This is pretty totally illegal, huh?"
"Yeah," Elizabeth says, stroking his forehead. "It's okay though, Peter has a plan."
"Oh, good," Neal agrees fuzzily. "We have a plan."
"It's a two part plan," Peter explains, sounding pleased with himself. "Part one is, don't tell anyone, and part two is, don't get caught."
It strikes Neal as hilarious, this plan, and he shakes with laughter until Peter wraps an arm around his shoulders and cups his hand over Neal's mouth.
"Don't mock the plan," Elizabeth says sternly. Peter's hand eases away, and Neal licks his thumb as it goes. "We thought you could probably improve it."
"Right now?" Neal asks, faintly alarmed. He's sleepy and warm and very happily laid, plans are for morning when there will be coffee and probably a striking hangover.
"Tomorrow," Peter assures him. "Now it's time to sleep."
"Oh, good." Neal is pretty happy about the plan to sleep. "If I freak out in the morning when I wake up naked in bed with you guys, it's only because I'm really -- "
"Shh," Elizabeth says.
Neal closes his mouth, because up to this point doing what Elizabeth says has gotten him pretty far. He's sure he's going to suffer in the morning, but also mostly sure this whole mess is going to lead to regular sex with people who love him, so that's probably okay.
"In love with my wife," Peter snorts, amused, as Neal drops off to sleep.