![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Fic: Fall Into Your Sunlight
Title: Fall Into Your Sunlight
Characters (Pairings): Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, OMC (Neal/Peter, Neal/OMC)
Rating: R (profanity, a little sex)
Word Count: 1475
Disclaimer: White Collar is Jeff Eastin's brainchild. Not mine.
Summary: Pretending can't take away Neal's loneliness. But Peter can.
Author's Note: Title from Shattered by Trading Yesterday. This fic is not as morbid as that song makes it sound.
Set in a no-S6 AU, post-anklet.
This was originally for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
comment_fic prompt here (original fill can also be found here). It has since been edited a little.
Vodka is not his drink. Not usually. He much prefers wine. Wine is a gentle mistress, she teases his palate and makes his chest warm for just a brief moment. Vodka is a brutal, cold bastard, he's left just the slightest burn in his throat, and tonight, that's exactly what Neal needs. What he wants.
He turns to the guy he's been chatting up for the past hour or so with a look in his eyes that screams sex. It's ridiculously easy to get him to follow.
His legs are shaking just a little. He almost leads them to the exit, but at the last second, he turns for the bathrooms. It's cheap. Even guys like to be romanced, and a shining lavatory at some swanky club is better than most, but not as good as a hotel room with a bed, not as good as an apartment with a bed. But Neal really doesn't have the stomach for romance right now. He burned through his entire tolerance seducing the guy.
Which isn't a good thing, because they end up fucking. As opposed to having sex. He's gentle when he has to be, but for the most part, it's animalistic rutting, it's scratching an itch and not much more, they don't even look at each other once they're done.
He waits for the guy to leave, then throws up into the pot. It's mostly vodka, which he supposes is good, he'll be a little less drunk by the end of the night, a little less hungover in the morning. He lets his shaky legs carry him out of the club and into the back of a cab and tries his hardest to pretend, at least to himself, that he didn't pick a guy with brown hair and brown eyes so he'd remind him of Peter.
But he did, and he can't lie to himself, and he tells the cabbie to take him to DeKalb Avenue in Brooklyn instead of to his studio on Riverside Drive, looking for more truth, more alcohol, more something.
Peter hears a soft thump against the front door. It can't be Satchmo - the old yellow lab's at his feet, probably asleep. He heads to the door and opens it and finds Neal, dressed mostly in black, his overcoat half-unbuttoned, arcing around his chest like it's made of plastic and frozen. Neal's frozen - it's cold outside - and his fedora is askew. His fedora is never askew.
Neal looks up at him, blue eyes huge and mournful. "I was going to ring the doorbell, but now I think I'm just going to sleep here, if you don't mind." His words slur together just a little around the edges. Peter wonders if he’s drunk.
"Don't be ridiculous," he says gruffly. "I have a guest room."
He holds out a hand, pulls Neal to his feet. Neal walks unsteadily into the house, looks at the stairs once, and promptly flops onto the couch.
Yep, definitely drunk.
"Great," Peter says.
"You have too many stairs."
"My stairs are fine. Get off my couch."
"It's comfortable."
"The armchair's just as comfortable. And I'm watching the game."
Neal scoots to the right.
"Not what I meant."
Neal blinks at him sleepily.
"Fine."
Peter sits down on the half of the sofa Neal so graciously left him, and proceeds to do a terrible job of pretending that the game is actually more engaging than a drunk Neal Caffrey.
"What?" Neal eventually mumbles.
"You don’t usually drink this much. What happened tonight?" Great, he thinks. Just great. Really subtle.
Neal straightens up a little, reluctantly. "You really want to know?"
"That bad?"
"No, just. I don't want to tell you if you're asking just for the heck of it."
"I'm not asking 'for the heck of it', Neal."
"Okay then. I'm lonely. I went to a club. There was alcohol. I got drunk." And fucked someone who looks like you.
Peter frowns. The last time he'd heard of him, Neal was looking for a job. If he'd found one, he also had more than enough people to bounce off. "You haven't found a job yet."
Neal shrugs, winces a little. "Turns out, not everyone's exactly eager to hire an ex-felon, no matter how charming he is."
"You're being honest about your past?"
"Yeah."
Peter smiles a little. Neal really has changed.
"You know," Peter says, "I could get you your old desk back. In White Collar."
"No thanks. Being forced Fed once was enough. If I’m going down that road again, it’ll have to be the absolute last resort."
"Which is?"
"I'm so bored that I want to rob a museum."
"Museum? Specifically?"
Neal nods earnestly, eyes wide. "Not what you’d expect - no, actually, you’d probably expect it - but museum security is usually quite shoddy. A residential robbery is much more difficult. People who have art like to keep it safe."
Peter smiles again. He’s missed this. The gentle camaraderie, the quick, unexpected rejoinders. It’s only been three months since Neal left, but he was used to every day being like this. A few evenings here and there aren’t the same.
He takes another gulp of his beer, and finds only dregs. "I'm going to get myself another. I'd offer you one, but I think you're good."
Neal laughs bitterly. A little too bitterly, maybe? Peter brushes the thought aside, rests a hand on Neal's shoulder to lever himself up, leans towards Neal in the process -
and then his entire world is soft lips on his and a hand tangled in his hair and the musky scent of Neal that he's only smelled from a distance before, and this is everything he has ever wanted, he tilts his head back and opens his mouth to deepen the kiss, and -
tastes vodka. Neal usually drinks wine. And that distracts him enough to remember, Neal's drunk.
They can't do this.
He pushes Neal away from himself by his shoulders, gently though, as gently as he can, holds his hands in front of him as he tries to catch his breath, he wants this, wants it so much, but not now, not like this.
Neal looks shocked. He touches the tips of his fingers to his (slightly parted) lips and he seems so devastated and Peter's distracted enough by him that Neal's next few words don't even register. He only snaps back into reality when Neal pulls his overcoat around him and makes for the door, "...I didn't mean to, I swear, but that's okay, I'm leaving right now, I-"
"Neal-"
"No, you don't have to say anything. I am so. Sorry. I'll go and I won't come back and you never have to see me again-"
"Neal." Peter grasps his arm and pulls him back. "I want this."
Neal’s face settles into confusion. "But-"
"You're drunk. You're drunk and - and I don't ever want to wonder if you wanted this or if you just went along with it, because I want this. For real."
"Oh.” Neal tilts his head a little, an impossibly soft expression on his face. “That's... sweet."
Peter would give anything for Neal to not look so awed.
"Come on,” he says, to distract them both. “Guest room. For real, this time."
"Okay."
Neal throws an arm around his neck and leans on him as he walks them both up the stairs and deposits Neal onto the bed in the guest room.
Neal lifts his head so he can see Peter, blinks curiously. “Where are you going?” he asks.
Peter gestures vaguely towards the ground floor.
“Hmmm.” Neal's eyes begin to drift shut, then snap open. "Elizabeth. Oh god, Eliza-"
"She knows. That I like you, that I want you."
"She's okay with it?"
"Mostly, yes. We’ll still need to talk this out, though.”
If anything, Neal grows even more worried. “Is she leaving you?”
Peter lets out a little laugh. “No. We're poly," he explains.
"Oh." Neal sighs and settles back into the bed, exhausted. "What does that mean?" he asks, and immediately begins to drift off to sleep.
Peter sits on the edge of the bed, explains anyway. “It means that she wants some things that I can’t give her, and I want some things that she can’t give me, and we’ve found a way to make it work for both of us.”
“Mmmh,” Neal murmurs sleepily as he flips onto his stomach. Eventually, he says into the pillow, "I thought I was the only one."
Peter knows exactly what he's talking about. "Me too.”
He sits there, on the edge of the bed, as if he’s standing guard over Neal. Maybe, if he doesn’t move and doesn’t make a sound, this dream that has somehow found its way into the waking world will stay real.
A few minutes later, it's still real, and he's still awed.
Characters (Pairings): Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, OMC (Neal/Peter, Neal/OMC)
Rating: R (profanity, a little sex)
Word Count: 1475
Disclaimer: White Collar is Jeff Eastin's brainchild. Not mine.
Summary: Pretending can't take away Neal's loneliness. But Peter can.
Author's Note: Title from Shattered by Trading Yesterday. This fic is not as morbid as that song makes it sound.
Set in a no-S6 AU, post-anklet.
This was originally for the
comment_fic prompt here (original fill can also be found here). It has since been edited a little.Vodka is not his drink. Not usually. He much prefers wine. Wine is a gentle mistress, she teases his palate and makes his chest warm for just a brief moment. Vodka is a brutal, cold bastard, he's left just the slightest burn in his throat, and tonight, that's exactly what Neal needs. What he wants.
He turns to the guy he's been chatting up for the past hour or so with a look in his eyes that screams sex. It's ridiculously easy to get him to follow.
His legs are shaking just a little. He almost leads them to the exit, but at the last second, he turns for the bathrooms. It's cheap. Even guys like to be romanced, and a shining lavatory at some swanky club is better than most, but not as good as a hotel room with a bed, not as good as an apartment with a bed. But Neal really doesn't have the stomach for romance right now. He burned through his entire tolerance seducing the guy.
Which isn't a good thing, because they end up fucking. As opposed to having sex. He's gentle when he has to be, but for the most part, it's animalistic rutting, it's scratching an itch and not much more, they don't even look at each other once they're done.
He waits for the guy to leave, then throws up into the pot. It's mostly vodka, which he supposes is good, he'll be a little less drunk by the end of the night, a little less hungover in the morning. He lets his shaky legs carry him out of the club and into the back of a cab and tries his hardest to pretend, at least to himself, that he didn't pick a guy with brown hair and brown eyes so he'd remind him of Peter.
But he did, and he can't lie to himself, and he tells the cabbie to take him to DeKalb Avenue in Brooklyn instead of to his studio on Riverside Drive, looking for more truth, more alcohol, more something.
-:-
Peter hears a soft thump against the front door. It can't be Satchmo - the old yellow lab's at his feet, probably asleep. He heads to the door and opens it and finds Neal, dressed mostly in black, his overcoat half-unbuttoned, arcing around his chest like it's made of plastic and frozen. Neal's frozen - it's cold outside - and his fedora is askew. His fedora is never askew.
Neal looks up at him, blue eyes huge and mournful. "I was going to ring the doorbell, but now I think I'm just going to sleep here, if you don't mind." His words slur together just a little around the edges. Peter wonders if he’s drunk.
"Don't be ridiculous," he says gruffly. "I have a guest room."
He holds out a hand, pulls Neal to his feet. Neal walks unsteadily into the house, looks at the stairs once, and promptly flops onto the couch.
Yep, definitely drunk.
"Great," Peter says.
"You have too many stairs."
"My stairs are fine. Get off my couch."
"It's comfortable."
"The armchair's just as comfortable. And I'm watching the game."
Neal scoots to the right.
"Not what I meant."
Neal blinks at him sleepily.
"Fine."
Peter sits down on the half of the sofa Neal so graciously left him, and proceeds to do a terrible job of pretending that the game is actually more engaging than a drunk Neal Caffrey.
"What?" Neal eventually mumbles.
"You don’t usually drink this much. What happened tonight?" Great, he thinks. Just great. Really subtle.
Neal straightens up a little, reluctantly. "You really want to know?"
"That bad?"
"No, just. I don't want to tell you if you're asking just for the heck of it."
"I'm not asking 'for the heck of it', Neal."
"Okay then. I'm lonely. I went to a club. There was alcohol. I got drunk." And fucked someone who looks like you.
Peter frowns. The last time he'd heard of him, Neal was looking for a job. If he'd found one, he also had more than enough people to bounce off. "You haven't found a job yet."
Neal shrugs, winces a little. "Turns out, not everyone's exactly eager to hire an ex-felon, no matter how charming he is."
"You're being honest about your past?"
"Yeah."
Peter smiles a little. Neal really has changed.
"You know," Peter says, "I could get you your old desk back. In White Collar."
"No thanks. Being forced Fed once was enough. If I’m going down that road again, it’ll have to be the absolute last resort."
"Which is?"
"I'm so bored that I want to rob a museum."
"Museum? Specifically?"
Neal nods earnestly, eyes wide. "Not what you’d expect - no, actually, you’d probably expect it - but museum security is usually quite shoddy. A residential robbery is much more difficult. People who have art like to keep it safe."
Peter smiles again. He’s missed this. The gentle camaraderie, the quick, unexpected rejoinders. It’s only been three months since Neal left, but he was used to every day being like this. A few evenings here and there aren’t the same.
He takes another gulp of his beer, and finds only dregs. "I'm going to get myself another. I'd offer you one, but I think you're good."
Neal laughs bitterly. A little too bitterly, maybe? Peter brushes the thought aside, rests a hand on Neal's shoulder to lever himself up, leans towards Neal in the process -
and then his entire world is soft lips on his and a hand tangled in his hair and the musky scent of Neal that he's only smelled from a distance before, and this is everything he has ever wanted, he tilts his head back and opens his mouth to deepen the kiss, and -
tastes vodka. Neal usually drinks wine. And that distracts him enough to remember, Neal's drunk.
They can't do this.
He pushes Neal away from himself by his shoulders, gently though, as gently as he can, holds his hands in front of him as he tries to catch his breath, he wants this, wants it so much, but not now, not like this.
Neal looks shocked. He touches the tips of his fingers to his (slightly parted) lips and he seems so devastated and Peter's distracted enough by him that Neal's next few words don't even register. He only snaps back into reality when Neal pulls his overcoat around him and makes for the door, "...I didn't mean to, I swear, but that's okay, I'm leaving right now, I-"
"Neal-"
"No, you don't have to say anything. I am so. Sorry. I'll go and I won't come back and you never have to see me again-"
"Neal." Peter grasps his arm and pulls him back. "I want this."
Neal’s face settles into confusion. "But-"
"You're drunk. You're drunk and - and I don't ever want to wonder if you wanted this or if you just went along with it, because I want this. For real."
"Oh.” Neal tilts his head a little, an impossibly soft expression on his face. “That's... sweet."
Peter would give anything for Neal to not look so awed.
"Come on,” he says, to distract them both. “Guest room. For real, this time."
"Okay."
Neal throws an arm around his neck and leans on him as he walks them both up the stairs and deposits Neal onto the bed in the guest room.
Neal lifts his head so he can see Peter, blinks curiously. “Where are you going?” he asks.
Peter gestures vaguely towards the ground floor.
“Hmmm.” Neal's eyes begin to drift shut, then snap open. "Elizabeth. Oh god, Eliza-"
"She knows. That I like you, that I want you."
"She's okay with it?"
"Mostly, yes. We’ll still need to talk this out, though.”
If anything, Neal grows even more worried. “Is she leaving you?”
Peter lets out a little laugh. “No. We're poly," he explains.
"Oh." Neal sighs and settles back into the bed, exhausted. "What does that mean?" he asks, and immediately begins to drift off to sleep.
Peter sits on the edge of the bed, explains anyway. “It means that she wants some things that I can’t give her, and I want some things that she can’t give me, and we’ve found a way to make it work for both of us.”
“Mmmh,” Neal murmurs sleepily as he flips onto his stomach. Eventually, he says into the pillow, "I thought I was the only one."
Peter knows exactly what he's talking about. "Me too.”
He sits there, on the edge of the bed, as if he’s standing guard over Neal. Maybe, if he doesn’t move and doesn’t make a sound, this dream that has somehow found its way into the waking world will stay real.
A few minutes later, it's still real, and he's still awed.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Glad that was believable :D
Thank you so much!
no subject
no subject
Thank you so much! :D
(btw - I love the crop on your icon!)
no subject
no subject
no subject
That part wrenched my heart out, honestly. Neal keeps trying to leave. Idiot.
They can! :D
no subject
no subject