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Peter knocked on Neal's door and entered without waiting for an invitation. After interrogating Neal for half the night and then needling him all day and rescuing his severed tie from the trash, there was no guarantee Neal would willingly let him in, but June had said he was home alone, and Peter couldn't take anymore.
Neal was lying on the bed reading. He looked up, and when he realized it was Peter, sprang to his feet. His book fell to the floor with a thud.
Peter strode to the table and slapped down his badge. Immunity. He looked across the room at Neal. "I know you have the art. I know you're planning something."
Neal blinked rapidly and plastered on his patented innocent expression. "I don't—"
"Don't do it, Neal. We're not just talking stolen artworks. It's Nazi plunder. You can't keep it." Peter's throat was dry, his voice hoarse, but he had to finish. To tell Neal the whole reason he was here. "Stay."
Neal's air of innocence evaporated. He glanced at the badge on the table, then back to Peter's face, and his expression tightened, lips forming a straight line. His hands hung loose at his sides, but Peter thought if he'd been wearing pants with pockets, he'd have hidden them.
"Give me a reason to stay." The tilt of his chin was a challenge.
Peter stepped toward him. "There are a hundred reasons. I told you before, you have a life here." He gestured at the room, the city, then dropped his hand and met Neal's gaze. It wasn't about Kate and the music box this time. Neal wasn't running to a new beginning, he was running away—away from them—and Peter would tell the truth, if that's what it took to stop him. "But I never told you this: working with you, getting to work with you every day, I am the luckiest guy in the world."
"And then every night, you go home to Elizabeth," said Neal, flatly. He leaned on the back of the armchair, putting it between them, and let his head drop. The curve of his shoulders was eloquent and resigned. "Look, it's best for everyone if I just—"
"No." Peter reached him in three steps, grabbed him by the arm. Neal's biceps flexed in his grip, and Peter's heart raced in response. He wanted to shout, but he kept his voice low. "Don't go."
Neal pulled himself free and walked over to the bookcase. Peter watched, holding his breath, waiting for a verdict, but when Neal turned, there was no change in his expression, no sign of hope. "I've stolen a lot of things, Peter, but I'm not stealing you from your wife. Get out of here before we do something we'll both regret."
"You'll ruin me," said Peter. It was emotional manipulation and it probably wouldn't work, but it was another piece of the truth. "If you leave—"
"You'll be all right." There was a faint note of doubt in Neal's voice, as if he were trying to convince himself as well as Peter. "You've come back from worse."
Peter shook his head. "I need you here."
He said it as plainly and as powerfully as he felt it, and Neal responded—plainly and powerfully, his temper snapping taut like a fencing blade. "And I need you," he said harshly. "Looks like everyone's going home empty-handed, but that's life in the big city." He went to the table and scooped up Peter's badge, and thrust it into his hands. "Go. Go home."
He shoved Peter out of the door and shut it behind him.
Peter stood there, as shaken as if they'd been physically fighting. He ached. He couldn't leave it like this, not again. He stuck his badge into his pocket, turned on his heel and barged back inside. Neal was standing by the table, and Peter grabbed him by both arms and kissed him. It was rough and clumsy, a clash of styles and cultures, a desperate attempt to bridge the divide between them. It wasn't working. Until Neal kissed him back, and Christ, then it was everything—all that Peter had been wanting and denying, as long as he could remember. Neal's mouth was hot, defiant and sexual, and Peter pulled him close, their bodies colliding like speeding vehicles, molding together, leaving him winded. He dragged his hand down Neal's back to his waist, relishing his lean strength. Neal was touching his neck, thumbs stroking along his jaw line, and Peter could feel his erection hardening between them and his own response. He tore his mouth away, gasping. "Come home with me."
"Peter, I can't," said Neal. He sounded like the words were being dragged from him. "I can't."
"We'll work it out with Elizabeth," said Peter. She wouldn't be surprised. Disapproving, perhaps, because of their current legal situation, Peter's responsibility to Neal and to the Bureau, but she'd already accepted the possibility of this one day. She'd welcomed it. Peter clasped Neal's shoulder through his shirt. "We can do this."
Neal shook his head and broke free. His eyes were hard and bright. "And I thought I was supposed to be the pie-in-the-sky one."
He was gathering himself back together, his defenses already up, and Peter didn't know how to reach him. "Neal."
"I love you, Peter." The declaration was fueled with anger, and it felt like a physical blow. "Is that what you want to hear? I love you, and I hate you, and I—" He dug his fingers into his hair and put more space between them, moving toward the French doors. "I can't do this anymore."
"Neal, please." Peter would beg if he had to.
"No." Neal dropped his hands, his face pale against the dark cityscape. "No. You touch me again, I'll report it. I don't think that would go over too well with Hughes or the brass."
Peter flinched. He deserved that—or, at least, had left himself open to it—but he hadn't expected Neal to resort to threats. He should have remembered Neal had as little time for corrupt cops as anyone else, and Peter had surely crossed a line.
"I'm sorry," he said, roughly, not yet meaning it, though embarrassment was on him and shame close behind, hovering like a vast translucent wave about to crash. Sincerity would follow soon after. In the meantime, he headed for the door, chastened and helpless. He paused on the threshold and, without looking back, played his last card. "I love you too."
He waited, but Neal didn't reply, and there was nothing to do but to leave.
*
Peter woke in the dead of night to a scraping sound, followed by a thud and a cool breeze across his face. El rolled over and squinted into the dark. "Who's there?" She sat up. "Neal? Is that you?"
Peter switched on the bedside lamp and rubbed his eyes. Neal was standing next to the dresser, clothed head to toe in black including a black knit hat. His cat burglar outfit.
"Did you come in the window?" said Peter, confused and still half-asleep. "What?"
Neal sat on the edge of the bed, by Peter's ankle. He sent El a strained smile. "Sorry I woke you."
"It's okay," she said, sitting up. "Though you know, you could have used the door."
Neal blinked, like he hadn't considered that option, and Peter's heart skipped a beat. After this afternoon, after the kiss, the fight, after throwing him out—Neal was here. Maybe he wasn't heading for parts unknown. Maybe there was still a chance.
"Hey," said Peter, carefully neutral. "What's going on?"
Neal bit his lip. He looked nervous and fragile, and Peter wanted to hold him. Just to hold him. To fix the mess he'd made.
Neal glanced up and met his gaze. He swallowed. "You said—you said we could work something out."
Peter looked to El, and she nodded, gave him a small encouraging smile. They'd talked that evening and he could see she was still onboard, now Peter's hopeless hypotheticals didn't seem so out of reach, still warm with love for both of them.
Peter turned back to Neal, and he knew his heart was on his sleeve, on his face, wherever. It was right out there, and that was terrifying, but Peter was pretty much awake now, and he could see that Neal was scared too. Scared, but willing to talk.
There was nothing left between them but truth. "I did say that."
Neal moved up the bed so he was sitting right next to Peter, well within reach. He smiled, soft and miraculous and real. "Prove it."
END