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Neal sat at the table, facing out toward the large city made to feel small by the boxing-in of skyscrapers. They rose up like Neptune from a roiling sea of asphalt. Their zeniths blocked out the sun. Neal tried to feel safe in this place. He drank from a large glass of Shiraz and shivered, a sense of danger tickling at the back of his neck. The danger imminent in having a choice.
He recalled Peter's somber tone in his office, his soft, determined gaze: "That's just the way it is."
The way it is. How we do it. Neal runs. Peter catches him. Neal stays. Peter catches him.
Neal swirled the scarlet wine in the glass, slowly drenching the sides and then watching the legs ease down the slope in vanishing rivulets, trapped.
"Remember how it felt when you saw that girl in her father's arms," he'd said. Peter was imploring Neal. Peter wanted Neal to make a good choice. And it had felt good to be a part of it, to give something back rather than take something away.
But then Peter's proud looks, his proprietary stance, had filled Neal up with a notion he didn't often come across in his line of work: a notion of loyalty. Of belonging to something. To someone. To Peter and whatever good cause he espoused. And Neal wanted that feeling like he'd always only wanted luxury, excitement, and freedom before.
Neal poured another glass of wine, hoping a pleasant buzz might take the edge off his nerves. Because of course there was Alex and her promise of the music box, which was the promise of Kate. Possibly.
Not for the first time since he'd searching for her, Neal wondered what was still in it for him. Was he still chasing Kate because he wanted her? Loved her? Was he chasing her because he needed to know she was safe? Or was he just chasing because…he could. It's what he did. Chase down those precious, one-of-a-kind artifacts that everybody wished they had but that only Neal Caffrey and a select other few could actually get their hands on.
And sometimes, late at night, lying in bed and listening to the sounds of the city, he thought of Peter curled up with Elizabeth, dog at the foot of a sleigh bed, coffee set to start brewing at 6:15, initialed mugs resting side-by-side in the dark cupboard, and Neal thought he might just be chasing Kate because he needed to know he had someone to chase. That she wouldn't, couldn't, leave him by himself. That he wasn't absolutely, undeniably alone.
But with every door that Peter opened for him, every sideways mischievous look he gave Neal, every moment of surprised gratitude, or even anger. With every whiff of Aqua Velva and every time Neal made Peter break down and smile, he felt Kate slip away. And it was starting not to hurt.
The knock at the door startled Neal out of his thoughts. He set the glass down and crossed the room, afraid who it might be. He seriously doubted he could handle playing sexually-interested conboy to Alex's anorexic femme fatale, at least not successfully. Not with the memory of Peter's finger stroking over the tender skin of his wrist still fresh.
"Who is it?"
"It's me," Peter said.
Neal breathed deeply. He'd been hoping for Moz. A game of chess was probably what he needed after all, and someone to help him get his head back in the game. Re-prioritize.
He opened the door. Peter looked tired and a little sad. Neal frowned and opened the door wider for him.
"You didn't have a fight with El, did you?" Neal asked, panicking, though he wasn't sure exactly why.
"No. Why would you say that?"
Peter came into the room, surveying it subconsciously, even checking his corners. Neal had no doubt he'd garnered all A's in the bureau academy.
"You just… Nevermind. Want a beer?" Neal asked, already moving toward the refrigerator. "I have some left from last time."
"From....? Oh, dog in the-"
"Motel, yeah," Neal finished, and they both smiled, though it was fleeting.
There was a moment of Peter scuffing his shoes, Neal wide-eyed with anticipation, on pause for Peter. "Yeah," Peter said, "That'd be good, Neal."
Neal's breath went shallow with the way Peter said his name. He fetched a cold beer, and they sat at the table together, Peter facing out toward the city now, eyes taking it all in, lost in the way the sunset reflected against the glass and steel. They drank together, silent for a moment, and then just as Neal opened his mouth to ask, Peter offered, "El thought I should, you know…come over."
Neal frowned, a nervous laugh escaping his tight throat. "Why?" He hadn't meant it to sound so inhospitable. The truth was he wasn't good at sharing his space – maybe that had more to do with his time in prison than his true nature – but he wanted to be good at it. Whether that was for a life with Kate or a sleepover with Peter… Neal preferred not to think about too much.
Peter looked uncomfortable. He shifted in the chair and took a drink. He shrugged. "She thought I should check on you." Then at Neal's affronted look, Peter went on, "Not your whereabouts. I can do that from my laptop." It took him a long time to say the last. "Just…you. Neal."
Neal thought that his name could have either been a new sentence aborted or… Maybe Peter liked saying it. Neal flushed and took a sip of wine, and Peter's strong gaze met him over the lip of the glass. He thought about telling Peter that he sure the hell didn't need a baby-sitter. But the truth was, he probably did. The other truth was, he was glad Peter was here, even though he still had no idea why.
"That Rice," Peter started now, shaking his head ruefully. Neal got ready for the shop-talk, some digs at the other agent, maybe a joke. But then Peter said, holding his beer bottle to his lips, lost again in the skyscrapers, "I sure didn't like her taking you." He took a long drink, but it was Neal's head that spun.
Then their eyes met again, and Neal saw pain there. "I don't want-" Peter started, but the words, the breath, ended there. Peter looked down.
Neal felt a searing desire to fold his hand, then. To come clean for Peter. Whatever it took. He never wanted to see that pain in those eyes again and know he'd put it there.
"I'm planning on using Alex to help steal the music box," he said in a rush.
Peter looked back up. "I know."
"But I don't want to run with it," Neal confessed.
"Don't *want* to. Goddamnit, Neal, you-"
Neal shook his head. "I don't, Peter."
"But you would," Peter said. "For Kate."
Neal swallowed hard. He'd finally reached that place of confrontation. But instead of it happening all inside his own head like he'd assumed, it was here, aloud, too real and too soon, with Peter. Holding him accountable. Making him choose.
And he found himself whispering the fateful word, "No."
Peter stared at him for a long time, looking through any façade, prying inside him. And then he stood. He ran a hand over his head, messing up his hair. He grabbed his beer bottle, took a swig, set it down hard, and then he started to pace.
"You want me to believe that you're just gonna hand over the box, kiss Kate good-bye, and show up to *work* at eight a.m. the next day with donuts for everybody?"
Peter was angry, but Neal couldn't help the small smirk, the light that shone in his eyes. "Donuts are really, really bad for you, Peter."
"Goddamnit, Neal, I mean it!" Peter thundered, suddenly in his face, taking Neal by the shoulders and wrenching him up out of the chair.
Neal gasped. At the small hurt, Peter's strong fingers biting into his flesh, and at the pleasure, being handled by Peter, held tight in hands that didn't want to let him go.
And it hit Neal suddenly, powerfully, that Peter was right. He could pine for the girl that got away, *was* getting away, that maybe *wanted* to get away, or he could make his life doing good…with Peter, who, far from running away from Neal, was here, now, gripping him, almost shaking him, to get him to stay.
"I have to make sure she's safe," Neal said, knowing that, at least, was true.
Peter's grip started to loosen. He sighed and began moving away. It was the opposite of what Neal wanted, and he wasn't sure he'd get the chance again, so he grabbed Peter, one hand on the back of his neck, and pulled him in hard. Neal pressed his lips to Peter's, brazenly opened them, sought Peter's tongue with his own.
He felt Peter let himself go for a moment, his own mouth working hard on Neal's and his hands tight on Neal's hips, yanking him in. Suddenly Neal was ravenous for it, straining hard; he wanted to climb Peter, rut against him, get the other man inside him. But then Peter pulled away, pushed at Neal.
"I can't," he panted.
But Neal took Peter's large hand and shoved it between his legs, made Peter feel his hard cock. Peter let out a sound like a strangled gasp, surprise and long-denied lust. Neal's breathing hitched at finally feeling what he'd fantasized too many times to count, and he ground his erection into Peter's warm palm.
"Feel what you do to me, Peter," Neal breathed. He knew he was desperate. It wasn't a good look on him. He hated Peter a little bit for taking him this far away from himself. "This is what you do to me."
Peter's hand tightened suddenly into a shaking fist around Neal's balls and the base of his, now dripping, cock. Peter's eyes were hard, his breath hot in Neal's face. "It doesn't mean you WON'T RUN."
And then Peter's mouth was harsh on his own again, his hands once again pulling in rather than pushing away. Neal moaned into Peter's mouth, feeling the answering erection in Peter's pants, thick and fully hard. Neal tilted his head, opened for Peter, and he started to wrap his arms around him. But once again Peter pulled back. He pulled completely away. It was over and Peter wasn't touching him at all now. Neal was left reeling.
"Not like this, Neal." Peter swallowed thickly. "Not until you have that music box in your hands, and then Kate, and you don't run."
Neal felt angry tears sting his eyes. "How can you not trust—?"
"I do trust you," Peter said, voice rough, and Neal pleaded with his eyes. Then why? "I trust you with the work. I trust you as my partner."
His partner. The word squeezed inside Neal's chest and throbbed there. But Peter went on, "I don't trust you with my heart."
Neal drew in a sharp breath. "This isn't about the music box," he wondered aloud. "It's about Kate."
Peter looked at him, a resigned longing in his eyes. "You steal the box, I'll catch you." Neal blinked, not doubting him. "You run away with Kate, I might as well not even try."
Neal scoffed, frustration mounting. "You're not leaving Elizabeth for me, Peter," he said sourly. "You're not choosing."
Peter sighed sadly. "El wants the best for me. She wants the best for *you*, Neal." His gaze pierced Neal across the cold space. "*I* want the best for you!" Then, "How about Kate?"
Neal flinched as though Peter had threatened to strike him.
"You've got a choice to make, Neal," Peter said, most of the rough, tear-strained edge to his voice gone now. Peter was back in control, at least on the outside. Neal stared at him, afraid. Truly afraid. "I…We just thought you should know what you were running away from," Peter finished.
And then he turned, beer and skyscrapers forgotten, unimportant, and he left Neal frozen in the middle of his luxury. The door, when it closed, sounded too much like iron bars slamming into place, their finality echoing through the silence, through Neal's body, his heart, left alone with his choice.