Archive of Our Own

1.

On the evening of Peter's forty-fifth birthday, he and El had dinner at home. "So, did you manage to avoid being the center of attention at work today?" asked El, twisting her fork in her plate of spaghetti.

Peter nodded. He didn't like birthday fuss, and the thought of Neal teasing him about his age was enough to turn him gray, so he'd kept a low profile and hoped no one would remember. "Apart from the anonymous chocolate cupcake on my desk, it was just another day at the office."

"Just how you like it," said El with a grin. "You've got them well-trained. Well, most of them."

"I'm pretty sure Neal is untrainable," said Peter. "I should be grateful he limited himself to a cake."

El took a sip of wine and considered him thoughtfully. "I thought you said it was anonymous."

Peter smiled and didn't dignify that with a reply. Neal might have radiated innocence at the afternoon meeting, but that was only further—unnecessary—proof. No one else would have left him a birthday cake; El knew that as well as Peter did.

After dinner, they settled in to snuggle on the couch and watch Batman Returns on TV. It was the perfect evening. At least, until El turned to him during a commercial break and said, "So here's the deal: you're in love with Neal and he's in love with you. No, don't argue. I'm right about this. And you're in love with me, and I'm in love with you." She patted his knee. "What's missing from this picture?"

"Your sanity?" said Peter, pulling away to look at her. She was wearing her know-it-all, waiting-for-him-to-catch-up expression. "What on earth makes you think I'm in love—in love?—with Neal, of all people? And the idea that he loves me is—That's just unbelievable. It was only a cupcake, El. Did you get a head injury at work today?"

She laughed. "Calm down, okay? If you're going to have a mid-life crisis, you could do a lot worse than Neal."

"I don't know, I think maybe when my wife accuses me of being in love with a con artist, that calls for an overreaction." Peter froze. "Is this because I stayed at his place while you were away? Because I told you, that was only because the dog at the motel stole my bed."

"No," said El, "and it isn't an accusation. It's an observation. You think about him all the time, you're miserable when you fight, you'd do anything for him."

Peter tried to interrupt her. "That's not—"

"And you're attracted to him," said El, steamrollering him.

"I am not!" said Peter, appalled. "Just because he's—" He waved his hand. "Doesn't mean I'm—I'm not gay!"

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh honey, you are a little bit gay. Just a little bit."

His stomach lurched like someone had discharged a gun in his ear, but he let that pass for now, looked her in the eye and said very seriously, "Honey, you're wrong about me and Neal. Trust me."

El smiled gently. "You adore him."

"No," said Peter, his patience stretching thin. "Unlike the rest of the city, I happen to be immune to his charm."

"Hmm," said El. "Maybe. But that doesn't matter. It's not his charm you adore, it's the Neal underneath."

"There is no Neal underneath. It's superficial charm all the way through," Peter told her. He was losing the argument but he wasn't sure how or why.

El looked reproachful. "Now, you know that's not true. And he's smart. You fell in love with me when I beat you at that Mensa test."

"That was—" different. Peter shook his head and narrowed his eyes at her, deciding to go on the offensive. "I think you're projecting. You're going to leave me for Neal, and you're salving your conscience by trying to implicate me in the affair."

That was almost as ridiculous, but she just grinned. "Maybe. What are you going to do about it?"

Peter blinked. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"I want you to agree that Neal and I should go on a date." She sat back and gave him a pleased look.

Peter laughed, relieved. This had to be a joke. Then he caught her expression. "Wait, you're serious? For my birthday? For my birthday, my wife wants to go on a date with a convicted felon. Without me." He eyed her. "You did mean—?"

She nodded.

Peter blew out a sigh. This was completely out of control, but he didn't know how to talk El out of it. Though—maybe he knew someone else who could. "I don't suppose Neal has any say in this either."

"Of course he does." El's eyes gleamed. "He can pick the restaurant."

2.

The next day, after lunch, Neal came into Peter's office and closed the door after him. He seemed pensive. "Um, Peter?"

"What?" Peter looked up, caught himself blushing, and looked back down at his paperwork. "What is it?"

"Your wife just asked me out on a date," said Neal.

Peter froze. She'd actually done it. He took a deep breath and looked up again. "Yeah, you know, she's got some bee in her bonnet about me and you, she actually thinks we're in love or something crazy like that, maybe you can talk her out of it because I didn't have any—"

"Oh, she's right about that." Neal dropped into the visitor's chair and started fiddling with Peter's stapler. "I just figured, you being married and all—"

"Strangely enough, El doesn't seem to think that's a prob—Wait, what?" Peter's heart skipped a beat. "You—?"

Neal shrugged, but his gaze was steady. "I thought you knew. I mean, it's not like I've been particularly subtle about it—the whole 'you're the only one' thing, for starters, and you—"

"I—" Peter felt dizzy. "I didn't know."

"Oh. Well." Neal put down the stapler and his face went smooth and polite. "So I should tell Elizabeth no. Okay, I just wanted to check." He stood up in a single graceful motion and walked to the door, and Peter watched him leave, unable to think or move, knowing that once Neal walked out the conversation might as well have never happened. Neal would never mention it again, and Peter couldn't bring it up himself, not given his position.

His throat was dry, but he managed to croak, "Wait."

Neal paused with his hand on the doorknob and looked back, and Peter asked himself sincerely, no bullshit, how he really felt about the guy. Any fool could see he was gorgeous, and he was smart too—really very smart. Possibly the smartest guy Peter had ever met. And yes, okay, maybe sometimes Peter found it annoying when Neal flirted with other people, even for work reasons, even if Peter knew he didn't mean it. And sure, Peter liked being around him, enjoyed his company and got a huge kick out of those rare moments when Neal let his admiration for Peter show. And okay, if Peter thought about kissing the guy—

His skin started buzzing like he was getting a low-grade electric shock. He shivered. "How did I not know that?" he said aloud.

Neal's shoulders twitched. "I don't know, Peter. Willful blindness?" He turned from the door so he was side-on to Peter. "I thought you were a pretty good detective, and you know everything else about me."

"It never crossed my mind," said Peter honestly. "But that's not what I meant. I meant, how did I not know that I—that I want—" He licked his lips. "How did El know before I did? That's not fair."

Neal turned to face him straight on, his gaze serious and hopeful, hands hanging loosely at his sides. "What are you saying?"

Peter looked past him, through the glass wall to the rest of the unit going about their ordinary, unremarkable day. "Do we have to talk about this here?"

"We don't have to talk at all," said Neal. "You're the boss, Peter."

This was crazy: being attracted to Neal and liking him weren't reason enough for Peter to upend his and El's whole life, to embark on a course that would require lies and deceit. El might pretend that dating Neal would be a simple matter but Peter knew better, and the only prudent thing to do was to agree that this conversation had never happened and for them all to go back to being oblivious as best they could.

Except—this was more than attraction, more than liking or admiring Neal's intellect. The buzz across Peter's skin was only one dimension of it, the warm affection and respect another. Now he was paying attention, he found that underlying both was an insistent sense of rightness, of fitting together, of belonging. Peter had met thousands of people in his life, and he'd only ever felt that connection once before, with El. He didn't just want Neal—he loved him. Needed him.

He took a deep unsteady breath and for the first time in over a decade, threw caution to the wind. He got up and circled his desk, pen still in hand. Neal had declared him the boss, the decision maker in this matter, and that didn't sit right. "Not when it comes to this. If we do this—what El's suggesting—then we do it as equal partners. All three of us. Promise me."

Neal looked uncomfortable. "Um, Peter? Much as I appreciate the sentiment, I really don't know Elizabeth well enough to make that promise yet. I mean, I like her a lot, but I don't—" He tilted his head. "Which I think is, you know, kind of the point of the date."

"Right," said Peter. He swallowed and took a moment to get his bearings. "Right. Okay, well—" He sat on the edge of his desk.

"So you are okay with it?" asked Neal. "I can tell Elizabeth yes?"

Peter met his gaze, and oh God, there was that electric shock feeling again. Maybe he'd been spending too much time with Neal and his penchant for instant gratification, because in the grip of that desire, nothing else seemed very important. "Yes, Neal. I can't believe I'm saying this—especially in the FBI office, surrounded by my colleagues and my boss—but yes, I want you to date my wife. Take her out, show her a good time, get to know each other."

Neal relaxed into a pleased grin. "I think I can do that."

"Good," said Peter. "Because if you two have made me aware of my feelings only for me to find out that I can't do anything about them, that's really going to suck."

Neal laughed. "Frustrating, right? Welcome to my world."

"Thank you," said Peter, deliberately misinterpreting him. "I hope to enjoy my stay."

3.

Because El was organizing the date, it happened with dizzying speed. One day Peter was giving his approval, and two days later, El was picking out earrings and getting him to zip up her slinky olive-colored dress.

"You look beautiful," said Peter, standing behind her as she checked herself in the mirror. He ran his hands over her bare shoulders. "Remind me again why Neal gets you all to himself this evening?"

She turned in his arms. "He and I are playing catch-up," she said. "Don't worry, if everything goes according to plan, I don't think we're going to keep you waiting long."

Peter shook his head. "You and your plans."

She winked at him and went to tuck her lipstick into her purse.

4.

After El left, Peter tried to read some case files, but it was too distracting, thinking of her and Neal having their intimate dinner for two, talking about whatever it was people talked about on first dates. He wondered if Neal had confessed to any crimes yet, decided it was better not to know, and went upstairs to change into sweats. He needed to get out of the house.

He ran all the way to Prospect Park, pushing himself and Satchmo further than usual, and then home again, through the quiet evening streets, curtains drawn in the windows, TVs flickering behind them. There was enough of a chill in the air that patrons of the neighborhood bars were mostly staying inside, and Peter's footsteps slapped on the pavement in a steady rhythm.

The phone rang while he was in the shower, and he hurried to answer. "This is Burke."

"Hi, honey. How's it going?"

"El? Is everything okay?" It was only nine-thirty. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said, as if she were trying not to laugh. "Nothing's wrong. Everything's lovely! Neal's a sweetie, isn't he?"

"He's adorable," said Peter. "So why are you talking to me? El, are you drunk?"

"You got me." She sighed long-sufferingly. "I can't hide anything from you, can I? Yeah, I don't think I should drive myself home. I didn't mean to have more than a couple of glasses, but the sauvignon blanc was really good, so we got a second bottle."

Peter shook his head, accidentally spraying droplets on the bed. He stepped back toward the door, away from the soft furnishings. "You want me to come get you?"

"Would you?" El sounded relieved. "Thanks, honey."

In the background, Neal said, "Tell him to wear something nice."

Peter smiled despite himself. "I'll be there within the hour. Are you having a good time?"

"I'm having the best time," said El, with alcoholic emphasis. "And you can wear whatever you like, honey. Come as you are."

"I just got out of the shower," Peter told her.

El laughed. "Perfect!"

5.

El called again when he was waiting on the subway platform. She sounded less tipsy—either they'd switched to coffee or she was really plastered. "Honey, we're just across the road from the Hudson Hotel and, well, we were talking about seeing if we could get a room. What do you think?"

Peter's stomach dropped. He glanced around; there were only a few other people on the platform—one wearing headphones, and a couple deep in conversation in Spanish. He lowered his voice anyway. "Would this be a private party? Should I turn around?"

"For the three of us," said El. "Honestly, Peter, you can't think we'd do this without you?"

"After the last week, I wouldn't dare try to predict anything where you and Neal are concerned," said Peter, but he knew they wouldn't go on without him—or at least, without his consent. And he trusted her judgment.

"Well, we wouldn't," said El. "So, shall we get a room? No pressure—if you don't want to, or you don't want to yet—" She trailed off and waited, and Peter smiled to himself, recognizing her strategy: when she gave him time to think, nine times out of ten, he talked himself into agreeing with her.

This was one of those times. "Does Neal?" he asked cautiously.

"We're both ready to take the next step if you are," said El.

It was strange hearing El talk about a "we" that didn't include him. Peter wished he were there already, that he could see their faces. "Okay," he said. "Yes. Do it. Put it on our credit card. But don't start anything till I get there."

"I love you." He could almost hear El's smile. "You're sure about this?"

"You say that like I have a choice in the matter," said Peter. "I know what your plans are like."

"Peter—"

"I'm sure," Peter told her. "Tell Neal I'm sure."

"Tell me yourself," said Neal, his voice clear and warm in Peter's ear, taking him by surprise.

"I'm on speakerphone, aren't I?" Peter shook his head. They were both incorrigible, and his life was about to get unbelievably complicated. The prospect was surprisingly exhilarating. "Neal, you've gone from 'don't know her well enough' to being sure in one evening?"

"Yes," said Neal without hesitation, and Peter believed him.

"Okay." Peter gripped the phone tighter. "I'll see you soon. About half an hour. Don't start without me."

"You said that already," said Neal, teasing.

"We won't," said El. "We'll wait for you. I'll text you when we know the room number."

6.

The Hudson was fancy, and Peter felt self-conscious walking through the foyer in jeans and a sweater. If he were undercover, he wouldn't think twice about it, but he wasn't undercover—he was here for a secret assignation with his wife and his—Neal. His boyfriend to be. The man he loved.

However practiced Neal was at putting people at ease, there was no way this wasn't going to be awkward.

As promised, El had texted Peter the room number, and he took the elevator to the eighth floor, walked down the thickly carpeted hallway and knocked.

He heard voices inside, and then Neal answered the door, his dark blue shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled up. He was barefoot, which made the bulge of his tracker under his pants leg more pronounced than usual. His mouth was soft, not quite smiling. "Hi."

Peter got that prickly electric feeling again and the air seemed to thicken. He licked his lips. "Hi."

Then Neal smiled, the corner of his mouth curving in acknowledgement of the heat between them. He opened the door further and invited Peter inside with an eloquent tilt of his body.

The bed was huge. El was curled up on the spotless white bedspread, leaning back against crisp pillows and nursing a glass of white wine. Her olive shoes lay scattered on the floor as if she'd kicked them off carelessly, but her lipstick was intact. They'd waited just like he'd asked.

"What have you been up to?" asked Peter, toeing off his own shoes and pushing up his sleeves. There was one armchair in the room, but it was too far away and sterile, so he sat on the edge of the bed beside El and rested his hand on her thigh.

Neal reached past him for his glass. "Swapping secrets."

He was close enough that Peter could feel the heat of his body.

"We saved you some wine," said El, pointing to the bottle on the nightstand.

Peter picked it up and poured the last couple of inches into a waiting glass. It was crisp and dry, and probably ridiculously expensive, and this was their second bottle. "Are you sure you're both in a fit state to be making this decision? If we start this, I can't—"

"It's already started," interrupted Neal. He sat next to Peter, near but not touching, and looked at him. "And I'm not drunk."

"I'm a bit drunk." El moved to lean against Peter's back and draped her arm over his shoulder like a safety belt. "But it's not like I haven't thought this through." She nuzzled his ear. "It's okay, honey. I know you think you have to keep your nose pressed right up against the grindstone and earn every good thing you get, but this one's a freebie."

"A freebie," said Neal, wryly. "I'm his plastic sheriff's badge, cheap and shiny. Thanks for that analogy."

El laughed and her weight shifted across Peter's back as she reached to swat Neal's shoulder. "You know what I meant. I'm helping." She slid her arms around Peter's neck and hugged him from behind. "You know, if you don't kiss him soon, I'm going to have to." She nipped Peter's earlobe. "Mmmm, you smell good."

Before Peter could respond, Neal answered. "You've had ten years," he said. "Don't you think it's time someone else had a turn."

"Go on then," said El, challenge in her voice, and Neal turned to Peter, eyes laughing, and raised his eyebrows.

"How about it?"

He was playing casual and flirtatious, but Peter knew him well enough to read the underlying tension around his eyes and in the set of his jaw. He was still, watching and waiting, and this wasn't a game.

Peter took another mouthful of wine—not that he had any hope of catching up with the others—and put his glass back on the nightstand, refusing to be rushed. El's arms were still around his neck, so he clasped her wrist, holding her there, as he turned to Neal, who angled toward him.

After all these months, he'd grown used to Neal's stunning good looks, but this was like seeing him again for the first time: his cheekbones; the straight line of his nose; those sharp blue eyes, bright with intelligence; the firm jaw, faintly shadowed with stubble. Peter pressed his thumb to Neal's lower lip, wanting more than anything to kiss him, but not quite able to bridge the gap, and he could almost feel Neal's breath catch. "God, you're—"

"—smart," said El, in her helpful voice. "That's what he was going to say. He likes smart."

"Elizabeth," said Neal, without breaking eye contact or dislodging Peter's thumb, "you're not helping."

"I could give him a little nudge?" she said, hopefully. "Just accidentally lean on him and—"

This time Neal did look at her. He shook his head minutely. "You'll just make him dig his heels in."

El hmmed. "You're probably right. Okay, fine." She patted Peter's back. "Take as long as you need, honey."

Peter thought he should resent that, but he couldn't help grinning: they knew him too well. He dropped his thumb from Neal's mouth and twisted to look at El over his shoulder. "You're too kind. Really." And then turned back to Neal and felt his smile fade. "Neal?"

He meant I want you and this is lunacy and help me out here.

From the way Neal's eyes softened, he heard all those messages and more. Without warning, he leaned in and kissed Peter, warm and firm and undeniable. There for a second and then gone again, and it was still enough to take Peter's breath away. It broke through the caution and paralysis that had held him back. Peter cupped Neal's jaw and surged after him, claiming his mouth, and then he was kissing Neal.

7.

Any lingering doubts Peter might have harbored about whether he really was "a little bit gay" (per El's assessment) went up in smoke the moment Neal opened his mouth and started kissing Peter back, dark kisses full of heat and longing. Peter answered them instinctively, pulling Neal closer, wanting their bodies pressed together, tangling as intimately as their tongues were. Neal must have had the same idea, because he started to sink back onto the pristine expanse of bed behind them, clenching his hand in Peter's sweater to drag him down with him. Peter slid his leg between Neal's thighs, and Neal's hips hitched up to meet him, and oh God, they were going to—

"Ahem," said El, in Peter's ear.

He barely heard her, and when it did register, he said, "Mmm?" without really stopping what he was doing. He didn't want to stop—hadn't had enough yet. Neal was a maestro of kissing, he was sex personified—it was possible Peter would never get enough of this.

"Am I going to need a crowbar?" asked El. "Time out, Peter."

But Neal was groping his neck, his back, was licking into his mouth and moving under him, and Peter was burning, couldn't help himself, he needed—

"Asparagus," said El loudly.

Neal groaned and his body went from yes, yes, yes to no. He shoved Peter off him, and Peter rolled onto his side, breathless and confused, and looked at him. Neal was lying flat on the bed, arms by his sides, panting up at the ceiling. He was flushed, blatantly hard, and Peter had no idea what had just happened.

"What just happened?" he asked.

"Eliz—" Neal cleared his throat. "Elizabeth and I were talking about safe words over dinner. Like an activation phrase, only more of a—deactivation thing."

"I know what a safe word is."

Neal closed his eyes, his chest still heaving, and flung his arm over his face, which made his shirt ride up, revealing a sliver of warm skin. Peter wanted to lick it.

He gathered himself and looked across Neal to El. "Asparagus?"

"Asparagus," she said, giving him a stern look. "You forgot about me."

"I was kind of preoccupied," said Peter. He sat up. "He's—" Distracting. Unbelievable. Sex on a stick. "—Neal. What did you expect?"

She sighed. "I don't know—more playfulness, less instant sex bomb, I think." She patted the arm covering Neal's face. "Sorry, I was feeling left out."

"Don't be sorry," said Peter, coming to his senses. She was his wife, who he loved deeply, and this would be a disaster if he lost sight of that even for a minute. He was going to have to learn to multitask.

Neal's arm shifted. "Yeah, don't apologize. Come here."

The tenderness in his voice almost undid Peter all over again. He swallowed hard and sat up to watch Neal and El negotiate angles and curl into each other. El smoothed Neal's hair back from his forehead and they kissed, first softly, and then with increasing fervor, Neal's fingers caressing El's bare shoulders, following the neckline of her dress.

Peter bit his lip and tried to unravel layers of territoriality and desire. El was his wife, but she was her own woman, and they may have all launched into this at top speed, but they'd done so with their eyes open.

His visceral response to Neal felt very different from the comfortable desire he shared with El after ten years' marriage, but maybe that would change, maybe with time the feelings would merge or mellow or at least overlap. For now, with Neal's kisses following the path his fingers had taken over El's collarbone, nudging aside the strap of her dress, and El groaning and holding his head to her breast, hooking her leg around his waist—it was hard not to feel left out.

Peter moved closer, but it felt like intruding. "Asparagus," he said, without really meaning to.

Again, it was Neal who responded, who raised his head and rolled away from El. Peter marveled at his self-control.

El straightened her dress and propped herself up on her elbows. "I see what you mean about getting preoccupied," she said hoarsely. "There's the Neal factor and the novelty factor. The combination is—" She fanned herself with her hand. "Oh, boy!" Neal gave her a wry smile and she grinned at him. "You know what I mean. It's new and intense, and it's you and intense."

"I know," said Neal. "I'm getting it in stereo, remember?"

"I'm glad it's not just me," said Peter. They were in this together—he needed for El and Neal to want each other too. Really, he should be glad they'd got carried away. "I didn't mean to interrupt you. Please, continue. After all, it's your date night."

El sat up properly and shook her head, jutting out her chin. "We do this together, especially this first time. We're all smart people—I'm sure we can figure out something that works for all of us."

They all looked at each other. Peter didn't think he'd seen Neal lost for words before. He was dazed and turned on from kissing El, and the effect was devastating.

And then El said, "If we—" and at the exact same time, Neal said, "I could—" and Peter said, "Do you—"

They stumbled to a halt.

"You know what?" said Peter. "I'm not sure I have the attention span for complex choreography. Maybe you two should just—"

Neal held up his hands. "I think we're over-thinking this." He turned to El and looked at her hopefully. "Can't we just roll around together on this nice, big, soft bed until all our clothes fall off? I mean, we've got all night."

She gave him a soft grin and bent to kiss his mouth. "You make a compelling argument."

Peter gave them a moment, then clasped her shoulder and turned her to face him, and they kissed for the first time since he'd arrived. Her lips were already ripe and wet from kissing Neal, and that drove Peter crazy. He reached blindly for Neal and caught his wrist, drew him into the embrace.

"I think that's a yes," Neal murmured against El's cheek.

"Yeah," said Peter, but he pulled away and stood up, "but can we ditch this bedspread first? It's intimidating."

Neal and El blinked at each other, then turned in unison to grin up at him.

"It's throwing me off my game," he said. So they peeled the snowy wasteland off the bed and bundled it in the corner, and though the sheets were equally pale and immaculate, it helped.

"Better?" asked Neal.

"Yeah." Peter stripped off his sweater and his socks and dropped them on the floor, making himself relax into the moment, fancy hotel room and all, and then Neal looked right at him while he unbuttoned his blue shirt and took it off, revealing a delectable expanse of warm perfectly muscled torso. Peter forgot everything else. It wasn't the first time he'd seen Neal shirtless, but it was the first time he'd been allowed to really look. More than look—he could touch, taste. He took a hungry step forward.

El stepped in and turned her back on both of them, holding her hair out of the way. "Would one of you unzip me? Neal?"

Neal pressed his lips to the nape of her neck and pulled the zipper down, slow and steady, making El's dress fall slack. She stepped out of it and threw it toward the armchair, and then took off her earrings, so she was just in her bra and a half-slip. Peter watched Neal's hands stroke down her sides to her waist, and when he bent to kiss her neck again, Peter held his breath and the room was so quiet he could hear the brush of lips on skin.

El made a pleased sound and turned in Neal's arms, and God, they were beautiful together, with their hands and mouths moving on each other like that. And Peter didn't feel left out anymore. He stepped up behind El and slipped his arms around her waist, his hands sliding between them, his erection pressed against El's ass. Neal looked up, lips parted, eyes heavy, and kissed him over El's shoulder.

Neal's bare stomach was hot against the back of his hand, Neal's mouth hot on his, and El groaned between them, arching forward. She sounded incredibly aroused, and Peter held her to him and deduced from her shudders and the brush of wrists against his own, that Neal was cupping her breasts, teasing her nipples. Turning her on while he kissed Peter.

Peter's gut clenched with desire, and he had to free one arm to grip Neal's neck and pull him closer.

"Oh God," said El, almost a moan, and she turned between them, turned to face Peter and draw him down into a passionate kiss, while Neal nuzzled her neck, his hands still on her breasts, the backs of his fingers moving against Peter's undershirt, driving him out of his mind.

It was different kissing El with Neal right there. It felt supercharged, like they were all larger than life. El was more demanding, more intent than usual, her mouth sweetly desperate, and Peter ached with desire and love for her. He was aware of Neal's eyes on them, but he didn't feel self-conscious so much as fiercely glad.

Then Neal's hands withdrew. El pressed hard up against Peter, rubbing against him, and the next thing he knew, Neal was behind him, leaning into him and reaching around to almost-hug El. His cock was a solid weight against Peter's ass, and his arms strong and—God, there was only Peter's thin undershirt between them! The intensity of it, of being in the middle, being loved by both of them, was overwhelming. He had to tear his mouth from El's and press his forehead to hers for a moment to catch his breath.

"Peter's still wearing too many clothes," said Neal, so close that Peter felt the words as much as heard them. El laughed, and Neal added, "Hey, I'm not forcibly ripping them off him. I want credit for that."

"You don't have to." Peter turned, gave him a quick kiss—pulling back before he could get caught up in it and forget his purpose—and then disentangled himself enough from both of them that he could shuck off the rest of his clothes. Naked. He pulled them down on the bed with him.

"I'm in the middle," said Neal, jockeying for position.

El lay next to him, her eyes glazed and dark, and said, "Yes, you are," in her smoky bedroom voice. She licked at his mouth, and Peter nearly went cross-eyed trying to watch them and kiss his way down Neal's chest at the same time. He worked Neal out of his pants, tugging them over the clumsy gray plastic of the anklet, and stayed down there a moment, just staring at Neal's cock like it was proof of something—proof of life, of love, or just proof that they were here, wanting each other. He ran his thumb along its taut length, making Neal writhe, and then moved up the bed again, where El had divested herself of underwear, and she and Neal were all over each other.

It got easy then, hands and mouths and limbs, occasionally one too many arms or an elbow to the chest, groans and curses and sporadic snorts of laughter, all part of the perfection. El and Peter made love to and with and around Neal, exploring him, tasting him, their hands overlapping on his cock while he tensed and shivered and said, "More, harder, oh God, just like that, yeah, just exactly—don't stop—"

El gave Peter a wicked grin, and he knew that she was loving this as much as he was, was finding it as erotic and consuming. He thrust shallowly against Neal's hip, unable to help himself, and Neal's murmurs choked off and he tensed all over and came in their hands.

"Oh wow," said El, as if she'd been blindsided.

"You're telling me." Neal looked wrecked and lazy and satisfied, all at once. "Can I—would you let me see you together? I want that."

"Mmm," said El. "What happened to telling me to give someone else a turn?"

Neal grinned at her. "I just had a turn. Isn't it your turn?"

"All of our turn," said Peter, climbing over Neal's legs to lick his way up El's inner thigh.

He felt as if he was turning into someone new, someone different, adventurous and decadent and a little out of his depth. When he looked down at El, rosy-cheeked and sweating, biting Neal's lower lip while she and Peter made love, it was like seeing her for the first time too. There was no going back from this.

8.

Around midnight, Neal insisted on ordering room service—coffee for all of them, and a sandwich for Peter, who'd skipped dinner—and they sat naked on the bed, Peter and El with their backs to the headboard and Neal cross-legged between their ankles, facing them, his cup cradled in his hands. Peter couldn't look at him without wanting to pull him close and savor their newfound intimacy, and he couldn't not look at him, so he wolfed down his sandwich, licked his fingers and put his plate aside. "Come here."

Neal smiled, swallowed the last of his coffee, and within seconds he was lying between Peter and El again. Peter rolled onto his side and pulled Neal against him, ignoring the way the damned tracker bumped his leg. He reached across Neal and found El's hand. She wove their fingers together, and Peter shut his eyes, buried his face in Neal's hair and breathed him in. "I love you."

He could hear Neal's answering smile. "Took you long enough."

"Me too," said El, and she wasn't talking to Peter.

9.

Despite wanting to savor every moment, Peter dozed off. He woke in the middle of the night to find that the abhorred bedspread had returned and they were all under it. El was lying in Neal's arms, her head on his shoulder.

"—and there's your GPS," she said quietly.

"Yeah, they're watching that. Not just Peter—Fowler, maybe Hughes, who knows who else. We're going to have to be careful." Neal twisted a strand of her hair around his finger. "Do you think Peter's prepared for this? I don't want him to—"

"Hey," said Peter sleepily, moving closer, "I'm not stupid. I knew when I said yes to this that we were going to have to be discreet." He kissed El's shoulder and Neal's elbow, which were the closest and most easily accessible body parts, and bunched the pillow under his head, summoning the coherence for conversation despite his body trying to go back to sleep, and trying not to pay heed to lingering misgivings. This relationship, this love wasn't wise, but it was real, and they'd find a way to make it work. "I suppose you two've already hatched some kind of plan. Let's hear it."

"Hi, honey. We were just saying we can't go to our place—not often, anyway," said El.

"Fowler's bugged your place before—there's nothing to stop him doing it again. And I'm pretty sure he's got someone watching June's," said Neal. "It would be risky."

"So? We can't sleep in three-hundred-dollar-a-night hotels for the rest of our lives." Peter stopped, realizing how that sounded, and then mentally shrugged. They'd all been upfront about their feelings—there was no point pretending he wasn't thinking about this as a long-term proposal.

"Well, we could," said Neal easily, "but you'd hate it."

Peter smiled and put his hand on Neal's hip, rubbed his thumb over the jut of his hipbone. "Not all of it."

"You wouldn't be comfortable," said Neal. "And then you'd get cranky. I like you better when you're not cranky. No, we need somewhere we can all feel at home."

El hmmed. "You do have a plan."

"I'll find us an apartment," said Neal.

"A love nest." She sounded pleased by the idea.

"We can furnish it together," Neal told her. "My treat."

"No," said Peter. "It's too much. I mean, it would have to be inside your radius, and you know what Manhattan rents are like."

"I want to," said Neal. "Please."

El sat up and kissed Neal, then gave Peter a Look and said firmly, "We'd like that very much."

Peter sighed and resigned himself to the inevitable. "Just don't splash too much money around. At least try not to put me in a position where I have to arrest you."

Neal climbed over El and straddled Peter's waist, bending over him, his gaze warm and honest in the dim lamplight. "Trust me."

Peter groaned. "You know I get a sinking feeling whenever you say that."

Neal grinned and kissed him with unbelievable tenderness. "Trust me," he said again.

Peter pulled him down on top of him and hugged him tightly. "I do."

10.

Again, because this was El and Neal, it didn't take long for the wheels to turn. In this case, that was a good thing, because Peter couldn't wait to get his hands on Neal again. They managed a few stolen kisses—in the stairwell of a brokerage firm, in the car in one of the city's few traffic-cam blind spots, in a janitor's closet behind the scenes at the Met, and once in the surveillance van when Cruz went out for coffee, but then Jones turned up early and nearly caught them, and Peter swore never again.

Meanwhile, Neal and El disappeared off shopping nearly every lunch hour, and when Peter offered to join them, Neal shook his head. "Don't want to spoil the surprise."

Which fed Peter's growing belief that this apartment—their love nest, as El insisted on calling it—was going to be smooth and fancy like the Hudson Hotel, or casually ornate like June's place. Or perhaps a chrome and glass bachelor pad with trendy art on the walls and everything in neutrals. Peter couldn't wait for them to be done so they could all safely spend time together, but he was sure it was going to take him a while to get used to such a rarified atmosphere.

So when El said, "It's nearly ready, honey. Tomorrow night?" Peter's anticipation was laced with trepidation.

Still, the anticipation was a powerful force, so he hugged her tight and said, "I can't wait."

When he let her go, she studied him for a moment, then patted his arm and grinned. "Would you relax? You're going to like it, I promise."

Peter thought about Neal complaining about his suits, and about the expensive watch El had bought him during the Ghovat case, and he smiled as best he could. "I'm sure I will."

11.

They'd hit a slow patch in their current case, and Neal spent the next morning at work nearly wriggling with excitement, clearly impatient to show Peter the apartment. It was utterly endearing, so Peter had to act exasperated and send him out in the surveillance van with Jones—the equivalent of sending him down the salt mines—so as not to inadvertently hug or kiss him in front of the entire office. It had been nearly a week since the Hudson, and Peter was dying to get Neal and El alone, somewhere private.

They went their separate ways after work. Peter went home to change, and then El packed their coats and an overnight bag into the trunk of the car and bundled Satchmo into the back seat.

"Satchmo's coming?" asked Peter.

El winked at him. "Of course."

She drove them to the Upper West Side, into a secure private parking garage under an imposing modern apartment building.

"Discreet," said Peter impressed and determined not to be deterred by the sleek architecture.

"Off-street parking was high on the list." El got out, clipped Satchmo's leash to his collar and gave Peter the overnight bag to carry.

It occurred to him that he could've easily discovered the location of the building before now, simply by checking Neal's tracking data. He hadn't thought of it. He'd become used to thinking of Neal as a partner, and besides, Neal and El wanted this to be a surprise.

Peter assumed they'd take the elevator right upstairs, but El and Satchmo led him outside and half a block down the street to an old brownstone. From the intercom by the door, it looked like it was separated into four apartments. El pressed the buzzer for apartment number 4. "It's us."

"Come on up," said Neal through the crackling speaker, and the door clicked open.

It was a walk-up, clean and tidy, but not up-market. Peter followed Satch's eagerly waving tail and gave up any hope of predicting what he'd find at the top of the stairs. They stopped on the third floor landing—the top floor—and El threw Peter a mischievous smile and knocked on the nondescript brown-painted door.

Neal opened it, barefoot again. His white shirt hung loose, and he'd lost the tie, but otherwise he was still in his work clothes.

"You guys are right on time," he said. "Hey, Satchmo." He stood back to let them in, and Peter got a glimpse of a living room, landscape paintings and a big-screen TV on the wall, and a large red couch, before Neal backed him against the closed door and leaned in. "Mmmm. Hi."

"Hi," said Peter, and kissed him, smiling against his mouth. The impatience of the last week fell away, and he relaxed into Neal's arms. This was right where he wanted to be, whatever the décor.

Neal smelled of tomatoes and herbs, and he tasted of coffee. He was an inch or two shorter without his shoes on, which made Peter feel tall and a little awkward, and God, he wanted to skip the preliminaries and get naked now.

"Are you going to give him the tour?" asked El, laughter and heat in her voice, and Neal pulled back a fraction—not far, but still too far for Peter's liking—and said, "Later. Come to bed first. It's been an age since I saw either of you naked and I can't wait anymore."

El unclipped Satchmo's leash and pointed him into the living room, and Peter and Neal opened their arms to include her. She joined their embrace, kissing Neal with an intensity that was so arousing to watch that it dispelled any remaining doubts and worries. Peter licked the skin below Neal's ear and said, "Where is this alleged bed?"

Neal murmured something indistinct to El, then looked up and blinked at him, heavy-eyed and beautiful. The corner of his mouth curved. "We may have to blindfold you to protect its secret location."

"I'll shut my eyes," Peter promised. "You can surprise me with the apartment later. Right now, I am dying to suck your cock."

Neal's lips formed an oh and his eyes darkened. "I've been entertaining very similar thoughts myself."

El moaned under her breath and nudged Peter in the ribs. "Close your eyes."

Peter obediently covered his eyes with his hand, and El and Neal led him on a twisting path past an area redolent with the aroma of cooked tomatoes to a quiet place. Someone brushed past Peter, and a second later, soft calypso music started playing ahead of him.

Peter stopped, laughing. "We're in Belize?"

And someone—Neal?—pushed him forward a couple of steps. It must have been Neal, because his voice came from behind. "Open your eyes."

Peter did. Before him was a bed. There was bedroom too—warm creamy walls with a couple of large, abstract, brightly colored prints; two small battered wooden nightstands with jaunty lamps, one on either side of the bed; a bookcase under the window, stacked with CDs and books, some Peter recognized from his bookshelf at home; and two tallboys with a little homey clutter on top—but mostly there was the biggest bed Peter had seen in his life, piled with pillows and cushions, and covered with a vast bedspread in a dozen shades of leafy green. There was a high plaster ceiling, and the whole room had the air of a sunlit spring garden.

"Wow," said Peter, taken aback. "I mean—" He looked again and noticed small touches: duplicates of his slippers peeking out from under the bed, his lucky tie draped over the closet door, a phone charger on the nightstand nearest the window, his aftershave and a few more familiar CDs on one of the tallboys. "This is incredible."

It wasn't so much the way the furnishings created an ambiance, though that was impressive in itself, but there was a strong sense that this room was been designed for them. For all three of them. That strange little wire tree hung with El's earrings, Neal's robe lying casually with a face-down open book on the foot of the bed. The combination of calm and comfort and sensuality that pervaded the whole room.

"You like it?" asked Neal, but he was grinning proudly. He already knew how much it was affecting Peter. He'd planned this.

Peter loved his home with El. When they'd bought it, they had almost no possessions—a few thrift-store pieces of furniture and some banged up pots and pans. Over the years, the house had evolved with them, with their tastes and styles, and acquired objects and accents that had caught their fancy. Mostly El's fancy, since Peter rarely thought of buying things like that. It had become very much their home.

This was all that, plus Neal.

"I have no idea how you did this," said Peter, taking a couple of steps forward. He took off his watch and put it on the nightstand, and it was like it belonged there. Everything belonged. "It's perfect," he said to both of them, and then they were on him, laughing and explaining everything, the weird noises the radiator made and how they hadn't had time to replace the cracked hand basin in the bathroom, and—

"Come on," said Neal, and started stripping out of his clothes. "The pizza will be ready in about twenty minutes and I really need to—" He interrupted himself to take Peter's face in his hands and kiss him, hungry and eager.

Peter opened to him, welcoming his tongue into his mouth, saying yes with his body, and reached for El only to find she was already there. Her mouth was on Neal's shoulder, then on Peter's cock, and everything blurred together: Neal cupping her breast, bending to lick her nipple; Neal kissing each of them in turn as teasing gave way to need; El crying out both of their names, kissing Peter desperately while Neal went down on her; and then, oh God, Neal's mouth on him, drawing him down to a pulsing ache too raw and fundamental to be dismissed as pleasure or release.

Peter cried out and came hard, his vision whiting out and his heart full.

12.

The pizza was singed at the edges, but it still smelled delicious.

"You made pizza from scratch?" asked Peter, impressed all over again. He could throw together about three different recipes—or he'd been able to once upon a time, before he'd been promoted and started working late on a regular basis.

Neal shrugged with obviously fake modesty and put the pizza aside to cool a little. "Come on, it's time for the grand tour."

They'd all dressed in t-shirts and pajama pants from the tallboys in the bedroom, soft and comfortable and probably outrageously expensive. El's were a rich burgundy and she looked like a million bucks, and Neal's outfit showed off his physique and clung distractingly to his ass, but Peter managed to pay most of his attention to the apartment.

The living room had two red plush couches, one that was long enough to lie on. There was a fireplace—"It doesn't work yet," said Neal, "but it will."—and the TV Peter had noticed earlier.

"Headphones," said Neal, pointing at a pair on the end table. "Wireless, state of the art. So you can listen to the game and I don't have to."

Peter hid a smile. "What if El wants to watch too?"

"Then I'll be outnumbered and I'll deal with it," said Neal philosophically. "I'm pretty sure it won't kill me."

"Maybe you'll get to like it," said El, giving him a hug.

He laughed. "Maybe."

There were more bookshelves in here, and a small stereo with a European brand name. Satchmo was lying in the middle of the floor, and Peter bent to scratch him. Like the bedroom, the living-room felt profoundly comfortable. Peter could imagine kicking back here as a family, putting his feet up after a long day, cuddling with El or Neal or both on the couch. "It really is a love nest."

El took his hand. "I told you."

"It must have cost you a fortune," Peter said to Neal. "What's the rent on a place like this?"

Neal shrugged. "It's just money. I've got it covered. Don't worry about it."

Peter looked around again, nodded and took him at his word. It wasn't like Neal's past or his ill-gotten gains were any kind of secret, and Peter loved him knowing exactly who he was. There was no point getting prissy about it now.

"Come on. There's more," said El. She was glowing, excited to be showing off the place, clearly qualm-free.

There was a sunroom with a small dining table and four chairs, and an easel set up in one corner, bearing a familiar-looking painting, half-finished. Peter raised his eyebrows.

"It's perfectly legal," said Neal. "It's a copy, not a forgery. Elizabeth wanted an O'Keefe for the bedroom."

"Hmm," said Peter, but he didn't really care. Neal was talented, and so long as he wasn't actively breaking the law, Peter was free to admire that.

The sunroom had a door that opened out onto a small private patio, the roof of the building next door. There were a couple of tubs of freshly planted herbs out there and not much else.

"Mostly this is for Satch," said El.

Peter kissed her. "It's perfect."

And then there was the bathroom—plain, but with three toothbrushes in a cup, El's favorite hand soap and bath salts, Neal's aftershave, a new electric shaver for Peter, and on a shelf, a stack of brightly colored towels—and the kitchen. Peter surveyed the wine rack, the shiny coffee-maker, the blue and yellow cups and teapot on the shelf, the freshly made pizza on the counter. El and Neal waited for his verdict.

"I'm speechless," he said.

"Really?" Neal stepped in. There was a hint of uncertainty in his expression, and Peter wondered if it was conscious, if he'd ever used it. If Neal's cons had ever involved luring a mark into taking unwise steps to reassure him. It didn't matter.

"I love it," said Peter. He put his arms around him and held him, and it felt good and close and safe. No one could find them here.

13.

They ate the pizza off plates in the living room, and the sense of safety continued until Neal said, "Okay, so, we need to talk about our cover."

"What?" Peter took a mouthful of the beer they'd stocked up on for him. "What cover?"

Neal and El exchanged glances.

"What?" said Peter again.

"Sooner or later, someone's going to notice that Neal's spending a lot of time here," said El. "You're not the only one monitoring his GPS."

Neal nodded. "The tenant in apartment three downstairs is called Rosie. She's a friend of June's. She and I have come to an arrangement."

"What kind of arrangement?" asked Peter, staving off worry until it was absolutely necessary. The pizza was sublime, and he'd waited an extremely long week for them all to be together like this.

"She's agreed to be my girlfriend," said Neal.

Peter almost choked on his pizza. He coughed hard, managed to get his breath back, wiped his eyes with his hand and took a much-needed swig of beer.

"To pose as your girlfriend," corrected El. "Are you trying to give him a heart attack?" She patted Peter's knee. "It's just for show."

"You knew about this?" Peter wasn't sure how he felt about it. For starters, it elevated their behavior from sneaking around to deliberate, pre-meditated subterfuge. A con.

Neal looked at him earnestly. "It means you won't have to lie. Rose lives in this building, fact. This is my new girlfriend's place, fact. I'm spending a lot of time with her, fact. No one's going to know that the 'her' isn't Rosie."

That was so like Neal. "I'll still be lying," said Peter. "Maybe not in words, but—" He shook his head and reminded himself he'd already come to terms with the clandestine nature of their relationship. "What did you tell her?"

"I said I'm having an affair with a married woman." Neal smiled his con smile. "And that we need to be careful, because her husband is a brilliant FBI agent who doesn't miss a thing."

Peter waved aside the flattery and thought it through. It was unnerving for a stranger to know even part of what was happening between them, but Neal was Neal, and misdirection and diversionary tactics were as natural to him as breathing. Really, Peter was bothered by the girlfriend arrangement on another, more primal level. "I don't want people thinking you're with someone else when you're with us. I—"

"Peter." Neal was on his knees on the floor in front of him in a flash, bending forward, leaning his forearms on Peter's thighs. "It's just a cover, I promise." He held Peter's gaze, intense and irresistible. "It'll be easier for us to be together this way. Safer."

"And you know how much I like safe," said Peter, drily. "You're going to do this whatever I say, aren't you?"

Neal's mouth curved bewitchingly. "Equal partners, remember? Everyone gets a vote."

"El?" Peter made himself look away from Neal to find her watching them, her expression almost identical to Neal's.

"You can always say asparagus," she pointed out, "but honey—"

"No, I know. It's a good plan." Peter took a deep breath. "I suppose you want me to get Jones to tail you."

"It would help," admitted Neal, but he sounded distracted. "Oh, and remind me to give you a key, later." And then he was crawling into Peter's lap, carelessly knocking Peter's plate to the floor, scattering crumbs across the thick rug, no doubt, but Peter didn't care, because Neal was pushing him back with his body, back then sideways to stretch out on the wide soft couch, and bringing El along too, into a tangle of bodies, and the second Neal's lips touched his, Peter's brain switched off, one last thought flickering before his body dissolved into pleasure and desire: do whatever it takes to keep this and keep it safe.

14.

A week later, Jones knocked on Peter's office door. He was carrying a file and looking impassive in the way that meant he had important confidential news. Peter wrapped up the discussion of the Wade files and sent Cruz and Neal off to find out more about the security at the concert hall. He carefully avoided meeting Neal's gaze as they left.

Peter felt bad about using Jones like this, but Neal was right that it would shore up their position. Under normal circumstances, if Peter, Neal and Elizabeth weren't doing what they were doing and Neal started seeing someone, Peter would have looked into it himself, off the clock, just to make sure Neal wasn't planning to break into the Guggenheim to clean out the entire Thannhauser collection as his idea of a memorable third date.

But for their purposes, this time, he'd needed someone else to investigate Neal's actions, and Jones had been the obvious choice. Peter motioned to him to shut the door, silently apologized and asked, "What have you got?"

"Her name's Rosie Chartwell, daughter of Adam Joseph Chartwell and Serena Mahlo." Jones slid the open folder across Peter's desk, and a file photo stared up at him, pretty face, long dark hair, blue eyes. She could have been Kate's older sister.

Peter looked up, eyebrows raised. "Serena Mahlo, the CEO of First American Mutual, founder of the Mahlo-Chartwell Foundation?"

Neal hadn't seen fit to mention that juicy detail.

Jones nodded. "Caffrey's found himself an heiress. She's thirty-two, American citizen, spent her twenties travelling around Europe, getting her photo in the magazines, but she's been laying low for the last couple of years. Seems to have settled down, and now she's studying mime at the American Mime Theatre. No police record, just a couple of parking fines."

Peter scanned the file and then flipped it closed, suppressing an irrational stab of jealousy. "Thanks, Jones. That's all."

"Are you going to talk to Caffrey about it?" Jones was watching him curiously, and Peter knew that was because Jones was ambitious and wanted to learn by example how to manage a team, but it still made him feel like he was under a microscope.

He shook his head and told Jones what he would have said, if Neal were really seeing Rosie. "Not yet. He knows we're keeping an eye on him. I'll monitor his movements, and if anything changes, then I'll step in. In the meantime, we can be glad he's not still chasing after Kate Moreau."

Jones nodded and left, and Peter opened the file folder again and stared down at the photo of Rosie the mime.

15.

"She's exactly your type," he said to Neal, two hours later, on their way to interview an oboist. "You couldn't have found a blonde?"

"She's one of my types," said Neal. "That's what makes her a good cover." He stopped and grabbed Peter's sleeve, and they faced each other in the middle of Union Square, with people flowing past in all directions. "You're jealous."

"I'm not—" Peter scowled. He was. Obviously and stupidly. "Yeah. I am. I'm jealous of a mime."

Neal considered him for a moment, then took a half step back. "I thought you trusted me."

"I do." Peter sighed. "I do, I just—you know, you'd be better off with her. You could take her out and do all those rich couple things you like, wear matching black turtlenecks and get your photo in the circus society pages—"

"Peter." Neal held up his hands. "Don't."

"I'm not," he said. "I'm not saying I want you to do those things with Rosie Chartwell. God knows, I don't. I just—what happens when you get tired of sneaking around, having to—" He broke off. Neal was looking at him like he was crazy. "What?"

"You think I'll get tired of sneaking around?" said Neal, shaking his head. "Do you know me at all?"

Peter snorted. "Okay, fine. Sneaking around is your preferred MO. So what happens three or four years from now, when we don't have to sneak around anymore?"

Neal gave him a long inscrutable look, and then he sighed, obviously frustrated. "What time is the oboist expecting us?"

"One-thirty," said Peter. It was already twenty-five past.

Neal turned to look down the street, bumping into Peter, seemingly accidentally, and the brief contact sent sparks prickling across Peter's skin. Then Neal handed Peter his phone—Peter's phone, that he'd presumably just lifted—and said, "Call them. Tell them we're going to be late."

"Neal." Peter couldn't let Neal call the shots when they were on the job. It was inappropriate and, more importantly, given the nature of their work, it was potentially dangerous. "We can't just drop everything to—"

"Asparagus," said Neal. "We need to talk about this now."

"No." Peter shook his head and put his phone back in his pocket. "You don't get to asparagus me while we're working. From nine to five, I'm responsible to the Bureau for working cases and keeping everyone alive. I call the shots. That's the way it is."

"More like eight to seven," said Neal without rancor. He studied Peter for a moment, then his shoulders dropped and he gave a rueful sigh. "Okay, I get it. You're the boss. But I'm not going to let this drop, Peter. You, me and Elizabeth—we need to talk."

"We will." Peter gave Neal's shoulder a quick squeeze and then stepped away, guiltily relieved they couldn't spend the afternoon arguing about their feelings like Neal wanted. "Come on, we're going to be late."

16.

The missing Stradivarius was hidden in the trunk of the bassoon player's Toyota Corolla. They found the violin, arrested the bassoon player, and then it was nearly five and Peter sent his team home. "Good job. Go, say hi to your families and get some rest."

"Thank God," said Cruz, stretching. "My goldfish were starting to forget what I looked like."

"I didn't know you had goldfish," said Jones, as they headed for the elevators.

"Frankenstein, Dracula and Wolverine." Cruz hitched her bag over her shoulder. "They're actually Siamese fighting fish, and they belong to my boyfriend. If they were mine, I'd have called them all Sushi."

Peter shook his head and retreated to his office to call El. "I've got a client dinner tonight, remember?" she said when she answered. "Bart and Annabel Anderson. I'll see you at the apartment later."

"Okay, have fun." Peter used to go to client dinners with El, back when she first started her business, but he'd never enjoyed them much, and El had eventually decided he was more hindrance than help. There was a light cough from behind him, and he turned to see Neal standing in the doorway, listening in. "We'll see you when we see you."

"Don't wait up," said El, and Peter knew that was permission for them to start without her, especially when she added, with a smile in her voice, "You can make it up to me later."

"We're on our own?" Neal's gaze was dark as shadows, making Peter's mouth dry.

He licked his lips. "Yeah. El's working late. Shall we?"

By the time they shut the apartment door behind them, Peter was on edge, not sure if they were about to fight or have sex, or spend the entire evening having an awkward conversation about the future of their relationship. And even less sure what Neal would say, if it were the latter.

But Neal, apparently, had already planned it out. He shoved Peter toward the bedroom. "We're off the clock, right? Good. Then here's what we're going to do: sex first—I'm hoping you're going to blow me, but I'm open to suggestions—then food, and then, when Elizabeth gets home, we're going to talk."

Peter turned and grasped him by the shoulders. "Neal, are we okay?"

"I'm not mad," said Neal. He crowded Peter against the wall by the kitchen. "I'm the opposite of mad. I've been wanting to get you naked for hours." It was almost a groan, and his breath was hot on Peter's lips. "Don't make me wait any more."

"No waiting." Peter slid his hands under Neal's suit jacket and palmed the long lines of his back, dragging him even closer, and then Neal's fingers were on his face, Neal's mouth on his, pushy and possessive. Peter could feel the pent-up tension and desire in the urgent press of his body and the careless way Neal yanked Peter's tie undone, and if they didn't move soon, they were going to end up doing it right here in the hallway, and Peter was too old to kneel on hardwood floors if he didn't have to.

He tore his mouth away. "Come on."

They made it to the bedroom, in its comfortable disarray—El's robe on the chair with Neal's shirt from yesterday, the covers rumpled and turned down on one side—and then Neal was on him again, stripping him, and Peter was making himself take care not to rip Neal's clothes off, because Neal's clothes were important to him, but all Peter wanted to do was uncover the Neal underneath. Soon, finally, they were near enough to naked, and they fell on the bed, their legs hooked together, the head of Neal's erection sticking through the fly of his silk boxers, dragging against Peter's belly as they kissed. Neal murmured something and pushed the boxers down, kicked them off, and then there was skin all the way down, and Peter couldn't stop touching him, hands roaming everywhere they could reach.

Neal groaned into his mouth, then got up on his elbow and leaned over Peter, his eyes dark and soft. "You were jealous."

"Yeah," said Peter, because it was true, and because it seemed like it was what Neal wanted to hear.

Neal's teeth were white against his lower lip, not quite hiding his pleased smile.

"It's not usually considered a good thing," Peter tried to point out, but Neal was already kissing down his body, stealing his breath. Apparently irrational insecurity was an aphrodisiac for art thieves and forgers. Peter filed that away in the mental box of quirks and mysteries labeled 'Neal', and twisted sideways, catching Neal's hips and pulling him round so they were both on their sides, both face to groin.

Peter wrapped his hand around Neal's cock and licked it, and Neal shuddered and reciprocated, and then they were both sucking, holding each other with their free arms and moving together in a careful, rolling wave. Neal's hand moved to Peter's ass, and then down to cup his balls, and Peter gasped, tension and excitement shooting through him. He forced himself not to thrust, to take his time, even though, God, he was almost trembling with the need to push forward and in. In and out, but Neal's lips were already dragging along his length and that was good, that right there was perfect.

Peter wet a finger and slid it down Neal's crack, to brush over his hole, and Neal pulled off, gasping. "Fuck, that's—Peter!"

Peter grinned around his cock, triumphant, and kept it up, rubbing lightly at first, and then slowly, carefully pressing in, alert to Neal's response and sucking Neal's cock the whole time, triumph fading into a wave of love. They hadn't done this before. Neal was always generous in bed, sensual and seemingly shameless, and Peter hadn't realized until now that he'd been holding back. They both had. Maybe because of the gay thing, this being new, or maybe because beneath Neal's display of confident intimacy, he was as vulnerable as anyone else. And sure, this was just one more sex act, one more line for them to cross, but it felt like more, like Neal letting him in.

Neal had apparently given up on sixty-nining. He flopped onto his back and panted hoarsely, still holding Peter's erection, but clearly focused on what Peter was doing to him. That was just fine. Peter gently disengaged Neal's hand and moved around so he was at a better angle, and then he got back to work, first nuzzling Neal's balls, and then licking all the way up his cock, sliding a finger back inside his ass, just a little, not pushing for more, waiting to see if Neal would relax around it.

After a while, Neal's breathing became steadier, and he bore down, his body slipping around Peter's finger like a tight, hot glove. Peter sucked greedily, working Neal's cock with his hand and his mouth. Neal groped around, catching Peter's ear, then his arm, until finally his hands closed on his own legs, fingers digging in, holding his thighs spread open as he gasped a warning and came salty and sharp in Peter's mouth.

Peter swallowed, eased his finger out and moved up the bed into Neal's arms. Neal was flushed and boneless, but a shimmer of tension ran through his body when Peter kissed him and said, "I love you."

But Neal kissed back, open and deep, and made his way down Peter's body, and Peter decided he must have imagined it. Or it was just one of those things. No one laid themselves a hundred percent bare, not even him and El; everyone had a secret core that was just for them. Maybe Peter was nudging up against that core in Neal. Regardless, Neal was using his considerable talents to divert Peter's attention, with great success, and the next thing Peter knew, Neal was fingering his ass, sliding inside. The intensity, the discomfort mingled with the suggestion of fucking—one day, one day they'd do that, Jesus—the feelings, nameless and tangled, were so overwhelming that Peter stopped thinking altogether, abandoned himself to sensation and heat, and the immediacy of Neal's hands and mouth.

Afterward, they lay shoulder to shoulder on the wide bed as the sky darkened outside. "Do you think—" Peter took Neal's hand and hesitated. "Have you thought about—fucking? Would you want to?"

Neal stilled. Which shouldn't have been noticeable—they were just lying there, breathing—but Peter could feel a shift, something tightening in the air. He sat up and looked at Neal in the gathering gloom, then reached over to switch on a lamp.

"What?"

"It's nothing." But Neal sat up too. "Peter, I—Are you sure about this?"

"Which 'this'?" Peter was pretty sure Neal wasn't talking about sex.

Neal dipped his head to the side and plucked at the leaf-green bedspread. "All of it. The apartment, Rosie, Elizabeth—" He glanced up. "Me."

He was radiating the same uncertainty Peter had seen in him a week ago, when Neal and El had first shown him the apartment. Peter opened his mouth to answer, to say yes, he was sure, he was damned sure, and so had Neal better be, but before he could, Neal went on.

"Because all of it—it's exactly what I'd do if I was running a con on you, trying to—compromise you or get something from you. And I'm not, I swear I'm not." His expression was so earnest it made Peter's throat hurt. "You could pave the road to hell with how much I'm not. But I don't know how much intentions even matter."

"Of course they matter," said Peter, roughly. "If you don't mean it, then—"

Neal interrupted. "If I was conning you, then the apartment, me, the sex—it'd all be part of the con. And just because I love you, doesn't make it less of a—" His gesture encompassed them, the room, their lives. "—setup designed to hook you in, and it doesn't make this less of a bad idea. For you, I mean." He looked down again, at the folds of bedspread pleated between his fingers. "It's a bad idea for you. I don't want to con you, Peter. I don't want to trick you into feeling something you don't mean. I don't want you to do anything you'll regret."

"If you love me, you're not conning me," said Peter, and then he wondered if it were true. Even if it wasn't, it was far too late to back out now. The thought of losing all this was unbearable. "This was Elizabeth's idea to start with. You didn't start this, she did."

"It doesn't matter who started it," said Neal. "You know that. And anyway, she was seduced by a pretty face." He said it with a self-deprecatory smile, but there was something weary and slightly bitter in the twist of his mouth that made Peter think he had a bead on the real issue here.

"Look at me." He waited until Neal looked up, and then said, "Your face is not a con, Neal. It's just a face."

Neal's gaze wavered.

"It's not how you look," Peter said, making him hear it. "It's who you are. I know there've been a couple of thousand marks who've fallen for your smile, your pretty blue eyes and your legendary charm, but I'm not one of them and neither is El. Remember that." He leaned in. "I love you, and I know you, so stop thinking you're puppet-mastering everyone you meet, and come here and kiss me."

A smile ghosted across Neal's face, a real smile. "Okay, but—"

"No buts," said Peter. "Trust me and be honest with me—and with El. That's all. Can you do that?"

"Yeah, I—Yeah." And then Neal was on him, all arms and legs, and kissing him so sweetly that it nearly broke Peter's heart. Peter gathered him close and kissed back, and a moment later, for no reason, he snorted with laughter, and then Neal let out an honest-to-God giggle, and then they were good, they were better than good, as if they'd tuned in to each other's frequencies down to the last microhertz.

17.

They made enchiladas and lounged around on the couch in the living room, eating and watching TV in their pajamas. Neal vetoed sports, so they watched a procedural neither of them knew, and critiqued the characters' reasoning and methodology. It had been a long week, what with the staying up half the night every night having sex and with the case. By nine-thirty, they were both stifling yawns. At ten they went to bed.

It was strange going through the toothbrushing, getting-ready-for-bed routine without El, and strange sliding between the sheets with Neal without the sexual charge that usually sent them heading for the bedroom. Peter felt self-conscious, as if he were taming Neal, turning him into an ordinary guy—which, in some ways, he was—but it was still deeply satisfying to turn out the light and pull him close, his long body relaxed and pliant, already half-asleep. Peter sighed contentedly against the back of Neal's head, and Neal reached back with his foot—the tracker an unwieldy lump, but one Peter was getting used to—to hook around Peter's ankle and keep him near.

18.

Peter woke late, sandwiched between El and Neal. They'd forgotten to set the alarm and sunlight was slanting through a crack in the curtains. He sat up—hell, it was after eight!—and Neal stretched beside him and blinked his eyes open. "Hey."

"Hey," said Peter, knowing he was wearing his sappiest smile but unable to help himself. Their talk last night had changed things, had resolved the various tensions and concerns of their situation into understanding and confidence. He could see that Neal felt the same. "Come on, we're late."

He shook El's shoulder gently and told her the time.

"Don't have any meetings this morning," she mumbled. "Gonna sleep more. Shhhh."

So Peter and Neal snuck out of bed and into the hallway.

"We could shower together to save time," suggested Neal with a glint in his eye, and Peter didn't have the heart to be the responsible one, the one who said no, so they did, smoothing soap-slippery hands over each other's bodies in the rush of hot water and steam. Peter let Neal push him against the cold tile and they jerked each other off in the tiny space, kissing the whole time, shushing each other and trying to keep it down so as not to wake El.

The water was starting to cool by the time they turned off the faucet and got out. And Peter's phone was ringing in the bedroom. He'd left it plugged into its charger on the nightstand. He ran to answer it. Jesus, it was nearly eight-thirty!

"Peter." It was Jones. "I tried you at home, but there was no answer."

"Yeah," said Peter. "We're—out for breakfast. What's going on?"

"Hughes wants to see you. Says it's urgent."

"Okay, I'll be right there." Peter nearly disconnected, but Jones was still talking.

"You know where Caffrey is? He's not here either."

Peter closed his eyes. "No, but I'll find him and pick him up on my way in." He hung up before Jones could say that neither June's place nor Rosie's apartment were on his way, saw that he'd missed a call, also from Jones, ten minutes earlier, and covered his eyes. "Dammit."

"You really need to get your home number forwarded to your mobile," said Neal from behind him.

El rolled over. "Except that it's my home number too," she said thickly, without opening her eyes.

Peter stopped dragging on his clothes in a mad rush just long enough to give her a quick kiss. "Hi, honey. We have to go."

Neal was putting his ensemble together at a similar rate, but he too took a moment to kiss her good morning. "And later, we have to talk."

"And later, you guys owe me," said El sleepily.

Neal stopped with his tie half-tied and sat on the edge of the bed. He cupped her cheek and pressed his lips to hers for a long sensual moment. It was so mesmerizing that Peter nearly put his shoes on his bare feet, despite having his socks bunched up in one hand.

"That too," said Neal with a smile, and El made a noise that was almost a purr, rolled over and went back to sleep.

19.

Neal whistled most of the way to work.

"You're going to have to tone that down," said Peter. "You can't go into the office with Mr. Bluebird on your shoulder, you know."

"Of course I can," said Neal, grinning smugly. "I have a new girlfriend, remember? It'd be suspicious if I wasn't walking on air. You, on the other hand, have to maintain a sober FBI agent exterior. Can you do that?"

"I've done undercover before," said Peter, which was true, but he'd never tried to lie to people he knew and liked. People who knew him well enough to know when he wasn't himself. So it was just as well Hughes' urgent news turned out to be not a case, but rather impending budget cuts: that was enough to wipe the smile off anyone's face.

Later that morning, Peter was just about to head into the conference room for a meeting with his team about the new case (an auction house specializing in rare coins and stamps that was suspected of fencing stolen first day covers) when he overheard Jones and Cruz gossiping. He paused just outside the doorway to listen.

"He's scamming her," said Cruz. "No way is Neal Caffrey dating someone that wealthy without wanting a slice of the pie."

"Maybe he's in love." That was Jones, and Peter wasn't sure if he was taking Neal's side out of male solidarity, or if he was playing devil's advocate.

Either way, it made Cruz snort. "And maybe the Mona Lisa was a self-portrait. I'm just sayin', he's a con artist."

"He was a con artist," said Jones. "Have you seen him lately? He doesn't even flirt with the girl at the coffee cart anymore."

"That's probably a scam too." Peter could easily picture Cruz's cynical expression. "You know what they say about leopards and spots."

"The ability to adapt is what separates us from the other animals," said Jones mildly, and before Cruz could fire another salvo, Neal came bounding up the stairs to the meeting.

"Hi, guys. What are you talking about?" He sounded so ingenuously cheerful, Peter would've sworn he'd overheard the conversation too. Maybe he'd bugged the conference room. Peter was going to have to talk to him about that later.

For now, he fought back a fond smile and bustled in with his arms full of folders. "Here's what we've got on the auction house, including everything they've turned over in the last six months. The items highlighted in yellow represent stamps that have been reported stolen, and they add up to nearly a quarter of a million dollars. And that's just the stuff we know about."

"How do we prove that they know what they're doing?" asked Cruz. "Can't they just argue they took the items in good faith?"

"Exactly," said Peter. "That's why we need to send someone in posing as a dealer with some shady merchandise, to see if they bite." He met Neal's gaze, and Neal's smile was a burst of sunlight.

"I guess that's where I come in," he said, sounding almost obnoxiously pleased with himself. "I can do wealthy philatelist."

Cruz pulled a face at his unbounded self-confidence, and Peter hid a grin and set about explaining the details of the sting.

20.

The auction house manager didn't bite and the auctioneer was actively hostile to Neal's sly suggestions, so Peter and Neal went back to the office and spent hours with the rest of the team trying to figure out what was going on, testing theories and strategizing.

El called at seven. "You guys are still at work, aren't you? Are you going to be much longer?"

Peter almost turned to meet Neal's eye, but stopped himself just in time. "Nearly done. Where are you?"

"I'm at home," she said. "In Brooklyn, I mean, with Satchmo and a big stack of unopened mail. Meet you at the apartment?"

"See you there." Peter considered his words before he spoke. "Do you want me to pick something up on the way?"

"Let me guess—you can't talk right now?" said El, picking up on the singular pronoun. "Okay then, Thai or Malaysian—Neal gets to choose which."

"See you soon." Peter hung up, and the team pulled on coats and jackets, collected their bags and piled into the elevator en masse.

"You got plans tonight?" Jones asked Cruz, and she started complaining about how her boyfriend would rather see Avatar for the eighth time than stay home and play Halo 2.

"How about you?" Neal asked Peter as a not-so-subtle aside. "Hot date with Elizabeth?"

"Something like that." Peter eyed him with what was meant to be suspicion and, based on Neal's quirked-eyebrow response, probably looked more like indigestion. "No doubt you and Haversham are going to spend the evening planning hypothetical heists and scoping out theoretical security systems."

"Not tonight." Neal grinned and bounced on his toes. "I've got a hot date too."

"Oh really," said Peter drily, and might have asked more, just for show, but the elevator doors opened at the lobby.

"Sounds like everyone's got a date but me," said Jones. "I have to help my sister move a piano."

"Tough luck," said Cruz. "At least be grateful you don't have to sit through three hours of Avatar 3D again."

21.

They got to the apartment before El, and Peter managed not to tear Neal's clothes off him while they waited for her to arrive. It helped that they'd both skipped lunch and the takeout smelled really good. They sat at the table in the sunroom and discussed the case while they ate straight out of the takeout containers.

El and Satchmo turned up ten minutes later, and Peter got her a plate, re-heated her share of the food and filled Satchmo's water bowl. When he got back to the sunroom, El and Neal were sitting right up against each other, and Neal was feeding her a forkful of Mee Goreng.

Peter put her plate down on the table and just stood there, staring like an idiot, as El chewed and swallowed, and then leaned in to kiss Neal. He could tell from the tilt of her mouth that she knew he was watching, that the kiss was partly for his benefit, and he let himself make appreciative noises. El pressed her hand to Neal's chest, her thumb dragging across the thin fabric, and she looked up at Peter and raised her eyebrows. "Eat later?"

"Yes," said Neal, loosening his tie.

Peter echoed him. "Yes." He could never resist El when she was in this kind of playful, flirty mood—not that he ever really tried—and having Neal in the mix clinched the deal outright.

El pulled her hair from its clip and shook it free, stood and led them to the bedroom. "I know what I want."

"You've been making plans," said Neal, clearly captivated. He hung his suit jacket in the closet as if he were on autopilot, and Peter slung his own jacket and tie over the back of the armchair and unbuttoned his cuffs.

"I was in a very long, very boring meeting about table centerpieces this afternoon, and all I could think about was the two of you taking turns fucking me." She reached back to unzip her dress, causing her breasts to strain against the fabric. "And I use the word advisedly. I'm counting on you guys to do all the heavy lifting." She raised her chin and met Peter's gaze. "Okay?"

"More than okay," he said, moving toward her, gathering her in his arms and capturing her mouth. She pressed against him, her breasts soft and full against his chest, and clasped her hands behind his neck.

When they kissed, it almost felt like old times, familiar and comfortably exciting, as if they were on vacation somewhere exotic but were still very much themselves, until Neal came up behind El and murmured in her ear, loud enough for Peter to hear too, "You guys look amazing together. I could watch you for hours."

El hmmed against Peter's mouth, then turned to face him. "I'd rather you joined in."

"Also a very good option," said Neal, as she unbuttoned his shirt and parted the sides, smoothing her hands across his chest. Then they were all embracing, just like the first time at the Hudson, Peter helping El out of her clothes, skimming her shoulder with his mouth, while Neal teased her lips and gripped her by the waist, rocking against her.

"Something else," said El, unsteadily. "If it's okay with both of you—no condoms."

"Elizabeth." Neal sounded stunned. "Yeah, that's—Yes."

Peter bent to say into her ear, "Yes," and "I love you."

They made it to the bed somehow, and out of their clothes. Peter lay sideways, with El's head pillowed on his chest, and watched her eyes flutter shut as Neal licked between her legs. Then Neal knelt up, tucked her bent knee under his arm and entered her.

"Ohhhh," she moaned, and Peter knew how she felt. Neal's face was slack with desire, his eyes fixed on El, his body burnished by the lamplight. He moved confidently, sensuously, his focus absolute. And with every long slow thrust, El's hips hitched up, shifting her weight against Peter.

Peter was so turned on, he was having a hard time not stroking himself, but he had to wait. It was El's turn tonight and she'd said what she wanted. Given how erotic she and Neal were together, if Peter started jacking himself now, he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop in time.

Neal was holding himself over her, his biceps flexing, and from the choked-off sounds El was making, he was doing good, but Peter had home team advantage—he slid his arm between them and cupped El's breast, toying with her nipple, making her squirm up against Neal and moan louder. "God," she said, breathlessly. "Yeah, just—" She let her head fall back. "Change over."

Neal raised one eyebrow and gave her a look that was both hot and teasing. He pulled out, his cock sticking straight out, hard and wet from being in El, and then Peter took his place, slid into his wife where Neal had been only seconds before, and Jesus Christ, that was enough to blow his mind right there. But El caught his gaze and held it, challenging him to hold on, to do this for her, and Peter hung his head for a moment, gritted his teeth and breathed. He steadfastly ignored the warm sweep of Neal's hand down his back to his waist, and then he was okay, he was on, giving El what she needed. She wrapped her legs around him and spread her arms wide, and though she rarely came just from fucking, Peter thought this might be one of those exceptions if he did it right.

He got down on his elbows and kissed the soft underside of her chin, stroking his cock into her dark wet heat the whole time, and Neal said, "That's what I'm talking about," as if he were orchestrating the whole thing, but also as if he'd been taken utterly by surprise by it. Peter wanted to swat him and suck him off, sequentially or simultaneously, but this wasn't the time for that. He focused on El, so beautiful and so damned sexy, the way her lips were parted, still red from the day's lipstick. The way her breath was coming, harsh and ragged.

"I'm just gonna—" Neal sucked on her earlobe. "Just say if you want me to stop."

Peter had no idea what he was talking about, but he wasn't talking to him, so he let El handle it.

She gave Neal a blurred half-smile. "I know the stop word."

"Yeah, you do," said Neal, his voice a caress, and then something—Neal's hand? his wrist?—grazed the top of Peter's thigh, and El flung her head back, gasping.

"Okay?" asked Neal.

"What?" Peter almost lost his rhythm trying to figure out what was going on, but El said, "Keep going, both of you!" with enough urgency in her voice that he had to obey. He pushed in, over and over, loving her with his body. His balls kept nudging up against something. Neal's hand?

Understanding clicked into place with an electrifying jolt. "Jesus, are you—" fingering El's ass? he nearly said, but it was too late, he was snagged by an inexorable swell of pleasure and arousal, sparks shooting around his body like firecrackers. "Goddamn!" he said, overwhelmed and frustrated that he hadn't held it together longer, despite the severe provocation of El's desire and knowing what Neal was doing.

El smirked at him through her obvious lust haze, and Neal was giving him an infuriatingly mock-sympathetic look, but Peter couldn't really care. It was too good. He kept thrusting as long as he could, and then slumped and kissed El, open-mouthed and messy.

She was still strung tight, the tension in her body ratcheting up by the second—Neal's fingers must really be doing it for her. Why had Peter never thought of that before? "I love you," he said

She repeated it back, almost a growl, and added, "Change over."

Peter moved aside and Neal moved in, and Peter was not going to get competitive about this. But with Neal fucking El now, with his fingers still in her ass, as far as Peter could tell, Peter wasn't sure where he fit in the equation. He sat back on his heels, enjoying the view, buzzing from his orgasm but feeling a little lost, until El said, "Peter, honey," her voice gravelly and rough.

"Anything," he said. "What do you need?"

Her hands pulled desperately at the sheet, near his knee. "I want—" She swallowed, and her cheeks went pink. "My breasts. Please?"

"Oh my God," said Neal. "You guys—"

"You too," said Peter. He lay down at an angle to them and cupped El's breast, brought her nipple to his mouth and teased it with his lips. Neal tilted his whole body to the side, to give Peter room, and El cried out incoherently, twisted her hips sharply against Neal's and shook like she might fly apart.

Her breast heaved under Peter's mouth, and he kept sucking—El's orgasms could last nearly a minute—but he couldn't resist curving his hand around the back of Neal's thigh and squeezing, feeling the muscles' steady clench and release. Neal answered with a long low groan, his body locking as he closed his eyes and came, oh Jesus, came in El.

El tugged vaguely at Peter's ear, pulling him off, and he raised his head and kissed her hard.

Neal collapsed on the bed beside them and closed his eyes. "I am so in love with you guys right now," he said hoarsely.

El laughed low. "You are so easy."

He shook his head. "Unfair and untrue. I'm easy for you. Both of you. That's all."

"Come here," said Peter, and pulled them into a sprawling hug.

22.

Peter woke in the night to a half-empty bed. He pressed a soft kiss to El's shoulder and slid out to see where Neal had got to. Pulled on a robe that was slightly too small—probably Neal's—and padded out into the hall. He found Neal in his pajamas in the sunroom, poring over the auction house case file.

"What have you got?" asked Peter from the doorway.

Neal looked up with a quick smile of greeting, warm in the low lamplight. "Hey, shouldn't you be asleep?"

Peter shrugged. If there was work to be done— "You want coffee?"

"Yeah." Neal gathered some papers and followed him into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him. They spoke in low voices, so as not to wake El. "I was thinking, the auctioneer wasn't acting guilty—he was stressed out."

"What do you think's going on?" Peter leaned on the counter next to him and waited for the kettle to boil.

Neal got a French press out of the cupboard and spooned coffee grounds into it. "Maybe he's being blackmailed?"

"Doesn't necessarily relate to the stolen stamps though," said Peter, and smiled when Neal pulled him into his arms and held him in a loose embrace while they talked.

"I'm pretty sure when he threatened to call the cops, he was bluffing." Neal leaned his head on Peter's shoulder. "He didn't want to talk to them any more than I did. And look—" Neal reached behind him for the papers he'd brought through. "It looks like he sold—"

The kitchen door opened and they both looked around. It was El, wrapped up in her red chenille robe and wearing Peter's slippers. Her eyes were scrunched up against the light.

"Are you two working?" she asked, with perplexity that shaded into mild outrage. "Is it urgent?"

"We—" started Peter.

"Not really." Neal talked over him. "I had a hunch, so I—and then Peter came out to find me."

El pulled a face, still without opening her eyes. "Do I have to handcuff you to the bed?"

"Both at once or one at a time?" asked Neal. "Because if it's one at a time, I could potentially be persuaded. I've never seen Peter in handcuffs." El squinted at him, and he butted his head lightly against Peter's shoulder, then let him go and went to kiss El. "Sorry."

"It's okay," she said, sounding resigned. "Apparently obsessive workaholics are my type."

Neal's back was to Peter, but he sounded bemused. "That's the first time anyone's called me a workaholic. It must be Peter's influence."

"Oh, like you've never stayed up all night planning a heist before," said Peter. "You just never thought of it as work."

"It wasn't work; it was a vocation." Neal kissed El's forehead. "If I start eating deviled ham sandwiches and worrying about search warrants, please tell me you'll stage an intervention."

"I'll call in Mozzie and June, and we'll make you see the error of your ways, but only if you come back to bed now," she said. "It's nearly four a.m. and you're going to wake Satch, and then we'll never get back to sleep."

Peter pointed to the papers in Neal's hand. "Honey, this is—"

"—something that can wait till morning," said Neal smoothly. He gave Peter a pointed look.

"Right," said Peter. "Sorry, El." He turned off the kettle.

She beckoned him over and patted his cheek. "It's okay. I guess I thought this place would stay a love nest. I should've known it couldn't last."

Peter blinked. They'd had the place such a short space of time, but yeah, it was already starting to feel less like an escape from life, and more like life itself. There was a pile of opened mail on the counter, paw prints on the linoleum, and El's laptop charging by the microwave. It was a home. And getting up in the night after really great sex to talk shop with Neal was the best of all possible worlds as far as Peter was concerned.

"We're homey people so it was inevitable in the end. It might even be a good thing," said El. "But right now, it's late and I want to sleep, and I want you guys there too."

"Fair enough," said Peter.

"Um—" said Neal. He was bright-eyed and serious, but then El yawned in his face, and he smiled at her and smoothed hair back from her face. "Never mind. It can wait."

El hustled them back to bed and within minutes, she was asleep in Peter's arms, and Neal was lightly snoring next to her. Peter relaxed into the domesticity of it all and drifted off too.

23.

The next morning was sunny and bright, and they ate breakfast with the door to the patio wide open, and Satchmo outside gnawing noisily on a rawhide bone.

Peter's cereal seemed tastier than usual, and Neal made perfect coffee and fetched the half and half for El. When he sat down again, he buttered a piece of toast and then looked from El to Peter.

"What?" said Peter.

"I—" Neal put his toast down. "Elizabeth?"

"Mmm?" She looked up from her day planner. "What is it?"

Neal took a breath, let it out again and straightened his pajama top. "Will you marry me? I mean, you too, Peter. Both of you. I know it's soon but—"

It was perhaps the most casual, least romantic proposal Peter could imagine, so for a moment he thought Neal was kidding. Then his instincts kicked in and he realized that for Neal the con artist, sincerity could be measured in the absence of candlelit dinners, long-stemmed roses and charming smiles. Plain words and simple questions were truth.

"Oh." El's eyes had widened, and the corner of her mouth twitched. "Did Peter tell you about us?"

"No," said Neal. He raised his eyebrows at Peter. "Tell me what?"

Peter took his hand and rubbed his thumb across Neal's knuckles. "El and I dated for less than three weeks before we got engaged. Everyone told us we were out of our minds."

"We were. But we knew," said El. "When something's right, you know."

Neal nodded. "So?"

"There's the small matter of the law," Peter pointed out. "I mean, you and I couldn't get married in most States even if I was single, let alone the three of us."

Neal waved that aside. "But in principle?"

Peter looked at El, saw warmth and conviction in her eyes. They shared a smile, and Peter's heart started racing because in principle, nothing on earth could stop him. He was forty-five years old and about to get engaged for the second time. "This is all your fault, you know," he told El. She grinned smugly, and Peter looked back to Neal, who was watching them with ten-thousand-Watt attention and digging his fingernail into the ball of his thumb.

"In principle?" repeated Peter. "In principle, yes. Absolutely yes. I'm in if El is."

"And I am," said El, and launched herself at Neal, nearly knocking over the coffeepot in the process. "I love you."

Neal wound his arms around her and looked over her shoulder to Peter. "That's what happens when we don't have to sneak around anymore."

"I guess it does." Peter pushed his cereal aside, too full of love and reckless excitement to finish it. "Too bad about the law—"

"That's not your usual line," said Neal, grinning. Then he ducked his head. "One day the law will catch up with us—in a good way, I mean. If it doesn't happen here, then maybe in Canada."

"Maybe." Peter leaned back and ran his hand over his head. "In the meantime, El, I think we should think about selling the house."

Her eyes narrowed as she considered it. Then she nodded. "Yeah. It's so depressing over there now—dusty and empty."

"Wait," said Neal. "We can't all officially live here."

Peter tilted his head, pleased to be a step ahead for a change. "It's an apartment block. If I happened to mention, say, at work, that El and I were thinking about moving into the city, and you happened to reply that you knew of an apartment available here—"

"This apartment," said Neal, nodding enthusiastically. "That could work. We'd officially be neighbors. Agent Burke, has anyone ever told you you have a devious mind?"

"I generally like to keep it a secret," said Peter, standing up and pulling El and Neal into his arms. "Anyway, I'm pretty sure it's the company I keep. You're both terrible influences on me."

"Oh honey," said El, reaching up to kiss him. "You have no idea how wrong you are about that. We are the best influences you could have."

"We are," said Neal.

Peter kissed him thoroughly, their first kiss as an engaged threesome. Neal practically melted in his arms, and Peter bit his lip to stifle a groan. "Maybe we should call in sick."

"Both of you?" said El, raising her eyebrows. She patted Peter's tie. "How about we meet back here for lunch instead?"

"Is that lunch or lunch?" asked Neal, stealing her hand and twirling her like they were dancing.

El was obviously trying to look prim, but she couldn't suppress a wicked grin. "Which do you want it to be?"

"El." Peter came up behind her and kissed her cheek, just in front of her ear. "You know how you went on a date with Neal for my birthday present?"

"Mmm-hmmm?" She smiled up at him over her shoulder, looking even more beautiful than the day they'd met. "You thought I was crazy."

He pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth. "I did think you were crazy. I apologize. I should know better than to doubt you by now." He looked at Neal. "Whereas you—you only gave me a cupcake."

"Hey, I was respecting your wishes," said Neal, holding up his hands, laughing. "You obviously didn't want a fuss, so I—"

"I know." Peter smiled. "It was perfect."