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Neal has no illusions about the fact that his life is easier because he's a guy. He likes being a guy, he likes having a dick, and he takes advantage of the boys' club every day of his life. But something Peter said during the Franklin case, when they first laid eyes on the lovely Rebecca, sticks in his head: There's a reason El prefers my working with a male CI.
It was just a throw-away line, Neal knows that, but it planted a little seed of what if? in the back of Neal's mind, and now it's two in the morning and he's lying awake wondering how different his life might be if he were a female CI. Peter's female CI, to be precise.
Wondering what it might be like to have an inappropriate relationship with Peter.
Peter isn't exactly brimming over with social graces. He's almost anachronistic, sometimes, with his upright, law-abiding shtick and his happily married suburban life. On a good day, Neal likes him well enough, and on a bad day—usually defined as a day when the Bureau intervenes and Peter has more pressing things to do than work cases—Neal resorts to needling and pushing, trying to get a reaction, knowing full well that even if he succeeds, it's going to end in exasperation on both sides.
It's only fair, though: if Neal's stuck working for Peter, then it's Peter's job to work with Neal.
And if Neal were a girl, that work could take on whole new undercurrents. He'd catch Peter checking him out, and Peter would look away too fast, the back of his neck turning pink. Neal can imagine the thrill of it.
Although, no, perhaps it would be discomfiting at first. Peter has a lot of power over Neal, and an unscrupulous person in his position might try to use that. But Peter's the most scrupulous person Neal's met in his life, and the thought of Peter wanting him makes his skin hot. Neal lets his legs splay, runs his hand over his dick, feeling it harden.
Elizabeth is a problem in this scenario, of course. She and Peter are too solid, too good together for Neal to consider Peter cheating on her. But Franklin didn't have a wife, so what if Peter wasn't married either? If Neal's a woman in this fantasy, it's not that big a step to make Peter single.
And oh, then Neal would have no reason to hold back. Because Peter wouldn't make the first move, no way. He'd hide his desire, get brusque and flustered, and start going to ridiculous lengths to avoid being alone with Neal. He'd try everything not to compromise their relationship, even if denial was driving him crazy.
Maybe Neal would try, too. After all, working with Peter is good, it's the closest Neal's come to having a partner in crime. (Mozzie doesn't count. Neal's not sure exactly why Mozzie doesn't count; he'll examine that later.) Peter treats Neal like an equal, regardless of gender. He's one of the few people Neal can count on, and why screw that up with sex? So maybe Neal would try to ignore Peter's strong blunt fingers, his wry sense of humor, the hidden kindness.
But Neal's denial wouldn't last long, not least because the idea of Peter living single and alone, consumed with work and more work, barely aware of his own loneliness—this image arouses an unprecedented concern in Neal. It's not right. Peter needs someone. And if there's no Elizabeth, that someone might as well be him. Her. Neal.
Neal wraps his hand around his dick, begins to stroke himself, and imagines Peter working late one night, the rest of the office empty. Neal comes to lean in his doorway. He's wearing a well-cut business suit, subtly sexy, not so revealing that Peter's guard snaps into place.
Peter looks up. "Don't you have a home to go to?"
He's holding his pen by both ends now, and Neal's fully aware of the phallic symbolism. He smiles slightly, raises his eyebrows. "Don't you?"
Peter leans back in his chair and sighs, obviously trying to stay gruff and distant, but it's late and Neal's not going anywhere, not letting him off the hook this time. Peter looks up from his pen, and Neal's watching him, and their gazes lock.
Heat twists in Neal's belly, but he's had years of practice at hiding his reactions. Peter's not so skilled. He flushes, maybe starts to get turned on under the cover of his desk. Neal can't say for sure, but he knows he wants to find out. He can't push, though; that'll only make Peter clam up.
"Want to get something to eat?" he asks lightly. "There's a new Vietnamese place that's just opened on Lafayette."
Peter looks frozen in place. "I—No. I'm good. Thanks. You should—"
Neal pushes off the doorway with his shoulder and comes to perch on the side of Peter's desk, still keeping it casual. Nothing to be afraid of. "How about a drink then?"
He imagines he can feel the heat of Peter's body from here. It's intoxicating.
Peter's eyes narrow. This is the first time he really understands what Neal's offering, and he's suspicious. "I don't think that's a great idea."
"You have to eat, Peter." Neal shifts slightly, and adjusts the hem of his skirt, drawing attention to his shapely, smooth legs. "We both have to eat."
Peter's expression turns dry. "I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding someone else to eat with, and I'm used to eating alone. You don't have to worry about me."
He's not talking about food, and they both know it. Neal raises an eyebrow. "He who eats alone, chokes alone."
Peter snorts. "I'll risk it."
But Neal can see how much he wants to give in, and this isn't a game anymore. Neal lowers his voice and forgets the strategy and the teasing. "Peter. Please."
A muscle flexes in Peter's jaw. He puts down the pen and looks at it. "You know that's not an option."
"No one has to know." Neal puts his hand on the blotter, next to the pen, and leans into it. "This is between you and me."
"I can't." Peter sounds firm.
—Neal laughs under his breath as he jerks off. Even his fantasies are obstructed by Peter's sense of morality. But he'll get there. He has it on good authority he could sell light switches to the Amish—
"I can't," says Peter.
Neal reaches out and bridges the gap between them, skates his manicured fingers along Peter's jaw. "You can. I know you want to."
Peter jerks his chair away, getting distance. "Of course I want to. Every damn person you meet wants to. That's not the point. The fact is I have a job to do, and I'm responsible for you, and you get in more than enough trouble already without risking your freedom for a romp in the—"
Neal glances down, and yes, yes, Peter's aroused, for whatever that's worth. He looks up again, meets Peter's eye. He has to give him something, promise him something, even if they both know it's a lie. "I'll be good," he interrupts.
Peter gives him a look that's equal parts exasperation and desperation.
"Well, that too. I mean, naturally I'll be good," says Neal, suggestively. "But I'll also behave myself. It would raise the stakes, Peter, don't you see? More to lose, more reason to exercise restraint."
"You're saying that if we—if—" Peter swallows hard, but he raises his chin. "You're saying you won't break the law anymore?"
Neal mentally crosses his fingers. "If that's what it takes."
He means it a little more than he'd like.
Peter licks his lips, and Neal holds his breath, waiting. Peter looks at him, his eyes dark and opaque. He groans softly. "Okay."
It's not exactly a passionate declaration, but it still takes Neal's breath away, anticipation making his blood pulse hotly through his veins. He almost asks Really? but stops himself in time. No need to give Peter an out. "Take me home."
Peter drives them to Neal's place. Here. June's. Neal watches him the whole way, his hands moving on the wheel, the creases fanning out from his eyes. His face looks lived in, experience sketched out in the set of his mouth, the lines on his forehead. He pulls up to the curb. "You can change your mind. Say no at any time, and we stop. I won't hold it against you."
"I know." Neal tries to smile, but he's actually starting to tremble. "I don't want to stop. Come on."
Peter displays a kind of awkward chivalry as they go upstairs, all "ladies first" and trying not to look at Neal's ass, and Neal's desire starts to feel like hysteria, like champagne bubbles in his mouth. The moment the door of Neal's room shuts behind them, he turns to Peter, comes right up to him. He expects more debate, but Peter's made his decision, wouldn't be here if he didn't mean it. There's no going back for either of them.
Neal's lips feel hot and swollen. He slides his arms around Peter's neck, bringing their bodies together, and he can't stop trembling. He can sense Peter's self-control wavering too. They look at each other and Peter's eyes are dark, loving (the way Peter looks at Elizabeth when he thinks no one else can see), and then at last Peter drags him closer, wraps around him, almost crushing him. Neal's eyes fall shut, and Peter's mouth is soft, careful, hungry on Neal's temple, his eyes, his mouth. His hand on Neal's face, his lips on Neal's mouth.
Neal opens to him, kisses back, thinks distantly that he might pass out and wonders what Peter would do—
—It's not supposed to be like this. Neal should be taking the lead, making Peter breathless and weak. Neal is always, always in control. In this scenario, he should be a femme fatale, raking Peter's chest with his fingernails or talking dirty until Peter whimpers and begs. But that's not how the fantasy's playing out and, if he's honest with himself, he's okay with that. He wants to trust Peter to make it good. His dick is tight, so sensitive a breath might set him off. He slows his hand, trying to make it last—
Okay then, skip to the bed, to Peter over him, his hand on Neal's breast, his dick pushing into Neal. "How long has it been?"
Neal shrugs. "A while." He doesn't want to admit the truth. "You?"
"Couple of months, but—" Peter kisses him, holds him as they begin to fuck. "—not like this. Oh Christ." He rolls his hips, and Neal gasps, tries and fails to hide how much this is getting to him. Peter pulls Neal's knee up, adjusts the angle, and the next time he slides home, Neal sees stars, and fuck, he should have known Peter would be good. How has he not known before? Why have they waited this long?
Neal throws his head back and rocks up to meet Peter's thrusts, and Peter makes a raw, broken sound, and kisses the underside of Neal's chin, sucks on his jaw as if he wants to draw out bruises. Desire is a dark ache, a rough scrape of stubble, a phantom pair of handcuffs.
—Neal's hand speeds up. Handcuffs. Oh God, he doesn't—
Peter has him cuffed to the bed by one wrist, face down, and Neal's not a girl anymore, and he's going to come any goddamned second now. Peter's on top of him, rocking into him, his dick hard and relentless and perfect. Neal's heart is hammering against his ribcage.
"Yeah," he groans into the mattress, one long drawn-out sound.
Peter's hand smoothes up his arm to his wrist, closes over the cuff, and Neal swears, his muscles sore, tightening—
—Neal's on his back, and Peter's sucking his cock, his eyes hot, fixed on Neal's face, and from the rustle of bedclothes and the movements of Peter's elbow, Neal can tell he's jacking himself too—
—Neal's a girl again, not just any girl, he's Elizabeth. Peter's on his back, and Neal's straddling his hips, riding him, and they're both so close, so fucking close. Peter's finger nudges Neal's clit, and Neal's snared by the way Peter looks at him, with a love so big it hurts. He puts his hand on Peter's chest and grinds down, over and over, edging them both toward—
—Neal's dick throbs. He bites his lip as he comes, determined not to say a word, not to groan out Peter's name, but his orgasm lasts a long time, shooting bolts of heat through him and shivering across his skin, and in the end he has to open his mouth, panting hard. The consonants slip out despite him.
Finally tension loosens its grip, and he sprawls, boneless and complete. Alone. He opens his eyes and stares unseeingly through the skylight, at the night sky that blankets half the world, holding secrets and constellations.
It's no big deal, he tells himself. This is hardly the first illicit fantasy he's indulged in, and it's not like there's really anything going on between him and Peter. Maybe if Neal were a girl, but he isn't, and Peter has Elizabeth. So it's harmless, like scouting out the security on an art museum without intent.
Neal bundles up the thoughts and feelings and puts them neatly away in the back of his mind. Maybe that was catharsis and he won't think of it again, or maybe he'll take the fantasy out and play with it sometime. Delve deeper into possibilities, push the boundaries. Maybe. Because that's another thing Peter said during the Franklin case: You don't have to drive one to dream about it.