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The thing about Patricia Burke was that nothing about her should have been a thing.
She wasn't a beautiful woman, not exactly, and she spent most of her day in what Luke Cruz used to call FBI-issue slacks which, he had been right, nobody looked good in. Somehow, without seeming to give a damn about her appearance, she pulled it off. Her face wasn't gorgeous but then you noticed her eyes weren't actually brown but a shade off hazel (he should ask Eliot about that, Eliot would probably know the word for it) and the short bob of her hair made her look so young sometimes. Gorgeous perhaps not; lovely, yes.
She had a lot of power in the Bureau but she didn't seem to be conscious of it. She just used it when she had to, and the rest of the time dominated the room by sheer force of personality. She was smart, too, the kind of smart that usually made men feel very, very threatened, and yet most of the men she worked with (they were almost exclusively men; she must have fought her way through the glass ceiling inch by inch) seemed to treat her like one of the boys, who just happened to have breasts.
Very nice breasts.
Eliot Burke was going to kill him.
In the three years Patricia had spent chasing him, it had never once occurred to Neal that she was a woman. Well, obviously it had, but only in a vague 'these are the facts' kind of way, and on occasion because Kate would get jealous of what she called his Federal Girlfriend. What was much more important was that Patricia was the first Fed to get so close to him, eventually the first Fed to catch him, and her brain was more interesting than her breasts.
The problem was that now he was totally used to her brain, used to the way she casually exercised her ownership of him every day, and independent of anything else he was starting to find himself...missing the anklet when they had to cut it, missing her reassuring presence when he was assigned other cases. And a man who has been in prison for four years and celibate for another eighteen months has a difficult time not noticing breasts like Patricia Burke's.
He would never do that to Eliot. Eliot was a great guy, the kind of guy Patricia totally deserved. He wasn't threatened by his wife's work or afraid of his wife's pet felon -- he sometimes asked her to bring him home for lunch since she was hopeless about tasting catering samples and Eliot always looked like he thought Neal needed regular feeding but was vague on how to go about it.
Once in a while, usually at the office and thankfully usually when they were alone, Patricia would absently call him Eliot. Sometimes she'd catch it and correct herself, but more often she didn't notice. Neal knew it was just because they looked alike, dark hair and blue eyes and fine features, and Eliot was almost as tall as he was -- but it always did something to him, something he didn't understand, the idea that perhaps she thought he was as good as her husband (frankly nobody was as good as Eliot). That she could forget that the difference between Neal Caffrey and Eliot Burke was most sharply illustrated in the anklet: the sign of her ownership that Neal couldn't take off. And, under certain conditions, would never want to.
Plus, Neal thought Eliot wasn't half-bad looking either and wouldn't have kicked him out of bed for eating pate en croute.
"Does Eliot ever mind?" he asked, one night when they were working late on a case and Patricia had called him to let him know she'd be missing dinner. He thought Eliot hadn't sounded happy about it.
"Me working late?" she asked, settling back in with a file folder.
"Well -- you working with a male CI, actually," he said. She glanced up at him, amused.
"You mean does he mind that it's you I'm working late with," she said.
"Yeah," Neal shifted uncomfortably, looking back down at his folder. Patricia leaned an elbow on the table and rested her chin in it, grinning at him.
"Do you think you have a snowball's chance in hell of stealing me from Eliot?" she asked.
"Not even that much," Neal muttered. There was more bitterness in it than he meant to show, and he carefully avoided looking at her.
"Are you attracted to me, Neal?" she asked, sounding surprised.
"Patricia, I don't understand how everyone in this office isn't attracted to you," he replied. "Now can we move on and crack this case so I can go home and die of embarrassment?"
She was silent for a while. "New plan," she said, gathering up the folders and tossing them into the file bin they'd come from. Neal looked up, startled. "Let's go. We can work from my place tonight, that'll make Eliot happy and there's no reason not to."
Neal thought there were a couple dozen good reasons not to, but he tossed his files in the bin along with hers and carried it out, trailing behind her like some kind of FBI-issue valet. She was quiet until they were in the car, crossing over the bridge.
"Eliot gave me this random article on office spouses a couple months ago," she said, glancing at him. "It's this thing where you bond with someone you work with until they're like your husband, only it's based around work and the office."
"So I'm your office husband?" Neal asked. "Eliot and I make a nice matched set. You definitely have a type."
She laughed. "No. I told him it wasn't like that. We do great work together, Neal, but you're not, you know...I don't think when I leave the office you cease to exist. You're not a tool. Well, not just a tool."
"So glad I rank above the stapler," he drawled. She laughed.
"You definitely rank above the stapler, Neal."
"What is it like, exactly?" Neal asked. Patricia swallowed.
"Sometimes you annoy the hell out of me. Sometimes you worry me, you worry me a lot. Sometimes..." she kept her eyes firmly on the road, "...I don't know, sometimes you wear that one shirt you have and I think about locking you in a supply closet and robbing you of any innocence you might have left."
Neal burst out laughing. "Which shirt?"
"The blue one."
"The really tight one?"
"Yeah, the one Jones says is held on by the eyes of everyone in the room," she laughed. "But Neal...that's just a fantasy. Everyone has fantasies. I love Eliot, and I wouldn't hurt him for the world." She cast a sidelong look at him. "You get it, right? You must have fantasies."
"I'm an artist. My fantasies come in technicolor surround-sound and are numbered by volume," he said. She chuckled, and he forged ahead because she'd just admitted to wanting to ravish him in a supply closet, so why not? "Not all of them are about you."
"I'd worry if they were."
"Some of them are about Eliot."
To her credit, she didn't slam on the brakes or swerve the car sharply in surprise. He did see her fingers flex on the steering wheel.
"Oh," she said. "I didn't know."
"Well, it's not one of those things you can get from forensics, like my shoe size," Neal said.
"No, your sexuality? Whatever, I knew that," she said, waving her hand. "I didn't know you felt that way about him."
"Wait, how did you know -- "
"Neal, please," she said. "If I didn't know you were bisexual when I arrested you, the way you used to stare at Luke Cruz's ass would have told me a year and a half ago. Not that I blame you," she added.
"Why, Agent Burke," Neal said. "Have you been ogling your junior staff?"
"It's only harassment if you get caught," she replied with a grin.
---
"Sweetheart?" Patricia called, when they walked inside. "Eliot?"
"Hey, hon, you're home after all," Eliot said, coming down the stairs and greeting her with a kiss. "Aw, you brought the puppy with you," he added, patting Neal on the head. "You two break the case?"
"Not yet," Patricia said.
"We brought files," Neal added, hefting the box.
"Ah, I see. Well, dinner's ready soon; do you want to do working dinner or can you take a break to be wooed by your husband over meatloaf?" he asked, wrapping an arm around Patricia's waist.
"I think the case will wait for dinner," she said. "How can I help?"
"Plates and silverware," he told her, letting her go. "Neal, you want to open the wine? Here, let me take that from you," he added, taking the box out of Neal's hands and setting it on the coffee table. "The weight of law," he grunted. "So, how've you been?"
"Good," Neal said, wandering to the wine rack and selecting a bottle. "We're clearing cases, getting convictions."
"Listen to you, lawman," Eliot teased. "And outside of work?"
"There's an outside of work?" Neal asked, and gave him a big smile, but he suspected Eliot saw through it.
"Don't let Patricia tell you otherwise," he said. "The FBI will eat you up if you let it, Neal. Case in point: look at you on a Thursday night, in your boss's home, meatloaf your sole recompense for the hours of work ahead of you."
"Well, you have good wine, too," Neal pointed out, removing the cork and accepting three glasses from Patricia as she passed. "And the meatloaf's nothing to complain about."
"Hm," Eliot gave him a skeptical look, but disappeared into the kitchen to fetch the meatloaf.
---
That night, after the meatloaf and the files and not-quite-making-a-breakthrough, after Patricia had done the dishes and Neal had gone home in a cab, she walked into the bedroom she and her husband had shared for years and announced, "Neal Caffrey's in love with us."
"Hm?" Eliot looked up from his sudoku. "I'm sorry, am I supposed to act surprised?"
"You knew?" she demanded, taking her earrings out and unbuttoning her blouse.
"Sweetheart, have you not been paying attention to the spaniel eyes he gives you every time you tell him to do something?" Eliot returned to his sudoku. "I'll admit that seducing a man via the criminal justice system is unorthodox, but then I knew you were unorthodox when I married you."
"You're included in 'us'," she said, pulling a nightgown over her head.
"I suspected I might be. The last time he came over and caught me doing yardwork without a shirt on, he went nonverbal for a minute."
"Well, that's because you're gorgeous," she told him, sliding into bed. He set his book aside and curled up next to her, nuzzling her cheek.
"You think we should do anything about it?" he asked.
"Like what?" she laughed. "If there's one thing I've learned about Neal, he holds onto his dumbest ideas the longest."
"Mmm. I don't think it's dumb to find you attractive."
"Well, I'm taken," she said. She kissed his nose.
"Do you find him attractive?"
"I'm not blind, Eliot, but I'm not going to seduce Neal Caffrey. It's just a harmless office thing."
"Well, maybe for you. You have me," Eliot pointed out. "Neal doesn't have anyone. It's not easy, you know, trying to meet people when you have a radius and a criminal record. Not to mention you guys don't exactly keep normal hours."
"Are you suggesting I set him up with someone?" she asked, confused now.
"No, my own, my beautiful intelligent wife who is a little slow when it comes to interpersonal matters," he said. "I'm suggesting you set him up with us. I can make a case for it if you want, but for now just think about being the center of attention between him and me."
She knew it was probably unwise, but she did think about it for just a split second. Neal wasn't wrong; she did have a type, and both he and Eliot were it. Neal was clever, and she liked clever; Neal was gorgeous, not that Eliot wasn't, and she suspected that in bed Neal would do anything either of them told him to do. Watching Neal kiss Eliot would be...an experience, for sure. Riding Neal, making him put that smart mouth to better purpose than usual, getting to explore all those flat-planed muscles...
Eliot must have seen it on her face; he grinned and kissed her and settled in, reaching over briefly to turn out the light.
"No pressure," he said. "S'up to you. But I wouldn't mind misappropriating that particular FBI asset once in a while."
---
Neal wore the tight blue shirt the next day. Patricia Burke was only human.
"I talked to Eliot last night," she said, leaning back in her chair at the end of the day. They'd broken the case, but they couldn't move on it for at least two days; plenty of time between then and now to work out some nervous energy.
"Oh?" Neal asked warily, standing in the doorway. He walked in and shut it, seating himself, his lean a little too casual to be real.
"Yeah. The expression 'misappropriate your asset' came up," she said. Neal grinned. "Would you...like to come over for dinner tonight?"
Neal cocked his head. "Agent Burke, are you and your husband asking me on a date?"
She didn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her blush. "You're my CI, Neal. I have too much power over you to set the terms here. So I'm asking you to come to dinner. If you want to call it a date, neither of us are going to correct you."
"Hm," Neal seemed to be genuinely considering it. "Eliot's okay with this?"
"Eliot likes you. He's used to sharing me with Neal Caffrey. If he were the kind of man to be insecure, Neal -- "
"He'd have made that clear a long time ago, huh?" Neal asked.
"Probably around the second year I was chasing you."
Neal leaned his elbows on the desk, still considering matters. "This is a little messed up," he said.
"It's a lot messed up, but unless you see a better solution..." she spread her hands.
"What if it goes badly?"
"You're not going back to prison because you wouldn't put out for me, Neal," she said gently.
"That's good to know, but I'd kind of like not to fuck up what I've got here."
"Neal Caffrey being cautious?" she asked. "Mark your calendars."
"Patricia Burke goading me into something? Must be Friday," he retorted.
"Did it work?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, it worked. I need to go home first, though. What time should I be there?"
"Seven?"
"Seven," he repeated, and stood up. "You sure about this?"
"Weirdly? I am," she said.
---
Technically there was nothing pressing at home that couldn't have waited, but Neal didn't show up to dates in his work clothes, definitely not important dates like this one. Seven gave him enough time to shower and shave, and if he took his time picking out the right wine to bring he'd be fashionably five-minutes-late. (Five minutes was fashionable. Ten minutes and Patricia would call the Marshals to find out where he was.)
When he got out of the shower, Moxie was collapsed all over his couch like she owned it, reading the newspaper.
"I thought you said those things would rot your brain," Neal remarked, walking to his closet and studying the shirts inside critically.
"Know thine enemy," Moxie answered, setting it aside. Neal began to dress, careless of her presence; she'd seen him in less than a towel, and in more embarrassing situations in general, during various heists over the years.
"I'm getting shaggy," she announced, rubbing her hand over the thin peachfuzz on her head.
"I like it," Neal told her.
"Well, of course you do, you have certain societal expectations of the feminine form that the dominant culture has forced you to believe I should conform to," Moxie told him. "In shaving my head I am sticking it to the Man."
"Right on, sister," Neal said absently, stepping into a pair of soft charcoal trousers. Another blue shirt, he decided; not the tight one, but one that would make his eyes look awesome.
"Look at you all fancy," Moxie remarked. "Big night?"
"Nah, just dinner with Patricia and Eliot."
"You don't normally dress for dinner with the Suit and Mr. Suit."
Neal shot her a sardonic look. "I got off work early, I thought I'd change. Don't you have conspiracies to be unraveling?"
"It's Friday night."
"So?"
"X-Files marathon? Duh?" she said, waving a hand at his television.
"Right. Well, don't let the commercials make you insecure about your femininity, social status, or skin care regime," Neal said, clapping her on the shoulder.
"It's the coded subliminal messages from the government running underneath the ads you have to watch for," she called, as he left.
"There's tinfoil for hats in the kitchen!"
---
Halfway through one of the most awkward dinners any of them could ever remember having -- especially with Neal, who was the guy you wanted on your side for making small talk -- Eliot set down his fork and turned to Neal, sitting next to him.
"This is ludicrous," he said. "Is it me you're worried about, or getting fired?"
Neal gave him a bland look. "Define 'me'."
"The idea that I don't actually approve of you. Or the idea that you have to have me to have Patricia."
"Hey, still in the room," Patricia said, waving at them.
"I'm just enjoying dinner," Neal announced.
"Of which you have eaten so much," Eliot pointed out. "My god, the pair of you. Patricia thinks she doesn't get nice shiny things like you without working for them, and you have issues on issues, I don't even know where to start digging. Well, I for one am a cheap date and want to get laid. You?" he asked his wife. She stared at him. "Neal?"
"Um." Neal's eyes darted back and forth from Patricia to Eliot. "You're not the issue."
"Great," Eliot said, and kissed him.
Patricia was aware she'd made a small noise of surprise, but it wasn't until Eliot pulled back from Neal, holding him firmly in place with one hand, that she realized she was staring. Eliot leaned in until he and Neal were almost touching again.
"I think you should kiss my wife," he said softly, "and we'll see if you still have issues on the other side of that."
He let go of Neal's shoulder and kicked Patricia's shin; she glared at him but when Neal circled the table and offered her a hand she took it and stood up, turning to face him.
"Hey, Tricks," he said, using the old nickname he'd given her when she was chasing him, years ago.
"Neal," she warned, but then he was kissing her, one hand on her cheek, kissing her like he was pouring the misplaced passion from three years of pursuit and almost four of prison and a year and a half of partnership into it. Different from Eliot's easy, constant affection -- not better, just new, and Neal didn't seem to want to stop or go or do anything but kiss her. When he finally did pull back a little, he was breathing hard. So was she.
"God, you're beautiful," he said, looking away like if she couldn't see him, she couldn't laugh at him.
"I've always thought so," Eliot said behind her. She startled and turned to him, and he rested his chin on her shoulder.
"You brought him home, Patricia," he said. "I hope he's housetrained."
Neal grinned at Eliot over his shoulder. "I also sit, stay, and beg."
"Good to know." Eliot kissed her neck. "So? Issues?"
"No," Neal said.
"Honey?"
"No," Patricia breathed. She turned to him again. "I get you both? Really?"
"Well, you have to share him with me," Eliot said. Neal's breath went out of him in a huff.
"Upstairs," Patricia said softly. Neal went without even looking back; Eliot wrapped his arms around her waist.
"He's so obedient," he said.
"Yeah, except when he's not," she replied.
"I have faith in you, Agent Burke. Now. Shall we see what other tricks Neal knows?"
END