Archive of Our Own

“Hon, you do realize that this will be the first New Year’s Eve in this century that I won’t be there to kiss you at midnight?” Peter asks, watching forlornly as El uses her thumb nail to sharpen her lipstick in the hallway mirror. She turns back to him with a soft smile, gripping the back of his neck and planting a strong kiss on his lips, disregarding her perfect lipstick in favor of reassuring Peter.

“You know if there was any way to get you as my plus one, I would’ve done it, honey. I promise you’ll have my first kiss when I see you in the morning,” Elizabeth tells him for the tenth time, patting his chest. Except, no, the promise about the next morning is odd, because -

“In the morning? How late is this art gala going to keep you, exactly?” Peter protests, and Elizabeth deflects a little, slipping out of his grip to grab her clutch off the couch.

“I’ll probably have to mingle until at least 3 AM,” El explains and holds up a finger to silence Peter’s oncoming insistence that he can stay up that late. “There’s no reason for you to wait up. I hate the thought of you all sleep-deprived and grumpy because of my job obligations.”

“I would not be grumpy,” Peter mutters, not bothering to dispute anything else about El’s plan when she’s got her serious face on.

“Besides, you won’t be here to wait up for me, anyways. The only thing I hate more than the thought of you all grumpy is the thought of you spending the New Year alone. That’s why you’ll be going to Neal’s,” Elizabeth finishes with a smile. But now Peter is sure as hell doing to dispute this plan.

“Neal’s- no, no, El, come on,” he whines, following her as her heels click towards the door. “He- he’s probably busy partying at one of Mozzie’s places.”

“No, Mozzie’s still in Detroit, visiting Mr. Jeffries for the holidays. And since I don’t want Neal alone either, the champagne you’re bringing him is on the kitchen counter,” Elizabeth says, and Peter realizes she’s put quite a bit of thought into this.

“Please, El, even with Mozzie out of town-” Peter stumbles over his words, deciding he really doesn’t want to know why his wife knows so much about the little imp’s whereabouts, “Neal’s probably- he’ll be too busy for me.” Despite his best efforts, a sour pucker comes over Peter’s face at the thought of Neal charming some pretty young woman into his apartment while his own wife charms art snobs downtown and he sits alone on the couch through it all. Elizabeth watches him, an eyebrow raised and smirk forming. Through a grimace, Peter finishes, “I’m sure he’s got a hot date.”

“Yes, he does. You,” Elizabeth answers, matter-of-fact. Peter’s eyes widen.

“I am not his da-” Peter can’t say it. He shakes his head and tries to glare, but it’s hard to beat El. “I thought we dropped this whole nonsense,” he pleads. Elizabeth comes to hold the sides of his face, giving him a pitying but unrelenting smile.

“You know my rules, honey. Just- take the champagne. Have a nice time. You never know,” she ignores Peter’s groan. “I’ll be there to kiss you and take you to breakfast tomorrow morning, promise.”

“Tomorrow morning- No, El, there is no way I’m spending the night in any bed other than the one I share with my wife.” He’s putting his foot down this time, really. Except Elizabeth isn’t phased in the slightest.

“Please, Peter. You’ll be too drunk to drive home, I’d be worried sick. I’m sure Neal will let you have the couch if you insist, but I’ll bet he’s got bed sheets with a thread count in the thousands,” El wiggles her eyebrows, and Peter mutters a disgusted “Oh, Lord.”

“I’ll pick you up by 11. But you can always call me and let me know if you and Neal need a late morning,” Elizabeth teases, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes that definitively does not remind Peter of Neal. At all. “Have fun,” she calls over her shoulder, walking out the door.

“We won’t!” Peter yells back, but the door is already closed.

Neal takes a deep breath and musters up a fake smile before opening the door. “Peter!” He greets, fake smile morphing into a genuine one when he sees Peter, looking totally miserable, holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and a six pack in the other. Neal steps out of the way for Peter to trudge in with a grunt in place of a hello and Neal suppresses a chuckle.

“From Elizabeth,” Peter announces as he sets the champagne on the dining table. “For me,” Peter places the six pack next to it and doesn’t waste any time twisting one open.

“Lovely to see you too,” Neal says quietly, only loud enough to tease, and closes the door behind them. Peter ignores him, taking a swig of his beer and surveying the apartment. Neal rolls his eyes - as if he’s still somehow going to leave contraband in plain sight when he knows Peter is coming over. But Peter’s gaze gets caught over his left shoulder for a moment too long, and Neal walks up behind him to follow his gaze to his unmade bed. When he turns to Peter, head tilted with curiosity, Peter’s eyes dart away.

“Sorry I didn’t do a better job cleaning up the joint, Elizabeth didn’t tell me I’d be hosting until this afternoon,” Neal explains, walking to the kitchen to grab two champagne flutes from his cabinet. He debates how much beer Peter will have to down before he’ll be amiable to using said flute, but Neal is confident he can get him there.

“I knew it,” Peter interrupts Neal’s happy train of thought with a sigh, putting his bottle down on the table with just a little too much force. “I knew you would have other plans, I tried to tell her that this was ridi-”

“Hey, relax, you’re fine,” Neal reassures, returning to the table and giving his best be-quiet-Peter glare. “Only plan you’re interrupting is between me and my couch. Where you’re welcome to sit, by the way.”

“You’re kidding. Neal Caffrey, with no plans to party on New Year’s Eve?” Peter asks, but he does obediently wander over to the living room with his beer back in his hand. Neal watches him go, captured by the sight of Peter so casual; a navy blue FBI t-shirt stretched tight over his broad shoulders and blue jeans to match, falling into place on Neal’s couch, looking almost at home.

“Yeah, well, Mozzie’s-”

“Visiting Jeffries, I heard,” Peter finishes for him with another bitter swallow. Neal laughs and focuses back on pouring his champagne.

“Elizabeth just knows everything, doesn’t she?” Neal shakes his head, but Peter can clearly hear the smile lilting his voice. Peter doesn’t sound quite as amused when he hums in agreement. Neal sips his drink and hums his own happy approval, though. That woman does know everything, Neal thinks to himself as he makes a mental note to buy more of this bottle next time he goes out.

“Still...” Peter says, examining Neal from across the room. “I figured you’d have somewhere to be, someone to sweep off her feet.” Neal laughs, ducking his head down as he comes to join Peter on the couch. He decides he might as well take Peter’s sidestepping accusations head-on so they can get through the night.

“The only woman I would consider dancing with tonight would be June,” Neal defends, hoping that’ll shut Peter up on the romantic inquiry front.

“Where is June?” Peter asks, looking around the apartment as if she’ll suddenly pop out of the bookcase. Neal laughs. Peter’s sort of endearing; he can’t help it.

“Singing at the Cotton Club. She invited me to come out and support her, but it’s a bit...”

“Out of your radius,” Peter finishes Neal’s sentence again, and Neal nods into his champagne. Peter exhales sharply, a little embarrassed to have brought it up. “I’m sorry, Neal.”

“Nah, don’t be,” Neal puts on an easy smile. “This is much more fitting. Celebrating one year closer to the anklet coming off with the man who put it on,” Neal teases, but Peter slightly deflates instead of laughing it off. Okay, Neal thinks, different tactic. He’s not about to spend the whole night with a moping Peter. “Honest, Peter. A night in with you will be much more relaxing. C’mon, we’ll sit back with our alcohol, watch New Year’s Rockin’ Eve, and pretend to be normal, boring people.”

“Watching New Year’s Rockin’ Eve is not boring,” Peter bristles, and Neal smiles in victory.

“Oh, that what you and Elizabeth normally do, huh?” Neal leans back into the couch and awaits the rant.

“Yes. Yes it is,” Peter states. “At least I convinced her to stop dragging us over to the neighbors’ block party for mocktails and small talk - that is a boring New Year’s.”

“Oh, yeah?” Neal eggs him on, laughing and sipping his champagne.

“Believe me - every year, Linda’s conviction that she had a lost calling as a bartender got stronger, but the drinks never did. It was excruciating, smiling while she forced virgin Shirley Temples down our throats. That stuff, it’s like- it tastes like liquid pink,” Peter shivers in disgust at the mere memory. “In comparison to that, there’s nothing wrong with a happy couple spending a calm night alone, watching the ball drop.”

“No, of course not,” Neal says, mockingly innocent and truly deserving of a medal for glossing over the ball dropping jokes. “So that’s what we’ll do. No Shirley Temples, guaranteed. I’ll just stand in for Elizabeth for the night and you’ll have the perfect New Year’s.”

For some reason, that just seems to rile Peter up all over again. He takes an angry swig, and Neal notes with surprise that his beer is almost empty already. Even under the pressure of teasing, Peter’s being unusually squirrelly. Neal narrows his eyes, and tests the waters, “Though, you know, I hear it hasn’t been as good since Ryan Seacrest took over.”

“Of course not, it’s Dick Clark’s Rockin’ Eve,” Peter scoffs, and Neal listens very patiently while Peter rants on about the semantics of naming a show after the host and then replacing said host with a wannabe. That’s much more like what Neal hoped to get out of the night. When Peter notices Neal watching him with a serene, absentminded smile on his face, though, he flushes red. “What?!”

“Nothing,” Neal quickly replies, shrugging in surrender. “It’s just nice.”

“What. Is nice?” Peter asks before tilting his head back to gulp down the rest of his beer in one go. Neal watches his Adam’s apple bob with eyebrows raised, having trouble remembering what he was going to say next.

“It’s been a while since we hung out,” Neal manages. Peter side-eyes him warily as he stands, heading back to the dining table to grab another beer. “I know we see each other all the time at work, but - normally, when you drop by, it’s to whisk me away on a case. It’s nice to have you over as a friend for once.” Alarm bells go off in the back of Neal’s head that scream: way too sincere. “Even if your wife forced you,” he adds with a flash of a bright smile thrown over his shoulder. It’s wasted on Peter, who leans forward to plant his hands flat on the table, head hung low and completely missing Neal’s smiles. He stays there, silent, and Neal isn’t sure what to make of it.

“Peter? Are you okay?” No answer. “You’re being weird,” Neal states, hoping it’ll be blunt enough to draw Peter out. It is. He whips around to face Neal, cheeks red. Probably from downing his beer in less than five minutes, Neal notes with some worry. He sets his champagne glass down on the coffee table carefully, like Peter might spook at sudden movement.

“Let’s go to the Cotton Club,” Peter blurts, reminding Neal that he is one of the few people capable of truly shocking him.

“I’m sorry?”

“C’mon, we shouldn’t- you shouldn’t be cooped up alone in here. June invited you out.”

“Yeah,” Neal narrows his eyes at Peter again as he stands. “But Harlem is a lot more than two miles from here.”

“You can leave that radius when chaperoned by your handler, remember?” Peter supplies, hands slipping as he tries to open his next beer. The word chaperone sticks out to Neal, and he takes a hesitant step forward. Peter gets the cap off his bottle and takes a gulp.

“So you’re... offering to chaperone me?” Neal repeats, studying Peter’s facial twitch in response to the word chaperone, just like he thought. “To get drunk at your wife’s favorite jazz club.” Peter twitches again on wife. This night is shaping up to be far more intriguing than even Neal could’ve hoped, and he didn’t even have to con his way into it - it was literally Peter’s idea. Never one to turn down an intriguing opportunity, Neal warms to the new vision of the night. Torturing the weirdness out of Peter while listening to June sing can only bring good omens for the new year.

“Alright,” Neal agrees, a smile blooming on his face. Despite the obvious mischief there, Peter smiles back in relief. “But if we’re going to the Cotton Club, we’ll have to find you something to wear.”

“Wha- oh,” Peter looks down at himself, the FBI shirt and jeans he put on thoughtlessly this morning. “I guess we can go back to my-”

“Nonsense, no need,” Neal cuts him off, breezing past him towards his walk-in closet. “Some of Byron’s suits were too big for me. We have what we need right here.”

“Oh, I don’t think-”

“Peter, we’re going out to support June, right? Both of her boys show up in her man’s old suits, she’ll love it,” Neal argues. Before Peter can protest that he certainly isn’t ‘one of June’s boys,’ Neal has disappeared into the closet. He follows, totally hopeless that he’ll make it out of this night alive.

Neal spends - according to Peter - an eternity fussing over how to dress him up. He holds up a thousand different button downs in front of Peter, discarding some with a scoff and smiling approvingly at others based on metrics that sail over Peter’s head. As long as it takes him to decide on an ensemble, it takes just as long to convince Peter to actually put it on.

“Do the shoes fit?” Neal calls through the closet door, waiting outside impatiently for Peter’s debut. He just grunts in response, but Neal doesn’t lose hope.

The door finally creaks open, and when Neal sees Peter, he knows this is going down in history as some of his best work. Peter’s in head-to-toe black - well, shoulder-to-toe black, because he’s too stubborn to put on the fedora Neal gave him, of course. But the the silk tie, the matte button down, the sheen of the vest and the jacket’s lapels, the shine of Byron’s oxfords - every texture of black combines in a divine way. Looking at Peter like this, Neal can hardly believe he wanted to see Peter all casual an hour ago.

“Well?” Peter asks, forcing Neal to pull his eyes back up to Peter’s nervous face. “Will it do?”

“Oh, you’ll do,” Neal says, and Peter decides it’s wisest to ignore the fact that Neal shifted the noun from ‘it’ to ‘you.’ Probably meaningless.

“Oh, no, no! We can’t go- no, El said she’d be out ‘till three. We gotta- gotta beat her,” Peter pants into Neal’s ear. Neal fails to hold the smile off his face, but considering he’s holding Peter on his feet, he gives himself a pass. He manages to steer Peter towards the coat check and hands over their tickets to the sympathetically smiling woman behind the counter.

“Well, it’s almost 4 AM, you did a great job,” Neal lies through his teeth, making the coat clerk glance, worried, at the clock behind her before handing over their coats. It clearly reads 2:40 AM, and Neal shoots her a wink. He gets their coats and a giggle out of it, but it’s a small victory considering the battle of forcing Peter into his coat is mounting on the horizon.

Neal’s never seen Peter so out of it. He can barely handle his alcohol when he takes it slow and steady, and tonight... He’d switched from beers to scotch around eleven, and by half past one, Neal had to cut him off from the bottom shelf vodka shots. June stopped by their spot at the bar in between sets and got such a hoot out of the whole circus that Neal is sure she’ll forgive them for leaving before she’s done performing for the night. She’d offered to drive them back to the house, but Neal made the executive decision that the price of another cab ride was worth getting Peter home sooner rather than later. Peter’s amused him so much tonight that he doesn’t even think he’ll ask Peter to pay for his half of the fare. Or maybe that’s Neal’s own buzz talking - the ride isn’t cheap, and he feels obligated to tack on an extra large tip for the inconvenience of Peter’s nonstop drunken rambling, too.

But, no - Peter earns his keep in spades by providing Neal with enough material to hold over his head for the entire new year to come. When Neal finally guides them safely back into his apartment, Peter immediately starts shedding his layers as he stumbles through the kitchen. Neal gets the door locked and his own shoes kicked off just in time to turn around and catch a glimpse of Peter undoing his shirt buttons and slipping into the bathroom. He rushes to follow, not liking the odds of Peter somehow managing to lock him out and fall asleep on the tile. But when Neal enters the bathroom’s doorway, Peter isn’t trying to shut him out. He’s rifling through the medicine cabinet.

“Where is my damn toothbrush?” Peter mutters, unhappily closing the cabinet when he can’t find his toothbrush where he normally keeps it. With the cabinet mirror swung back into place, Neal realizes that Peter made quick work of his shirt buttons; his chest is completely bared to Neal in the reflection, black shirt only hanging loosely on his shoulders. He plants his hands soundly on his hips, scouring the bathroom and landing angrily on Neal’s blue toothbrush, propped up in a cup on the sink. “Mine is green,” he says at the toothbrush like he’s arguing with the thing itself.

“I-” Neal has to pause to clear his suddenly dry throat. “I keep a spare toothbrush in the drawer, here,” Neal gently pushes Peter aside to reach into the drawer in question. Peter giggles in a way that a grown man should not be allowed to giggle and it distracts him from getting the plastic open as quickly as he should.

“Ooh, he’s giving me the toothbrush he keeps for his girlfriends,” Peter singsongs, and Neal only blushes a little when he laughs.

“You are the only man who could forget whose bathroom he’s in one second and deduce why I keep a spare toothbrush the next. It could be a backup replacement for me, you know,” Neal says with a shake of his head as he hands said toothbrush to Peter. Peter stares at it with widening eyes.

“No, too many girlfriends,” he says quietly. Neal can’t tell if it’s meant to be a defense of his deduction or a lament.

“I don’t have that many girlfriends, Peter,” Neal corrects, speaking equally softly. Peter bursts out in an awkward chuckle, startling Neal back for a second.

“Thank you for the girlfriend toothbrush,” Peter says, abruptly swiping Neal’s toothpaste off the counter. His tongue pokes out between his lips like a kid while he applies it, and Neal lets himself exhale a laugh.

“Yeah,” Neal breathes. “Yeah, ‘course.” He just stands there, next to Peter at his bathroom sink, unsure how to process his fully-drunk half-dressed friend brushing his teeth in front of him. Peter makes eye contact with him in the mirror, catches onto Neal’s nerves and pauses his brushing with the toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. Slowly, he reaches forward, grabs Neal’s toothbrush from the cup on the counter, and slowly, holds it up to Neal. This time, when Neal laughs, it’s loud and open. He takes his toothbrush, head shaking, and quickly plops on some toothpaste. They brush their teeth side by side and both laugh through foamy mouths.

Peter spits first, wiping the back of his hand on his mouth and swallowing when he’s done. Neal chuckles, but he isn’t about to rough it like that. While he fills his cupped hands with water to swish, Peter wanders out of the bathroom behind him. After he rinses his mouth, Neal pokes his head out to check that Peter hasn’t made it out the front door or onto the balcony, and when he’s sure Peter is safely on his way to collapsing on the couch, he pads over to his closet and shuts the door behind him. He leans against it in the dark for a brief reprieve. A few deep breaths later, and he has to collect himself and root around for pajamas. He picks up Peter’s discarded t-shirt from the wooden floor and bites his lip.

Neal emerges from the closet in a white t-shirt and his favorite blue plaid pants, the FBI shirt and an extra pair of his gym shorts clutched in his hand for Peter’s sake. He trips on air walking through his kitchen when he sees that Peter has not, in fact, collapsed on the couch, but face-down on Neal’s bed instead. His beautiful black button down and suit pants lie in a crumpled mess at the foot of the bed, and- oh my God, he’s wearing black boxers. And nothing else. In Neal’s bed.

No, okay, this is okay, Neal steels himself. This is where we knew we’d end up if we’re going to help him change. He supposes he should be thankful that Peter actually did half the job on his own, but the shock of seeing Peter like this - in his bed, no less - sucks the gratitude out of him.

“Peter, c’mon, get up,” Neal coaxes, but Peter doesn’t even grunt an answer. “Peter?” Neal tests, holding his breath as he comes to stand over Peter and check if he’s sleeping. His bare back rises and falls slowly, but he can’t genuinely be asleep with his face flat in the sheets like that. Neal decides to take the opportunity to gently lift his ankles, threading his gym shorts around them and sliding them up Peter’s legs. It goes okay until he’s up over the knees, at which point Neal realizes that even the stretchy elastic waistband of his shorts isn’t going over Peter’s thick thighs without a fight. He tugs them up for a moment anyways, but the movement disturbs Peter awake.

“Whacha doing?” Peter mumbles into the sheets, and Neal freezes like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Except he’s not doing anything illicit - he’s trying to redress Peter, for God’s sake.

“Gotta get you in pajamas, big guy,” Neal explains. Peter sighs loudly and rolls over, promptly kicking away all of Neal’s progress on the shorts. Fortunately for Neal, his eyes remain closed and he doesn’t notice Neal struggling not to stare at his chest and shoulders, which are now on full display.

“’S’fine like this,” Peter says, draping an arm over his head to clutch at the pillow in a lazy sort of stretch. Neal sighs, resolutely does not look at Peter’s exposed and elongated side, and weighs his options.

“It gets cold in here,” he warns, but Peter just smiles.

“Fancy sheets’ll keep me warm,” he counters. “El told me so,” he says dreamily. Neal sits on the side of the bed, watching Peter with his brows deeply furrowed.

“El told you what?” He asks, laughing gently.

“She said I’d like your fancy sheets. They are nice,” Peter’s eyes are still closed and he nestles deeper into the mess of blankets and sheets. Neal is so certain he has no idea what he’s saying.

“You and El talked about my bed, huh?” he asks, meaning it as a rhetorical question, but his chuckle falls away when Peter nods in response. He blinks. But he shakes himself off - by ‘talked about his bed’ Peter surely just means his sheets. Maybe Elizabeth is trying to get him to invest in the finer things in life, the angel she is.

“We talked about you a lot,” Peter says, and Neal stiffens again. Now is the time to turn off the light and recede to his couch like a gentleman. Now is the time to let Peter sleep.

“Oh, yeah? What do you talk about?” The playful words come out of some alien’s mouth. Not Neal’s.

“You,” is all Peter answers with a giggle, and Neal sighs in relief. It’s a sign; he’s not meant to know what conversations pass between husband and wife. Even if it’s about him. Even if Peter did offer up the information in the first place. But then Peter continues - unprompted by Neal, for the record - “She says I have a crush on you.”

Peter’s own words set him off laughing. Neal stares. He doesn’t dare breathe. “Which is nonsense, o’course, cause I’m in love with her, silly,” Peter rambles on. “But then she says you can love multiple someones.”

Guilt crashes over Neal like a tsunami. He relives every interaction he’s had with the Burkes, kicks himself for every extra second he let his gaze linger on Peter, every tiny sharp inhale he couldn’t hide when Peter looked into his eyes. Of course Elizabeth noticed it all, of course she was jealous- she had Peter first, of course- not that Neal ‘has’ Peter. He should never, never have let a married man get this drunk and wind up in his bed. He should’ve ignored Elizabeth’s suggestion to have Peter stay over and taken him back to 106-

At the same time that the phrase ‘Elizabeth’s suggestion’ registers in Neal’s mind, Peter says in a slightly indignant tone, “She says you probably believe in loving multiple someones, too.”

Neal hardly trusts himself to speak, but he needs Peter to keep going, so he tries, “Oh, yeah?”

“She says I’m allowed to love you both,” Peter muses. It knocks the wind out of Neal to realize the gravity of it - Elizabeth knows and she’s okay with it. She sent Peter here tonight with champagne - she’s not just okay, she’s encouraging. It makes Neal’s head spin. Of course, Peter picks this time to finally open his eyes and study Neal. For all his skills, Neal can’t muster a neutral expression for the life of him. He is overwhelmed, humbled, awed at his luck, and Peter is half naked in his bed. It’s too much. Peter squints his eyes at him. “Do you?”

Neal blinks, feeling like the question is a left-hook wake-up from some beautiful dream. “Uh- do- ha, um, do I what?”

“Believe in loving multiple someones?” Peter asks, putting on his best attempt at his usual menacing interrogation face. Neal chokes out a laugh.

“I don’t know,” Neal whispers. But Peter squints so hard that he ends up unevenly closing one eye, and Neal wants to pinch himself awake again. “I think,” are you seriously saying this out loud? “I think that for you, Peter, I would believe in a lot of impossible things.”

Peter closes both eyes at that with a harrumph. Neal reminds himself to suck air in and out, telling himself Peter’s probably too far gone to even comprehend what he heard, and certainly past the point of remembering it tomorrow morning.

As for the morning memory, he’ll have to wait and see, but Peter shoots down Neal’s hopes of being misunderstood when he grumbles, “Sounds like what El would say.” And with that, he rolls over onto his stomach again, snoring in seconds.

Peter wakes up slow. It must be his body’s survival technique to pull him back into the world at a snail’s pace, because processing the harsh morning sunlight beating on his eyelids, the throbbing ache in his head, and his bone dry throat all at once would maybe kill him. He groans, throwing a wayward arm out to wrap around El.

There’s no El. Peter feels around, and against his better judgment, his eyes shoot open to look for her. He fights the urge to close them instantly and confirms that there’s no El, just gray and red sheets - gray and red?

“Shit, shit, shit,” Peter mutters to himself, and a fresh kind of hell pounds in his head: he’s in Neal’s bed. Flashes of arriving here last night hit him, as do flashes of leaving here for the Cotton Club, but before Peter can bother piecing together a timeline, it occurs to him that he’s not wearing a shirt. He frantically grabs at the blanket and pokes his head down to check - just boxers?! Peter isn’t sure exactly what that means, but it has to be bad. “Oh, shit.”

There’s a snort from across the room, and Peter suddenly clamps the blanket down over his chest, forcing his head up to look. Neal - he’s fully clothed - is watching him from behind his newspaper with a distinctively smug look on his face. Bad, bad, bad.

“Neal,” Peter croaks out, morning voice low and rusty. One of Neal’s eyebrows quirks up in response.

“Peter,” Neal parrots, but he’s about a thousand times more put together. He folds the newspaper and sets it beside him on the couch, and Peter instinctively clutches tighter at the blanket when he sees Neal stand. Neal’s smirk deepens, but he turns away from Peter and heads for the kitchen without another word. Peter doesn’t know whether to curse him for not jumping into the explanation he clearly has or praise him for putting some distance between them.

“Wha-” Peter has to clear his throat, but his voice is his own again when he says, “What time is it?”

“Almost ten,” Neal answers breezily from the kitchen. Peter is going to strangle him. The smell of coffee comes first - then Neal is walking back towards him, a steaming mug cradled in his hands. Okay, so Peter might have to hold off on the strangling. He’ll get around to it after coffee. He sits up, trying to prepare to accept it, but quickly slouches back down when he remembers: still no shirt. Neal smiles his stupid smug smile when he sees it, easily picking up Peter’s t-shirt from the floor beside the bed on his way. He silently hands over the shirt first and gracefully averts his eyes while Peter grunts through pulling it back over his head. Then, when Peter can actually sit up, he holds out the coffee in offering. Peter snatches it up and takes a long drink. It’s a little strong, but it’s hot and fresh and brings some function back to Peter’s short-circuiting brain.

Neal doesn’t hide his staring, examining Peter carefully while he stands above him. “How much do you remember about last night?”

Peter’s going to need a lot more coffee before he can answer that, so he takes another gulp. He lets it wash over his dry throat and contemplates what the hell he does remember. Overpaying for beer at the convenience store on the way here. Getting so nervous that he actually puked in his mouth a little when Neal suggested being a stand-in for Elizabeth. Putting on a creepy dead criminal’s suit and feeling weirdly good in it. Breathing in Neal’s secondhand cigar smoke at the Cotton Club while June’s voice rang through the place. That’s when it starts to get really hazy.

“The Cotton Club,” Peter says slowly, this time watching Neal’s reaction. Neal smiles, nods. Then he looks down and laughs, and even though he’s standing right above Peter, the laugh seems private somehow. Peter swallows more coffee. “How much do you remember?”

Neal gives him a pitying smile, one that says, ‘you know I’m not going to tell you,’ and strangling comes back to the forefront of Peter’s mind. As he expects, Neal just turns away, returning to sit on the couch. He picks up his newspaper and hides behind it again while Peter gapes at him.

Peter open his mouth and closes it several times before landing on a shaky, “Nothing... happened, right?”

Neal lowers the paper just enough for Peter to meet those mischievous blue eyes. “What possibly could’ve happened?” Neal is evil. Peter knew he could be wily, but this is pure evil. He almost says as much, but he’s pretty sure that would only spur him on.

“Right. Right, nothing happened,” Peter says, mostly to himself now that he knows Neal isn’t going to be any help. Peter needs help. He scans around, and sure enough, his phone is sitting neatly on the bedside table. Peter highly doubts he left it there himself, but he doesn’t have to move his aching body too far to grab it, so he decides to pick his battles and not care how it got there. He scrambles to find El’s contact, pretending he can’t see Neal lowing his paper to peer at him again. There are no missed texts or calls, but given that his wife isn’t supposed to be here for another hour, he has to call her now.

He wants to be unphased by Neal’s watchful eye, but he just isn’t. With a groan, he sets down the mug, throws back the covers, and forces his stiff joints to take him over to hide in Neal’s closet. He makes the journey feeling very exposed and a little cold in his bare feet and boxers, but Neal doesn’t comment on it. When Peter checks over his shoulder before closing the closet door, in fact, Neal is sipping his own mug of coffee, reading the paper, and looking annoyingly, thoroughly unbothered.

His first call rings him all the way through to voicemail, but on the first ring of his second call, Elizabeth answers with a groggy but happy, “Morning, hon.”

“Elizabeth,” Peter says, trying to tamp down the panic in his voice and keep the volume to a minimum. “You have to get me out of here.”

“Aw, what? Did the date not go well?” El coos, tsking in disappointment.

“The- no! There was no date! I just- ahg, I can’t remember,” Peter concedes, slumping his back against the door in defeat. Elizabeth laughs heartily, but he can hear fabric rustling sounds, and that gives him hope that she’s getting up and on her way to help him escape.

“Oh, so the date went too well,” El amends, and Peter sighs in exasperation.

“I woke up in his bed,” he hisses, and Elizabeth’s laughing grows by the second. “This isn’t funny, El! I don’t think anything happened, but-”

“Did you wake up in his bed or in bed with him?” Elizabeth cuts him off to clarify, switching into problem-solving gear. Peter runs a hand over his face.

“In his bed. He was sitting on the couch, already wearing a sweater and khakis.”

“Ooh. And what were you wearing?” Elizabeth asks, making a joke out of being sultry, but Peter is too damn stressed to be turned on right now.

“El,” he warns, and she backs down with a chuckle.

“Well, hon, since he was up and about, did you think about just asking him if anything happened?”

“Yeah. Get this: he said, ‘what possibly could have happened?’ The little bastard,” Peter says, glaring over his shoulder in case Neal can feel it through the door and across the apartment.

“Hon, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. If something serious had happened, I’m pretty sure he would be just as freaked out as you, right?” She reasons, and Peter takes a deep breath, liking her theory. “He’s probably just gloating that you did or said something embarrassing while drunk, sweetie.”

“Oh, great. That makes me feel so much better,” Peter deadpans.

“Happy to help, honey,” Elizabeth replies in a cheery voice, glossing right over Peter’s sarcasm. “Okay, well, clearly, you two should talk. I’ll pick you up at eleven, as promised?”

“What? No, El, you have to come right now, I cannot go back out there,” Peter pleads.

“Hey, yanno, come to think of it, where are you hiding?”

“In the closet,” Peter answers, and his brows knit together when El breaks out in another loud laugh.

“You’re hiding from your boy-crush in his literal closet. The irony of that cannot be lost on you.” Elizabeth sighs happily and Peter thinks he might have to kill himself in addition to Neal.

“Just get here?”

“At eleven. Love you, honey!” And then she hangs up.

Peter goes to shove his traitorous phone into his pocket when: just boxers. He groans, thinking he’ll have to either walk out of here in his underwear again or a pair of Byron’s suit pants to match his FBI t-shirt. Perfect. But he quickly spots the jeans he left in here last night laying in the corner and sends out a prayer of thanks to whoever’s up there for compelling him into the closet and not the bathroom to hide, closet jokes from his wife notwithstanding.

As Peter crosses the room to retrieve his pants, mid-internal gripe about how damn big this closet is, he remembers that it wasn’t always a closet. Hopping into his jeans one leg at a time, he rushes to feel behind the jackets for the wall that pulls away to reveal the two-way mirror. “Ah-ha,” he mutters when he feels one panel start to slide. He pushes everything out of the way and peers through the glass, but alas, anticlimax. Neal is still perched at the other end of the room enjoying his coffee and morning paper like some nonchalant… nonchalant-man. (Peter will insult him more eloquently when he’s not hungover.) He’s infuriating, through and through.

Peter attempts a casual waltz out of the closet, a nice easy saunter to the bedside table where he left his coffee mug. He’s pretty sure Neal is laughing at him anyways.

“So how’s Elizabeth?” Neal asks before taking a particularly loud slurp of coffee. Peter glares at him, almost denies it, then rolls his eyes.

“She’s going to pick me up in an hour,” Peter grumbles, hating how much he sounds like a teenage boy waiting for his parents at a sleepover. Neal doesn’t press the issue, though, just nodding thoughtfully and setting down his paper. Peter isn’t entirely sure what to do, but standing halfway in Neal’s bedroom doesn’t feel like the right move. He recovers his coffee mug and carefully maneuvers into one of the chairs across from Neal. They take simultaneous sips, staring each other down. Except it’s more like Peter staring Neal down and Neal sizing Peter up with wandering eyes. Peter isn’t sure what to make of any of this, and it’s making him more and more frustrated by the second. He wishes desperately for some feeling of control to descend back upon him, but in lieu of divine intervention, he supposes he’ll have to take his control back.

He’ll just lean on Neal like a suspect. They’ve done it before. Although, the previous times they did this dance, Peter was sure of the ‘what’ of Neal’s crimes and just searching for a ‘how.’ Now, he knows the how - alcohol, and lots of it - but the crime eludes him. It’s an interesting challenge.

“I have to say - it’s been many years since I woke up and couldn’t remember the first few hours of a new year,” Peter starts with a concession, because hell, it’s not like he had the high ground anyways. Hopefully, if he can build Neal up enough, he won’t be able to resist a revealing gloat. But Neal just smiles a tight-lipped smile, cocking his head to the side. Peter gets the message loud and clear: swing and a miss.

“Care to help me fill in the blanks?” A more direct appeal, then. That gets Neal to place his mug on the coffee table.

“Well, what blanks do you have?”

“I told you; my memory trails off around the Cotton Club,” Peter reminds Neal. Then he sits back and waits for his quid pro quo. Neal has to consider what information he’ll give in return, but Peter is patient. He’s ready to listen and up the ante.

“June was phenomenal,” Neal says, smile turning nostalgic for a night that happened mere hours ago. June’s voice will do that to you, though.

“That much I remember,” Peter agrees, taking another sip of coffee. “And if I recall correctly, you were right about her being delighted to see us in Byron’s suits.” A little more nostalgia, a little more appealing to Neal’s ego. Neal can’t hide his pleasure at the flattering memory this time. June had teared up at the sight, and leaned soft against Neal’s shoulder when they danced together later that night. The Cotton Club didn’t quite have a dance floor, but Peter latched onto Neal’s joke about only dancing with June and pushed them into it, just for half a song. June had to return to the stage, but she didn’t leave without making a sly comment about Peter needing to dance, too, especially in Byron’s shoes, before she left. Peter would likely be relieved to know that he did not, in fact, end up dancing in a non-dancing club, but a smile plays at Neal’s lips while he debates whether or not to tell Peter that.

“Yes, very delighted. Even more delighted to have you dance in Byron’s shoes,” Neal bluffs. Peter’s face pales for a moment while the memory materializes from Neal’s echo of June’s words. Neal holds his breath, waiting to see whether or not Peter will believe he danced. But a flush returns to Peter’s face, and while some of it is probably drawing on his embarrassment, his grin tells Neal it’s not all shame.

“I’m sure she would have been, if I had danced, yes,” Peter answers, proud and sure of himself. Neal admires his recovery, and realizes that he wouldn’t have expected any less from Peter Burke. It wouldn’t be like him to trip up this early in the volley.

“If you had, I’m sure,” Neal nods, giving Peter acknowledgment on his small win. Emphasis on small; Neal hasn’t forgotten who’s holding all the cards, and he’s not about to let Peter forget, either. He thinks carefully about what memory to dangle in front of Peter next, but while he’s considering, he notices Peter fiddling with his wedding band. Neal decides to let the silence hold, let his gaze brazenly focus on the ring. It has the intended effect: Peter takes his left hand off the coffee mug and rests his palm on his thigh, further out of sight. Peter only realizes what’s happened when he catches Neal’s eyes brighten. He scolds himself profusely. He hates when Neal forces him into tiny missteps like that, especially so early in the conversation. He’ll have to excuse it with his still-pounding headache. He brings his left hand back up to support the mug when he takes another sip to refresh himself. Neal gets the message loud and clear.

“I can’t even remember counting down to midnight,” Peter lets his genuine incredulity take over his voice, shaking his head at himself. He’ll take a pity win, he doesn’t mind Neal looking at him with a little sadness.

“Probably because it wasn’t a big to-do, honestly. Delmon counted down, people clapped, people kissed,” Neal throws it out offhandedly, but Peter’s breath still sticks in his throat. Did we kiss? Peter’s head spins, his mind filling in his missing memory with a thousand and one renditions of what their New Year’s kiss might’ve been, if it had been. Neal’s lips look soft, but kissing him wouldn’t be soft like kissing El is soft. Kissing El is a whisper of her bangs brushing his forehead, the palm of her hand holding true on the nape of his neck or small of his back. Kissing Neal would be taut, tensed muscle pressed into tensed muscle and blunt fingernails tracing hesitant lines, about to explode from holding back.

Oh, Peter realizes, I am so totally done for.

When El finally arrives to put Peter out of his misery, Neal of course has to have the most ominous interaction possible with her, just to make sure Peter never knows peace. He welcomes her into his place with a huge friendly bear hug - extra friendly, even for him. He offers to make them all breakfast, but when Peter gives her the ‘no way in hell’ glare from over Neal’s shoulder, she politely declines. Neal takes it in stride, only a quick glance back at Peter before he continues on to be as sweet as molasses, wishing Elizabeth good new year’s tidings and insisting she stop by some time soon to tell him all about the art and antiquities she saw at her gala the night before. El, because she also wants Peter to know no peace, tells him it’s a date.

Peter is silent until he’s securely in the passenger’s seat, at which point he turns to her and demands, “‘It’s a date’?! Are you trying to kill me?”

El rolls it off her back and presses her ultra-convenient push-to-start engine on her fantastic new Ford. “Deep breaths, honey. New Year’s Kiss,” she states, pointing expectantly at her lips. Peter rolls his eyes, but obediently leans in to give her a peck.

Kiss fulfilled, Elizabeth lets him rant as much as he pleases on their drive, nodding along and giving reassurance in all the appropriate places while she takes them to their favorite deli on mental autopilot. Peter doesn’t rant of much substance, but once she returns with a bacon egg and cheese bagel for him, he gains significant amounts of coherence. They finally return home to their back porch, where Elizabeth sips her smoothie and settles in for the real conversation to begin.

“Okay, now, you remember my rules. Tell me everything, start to finish.”

“Honey, are you not listening? I can’t remember-”

“Just. Start at walking to his place, take me as far as you can, and then pick up this morning,” Elizabeth directs. Peter stress eats the last bite of his sandwich, takes a deep breath, and begins at the overpriced beer.

By the time Peter gets around to sheepishly admitting to the thoughts he had about maybe kissing Neal, Elizabeth has damn near smiled her face off and they’re both hungry for lunch.

“Do you want deviled ham? I’m making you deviled ham,” Elizabeth promises without even waiting for a response. She kisses him on the cheek and hurries back inside. Peter has never been more grateful for a wife who can read his mind; a moment alone to recoup and comfort food on the way is exactly what he wants. He tries not to think too long about what it must mean if the wife who can read his mind is convinced that he’s falling in love with his C.I.

“El, I’m telling you, this makes me nervous,” Peter repeats, a warning in his voice. Two months later, and again, he finds himself standing by while his wife prepares to go out somewhere he can’t follow, but desperately wishes to. Except this time he could follow if his wife wasn’t being so stubborn. She sighs, takes his hands and leads him to sit down on their couch. He likes the pause on things, but he likes the intent way she’s staring into his soul a little less.

“Do you not like it, or does it make you nervous?”

Peter blinks, trying to sort out the difference. He doesn’t like being nervous, he feels nervous when he doesn’t like things. He shakes his head a little to tell her he doesn’t quite get it. She nods, sighs again, and contemplates her words.

“If it makes you nervous because you’re uncomfortable with this moving forward, I’ll call Neal and cancel right now, no questions asked. If it makes you nervous because you’ve got butterflies and you’re scared Neal’s going to say no to us, well... I have a feeling this meeting could be his own way of saying he loves Italian, hon.”

Peter sits back, pulls his hands from Elizabeth’s to run them over his face. A neutral expression waits patiently on her face while Peter absorbs this.

“That’s a low blow, bringing ‘I Heart Italian’ into this,” Peter says, but the smile that creeps up behind the words is undeniable.

“That’s how sure I am that this could be a good thing,” El reassures, happily accepting when Peter slides his hands back into hers. He looks up at her, wavering on the last little edge, Elizabeth can tell.

“And if it’s not?”

“If it’s not, then I have a peaceful lunch with your C.I. and we continue on with our lovely marriage without changing a thing,” El says, and she makes it sound so simple, Peter believes her.

He takes a deep breath before forcing himself to ask, “And if it is?”

Elizabeth smiles widely, kisses Peter on the cheek for bravery points. “If it is, then I play it exactly like we talked about; I don’t give him any answers, I don’t speak on your behalf. I just hear what he has to say and let him know we’re both open to listening. Okay?”

“Okay. Will you- will you text me as soon as you get a sure answer on which way it’s going? I know we’ll discuss it all when you get back, but-”

“But you don’t want to be kept in the dark. Of course, hon, I’ll text you.”

It actually isn’t Elizabeth who texts Peter.

From: Neal Caffrey
I <3 Italian 2