White Collar Fic - Questions of Position and the Use of Authority - SPQR I (Kink Bingo)

Title: Questions of Position and the Use of Authority (SPQR I - Kink Bingo)
Rating: NC-17 – Slash (Peter/Neal)
Fandom: White Collar
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Discussion of Dominance and submission (D/s), reference to prison rape.
Word Count: ~6500
Summary: For Kink Bingo. This story is the wildcard box in the center of my card, and can be filed under Domination/submission. Peter never really thought about it until he saw those notes in that file. Part of the Paladin 'verse. 

---

“I am no one’s meat.” Neal erupted out of his chair and stormed out of Hughes’s office. He was down the stairs and out of the office before anyone could stop him.

Peter let him go; he had to deal with Ruiz and his obscene idea to send Neal undercover as a club whore. He wanted to grab the bastard by his skinny tie and strangle him; he wanted to beat the crap out of him, to turn him into an unrecognizable mass of bloody flesh. He wanted...

“Agent Ruiz, Mr. Caffrey is a valuable member of my team, a consultant under contract with the Bureau and a human being. He is not a ... sex toy ... for you to play with.” Hughes’ voice was implacable. “The Bureau does not prostitute its agents, and it does not get around that rule by using consultants. You want Yernakov, you find another way.”


Ruiz didn’t even have the grace to look ashamed; he simply ignored Hughes’ dressing down. In that low, slow and nasty voice, he said, “Come on, Petey. You’ve got to know that your pet con was little more than a prison whore. My sources say he offered up his ass for anyone and anything.”

Peter didn’t remember reaching for Ruiz, he didn’t remember hauling back to punch the fucking bastard. All he saw was the pictures from Neal’s medical file - the ones that Neal had burned - of Neal lying on a hospital bed, beaten and torn and bleeding, bite marks over his arms, his chest, his ass, his cock...

“You animal...” Just as his fist was about to connect with Ruiz’ smug face - his grin almost an exact duplicate of Fowler’s - someone held him back. It was Jones - in his focus on Ruiz, he never noticed that Hughes had called in his other agent. Jones pushed him into a chair and held him down, and frantically whispering to him to sit still - he’d get more than a suspension for hitting another agent again.

Hughes, thankfully, took control of the situation. “Agent Ruiz - you’ve crossed the line. I suggest you prepare yourself for a disciplinary hearing. Get out of my office now.”

Ruiz shrugged off Hughes condemnation. “Whatever.” He dropped the file on the desk and as he walked out, he commented, “D.C. wants to shut Yernakov down - they’ll use any tool they can lay their hands on to do it. Getting Caffrey inside, working in one of Yernakov’s sex clubs, is the easiest way - it’s going to be up to you to figure out how to save your boy’s pretty ass.

They watched Ruiz practically skip down the stairs, stopping at Neal’s desk. He picked up the black trilby that Neal had left behind in his anger and looking up at Hughes office, he spun it around and contemptuously tossed it back on the desk. Peter tried to swallow his anger and he struggled a bit against Jones’ restraining hands.

Hughes gestured for Jones to let Peter go. “Leave us and shut the door.”

Peter sat still. It was that or take off after Ruiz and finish what he had tried to start.

Hughes confirmed what he already knew. “Once D.C. decides to use Neal to shut down Sergei Yernakov, we are going to have a hard time convincing them not to.” Peter took heart that Hughes said “we” instead of “you.”

“I know - but this is repulsive. Has the Bureau become that corrupt that we now offer up our people as whores? Wait - don’t bother. I already know the answer.” Peter’s voice was bitter - despite everything, Mentor and the perversion within OPR was still flourishing.

“Peter…” There was little that Hughes could say on that subject. He was just as angry and disgusted. “If we offer an alternative that would have a more likely chance of success than this piece of -- shit -- “ Hughes gestured at the file Ruiz left behind. “Then maybe we don’t have to put Caffrey on this operation.”

“What I don’t understand is why use Neal at all? Nothing I’ve ever seen indicates that Caffrey had ties to the Russian mob.” Peter picked up the file and flipped through it. Most of the data concerned Yernakov’s string of clubs. There were the legal and legitimate operations catering to Mr. and Mrs. Whitebread America who wanted a short walk on the wild side...a sort of an inverted version of Hooters. Those places were the cover for hard core sex clubs. Peter didn’t linger on these pages. At then end of the file, there was a series of notes about a prison informant - Mikail Donatchz - who had fed Ruiz detailed information about Yernakov’s clubs. The last note was simply - “Check out Caffrey – Donatchz calls him hozyan voz-liu-bleny moy pov-eli-tel ?????? “ There was nothing else in the file.

Peter sounded out the phonetic Russian in the notes and let out a dry laugh. He couldn’t believe how wrong Ruiz had gotten the situation. Hughes interrupted his train of thought.

“Well?”

“Seems that Ruiz has a prison CI that knows both Yernakov’s operation and Neal. Ruiz doesn’t speak Russian and he never bothered to get a translator. Putting Neal under as a submissive sex worker ...” Peter swallowed hard against the idea. “Would blow that operation before it even started.” He handed Hughes the file and pointed to that last note.

Hughes read it and shook his head in utter disgust. An old, Cold Warrior – he could understand enough Russian to get by. “Of all the stupid, arrogant ... If he thought I was bluffing about filing a disciplinary complaint, Ruiz has another thing coming to him.” Hughes handed the folder back to Peter and sat there, hands steepled and tapping against his chin. Peter flipped back and forth through the file, looking for answers. He closed it and tossed it back on the desk.

Peter looked at Hughes and it was as if two light bulbs went on simultaneously. Hughes smiled, a frightening thing. Peter grinned in response.

“If I wasn’t so damned angry, I would have thought of it sooner - Rubicov.”

“Sebastian Rubicov. You haven’t used that identity in almost five years.”

“It’s still active - I’ve made sure it’s updated regularly. He survived the 2008 crash quite nicely - and he’s still known to play quite hard in certain circles. He’s been in Moscow for a while and it’s time for him to come home. It’s perfect - you know that.”

“Peter, you haven’t gone deep cover in a long time. I don’t know...”

“Reese - this may be the only way.”

“What are you going to do with Caffrey while you’re under?”

Peter swallowed - he hadn’t thought that far ahead. Just coming up with an alternative to sending Neal into the disgusting situation that Ruiz had proposed was a relief. “I’ll think of something.”

“What about taking Caffrey with you as Nick Halden – your new partner.”

“What?” Hughes shocked him, and he wasn’t sure about the inflection on the last word.

“It makes sense – Halden’s a money guy, he’s got a reputation in the same dirty financial world as Rubicov. If what Ruiz’s CI said about Neal is correct - that will work to the operation’s advantage. You’ll be able to keep him close and you’ll save me the hassle of trying to keep Caffrey from breaking your cover to get in touch with you.”

“Neal wouldn’t...”

“Peter - “ Hughes’ voice was gentle. “I know about you and Elizabeth and Neal, and it’s not hard to see what he feels for you. Eight months ago, the Marshals office came to me - they were concerned about how much time Caffrey was spending at your house. Three or four nights a week, most weekends - I’ve also got eyes in my head.”

Peter flushed hot, and then ice cold at his boss’ words. “I - we’re doing nothing wrong.” His jaw tightened and he threw his shoulders back.

“If I thought you were, we’d have had a discussion eight months ago. The Marshals have been instructed to ignore that data. Nothing else needs to be said. You’ve keep it completely divorced from your work, there’s been nothing in your performance or Mr. Caffrey’s that would create any cause for concern.” Hughes’ voice, his body language, even his eyes gave nothing away.

Peter relaxed. Despite the “fuck the world attitude” he’d often shown in more private moments with Neal and Elizabeth, Peter was still enough of a company man to worry. Hughes’ complicity may cause problems down the line, but he wasn’t going to buy trouble when it wasn’t on sale.

“Go home. Talk to Neal, talk to Elizabeth. I’ll deal with D.C. and Ruiz.”

Peter didn’t leave the office right away. He called down to the secure archives and went through several levels of bureaucratic hell to get the releases for the files on Rubicov. While he was waiting, Peter called El to tell her that he’d be at Neal’s tonight. In its own way, that brief conversation was as difficult as the one he was going to have to have with Neal. Neal had asked him never to tell Elizabeth about what happened to him in prison, and he had to respect that promise. Of course, El knew he was keeping something from her, but she was smart enough not to press him. Now.

A half-hour later a sealed file was hand delivered. On his way out of the office, Peter picked up Neal’s hat and his jacket and went to find his partner.

__________________

Neal didn’t remember the last time he was so angry. After everything, this. To be considered nothing more than a piece of meat – to be used like a prized bitch. Or not so prized.

He had had limited interaction with Agent Ruiz since the Book of Hours case. The few times their paths had crossed – in the elevators and in some of the restaurants in the area around Federal Plaza – Ruiz had either made snide remarks to Peter about needed a criminal to help him tie his shoelaces and nastier remarks if he were with his OC colleagues. Neal had let the insults roll off his back – if Peter wasn’t bothered by them; he wasn’t going to be either. He’d heard and experienced a lot worse.

But what Ruiz had proposed today, and the way he said it – that Neal would go undercover as a whore in one of Yernakov’s S&M clubs. He need to just work his way into the club’s inner circle - use his tight ass to get to Yernakov and set up the bugs and the listening devices and the spyware. Ruiz made it clear that he thought Neal was little more than a prison bitch should just bend over for anyone who asked. Unsaid, but fully implied was that Peter was the first one to take advantage of that ass.

The fury that took him from Hughes’ office propelled him out of the department and down to the street. He started walking north without thinking; rage fueled long strides that took him up Broadway. He was twenty-odd blocks from Federal Plaza, somewhere around Astor Place, when he realized that he’d left his hat and his suit jacket behind. No phone, no wallet, no Metro Card, no cash. He could turn around and go back, but that felt like he was returning with his tail between his legs. Nothing to do but keep on walking, seventy-one blocks – about five miles to go. He was well outside his radius, and this was probably the one time that he wished the Marshals would come for him. But unless Peter made the call, he was on monitoring status only during the work day. He passed a sadly neglected payphone and thought about calling Peter collect. No – not this time. He didn’t quite trust his temper. He didn’t even think about calling Moz or June.

The air was brisk and the sidewalks crowded as he kept walking, through NoHo, the West Village, Chelsea. He walked by pairs of men, dressed in denim so tight you could tell their religion. The caverns of Midtown. The blocks passed and Neal started to calm down. There was no way Peter would allow this – beyond their relationship, Peter knew that this was not something that Neal was ever going to be equipped to handled. Peter would never forget about prison, forget about the rape and the humiliation and the degradation. Peter knew that he was incapable of doing what Ruiz was requiring. Last May, when he finally told Peter about what happened in prison, he felt strong, he felt that he had accepted what happened and was able to move on, but what Ruiz did this afternoon took him right back to that feeling of helplessness, of being a filthy, dirty thing.

Another twenty blocks, and Neal was making his way through the maze of cheap seating and relaxing tourists in Times Square. The blinking, flashing, glowing neon didn’t distract Neal from his thoughts, nor did the polyglot, the Babel of voices. Tongues spoken by more people with greater frequency in the heart of the great city than in their native land. Neal ignored them all and kept walking.

Finally, at Columbus Circle, the last of Neal’s adrenaline-fed rush simply died. He was sweaty and chilled and his feet and legs ached. The grand fountain was flowing and a stiff breeze was blowing droplets of water everywhere. Neal found a bench at the outer edge of the park and collapsed. A pair of pretty teenage girls sat next to him and tried to flirt. He felt old and used up.

Peter cursed the early rush hour traffic. Even with an app for tracking Neal’s anklet on his cellphone, it would be difficult to spot him in crowds of people. He supposed he could just put the bubble light on the roof and clear through traffic, but he’d probably end up with an NYPD escort and too many questions. The map had Neal on Broadway, walking steadily north, and Peter was driving in the same direction on Eighth Avenue, trying to keep parallel to Neal. The tracking app was very accurate, within five feet and if he could just get ahead of Neal’s walking pace, he’d be able to just wait for their paths to cross. Then he hit Midtown and was royally fucked. By the time he got past the Port Authority and the Theater District, it was close to 5:00. The office towers were emptying out and it would be next to impossible to catch Neal. Neal had no money for a cab and no phone, and was too fucking stubborn to call him collect. It never occurred to Peter that he could simply let Neal walk all the way home.

His phone chimed as Neal’s location was updated. He was in Columbus Circle, and Peter was tempted to pick up Broadway northbound and wait at 61st Street. But that was a risk, Neal could head over to Central Park or walk west towards Amsterdam Avenue and he’d miss him completely and have to keep doubling back. He checked the phone again, and waited for Neal’s location to refresh. For the first time, he hadn’t moved. It looked like Neal was stationary at the 59th Street entrance to the Columbus Circle park, and Peter breathed a sign of relief.

As he pulled into the traffic circle, he saw a man in a white shirt and vest sitting on the bench at the edge of the park, head in his hands. Unconcerned with on-coming cars and oblivious to the honking horns, Peter cut across the five lanes of traffic and parked illegally against the curb. He took Neal’s hat with him and went to make things right.

Peter stood over Neal, holding the black trilby out. Neal didn’t take it and Peter just worked the brim around and around in his hands. Finally, he looked up and shook his head. “What are you doing here, Peter?” Neal looked wrecked and wretched – so different from the tall, strong, young god who stood over him that May morning and insisted that he was not a victim. Peter’s heart broke just a little bit more.

“What am I doing here? What type of question is that? Neal – you are one of the two most important people in my life. I love you.” Neal closed his eyes against Peter’s declaration. He held he hand out for Neal, who ignored it. “We have a lot to discuss, and we can’t do it here. Come on.”

Neal didn’t move, even when Peter dropped his hat on his head. “If you don’t want to come with me, at least let me put you in a cab.” Neal shook his head, a tired and defeated gesture. Peter sat down next to him and asked “Are you angry at me?”

“For what?”

“Not shutting Ruiz up immediately.”

“No. Of course not.” Neal answered too quickly and wouldn’t look at Peter.

Peter heard exactly what Neal wasn’t saying. “Don’t lie to me.”

Finally, Neal turned his partner, his lover. “Okay – you want the truth? I am angry. I am angry at you, I’m angry at Ruiz and Hughes and the whole fucking Bureau.” He tilted his head back to look at the sky. “Most of all…I’m angry at myself. I thought I was all right. I thought I was past it, that it didn’t matter anymore. But listening to Ruiz – I’m right back there. That dirty, used prison whore.”

“No, you are not. You told me yourself, you are not a victim, and I believe you. You are smarter and stronger and better than anyone I know.” Peter knew his words had little meaning to Neal right now, but maybe hearing them would help reground Neal, make him remember the personal strength it took to recover enough of himself to face those demons once before. He put his arm around Neal and gently tried to hold him close, uncaring of the eyes around them. Neal’s body was cold and stiff and resistant.

He let Neal go and stood up, pulling the other man with him. “Let’s go.” Neal stood up but resisted when Peter tried to steer him to the car. “Neal, come on.” He pulled again, and it was like getting Satchmo away from a particularly interesting smelling tree. “Damn it Neal, I’m not leaving you here. You come with me, or I get you into a cab.”

Focused as he was on getting Neal off of the park bench, Peter didn’t see the blue and white pull up behind the illegally parked Taurus. He jumped as the police car blipped its siren and he turned to see two uniforms, get out, a female officer with sergeant’s stripes and a rookie that didn’t look old enough legally drink. “Is everything all right here?” Peter supposed it looked like he was trying to force Neal into the car.

Perfect, this is all I need right now.

“Everything’s fine, Sergeant.” Peter didn’t want to flash his badge, but he would in about three seconds.

The officer raised her brows at Peter’s recognition of her rank, but she pointed to Neal and asked if he needed assistance. Neal just shook his head. The officer looked back at Peter, and he pulled his jacket aside to display the gold FBI shield. Even in the shifting light and shadow, Peter could see the change in the cop’s attitude. NYPD and FBI didn’t usually get along, but a career uniform would immediately respect a gold shield, regardless of the agency that issued it.

“Do you need help, sir? Shall I call for backup?”

“Nope, I’m good.” He tugged a bit on Neal, just hoping for this one time, that Neal would just play along. He didn’t.

The officer was jumpy and she was reaching for her radio. Her partner had his hand on his weapon. This was going to be worse than that cock-up in Quantico.

“Sergeant – please. This is a private matter. My partner and I have had an argument and we’re trying to straighten it out.”

The sergeant wasn’t letting the matter go. “Begging your pardon sir, but he doesn’t look like he’s FBI.”

Shit – she was right. Neal wasn’t wearing a shield or a gun, and the exquisite tailoring was certainly not Bureau standard. Peter wasn’t going to humiliate Neal by referring to him as a CI or get into a Byzantine explanation of Neal’s consultancy status.

“I didn’t mean my partner in the Bureau.”

He hauled Neal close and cupped one hand around Neal’s cold face and the other around the back of his neck and leaned in. He kissed Neal in the way he knew Neal loved, hot and explicitly sexual, full of power and control. Finally, Neal melted into that kiss and wound his arms tightly around Peter. He was passive for just an instant, and then started kissing Peter back, one hand clamping hard at the back of Peter’s head, teeth biting down on the recurve of Peter’s lower lip, parrying the thrust of Peter’s tongue into his mouth, shifting his body to making close contact from chest to waist and hips. Peter lost himself in the smell and taste of Neal, and forgot about the two uniforms, the people walking by, undoubtedly staring at them. Hell, he didn’t even care if some enterprising idiot took pictures and posted them on line. Neal was here, in his arms and that was all that mattered.

They kissed for what seemed like hours, but was probably no more than a minute. Peter pulled away, breathless. The uniforms had finally backed off, and there was definitely an odd look in the cops’ eyes.

“If there’s nothing further, Sergeant, Officer. We’re going to go home now.

The trip uptown the June’s mansion didn’t take too long, thankfully. Peter could tell that Neal was emotionally and physically exhausted - in a way he hadn’t seen since the weeks and months after the plane exploded. He wanted to get Neal inside and comfortable. This was going to be a long, long night.

_____________________________

“You could have just called the Marshals’ office, saved yourself a bit of trouble.”

“Neal, shut up.” Peter pulled into another illegal spot, tossed the FBI identification card onto the dashboard and started to get out of the car.

“All I’m saying is…”

“All I’m saying is shut up.”

Neal would have had to be deaf to not hear the exasperation in Peter’s voice. “I’m sorry.” He knew he was acting like a prima donna – and it didn’t feel the least bit good.

“Neal – you have nothing to be sorry for. Just get inside and let me take care of you.”

That sounded too good to argue about and they made the short journey inside and upstairs without incident. That shouldn’t be much of an accomplishment except that the way this day was going, Neal wouldn’t have been surprised if they were attacked by a rabid coyote between car and the front door, or if the staircase leading up to his apartment disintegrated from termite damage.

Peter watched as he changed into a fresh shirt, and raised an eyebrow when Neal put on a different tie. Neal’s obsession with his clothing was an old joke that didn’t bear repeating in these circumstances. Neal took refuge in the formality of his wardrobe – particularly in times of stress. In a movement sharpened by self disgust at letting himself become dependent on a crutch for his self-esteem, Neal pulled off the half-knotted tie. He stripped down to his skin and pulled on a pair of clean sweat pants (probably Peter’s) and sweater that Elizabeth had given him a few months ago. He turned to face Peter, chin raised, ready for a bad fight or a good fuck. He didn’t know which he preferred at that moment.

Peter apparently didn’t consider either an option. He just tossed a file on the table, and got himself a beer.

Neal sat down and picked up the file – it was sealed. His curiosity won out over his tired anger and he looked at Peter for some clues about where this was going. Peter’s face was unreadable. He broke opened the seals, started to read. The pages on the top of the file had fairly straight forward biographical information

Sebastian Pytor Quinell Rubicov a/k/a Sebastian Rubicov a/k/a Sebastian Quinell a/k/a Pytor Rubicov a/k/a Peter Quinell

Born: June 12, 1963, New York, NY (New York County)

Education: PS 147 (High School 1980); Columbia University (Bachelor of Science 1984); Wharton School of Economics (MBA 1986)

Languages: Russian, various Slavic dialects, French, Latin

The file went on to detail a career that started with Michael Milken’s high-yield trading floor at Drexel Burnham, a promotional move to Bear Sterns after two years, another one to Sherson, and finally, the establishment of a private high-yield brokerage, Quinell Rubicov Investments and a hedge fund that invested deeply in Russia and the former Soviet bloc nations. Neal skimmed through the details of Rubicov’s financials – on paper, the “man” was worth several hundred million dollars, had homes in Moscow, where he had been living for the last five years, and New York, as well as in Luxembourg, Aruba and Geneva – all the major dirty money cities. . He was a grown-up version of Nicholas Halden. What puzzled Neal was how he was going to make this identity work. There was almost fifteen years’ difference between himself and this “person.”

He looked at Peter again, who now had just the tiniest trace of a smile on his lips. All he said was “Keep reading.”

Neal flipped to the next section and got the shock of his life. There was a formal, but dramatic portrait of a seated man in a beautiful dark suit, white shirt and silk tie, legs casually crossed. Neal’s first thought was Armani Black Label, Dior shirt and tie because he couldn’t seem to process the face. He closed the file for a moment and reopened it. It was Peter. But Peter like he’d never seen before. The man in the photograph was exotic, dangerous and if there was just one quality shared between him and the person sitting across from Neal, drinking his cheap beer, was that both men apparently enjoyed being in complete control.

Peter didn’t bother hiding a full-fledged grin. “I did tell you once that I still had a few active aliases. This is one of them.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Neal felt a bit like he was the butt of a long, convoluted joke that had been playing out for years.

Peter said nothing but “Keep reading.”

The personal details of the man in the portrait were more shocking than the portrait itself. Rubicov was a frequent player in high end sex clubs in Europe and a much sought-after Dom. The file noted that his subs were exclusively male, in their early 20s, well educated and generally from wealthy backgrounds. The relationships lasted no more than six months. There were even a few "personal" references – names, addresses, contact information.

Neal flung the file onto the table and abruptly stood up. He paced around the apartment, and dragged his hands through his air. It felt like his entire world had just shifted on its axis.

“Neal – this is just an undercover identity. It’s not who I am.”

Neal tried to explain. “I know that – but some of this has to be a part of you. You don’t – you can’t just turn these things on without having something to base it on.  I do know something about building a fake identity” He looked, really looked at Peter, in his ill-fitting suit, ugly checked shirt and uglier tie. Yes, these were only externals – the bad clothing hid a hard body, the everyday schumpiness disguised a razor sharp intellect – and if Neal was the kind of person who relied simply on the external, he would never have given Peter a second thought. But try as he might, he couldn’t reconcile his Peter with the identity in this file - a player, a man who went to sex clubs, a man who kept submissives – or more accurately, a man who kept others in consensual sexual slavery.

“When was the last time you used this ID?”

“The last time I went in deep cover was late ’04 through early ’05. Right after I arrested you.” Peter took a sip of his beer and didn’t break eye contact with him. “Everyone who doesn’t have a need to know thinks that I got my promotion because I finally caught you.” Peter gave a grim chuckle. “In the six months between your arrest and trial, I was under cover with an operation based in Los Angeles. We broke an international child sex trade ring. That was one of the reasons why Rubicov has been in Moscow for a while. There were some questions about his involvement in feeding information to the government.” Peter frowned at the memories. “I’ve spent a lot of time trying to forget what I saw during that op. ”

Something unwound within Neal. He got himself a glass of wine and sat down across from Peter. He had million more questions, but one kept pushing itself to the forefront. “Does Elizabeth know about this – about Rubicov?”

Peter seemed to recover some of his mood. “Don’t ever tell her I told you, but she’s always found the whole idea of me fucking men very hot.”

_____________________

Peter thought, all in all, that Neal took the disclosure of Rubicov very well, considering.

But they still had to deal with the real elephant in the room - Yernakov and Ruiz’ operation. He retrieved that file from his briefcase and turned to the notes in the back. “I had wondered why Ruiz had fixated on you for this op. It seems that his CI was a fellow inmate of yours - Mikail Donatchz.”

Neal rocked back in his seat. “Mischa – didn’t expect that one.”

“He called you “hozyain, vozlyublennyi moi povelitel.” Ruiz didn’t bother to get that translated – otherwise he would have realized that Donatchz was your sub. Your submissive.”

Peter could see that Neal was trying to work out how he came to that conclusion. “Neal – he called you his master, his beloved lord. Even if he was just one of your ‘lieutenants’ – he would never have called you ‘beloved’.” Peter said nothing for a minute. If he wasn’t so emotionally invested in Neal, the other man’s reactions would have made for a fascinating study. Neal’s hand shook slightly as he picked up the wine glass.

“I never fucked him.” Neal’s eyes flashed bright for a second, then he dropped his head. “In exchange for protection, I took him as my submissive.  He wanted me to fuck him, he begged me to. But I made it part of the game. I enjoyed it, too. I’d make him crawl to me, like a disobedient dog - he'd lick my boots and beat off if I let him. I’d even keep him on a leash when we were out in the yard. Donatchz the Damned they called him – in for kiddie murder. I called him “pet.’ But no one else could – he’d break their jaw – and other body parts.” Neal grimaced. “You’re not the only one with secrets.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“What, that I used child murderer as a bodyguard? That I made him my sexual submissive?”

“That, and that you aren’t naturally sexually submissive yourself.” He had never really considered Neal a conventional bottom, but he was so responsive to his own dominance that he never really thought of Neal as dominant.

“Who says I’m not? I told you that I made myself into a badass. It could have been just part of the role.”

“Neal – listen to yourself. ‘It could have been’? If it was, why not just say so.”

“Truth is, Peter. I’m a switch. I respond both ways, with the right people and the right circumstances.”

“But you’ve never – not with me.”

Neal chuckled, the humor real. “Peter, you’re so naturally dominant that I’d need to climb the Hillary Step to top you.”

Peter laughed.

Neal continued. “Truth is, we play hard – and I like it – a lot. But that’s just part of who we are together. Our relationship - I have never thought of you as my Dom, and don’t try tell me that you’ve considered me your sub.”

“My submissive? No, that you certainly are not.” Peter relaxed – he hadn’t even realized how tense he was about this conversation. “You have more questions?”

“I don’t even know where to start. Are you really a player, or is it all on paper?”

“It’s a combination of real events and carefully managed lies. Like any alias. Something you should know all about, Neal. Or should I say Nick?”

Neal struggled to keep the smile off his face.

“To answer the question you’re really asking – yes. I’ve done a lot of the things in that folder. But it’s the job - not me. Don’t confuse the two.” Peter took a deep breath and plunged into what he figured was going to be the hardest part of the evening.

“D.C. is not going to give up on getting Yernakov - you know that. They’ve been after him for years, and for good reason – which is why Ruiz thought he would be able to greenlight his operation. But I would never, ever permit you - or any member of my team - to go undercover like that.”

The last of the tension left Neal’s body, tension he didn’t even know he was still feeling.

“Which is why I’m resurrecting Rubicov.”

Neal looked up, startled. “You’re going undercover?”

“You shouldn’t be surprised - why did you think I showed you that file?”

“I -- at first, I thought it was an alias for me.”

“I think you’re a little too young for that role...even if you were a child prodigy.” Peter continued. “It’s going to have to be a deep cover operation – Yernakov’s operation is huge, he’s paranoid and it’s going to take time to get inside.”

Neal didn’t know what to feel or think. For the moment, guilt was pre-eminent. Had he not flown off the handle, Peter wouldn’t be in this situation.

“I still need you to be part of this operation, I still need you to undercover. ”

“But I thought you just said...”

Peter cut him off. “Not as Ruiz had planned. What do you think about using Nick Halden?”

Neal leaned back in the chair, his mouth suddenly dry. He licked his lips. “You and me, undercover – deep cover?”

“Yeah. You interested?”

The whole idea of him and Peter, running a long con - even a legal one – made his head spin. He was so eager, he could barely nod in agreement.

“Don’t get that excited, Neal. This isn’t a game – it’s going to get very real and I promise you it will get very unpleasant. You won’t be able to just drop out when the going gets rough.”

“Peter... most of my life has been spent in deep cover.” Something then occured to Neal. “You want me to go in with you as your sub?” He wasn’t sure that he disliked that idea. All of a sudden, the image of himself blindfolded, bound and gagged, his ass red with whip marks, subject wholly to Peter’s mercy was highly arousing.

Apparently oblivious to Neal’s reaction, Peter continued. “Yes – and no. Rubicov would be taking Halden on as a junior partner – which means that their relationship would have to be much more than sexual. Yernakov has been laundering vast sums of dirty money through his legitimate operations, and the plan is to have Rubicov and Halden will go in as potential investors. The difficulty will be in getting directly to Yernakov. The sex clubs are – as Ruiz pointed out - the easiest and most direct way to catch Yernakov’s attention. The hook will be that Rubicov will be bringing Halden up a Dom in training – Halden will have a backstory as Rubicov’s submissive, but the relationship has matured, changed.”

Neal didn’t say anything.

“What do you think?”

Neal gave a short huff of laughter. “Part of me is screaming NO! NO! NO! NO!”

“Probably the sane part, because my own warning bells are ringing like St. Patrick’s at noon.”

Neal chuckled again. “But the other part – the crazy part – can’t wait to start – as your sub, as your Dom in training – whatever you want me to be. Going deep cover with you, in any capacity – you have no idea what that does for me.” Neal thought of something and blushed.

Peter watched the tide of red sweep up from Neal’s neck and across his face. “What are you thinking?”

“Back then – back before you caught me. Maybe after Prague – I used to fantasize about you and me running a con. That you were corruptible – and we’d run wild through Europe.” Neal ducked his head in embarrassment.

“I think you once mentioned that.” Peter replied drily, and enjoyed himself as Neal’s blush deepened. They both remembered that evening.

Despite the drama at the office, his headlong dash through Manhattan and his subsequent depression, Neal was energized. They talked about the operation for hours, barely pausing for dinner and a call into Elizabeth. Peter still didn’t let her know what was going on. Telling your spouse that you’re going to be going into a deep cover operation was not something done in a telephone call. And breaking the news to her that their lover would be part of the mission was going to be even more difficult.

It was close to one a.m. when Peter finally called a halt. He stretched and the sound of his spine cracking was like a series of rapid gunshots. Neal didn’t even lift his head out of the notes he was making. Peter realized, in all the time that Neal had worked for him, that they’d been together, this was the first time they’d be well and truly on their own. Deep cover meant no backup, no convenient van filled with agents ready to bust down doors if things got too hot. They’d just have each other to rely upon.

At the thought, a curl of heat started somewhere south of his navel. By all rights, he should be to tired for this.

By all rights, Neal had a rough day and he should just let the other man be.

By all rights...

Neal looked up and caught the look in Peter’s eye. He brushed his fingers over his lips, down his chin and let them rest in the hollow of his throat. A smile, slow and seductive, curved his mouth.

Peter’s arousal flared.

Neal stood up and as he walked by Peter, he bent over and whispered in his ear. “I think some practice is in order, Master.” He continued on into the bedroom, dropping his clothes along the way.

Peter followed. Mr. Nick Halden definitely had a few things to learn about the man he just called Master.




FIN









Additional Author's Notes 1 - Broadway in New York City is the only thoroughfare that runs the entire length of Manhattan Island.  It is southbound only from Battery Park to Columbus Circle, and detours around Times Square and Herald Square.  It runs north and south after Columbus Circle (60th Street).
2 - High Yield is another name for junk bonds.
3 - The Hillary Step is the final vertical climb before summitting Mt. Everest.  It's named for Sir Edmund Hillary.

I've referenced a number of plot points from various fics I've written.  If you're keeping score, there's Bolero, Wash The Sins Away, Head Play, Profiled, and Self-Control.  The SPQR mini-series will be the "X" bingo.