Title: True Love's First Kiss
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17 for OT3 Sex
Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke,
Spoilers: Out of the Box 1.14
Warnings/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~ 1600
Summary: After the Aftermath - First Sex, First Kiss
They had been living out of each other’s pockets for over a year now. At first, it was purely a survival instinct – Peter trying to protect him from Mentor and from himself (Neal’s thoughts squirmed away from this; the grief and anger were still a pair of small, dull knives scraping at his sanity). Slowly, through the spring and early summer, something began to change. Maybe it was one too many glasses of wine or beer after the Memorial Day barbecue, maybe it was a wink from Elizabeth’s bright blue eyes, but suddenly inhibitions seemed to fall away. Neal wasn’t sure who ripped off his shirt, who pulled down his pants, or how Peter managed to strip off his own jeans and tee-shirt while helping Elizabeth out of her bra and panties (so maybe it was Elizabeth who stripped him), but all of a sudden they were all naked and devouring each other. From Privilege, Part II
An Hour Later …
Neal looks up at Elizabeth. She’s reclining on the couch, naked, her thighs wet with his cum, her nipples swollen and red from his tongue and teeth. She looks magnificent. She looks completely debauched. Neal doesn’t know what to do or what to say. He just sighs.
He feels Peter’s hand on his shoulder, on the back of his neck. It is a welcome weight, anchoring him to this time, this place. He supposes he should feel ashamed, feel guilty - about fucking a woman who wasn’t Kate, about fucking his best friend’s wife, about being alive. But whatever he feels, he knows it isn’t guilt. It isn’t shame.
Peter’s warm, calloused hand slides down his neck and across his chest, pulling him back, holding him close, keeping him safe. Neal relaxes into the safe harbor of Peter’s body.
They stay like that for a few minutes, saying nothing, until Elizabeth, in a brief flurry of action, gets up and gives her husband a quick hard, kiss. She brushes her lips across Neal’s eyelids, a benediction, and then goes upstairs. Neal feels Peter rest his cheek on his head and something within him breaks opened. Neal remembers all the times he’s dreamed of Peter. Dreamed of being held by Peter. Dreamed of being fucked by Peter. Dreamed of being kissed by Peter. He supposes that two out of three wasn’t bad.
Peter pulls him to his feet and he moans a bit. His body aches – not like it did in the weeks after the plane exploded and his cracked ribs were healing – a pain that he’s kept feeling like the phantom pain of a lost limb. No, his body aches from good use. Elizabeth’s bite on his right shoulder, Peter’s bite on the left side of his neck, the bruises Peter’s hands left on his hips, the slick, itchy ache between his buttocks, the scratches from Elizabeth’s fingernails across his back.
For the first time in months, Neal feels alive.
Peter worries. Did he go to fast? Did he do something that Neal didn’t want? He worries that he’s wanted this for so long that he just assumed that Neal wanted it too.
He hears Neal’s sigh and he holds Neal close. He’s prepared for Neal to pull away, but Neal leans back into him, trusting, at ease. It’s alright then. It’s okay. It’s good.
He looks at his wife, her thighs glistening with the silver of another man’s semen. Something possessive within him twists and he reminds himself that this is what he wants, this is what she wants. This is what they both want, they both have had. And hopefully, will have again. The possessiveness eases and he considers the beauty of watching Elizabeth and Neal fuck, watching another man’s body against his wife’s, penetrating over and over again. Another man’s mouth on his wife’s breasts and lips and sex. A dark thought surfaces, they are like mirror images, dark hair, fair skin, blue eyes – they could be brother and sister and he feels the nudge of arousal again.
Elizabeth looks back at him and smiles – as if she can read his mind. She gets up, kisses him hard and he can taste Neal on her lips. She kisses Neal and leaves the two of them to sort things out.
Peter stands up and pulls Neal to his feet. He feels good – alive in a way that’s been missing since he watched that plane blow up.
But they are going to have to talk – he and Neal. Not to set rules, not to create obstacles, but to sort out what this means. It’s too soon to speak of love – he doesn’t think that Neal could bear to hear that yet. He’s not even sure if Neal knows he’s fucking Elizabeth and not Kate. He doesn’t want to talk about that either.
He wants to get out of the house, out of this room that smells like sex.
Peter and Neal find themselves walking along 9th Street towards Prospect Park. Neal has Satchmo’s leash and stops every few yards as the lab sniffs and lifts his leg on each fireplug and lamp post. Peter is either at his side or a step or two behind him. It’s a ten minute walk and neither man says anything. Peter doesn’t know what to say and Neal can’t seem to find the words to say what he wants.
The afternoon and early evening has been warm and sunny, but clouds are quickly moving in, fulfilling the prediction for a late day thunderstorm. Neither man notices. The park, which had been filled with children and families earlier in the day is has become deserted. Neal pauses in front of a bench and sits down. Neal drops the leash and Satchmo stretches out at his feet, tongue lolling in doggy pleasure. Peter stands there, head down, hands in his pockets, hoping that Neal will say something first.
He does. “Peter – sit down.”
Peter sits. He opens his mouth but no words come out. He looks at Neal. Neal looks back at him. Finally, just as he thinks of a way to start this conversation, Neal says something. They talk over each other for a few words, like two people trying to get through a narrow doorway at the same time. It’s all “you first – no you – no, you first.” They both laugh at the awkwardness. Then there’s silence again. The moment has passed and neither of them can think of what to say.
Neal looks down – at the worn grass, the dog, the junk food wrapper carelessly blowing away in the growing breeze. He wants Peter to speak first. He wants Peter to set the rules. He’s at sea again, lost and he needs Peter to be his compass. He worries now. Is Peter disappointed? Is this the end? Has he done something wrong, again? All the raging insecurities that have haunted his life – he’s not good enough, strong enough, fast enough come roaring back to life. He thinks of Kate – her smiling face from the door of that little jet, that smile disappearing when she sees Peter come up behind him. He thinks of her face through the window, grave and serious as he walks to the plane. He thinks of Peter’s face as he turns back – hurt, sad – then hopeful. He wishes he could find the words to fix this, to make it right.
Peter watches Neal and his heart begins to break – what had seemed so perfect ten minutes ago has now become the seeds of a tragedy. This is what he fears the most – that Neal would regret what they had done, that he would be ashamed. The thought is so unbearable that he wants to scream, to cry. How can he fix this? How can he make this right?
The breeze picks up, becoming a stiff wind and as Peter starts to stand up, to head home, Neal grabs his arm.
“Are you sorry?” The words are freighted with hope and pain and longing.
“God, Neal – no. Never. Are you?” Peter holds his breath.
Neal shakes his head, and gives a little gasp of laughter. “No, no. But I was so afraid that you thought this was a mistake.”
Peter grabs the back of Neal’s neck and pulls him close – resting his forehead against him. As they sit there, breathing and saying nothing, it begins to drizzle. They don’t notice.
Neal reaches up and touches Peter’s cheek. In a gesture so romantic, so un-Peter, Peter turns his face into Neal’s palm and kisses it. Neal shudders.
Finally, the storm breaks in a clap of thunder and it starts to pour. Within seconds, both men are drenched. They smile at each other – in relief. It will be okay, it will be good.
As they begin to walk home, Satchmo carrying his own leash, Peter pulls Neal close and Neal melts into Peter’s body. Lovers they now are, but they have not kissed and neither man can bear to let another moment pass. There doesn’t seem to be any awkwardness now, their wet bodies fit together like yin and yang. The kiss and the moment are perfect – a caress of lips and tongues and teeth as the rain washes away the dust and the pain.
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