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Peter Burke stood in the living room of Nigel Lampton’s tony home in Greenwich, sipping at a glass of champagne and glancing at his watch. They’d had to cut their ski vacation short to attend this boring soiree hosted by Neal’s boss, and Peter was impatient for the New Year to be rung in so they could get the hell out of there. He hated going to these things. Except for the good food and the top-shelf liquor, they felt too much like work.
He grabbed another glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waitress and reflected on the year that was just ending. The last few months had been a confusing, exhilarating whirlwind of emotions. He and El had begun a relationship with Neal, realized they had fallen in love with him, and asked him to move in with them, an uncharacteristically impulsive and spontaneous decision (at least on Peter’s part). They had yet to work out all the details, but he was still feeling the high from Neal’s acceptance of their offer, made just the week before. Thinking about it made him smile.
He was half-listening to the conversation he was engaged in (something involving high yield treasury bonds) and half-observing his wife and his lover work the room. Elizabeth was busy charming the pants off the director of an influential modern art museum somewhere in Connecticut, while Neal held court in the dining room. Neal was a big hit with the matrons – charming, witty, and too young to be a threat to their husbands.
“He’s your partner, isn’t he?” Mrs. McBoring asked Peter.
“Excuse me?” Peter nearly did a spit take.
“That young man. Did you say he’s your partner at the FBI?” She gestured towards Neal.
“He was,” Peter answered, dragging his eyes to her face. “He’s since moved on to other things. He works for Nigel now.”
“How interesting. From chasing criminals to chasing commissions.” She tittered at her own joke and Peter gave her his best simpering smile. She continued to natter on, while his attention wandered back to Neal.
Neal was magic, Peter’s slightly inebriated brain couldn’t help but conclude as he watched him tell a story to the small knot of people surrounding him. There was something about him that immediately drew the attention of everyone in a room. This was not hyperbole; Peter has seen it happen. It was some combination of personality, confidence and pheromones, he supposed, but when the former con artist wished to, he could command center stage and keep it until he was done, and not a moment before. Peter used to be a little envious of this skill, early in their partnership; he has since come to admire Neal for it and has found infinite pleasure in watching it in practice.
Neal’s story was a good one – how the notorious international counterfeiter and murderer Ghovat was brought down over a dress. Neal was at the good part now, Peter could tell. The women gasped as he relayed the kidnapping of the young model Tara, who was their key witness. Neal’s face was drawn, eyes wide as he relayed the more dangerous elements of the story. He held his hand out dramatically as he got to the ransom exchange and the complications that arose when they found a bomb strapped to the beautiful young woman. He glanced over at Peter as he talked, sensing he was being watched. His lips broke into a faint smile, but he didn’t pause in his tale. He turned his eyes back to his audience and plowed on to the end of the story, eliciting gasps and at least one person’s applause by the end.
Peter smirked and sipped at his champagne, returning his gaze to Mrs. McBoring, who was asking him another question. “Excuse me?”
“Your former partner, is he currently attached? I have a niece...”
He didn’t know how he felt fielding this question. He supposed it was bound to come up from time to time. He decided to go with the truth – or at least a version of it. “Oh, yes, he is seeing someone.”
“What a shame. Will you excuse me, I see Mavis Ward has arrived.” Mrs. McBoring sailed off, mercifully leaving Peter alone. He grabbed another glass of champagne from a passing waitron, thought again and took a second. It was going to be a long night and, since El was the designated driver, he decided he might as well make the best of it and enjoy the surprisingly fine champagne that was being served. He downed the wine and set the first glass down on a tray near the wall.
Champagne had a way of going straight to his head. All wine did, really, which was why he usually stuck to beer. He didn’t know what had gotten into him this evening; he was on his – he did some mental calculations – sixth glass, and was feeling marvelously giddy.
He scanned the room – the library – Neal’s boss owned a home that contained a library – looking for a familiar face. He tugged at his collar; the black Hugo Boss suit he wore had been picked out for him by El, the pale grey shirt and silver tie by Neal. He knew he looked good, if the reaction of his wife was any indication, but there was something extremely wrong about having to wear a suit on a holiday, he thought.
The party swirled on around him. He moved into the front room, where the bar had been set up, and looked around. He couldn’t help but overhear the conversation taking plane next to him. “Just look at her go. The woman is insatiable,” a 50-ish woman in black sequins was saying.
“Who?” asked her similarly-attired friend.
“Mavis Ward. No sooner has she dumped the last one than she’s trying to get her hooks into another.”
“Who’s her next victim?”
“That cute one, works for Nigel. Neal-something.”
Peter cocked his head, suddenly interested in the conversation. He turned to face the same direction as the objects of their conversation.
“Him? She’s traded up from the pool boy,” the woman marveled.
“He doesn’t seem to mind,” the first woman pointed out.
Peter snorted into his glass, amused. He looked over at Neal, who was deep in conversation with a stunning woman about Peter’s age who wore a simple black Armani sheath; her hair was arranged in a chignon at her neck. She was gradually moving further into Neal’s personal space, cocking her head to the side, smiling, giving all the signals. Neal did not outwardly seem to be averse to it. His attention was focused on her, he was smiling and talking animatedly and to most observers seemed to be receptive to her advances.
But Peter knew better. Peter knew that when Neal Caffrey was truly interested in a person, when his heart and his brain and his groin were truly engaged, there was an intensity in his eyes that made you feel like you were the center of his attention. This was no small thing: to be the center of Neal’s attention meant that the considerable focus of his brilliant brain was wholly on you – he was not calculating an angle, working out a problem or thinking through the hundreds of little plans that flitted across his mind at any given time of the day. It was a look Neal had directed at him and at Elizabeth (and Kate of course), and it had the effect of making Peter feel like he was desired, desirable, the center of Neal’s personal universe. It was intoxicating, more intoxicating than anything Peter’d experienced, more so than this excellent champagne (one more down the hatch). A look so intense, it was hypnotic, and was the thing that had made him truly fall in love with Neal.
And it was not being directed at Mavis Ward.
“What a bunch of stiffs,” Elizabeth said, suddenly at Peter’s elbow. Peter jumped, shaken out of his Neal-centered reverie by her arrival. He leaned down and kissed Elizabeth lingeringly. “Mmmmm,” he hummed, teasing her lips with his tongue.
She smiled, returned the kiss. Someone was feeling frisky. “Just how much champagne have you had tonight, Peter?” she asked.
He made a gesture. “A couple…or…ten.”
“Ahh, explains the PDA. I love when you’re like this.”
“Neal is over there being hit on by a notorious cougar,” he told her owlishly.
El’s head snapped in that direction. “Really?” Peter liked the hint of steel in her tone. She could be quite possessive when she got it in her mind that someone was horning in on what was hers, and Peter found it kind of hot.
He nodded. “Mavis somebody. Apparently, there’s not a pool boy in town she hasn’t trifled with.” He thought he heard a low growl come from her throat, but perhaps it was the noise in the room. Or not, because she took Peter’s hand and led him over to where Neal was standing.
“I’ll be in the city next week,” Mavis was saying, running a finger along Neal’s wrist. “Maybe you could arrange a private showing for me at the gallery.”
“Oh, I am not sure I’ll be available. I’m moving to Brooklyn next week, so I’ll be taking a few days off,” Neal replied.
“Why ever would you leave Manhattan for Brooklyn?” Mavis said, feigning disdain.
“It holds a rather intimate appeal for me lately,” he said, eyeing Peter and Elizabeth with a smile as they walked towards them.
“One minute to midnight!” someone called from another room.
“Midnight! I’ll need someone to kiss…” she purred.
“Oh, I…”
“He’s already got someone for that,” Elizabeth announced. She and Peter each took one of Neal’s hands and led him away.
They headed for the terrace. Though the night was cold, there were a few people out there, smoking, escaping from the heat in the house. Neal stopped just outside the French doors, pulling them all to a halt. “What are we doing?” Neal said, his voice low. Peter’s intent was plain on his face. “There are people here…Are you drunk?”
“Yes,” Peter said emphatically.
“He’s very demonstrative when he drinks champagne. I suggest we make the most of it,” El said with a smile. She leaned into Peter and he kissed her, a hand cupping her cheek tenderly. She pulled back, hooked a hand around Neal’s wrist and pulled him toward her, kissing him next. Peter took a step closer, put his hands on them both, breathing in the warmth and mingled scents of the colognes they were wearing. It was as intoxicating as the champagne. He leaned in and hooked his finger under Neal’s jaw, pulling his face toward him and covered his mouth with his own.
“Peter,” Neal said, breaking the kiss and stepping back, a hand on his chest. Peter looked at him, suddenly transfixed by his lower lip, slightly swollen and glistening. Neal glanced around at their fellow party guests and Peter looked up too. Most were smiling, some seemed surprised. He pulled Neal in closer, and he rested his forehead on Peter’s chest. Elizabeth fit herself in between them, and Peter was struck by how perfectly they fit together, like one of those china figurines that are separate yet entwined.
“You realize you’ve just outed us in front of half the arts community of the tri-state area?” Neal whispered.
“Yes?”
“Are we OK with that?”
Peter was drunk, but not so drunk that he’d done anything he didn’t want to. So, while he’d perhaps have been a bit more tactful had he been sober, he could honestly say he had no regrets tonight. “Yes!” he said decisively, tightening his grip around both of them.
And he was.
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Thank you for your time.