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1.
The eyes in the painting follow him down the corridor. Peter returns the stare with the familiar steely gaze he inflicts on every suspect he questions.
“When they talk about interrogating the artwork,” he murmurs, laying a hand on Peter’s arm, “this isn’t what they had in mind.”
“I don’t like the way she’s looking at me.”
Peter drags himself away from the canvas and shakes his head. There’s a puzzled crease between his eyebrows. Neal suppresses a smile.
“Why do you always pick exhibits which freak me out, anyway?”
‘Always’ is stretching the truth a little. Neal has hardly ventured outside of his radius at all, but wrangling his way into the White Bored exhibit seems to have emboldened him. At least this time it isn’t clashing with Peter and El’s date night. And Neal, silver-tongued as always, even paid for the tickets. Twenty bucks to Peter if he won the bet, a free night out at the gallery if he lost? Yeah, Neal had made it sound pretty appealing.
Didn’t change the fact that the woman in the painting is definitely going to appear in Peter’s nightmares.
“Isn’t there supposed to be free food and drink at these things?” Peter said, looking around. This smile, Neal didn’t bother hiding.
“At opening night. We, however, are here in the exhibition’s second week.”
As they walk together, further down the tightly winding lanes of paint and canvas, Neal begins to gesture towards paintings. Not wishing to interrupt, Peter wonders if he realises his hand is still on Peter’s arm. It’s strange, letting himself be escorted.
“The layout of the exhibit is intentionally narrow,” Neal starts, voice already lighting up with the enthusiasm which only surfaces when he talks about art. “It’s a way of forcing visitors to relate to the subject matter – his paintings are a study of confinement, claustrophobia. Hardly surprising, from an artist who spent time in prison.”
He shoots Peter a pointed glance.
“Yes, yes, poor Neal. Kept locked up so tight he gets to take friends on evenings out.”
“Touché.”
A smile passes between them. Peter coughs sharply and looks away.
“There’s a long tradition of art discussing isolation. With confinement comes loneliness, and with loneliness comes confinement. You know Nighthawks, right?”
“That’s the one of the diner,” Peter offers.
“Exactly; and there’s no door in the diner. It’s a beautiful piece. Inescapable.”
“It’s certainly on a whole lot of t-shirts.”
It’s a low blow, but it’s worth it to see Neal’s faux-wounded grimace. At last, Neal removes his hand from Peter’s arm, looking towards a small party of collectors sharing champagne.
“Where are you going?” asks Peter. Adrift in art he doesn’t understand is hardly his comfort zone, but he relaxes under Neal’s smile.
“To get you a free drink.”
With a wink, Neal takes up his place in the circle of collectors with the honest handshake of a liar. Peter looks back towards the nearest painting, and sighs at the weight of its loneliness.
~*~
2.
Peter grips the menu as though it’s a shield. For the fifth time he drags his focus down the list of dishes, but there’s no real point – it’s all in Greek, and the dishes he does recognise are paired with animal names he doesn’t. At last he gives up and looks despairingly at Neal, who smiles.
“I told you, let me order for you.”
“Nothing mysterious,” Peter says quickly. “I want food I’ve seen before. Today is no day to be testing the limits of my stomach.”
Even as he says it, he checks his watch. Quarter to two. Still half an hour before he hears back from the courts. Gently, Neal takes the menu from his hands and offers him a small nod.
“Hey. It’s alright, Peter. You handed them a watertight case.”
“Yeah, and the Titanic was unsinkable.”
“You should ask Moz to tell you his thoughts on that some time.”
Despite himself, Peter smiles. The staccato rhythm of his foot against the floor slows to a halt. The drinks had arrived quickly, something for which Peter is deeply grateful. He takes a sip of his beer, which Neal had ordered him without even glancing at the menu. He can hardly find it in him to be irritated – it’s delicious.
“What thoughts would they be?”
“Oh, it’s in the way he tells it.” Neal lifts his own glass to his lips, amusement creasing the corners of his eyes. “Fake identities, fraud, last minute swap-overs. Very up your alley. And all true.”
“As if anything Mozzie tells me ever is.”
Anxiety swells again in Peter’s stomach, and as though reading his mind Neal leans back in.
“Peter. Look at me.”
He forces himself to do so. Neal is staring at him with an intensity of charm he normally reserves for marks.
“You are taking the day off, and I am taking you to a brand new restaurant.”
“Technically, I’m the one taking you,” counters Peter, nodding towards Neal’s anklet. “If this was my lunch break I’d be spending it at a hot dog stand.”
Neal shakes his head. Peter watches with interest as he produces a silver cigarette lighter seemingly from nowhere and reaches out to light the candles in the centre of the table. As flames rise up between them Neal doesn’t drop his gaze.
“Relax,” he says, so sincerely he almost has Peter fooled. “This is a nice restaurant. You aren’t at work. I’ve just bought you the best meal you’ll eat in months.”
“And you get a day trip outside of your radius,” says Peter, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, maybe we both deserved a holiday.”
Peter glances away from Neal’s smile, brighter than the candles, and catches the eye of an approaching waiter.
“That looks delicious,” he says, his stomach growling as the waiter lays the plates on the table.
“I keep telling you; I have impeccable taste.”
“Mm. And so does this,” replies Peter, nodding at his dish. He doesn’t look back at his watch.
~*~
3.
“Hands in your pockets, Neal,” says Peter, not quite sarcastic enough. Neal glares at him.
“I’m not in kindergarten, I know how to look without touching.”
“Do you?”
At that, Neal relents, smirking and dipping his head in acknowledgement.
“I know the theory.”
Still, he makes an elaborate show of putting his hands behind his back as they make a slow circuit of the museum. Peter isn’t expecting him to keep it up, but he does; he names exhibit numbers and describes items rather than pointing to them. Though Peter doesn’t particularly care for statuary, the commentary is probably better than the audio tours they sell at the front desk, and he listens with more interest than he intended.
The tour continues as Neal leads him into the room of sporting history, and Peter smiles at the memory of their trip to Yankee Stadium. The flow of excited discussion doesn’t let up – in fact, it seems to intensify, with Neal glancing eagerly at Peter between exhibits for his input or reaction. Even with his hands held behind his back he somehow manages to convey expressive gestures.
“You’ve done your reading,” says Peter as Neal rounds off the ownership history of a particular baseball bat, and finds to his surprise he’s truly touched by it. Neal simply shrugs.
“What can I say? I couldn’t have you knowing your way round a museum I didn’t.”
Peter laughs.
“Oh, I’m sure that hurt your pride no end. But I could still beat you in a baseball match.”
“Oh, we’re talking about practice over theory now?” replies Neal, his hands coming out from behind his back. It’s a challenge, and Peter rises to it with a grin.
“You couldn’t swing a bat. It would crease your suit.”
“It would.” Neal smirks, returning his hands to his pockets. “But I can tell you all about the history of sports fraud.”
“In theory over practice, of course.”
“Of course.”
Neal makes his way towards a bench in the centre of the room and sits down, nodding towards the space beside him. It’s difficult for them both to fit. Peter can feel the warmth of Neal’s shoulder by his side, stark against the chill of the gallery. Neal’s eyes glint.
“Alright. Corking a bat.”
“Doesn’t work,” replies Peter instantly. “Breaks your bat and skews the balance.”
“It does,” agrees Neal, “but what if you aren’t using it on the field?”
Seeing Peter’s expression, Neal launches into a complex narrative of smuggling and confidence trickery which he wouldn’t believe a word of from anyone else. The warmth of their shoulders pressed together spreads through Peter, until he finds he’s lost track of time.
The buzz of his phone brings him sharply back to the present. Peter curses when he sees the time.
“Damn it, Neal, we’re late for the meeting with the curators.”
“Why is it always business over pleasure?”
“You can take your pleasure inside your radius,” Peter replies. “Come on.”
With an exaggerated sigh, Neal follows.
~*~
4.
Technically, they’re overseeing an archaeological dig. Peter flips through the file, refreshing himself on the facts of the case. When the paperwork had landed on his desk it had sounded like a welcome diversion from the monotony of insurance fraud and forged cheques – authenticating long-buried artefacts, a forgotten treasure or an ancient con – but in practice he’s quickly coming to the conclusion that all he is in fact doing is standing in a field, trying in vain to keep the rain out of his eyes at seven in the morning.
Before he can sink any further into melancholy he’s interrupted by Neal, looking unfairly chirpy for such a miserable day and carrying two cups of coffee and an umbrella.
“Morning,” he says, holding out one of the cups. Peter takes a gulp and shivers at the welcome heat it sends through him.
“Mm. Thank you,” he says. Neal steps closer, angling the umbrella to keep the rain from them both.
“My turn on breakfast,” Neal says, sipping his own.
“Thanks.” Peter takes another drink. “It’s your fault I’m here, after all.”
“And it’s only with your goodwill I get to stay.” Neal surveys the site, nudging Peter to move them both nearer the table of artefacts. “Nothing much so far.”
“You really want to keep standing in an empty field in the rain in the hope something turns up?”
“An ancient forgery? Nowhere I’d rather be. You get me the best assignments. You’re right, though,” he agrees, looking around and wincing as he steps in a puddle. “This is a dull and rainy field.”
After so many years learning Neal’s tricks, Peter can pinpoint the exact moment he forms an idea. It coalesces behind his eyes and turns them shimmering blue. He grins.
“Come on,” he says, tugging Peter’s arm. “Follow me.”
The reluctance to follow Neal across the field is just barely outweighed by his reluctance to relinquish the shelter of the umbrella. Sticking close together, Neal leads Peter to a thicket of trees. Behind them are a few squares of tarpaulin, criss-crossed with ropes and pegs.
“Is this-?”
“Last week’s dig site,” Neal confirms. “Whether or not the artefacts are real may still be up for debate, but they found some undeniably complete settlements in here.”
“How complete?”
With a smile, Neal pulls back a corner of tarpaulin and gestures for Peter to enter.
“A roof and four walls.”
Peter ducks under Neal’s arm and enters.
The floor is hard-packed mud, compressed by excited archaeologists, and Peter is pleasantly surprised at how spacious the stone room is. Neal shrugs off his raincoat and lays it on the floor before sitting down. Mimicking his actions, Peter joins him without hesitation.
“I feel like a kid ditching class,” he chuckles. Neal shoots him a sideways glance.
“Sneaking out, kissing behind the bike sheds?”
“Right now? I’d rather a coffee than a kiss,” says Peter. Rain drums on the tarp above. He pretends not to notice the look on Neal’s face.
~*~
5.
The tie just isn’t cooperating. Peter groans in frustration and gives up, making his way downstairs with it draped loose around his neck.
“Hon?” he calls.
“In here!”
El sticks her head out from the kitchen, beckoning him in. The rich scent of pasta sauce fills the air.
“God, that smells good,” he says. “I wish I was staying here to enjoy it.”
“I’ll save you a plate for tonight.” She leans up on her toes to kiss him. For a moment Peter almost drifts away into it, but El pulls away before he can get too relaxed.
“Mm. You better,” he says. “Mozzie doesn’t appreciate your cooking like I do.”
“But I appreciate his wines,” she counters. “You’ll have fun with Neal. The opera!”
“People singing a language I don’t speak for five hours? Yeah, I’m gonna love it.”
El laughs, then, and this time when she kisses him she pulls his tie into a graceful knot neater than anything he had managed upstairs. The door clicks shut while Peter’s eyes are still closed.
“Sorry to intrude,” says Neal. Peter can already hear him smiling. El beams, sunlight filling the kitchen, and greets Neal with a warm embrace and a kiss on his cheek.
“Not at all,” she tells him. “But you’ll have to tell me how on earth you’ve managed to get Peter exposed to so much culture.”
Peter rolls his eyes.
“My bad luck.”
“Your husband has a gambling streak,” Neal murmurs, a pantomime of confidentiality. “He keeps losing bets. Honestly, El, I was ready to bet ten bucks on this one, but if he wants to keep taking me on dates then…”
“You can keep him,” El replies, mirroring his posture. “He doesn’t appreciate my pasta sauce like Mozzie does.”
“And that’s enough.”
Twin pairs of bright blue eyes turn towards Peter. Something achingly fond uncurls within his chest. He covers it with a cough.
“Come on,” he says to Neal. “You’ll miss curtain call.”
“Don’t be late,” El says, pressing a kiss to Peter’s cheek. “Mozzie’s only staying an hour – it’s poker night with god knows who, apparently, and you do not want me left alone with his wines.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Peter laughs.
Neal takes his arm and smiles at El, kissing her cheek before they turn to the door. Peter’s heart twists at the easy affection. He wonders if it’s jealousy, but no. Seeing Neal and El grinning at one another, feeling Neal’s grip soft and sure on his arm… it feels right, in a way he can’t articulate. He’s grateful for the distraction Neal provides with his parting quip.
“I’ll bring him back without a scratch.”
*
Five hours, leftover pasta, and several bottles of red wine later, Neal is lying on the Burkes’ sofa leafing through the plans for El’s next gallery opening. As Peter makes for the kitchen to open another bottle, El slides her arms around him in a close embrace. They kiss, but something is off; El pushes him gently away. She’s wearing her serious conversation face, Peter realises. He tries to brace himself.
“Hon, you know he meant it, don’t you.”
It’s not a question, but Peter turns and looks to her for answers anyway. She shakes her head and smiles, tight lipped.
“He wants you to keep taking him on dates.”
“They’re not-“
“We both know they are.”
El moves through the kitchen easily, crowding in until she has Peter backed against the counter. Dread clenches in his chest, bursting into confusion as El continues.
“And we both know that we would both be okay with that.”
Peter has to grab a chair for support. The ground seems to have fallen away.
“You’re saying-“
“I’m saying, yes. In fact, I’m saying please.” She looks at him, and at last Peter sees in her eyes the thing they’ve both been hiding for so long. He chokes on a sob, and kisses her.
The moment fades as Neal walks in, still holding El’s papers. He smiles as he looks up at them both. In the soft lamplight, wine drunk, bare-footed, and flushed with happiness, Neal is desperately, painfully beautiful.
“El, these plans are amazing,” he says. “I’d love to come along – your parties alongside art like this? It would be a travesty to miss it.”
“It’s outside your radius, isn’t it?” she asks, looking pointedly at Peter. He knows he’s blushing. As El takes his hand and squeezes, he finds he doesn’t care. Neal shrugs.
“What do you say, Peter? I bet you twenty bucks, you bet me a trip to El’s gallery opening?”
He takes a deep breath. No more lies.
“You bet me twenty bucks,” says Peter, stepping forward until he knows he’s too close to be mistaken. “How about I bet you a date?”
Neal’s well practiced at hiding his tells, but he can’t hide this. Surprise, and there’s something – Peter is too afraid to call it relief. His gaze flickers over the two of them; their joined hands, their matching smiles. Peter takes a shaky breath.
It takes Neal three attempts at opening his mouth before any words come out.
“El?” he manages. She steps forward and squeezes his arm.
“I’ll match his bet. All in.”
A smile splits Neal’s face, and all at once the tension lifts and they can breathe again.
“That’s not how poker works, you know,” he says, covering El’s hand with his like he can’t believe he has the privilege of touching it. Peter reaches out too, putting his own hand on Neal’s shoulder. Completing the circuit.
“No,” agrees Peter. “But it’s how this works.”
“All in,” echoes Neal. He blinks. “Okay.”
Peter watches as Neal swallows hard. A disbelieving smile tugs at his lips, and Peter wants nothing more than to kiss it away, but then again, that should probably wait for the second date. When Neal meets his gaze again his eyes are full of tears.
“I guess that means I’ve got a bet to lose.”
~*~
+1
No amount of champagne would be celebration enough, Peter thinks. Free or not. That hasn’t stopped him from getting started on his third glass, generously filled from a bottle El had secreted away for him. As always, she knows that he prefers the corners of the room to the centre of attention. From here he can see El, effortlessly steering every conversation from the wait staff to the gallery’s director, looking as beautiful as he’s ever seen her. He smiles.
There isn’t a sound from behind him, but he knows Neal has appeared by his side by the way he finds himself leaning in without conscious thought.
“See? Opening night.” Neal smiles, and raises his glass. Peter raises his own.
“To El,” he says.
“To El.”
Neal follows Peter’s gaze. It’s bewildering; for so long, Peter had no idea, not even understanding himself, when it’s written so clearly in Neal’s expression how he feels.
“You really do-“ he starts to say, but stops. Some things as yet remain unsaid. Neal smiles at him anyway, and Peter thinks that he might drown in blue eyes.
“I really do,” he replies.
“I would have thought you’d be marking the exits. Planning how to pull a job.”
“Here?” Neal looks at him. “I’ve got nothing to run to. The most beautiful things in this room… well.”
He trails off. Peter knows exactly where he’s looking, because he’s looking at her too.
And all at once she’s looking at him, looking at both of them, standing right in front of them with a smile like she’s just won a medal.
“What do you think?”
“It’s perfect, hon,” Peter tells her, pulling her in for a chaste kiss. In perfect synchronisation they both turn to Neal. Peter shivers at the open desire in his gaze.
“This must be what it feels like to be a piece of soon to be stolen art.”
Neal smiles.
“Well, I am a painter. We can make that happen.” He leans closer, conspiratorial. “Nothing I could forge would come close to the real thing.”
“We’ll have to see about proving that to you.”
El winks before disappearing again into the crowd. Mouth open, Neal looks at Peter.
“Did she-?”
“It’s not quite a first date,” shrugs Peter, though he knows he’s blushing. “Don’t tell me you’re shy.”
“I’m not shy.”
Neal drains his glass.
“Refill?”
He gestures to the bottle, and as Peter reaches out to top up their glasses he starts so sharply he almost spills it. Neal’s fingers are railing across the palm of his hand, creeping higher until they’re tapping in time with his wrist’s racing pulse. His smile is dangerously explicit in its innocence.
For the first time since starting her career, El leaves a party early.
*
The clock ticks towards dawn. Neal stirs, safe in the darkness between Peter and El.
“Peter?” he whispers.
“Yeah?”
“I meant it. I was running to this.”
And for the first time, Peter hears an honesty Neal can’t fake.