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The first time Neal meets her, he doesn't startle or stare. He doesn't grab her, doesn't call out "Kate," doesn't shake her and ask her what the hell she's doing to him, or push her to the floor and fuck her right there in her impeccably decorated foyer. He just leans in, his mouth slowly curving into a smile, and says through lowered lashes, "Your husband should be here any minute." He lifts his pants leg and nods down at the monitor.
The confused expression on Elizabeth's face turns to a knowing smile. "You must be Neal." She moves back, sweeping out her arm, inviting him in without a moment's hesitation.
No fear of the convicted felon, and Neal has to wonder what Peter has told her. That he's no danger, maybe. He's not sure why that rankles, but it does.
She shows him into the living room and makes tea, and they sit chatting over a nice Earl Grey. At first, they keep to safe topics: the weather and traffic and the Yankees. He wouldn't have guessed that Elizabeth was such a baseball fan. Eventually, though, they skate onto more personal subjects.
Elizabeth tilts her head, perusing him at her leisure. "I was sometimes jealous of you, you know." Warmth sparks in her eyes when she smiles. It's familiar and not, and Neal wants to fall into it.
Instead, he smiles back. "I can't imagine why." He lowers his voice and lets his eyes linger, the Neal Caffrey treatment. He uses it on all his marks. Nothing personal in that. Dark hair and blue eyes and a face the shape of a heart, but she's not Kate. Not Kate. He takes a breath and lets it out and relaxes back against the sofa cushions. "So, tell me embarrassing stories about Peter."
Elizabeth's eyes go bright with mischief. "Where to start?"
By the time Peter arrives home, Neal has heard about Peter's unfortunate prom experience, the fiasco of his first date with Elizabeth, and his unsuccessful foray into home improvement. He's even seen the hole in the bathroom wall that Elizabeth keeps as a testament to why Peter should never be allowed inside a Home Depot.
Peter comes to an abrupt stop in the doorway, his gaze snapping from Elizabeth to Neal and back again. The bewilderment in his eyes quickly turns to something sharper. Good, Neal thinks. He prefers not to be the only one who's jealous here. Peter is delightfully unsubtle about it too. He goes right on eyeing Neal suspiciously, as if he can see right through him. It always feels like that, has since the very beginning. Desire twists hotly in Neal's belly. He's not even sure who he's jealous of anymore. But then, he never is.
As desperate as Neal is to stay out of prison, he honestly wouldn't have put money on this arrangement with Peter lasting more than a case or two. He certainly wouldn't have guessed he'd become a frequent guest at the Burke home, long evenings of French cooking a la Julia Child and Pinot Noir and triangulated desire. Neal inevitably goes home feeling like his center of gravity is off, a condition that has nothing to do with the wine.
You can play the odds, but you can never truly predict anything, so you have to be ready for everything. This is wisdom Neal has lived by in his profession, the philosophy that has kept him honest. So to speak. The Burkes are giving his self-possession a workout.
Tonight, Peter is regaling them with tales of dim-witted criminals past. "And then we found his cell phone locked up in the safety deposit box. We still have no idea how he didn't notice he'd lost it." He barks with laughter.
Elizabeth leans her chin on her hand, smiling, her eyes alive with amusement and pride in her husband.
Neal adopts an expression of mock insult. "I hope you don't tell stories like this about me."
Peter meets his gaze. "You never did anything stupid. I just did things smart."
His gaze lingers, and Neal doesn't look away. Everything between them is a game of chicken. The air simmers in Neal's lungs, as if the room has suddenly become too hot.
Elizabeth watches them, a mix of curiosity and knowledge on her face, as if she's confirming a pet theory. At last, she declares, "Well, this seems like a good time to bring in dessert." She smiles and heads off to the kitchen.
Peter takes a sip of his wine. He's still got his eyes on Neal, but the expression in them has gone from challenge to speculation. Neal is never sure if that look means Peter is calculating what it will take to keep him on the straight and narrow or simply imagining him with his clothes off.
If Neal were anyone else, no doubt the intensity of that gaze would have him squirming in his seat. Instead, he breezily remarks, "Somebody should help your wife, don't you think?"
Peter settles his elbows on the table, as if he has no intention of going anywhere any time soon.
"I guess it's up to me then," Neal says with a smirk as he gets up from the table.
Elizabeth stands at the counter, making coffee. She turns at the sound of his footsteps. "Taking refuge in here with me, huh?" She gives him a sideways smile.
He's never quite sure how much she reads between the lines with him and Peter. She's a smart woman, so he figures the odds are pretty good she sees everything. It doesn't seem to bother her. He's really not sure what to make of that.
"Is there something I can do?"
She nods to a cake stand on the counter. "You mind doing the honors? The plates are in the top cabinet on your right, and there's a knife in that drawer by the sink."
He fetches the knife and cuts the cake and serves it up. It's yellow with caramel icing, old-fashioned, Southern. Neal smiles softly. "Let me guess. This is your mother's recipe."
"How'd you know?" Elizabeth glances back over her shoulder, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
Dark hair and blue eyes and the way she looks at him, like she can see who he'll be on his very best day. She's not Kate falls right out of his head. He crosses the kitchen in two long strides, turns Elizabeth with a hand on her shoulder, tilts her chin up with the other. Neal has kissed a lot of marks in his life, and it always goes the same way: slow slide of lips, delicate tease of tongue, the press of his mouth gradually firmer, firmer, but not too much, always leave them begging for more.
This is nothing like that. Neal wants, and he's going to take. Going to have. His mouth moves hotly on hers, his tongue pushing greedily past her lips. She curls a hand around his shoulder, as much as if she's trying to steady him as hang on herself.
Neal pulls away, gulping down a breath of air. An image of Peter burns behind his eyes. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that."
She's not Kate, and he's not sure he cares. I'm sorry is probably a lie. He's pretty sure he'd kiss her again if he thought he could get away with it.
Elizabeth pats him on the arm. "Can you get the dessert forks for me?"
She carries the tray of coffee cups off to the dining room. For a moment, he just stares after her, listening to the sound of his own breathing. Then he lifts his chin, puts his game face on, and heads back into the fray.
"Who needs silverware?" he asks brightly.
"We suspect it's not just one person, but an actual gang. Different skill sets. Different signatures. That's making it a pain in the rear to try to track down who these people are, as you can imagine."
Peter has been briefing him on their next case for the past half hour. Neal stares off into the distance, letting it all go in one ear and out the other. He can't concentrate, and he can always read the case file later. The kiss with Elizabeth keeps replaying in his head, a spike of senses: the way she smelled, like sugar and shampoo and the delicate touch of perfume, something light that made Neal think of pears, the way her hair felt sliding through his fingers, soft and smooth as silk, the way she tasted as he helped himself to her mouth, sweet and warm, with a lingering hint of wine.
Not Kate, but it doesn't matter.
"What we need to do is trace it back to whoever is calling the shots. We're figuring it's a real high roller. Someone like Daffy Duck. Elmer Fudd, even."
Neal nods absently. "Could be."
Peter scowls at him. "Okay, what is up with you? Don't tell me this has already gotten too boring for you. Maybe you'd find it more interesting back in prison?"
Neal's mouth pulls into a bitter line. "Are you ever going to stop holding that over my head?"
Peter pretends to consider the question. "Nope. Don't think so." He gets up from his desk, goes over to the close the door, pull the blinds. "Okay, spill it. Tell me what you did. And I swear to God, Neal, if you've stolen something or conned somebody, I really will send your ass back to the super max."
"I haven't done anything!" Neal insists indignantly, which is true, at least in the sense that Peter means it.
The problem is that the picture of Elizabeth won't stop flashing behind his eyes, and Peter is staring at him with genuine damned concern. Peter, who doesn't actually want to send Neal back to prison, no matter what he likes to pretend. An uncomfortable sensation twists in Neal's gut. Fuck. It's guilt. He hasn't felt guilty about anything since he was in kindergarten. What the hell is Peter doing to him?
He blows out a breath. "It's not what you think."
Peter gives him a hard, cut the bullshit look.
"I— It's just Kate and— I kissed Elizabeth." He blurts it out, without meaning to.
Peter stands there, blinking at him.
"Just a kiss," Neal hurriedly adds. "All me, not her, by the way. And I'm sorry." It's actually the truth this time.
Understanding dawns on Peter's face. "So, that's why you've been acting squirrelly all morning." He smiles triumphantly. "You feel bad."
"I—" Neal can't think of anything to say. He's off balance, and he hates that.
Peter shakes his head. "What? You thought El wouldn't tell me?" Before Neal can answer, he holds up a hand. "Yeah. She looks like Kate. I got that. And for the record, I trust my wife, and she doesn't keep secrets from me." He tilts his head, giving Neal a speculative look. "But now that you bring it up, maybe I really should do something about your impudence. Maybe you wouldn't feel bad if there was some quid pro quo."
He gets up, comes around the corner of the desk, fists his hand in Neal's tie and drags him up from his chair. Neal isn't sure what he expected, but not this, this manhandling. Apparently, his cock doesn't mind it, though, and Neal fleetingly wonders if this was the real reason he kissed Elizabeth, to get Peter's hands on him. He's always been so much better at understanding other people's hidden motivations than his own.
His breathing takes on a ragged edge, and he waits for a fist to the face. He gets Peter's mouth instead, pushing roughly against his, Peter's hand on his jaw, tilting his head to an abrupt angle. It's forceful enough to bend Neal backwards. Peter owns Neal for the next four years, and that's exactly how he kisses. Neal goes breathless, his lungs burning. His knees buckle a little, although later he'll deny that, even to himself. He's hard against Peter's thigh, and it takes all his restraint to keep from rubbing against him.
"There," Peter says when he pulls back, his mouth noticeably red. "Now we're even."
Neal has no idea what that's supposed to mean. Who's even? Peter and Neal? Or could he mean Peter and Elizabeth?
As Peter pulls away, he says quietly against Neal's ear, "Anything you do to her, I do to you. Just remember that."
It could be a threat or a promise, and either way it makes Neal's pulse race. Two Burkes for the price of one. Truly, you never can predict anything.
Peter settles at his desk, giving Neal an impatient glance. "You ready to get back to work?"
Neal nods, returning to his chair. He's ready for everything.