Chapter Text
Peter propped his head on his hand and blinked hard at the calculations in front of him, forcing them into focus. He was exhausted but doggedly refused to shirk his duty. He'd put off doing their yearly accounts four times in the last month, and he'd get them out of the way this afternoon during Mikey's nap or die trying.
El was asleep upstairs, curled around the baby monitor. Neal was allegedly reading on the couch, but he hadn't turned a page in ten minutes and was probably dozing too. It had been a hell of a month: Mikey, normally robust and healthy, had been struck down with a series of fevers and colds that culminated in a week of near-sleepless nights. They were all drunk on sleep deprivation, reeling around the house like a crew of soused sailors.
A loud yawn came from the direction of the couch, giving lie to Peter's assumption, and he figured he might as well take advantage of Neal's wakefulness. He moved his chair forward a few inches so he could see Neal's face. His hair was mussed, his beard longer than usual, and he was wearing a stained t-shirt and pajama pants—a far cry from the old days of perfect grooming and expensive suits.
"Hey," said Peter. "This is probably a stupid question, but do you have any retirement savings, a 401(k) account or anything?"
Neal sat up and rubbed his face. "What?"
He put his book aside, picked up a red and blue plastic dump truck and started flipping the bed up and down.
"Savings, investments, assets," said Peter. "I'm recalculating our retirement targets, now there's three of us. Four of us."
Neal shrugged. "Don't worry about me. I've got it covered. In fact, I've got us all covered."
"What does that mean?" Peter turned in his seat.
"It means I have savings, and mi dinero es su dinero." Neal slouched down, dropped the truck on the seat beside him and let his head fall against the back of the couch. "God, I'm beat. I'll have to text Trey and cancel this evening. Is there coffee in the pot?"
"I'll put some on in a minute," said Peter.
Neal had struck up an unlikely friendship with Trey, who lived around the corner and was one of the neighborhood's main movers and shakers. Peter was still unsure how much it was genuine and how much politic, a way to fit in with the local social network, but either way, the two of them were currently embroiled in a secret project to design some kind of mysterious present for Trey's teenage stepdaughter, Nova. Peter watched Neal fumble for his phone and tried to tamp down his suspicion that mentioning Trey was a deliberate diversion. "Savings from where? You know I can't live off the proceeds of crime."
"It's not—" Neal huffed impatiently, finished his text and sent it. Then he looked up. "A lot of it's earnings from when I was in Paris. I didn't have many expenses, and Cécile was a much more generous employer than the FBI."
Clearly, having to explain himself rankled, or maybe it was the memory of the FBI's meagre stipend, or having walked away from a high-status, well-paying job in the most glamorous city in Europe. This wasn't the time to remind Neal of the circumstances of his work release or to get defensive about the current grueling state of their lives, but Peter couldn't let the matter slide either. "And the rest?"
"I liquidated a few assets before I left." Neal shook his head. "Seriously, just take the money, Peter. Fill the coffers. Then you won't have to waste any more Saturday afternoons with your nose in the accounts."
"I'm a federal agent," said Peter, sharply.
"I noticed." Neal rolled his eyes, still sprawled on the couch, knees wide. "And I'm a respectable businessman. You going to get off your high horse any time soon?"
"What do you think?" Peter got up and started pacing, his hands going automatically to his hips. Satchmo, who had been lying next to him, hoping for dropped crumbs or attention, whined and trotted into the kitchen. "You know, we need to discuss this. We should have talked it out before."
"What?" Neal yawned again. "Can it at least wait until we've had more than two solid hours' sleep?"
"No, it can't. We're a family. We support each other, we make joint decisions and share responsibility, and we work together legally for the things we need. You're still behaving like you're a—"
"Peter." Neal's eyes had narrowed. The single word a warning.
But Peter was on a roll. "—free agent. You know, El and I check in with each other before we spend more than three or four hundred bucks. What do you do? You buy a car without saying a word, then a month later you sell it again. Did you think how we might feel about that?"
"It was my car," snapped Neal, jumping to his feet as if he'd been jerked upright by puppet strings. He pointed at Peter. "You're sounding an awful lot like a handler right about now, Peter. Going to ask to check my credit card statement next? Or hey, why ask first—isn't that why you have the PATRIOT Act? You can get my eBay bids while you're at it."
Peter's throat tightened. It wasn't like Neal to lose his temper, and Peter's own track record with fights was disastrous. "Hey, slow down. I didn't mean—"
"No, if that's the way you feel, fine, I'll give the money away. I'll put it in a trust for Mikey. You and El and I can scrape by on your oh-so-generous FBI pension. What could possibly go wrong?"
Exasperation rose up, overthrowing caution. "You're not giving your ill-gotten gains to Mikey! What kind of message would that send him—that it's okay to steal?"
"He never has to know where it came from," said Neal, gesturing wide.
"Oh, so it's okay to lie to our son. Because that always ends so well." Peter ran his hand over his head and dialed back the sarcasm. "Look, why don't you just give the money back? You can do it anonymously. Write them a nice apology note. It would make their day."
Neal's jaw clenched. "It's not that simple. Even if I could figure out exact amounts and who the injured parties were, the insurance companies paid out years ago. It's ancient history, Peter. Everyone's moved on."
"Everyone except your bank balance," said Peter. "You could pay back the insurance companies." It was an easy equation, the right thing to do.
But for some reason the suggestion made Neal madder. "You think they made a loss on the deal? A string of high-profile heists is the best advertising an insurance company can buy! What better way to drum up business?"
"Is that really what you tell yourself?" Peter stared at Neal, wondering if he'd ever understand him.
"Guys!" hissed El from halfway up the stairs.
Peter jumped out of his skin.
"Goldilocks," said Neal, his temper visibly fading as he went over to talk to her. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing yet," she said, tightening the belt on her robe. "But if you keep up all this shouting, you're going to wake a sleeping monster, and if you do, it's on you two. Seriously. I'm this close to going to find a hotel room or a nice quiet park bench where I can get some actual sleep, and then you guys are on your own."
"Sorry," said Neal. "We'll keep it down."
"Sorry, hon," said Peter, lowering his voice. Hoping she'd come down and diffuse the dispute with her trademark good sense, make Neal see reason. But she pushed her hair back and said, "Okay," and trudged upstairs again like a zombie.
Neal folded his arms, his hands fisted, and looked at Peter. "Look, I'm sorry my money isn't good enough for you—"
"Well, I'm sorry my conscience is such a burden for you," Peter shot back without thinking.
Neal inhaled sharply, his chin coming up in defiance, and opened his mouth to retaliate, and in that split second, Peter saw how upset he was—the stiffness in his posture, his face blank and shuttered—and heard what he'd really meant: Sorry I'm not good enough.
"Wait." Peter held up his hands like a stop sign. This had gotten way out of hand. He went over and carefully, gently took Neal's hand, relieved when he didn't pull away. "I'm sorry. We're both dead on our feet. I should have listened when you said 'not now.'" If he had, perhaps they could have discussed the matter without fighting. Instead, he'd fallen into old patterns, forced the issue as if he still had the right to lay down the law between them.
"Yeah, you should." Neal looked grim, but he was hanging onto Peter's hand like a lifeline.
"We're in this together, for better or worse." Peter moved closer, slid his fingers into Neal's hair and rubbed his temples with his thumbs, then pressed tender kisses to the soft skin beside his eyes. He'd known exactly who Neal was when they got together; it was hypocritical to throw it in his face now. "I'm sorry, Sundance. I was out of line."
Neal sighed and softened, sliding his arms around Peter's waist. "So, what do you want me to do with the money?"
Peter nearly said, We'll figure it out, but he stopped himself just in time. A year and a half ago, Neal had left more than a dozen stolen masterpieces in the shipping container along with the clues that he'd faked his death. He'd tried to make good. And whatever he'd sold must have been from old crimes; Peter had already put those behind them. "It's your money," he said now. "What do you want to do with it?"
Neal shifted his weight, leaned in closer. "I don't know. Right now, I either want coffee or sleep or make-up sex."
Peter smiled. "Settle for make-up making out?" They were both too tired to do sex justice. Neal looked like he could barely keep his eyes open. Peter drew him down to the couch, pressed him back against the cushions and brushed his lips across his mouth.
"What about your homework?" murmured Neal. "The accounts."
"They can wait." Peter kicked off his shoes and stretched out, pulling Neal's body against his, holding him. The couch was narrow and too short, but once they'd ousted the plastic dump truck and rescued Neal's book and phone, with a bit of maneuvering and some bent knees, they managed. Peter grabbed a fleece throw from by his feet and wedged it next to Neal's head, meaning to lay his head there and go back to kissing him, but it was too late. Neal's breathing had deepened. He was asleep. Peter settled in beside him, slung an arm across his waist and joined him.
Peter woke maybe an hour later to a crick in his neck and the smell of coffee. He felt better, his head cleared of fog, at least for now, and his equilibrium fully restored. He levered himself upright as Neal put two cups on the coffee table and sat beside him. "Hey, Rip Van Winkle. You have crease marks on your face."
"Hey. You owe me kisses." Peter claimed one.
"Mm, I think you've got that backwards, cowboy." Neal leaned into him. "El's still asleep, and miracle of miracles, so is Mikey."
"That is a miracle." Peter nuzzled Neal's neck in a not-so-subtle gesture, but Neal's mind was on other things.
"So, okay," he said. "You and El have personal bank accounts, as well as your joint account, right?"
"That's right." Peter reached for his coffee and waited, keeping an open mind.
Neal nodded. "I want in on the joint account, collaborative decision-making and all. I'll put a portion of my salary from BPE in there. It's not much, but I'm hoping for a promotion sometime soon."
He offered Peter a tentative smile, and Peter returned it gladly. "We'll set it up Monday. Get you a debit card too. That'll give them something to talk about at the bank."
Neal's smile turned into a smirk. "Good. And I'll figure out how much I have saved from Paris. That can go into the retirement account. As for the rest, I'm thinking I'll put a third into an off-shore emergency fund in case of ransom demands or other crises, and give a third to charity."
"Sounds fair." It was a compromise Peter could live with. He drank a mouthful of coffee, glad they were back on the same page. "And the last third?"
Neal picked the dump truck off the floor and ran it up Peter's thigh. "The last third can pay for our annual jaunts to Paris."
He sounded casual, but there was a trace of residual hurt lurking there. And a challenge.
Peter kissed his shoulder through his t-shirt and conceded without a second thought. When you were in love with an ex-thief, you had to count yourself grateful for the "ex" part and accept the rest. He put down his cup and wrested the truck from Neal. "Sounds good. I can't live off the proceeds of crime, but I suppose it won't hurt to vacation off them occasionally."
Neal laughed outright and kissed him, pressed their foreheads together, and they grinned at each other, tired but at peace. Neal touched Peter's cheek. "In the meantime, what do you say we book El a hotel room for the night? You and I can handle the monster on our own for one night."
Peter engulfed him in a playful bear hug, catching his wrist when he tried to retaliate with tickling. Neal laughed and wriggled his legs free enough to wrap them around Peter's hips, making Peter's breath catch, and Peter groped his ass and kissed him. "Between us, we can do any damn thing we want."