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The last day of Neal's sentence, Peter shoved him into an office doing paperwork on the case they'd just finished up and went off, apparently under the illusion he was being remotely subtle, to help set up the party in the break room. Neal sat at the desk and stared down at the stack of forms, the endless endless forms. He could do them in his sleep now, including signatures for Peter, Diana, Clinton, and Hughes. Instead he sat. The ankle monitor felt heavy as a rock.
Eventually Peter came and got him and took him to the break room. There was a cake decorated like a jail cell with an open door, and some sparkling cider, and then Peter produced a key with a flourish and patted the table. "Up here, Caffrey," he said, and Neal obediently sat down and put his foot up on the table. Peter's hand was warm on his ankle as he unlocked the monitor and took it off. Neal put his leg down and stood. He felt light as air. Unmoored.
He smiled appropriately. Everyone hugged him. There were papers for him to fill out: Peter had called in some of the chips he'd earned over the years and gotten Neal's record expunged. Now Neal wouldn't even have to tick the yes box on employment applications asking if he'd ever been convicted of a crime.
"Take a week off," Hughes said. "See how you feel. Then come in and we'll talk." He patted Neal's shoulder. "You did good, kid."
Peter didn't say anything. Peter hadn't said anything, all last week, all last month, while the days ticked down. Peter hadn't said, "So, what are your plans?" Peter hadn't said, "This is where you belong." Peter hadn't said, "Stay with me." Peter didn't say any of those things at the party, either. He stood back watching most of it, smiling benevolently, hands in his pockets.
It was after five. Everyone trickled out one by one. Finally it was just him and Peter. Neal summoned up a smile. This was what he did, after all. He faked things. "So, I made it," he said.
Peter didn't field it. He smiled at Neal, gently, and said, "Go get your coat."
Neal stared at him. Peter was pulling on his own coat. He raised his eyebrows and made a shooing motion: go on. Neal slowly went out and down the hall. His coat was in the office. He put it on and met Peter outside the break room door.
Peter tilted his head towards the front door wordlessly. Neal fell into step with him, as easy and natural as it always was, his stride adjusting to Peter's length, Peter's to his pace. Something worse than panic gripped Neal's throat. He couldn't give this up. He couldn't lose it; lose Peter. The one thing he'd ever really owned, the one thing that wasn't a counterfeit. The rock he wanted to build himself on.
Peter wouldn't make him beg. Neal was sure of it. But he hadn't said anything. If he hadn't said anything because the answer was no, because he was ready to push Neal out —
They were out on the street. Peter gave him a puzzled look. "Now what is it?"
Neal went wide-eyed, mildly perplexed. "Nothing."
Peter frowned at him, and then — and then he put his hand on the back of Neal's neck, warm and hard and intimate, and shook him. "Sometimes you think too much."
Relief burst in Neal's chest like a safe door opening. Peter's hand stayed on him. Neal let his head tip subtly back against it and relaxed. He didn't really pay attention to where they were going until they were at June's house, and Peter pushed him gently to the stairs, guided him all the way up to his front door. Peter stood there just behind him, hand still on Neal's neck, steady, weighting him down. Neal stared down at his own hands. They were shaking a little, like his body had figured out what was happening and kept it from his brain. He managed to still them and open the door.
He didn't go through. He waited, and then Peter did it: Peter gave him a push, and followed him in, and closed the door behind them. "Peter," Neal said, his voice wavering.
"Yeah," Peter said. There was a soft sliding noise: a tie coming loose.
"I thought — " Neal swallowed and still didn't turn around. "You never — "
Peter paused. "You were a prisoner under my supervision," he said very slowly, like Neal was an idiot.
"Oh, God." He hadn't — he'd given up even — he turned and gripped Peter's jacket, shoved it off his shoulders and down his arms, lunging up for his mouth at the same time. Peter made a muffled squawk against him, half laughing, and then he stopped laughing. He dragged one arm out of its sleeve, and he had Neal by the back of the head and was kissing him back, deep and rough and hungry.
Neal went after his buttons and let Peter get them wherever he wanted to go, the bed, the couch, the table, anywhere — he fell backwards to the mattress with Peter's shirt opening for him, Peter's knee between his thighs nudging against him. Peter was panting, his eyes with that serious, sharp look he got when he was solving a problem, one of the hard cases; he was getting Neal's pants open. "El?" Neal said, lifting his hips, gasping.
"I get you to myself for a week," Peter said, shouldering his way out of his unbuttoned shirt, pulling the undershirt up over his head. "Then she gets to play, too."
Neal gulped, almost a sob. They were going to keep him; they were going to let him in. "Peter," he said, his voice rising; Peter's hand was on him, sliding, thumb stroking gently over the head. Neal arched under him.
"God, you're pretty," Peter murmured, and Neal writhed a little more, as artistically as he could manage: he wasn't above showing off. He was glad he'd worn the really good grey suit today, and glad he had the blue sheets on the bed; he threw a look up to see if the shades were open — they were, so the skyline was outside, all lit up for the night, and Peter would see it glittering as the backdrop while he — while he fucked him, oh God, Peter was rummaging in the end table, tossing lube and condoms on the bedspread; Peter was going to fuck him, right now, right this second, it couldn't happen fast enough —
"Shh," Peter said, pushing him back firmly down on the pillows.
"Please," Neal said, straining against his hand to feel the strength of Peter's arm behind it. "Please, Peter, don't make me wait, Jesus, not anymore — "
"No," Peter said gently, "no more waiting. Just relax."
Neal shut his eyes and took deep breaths, let Peter — oh. Peter's strong, hard fingers — oh. "Oh," he said, hearing himself, "oh. oh."
"Yeah, that's it," Peter said, low and just a little breathless. "Just like that. Just — like that."
"Oh, God," Neal said, because Peter's voice was going warm and husky, pleased, and when he opened his eyes Peter was half-smiling over him, heavy-lidded and satisfied, and he was sliding home little by little by — "Peter, I'm going to — "
"What, already?" Peter said.
"Yes," Neal said, and came, helplessly.
"Christ," Peter said roughly, and he shoved Neal's legs back and slid home in one slow, thorough, perfect thrust; gripped him by the thighs, muscled him up a little and rocked in him, back and forth, oh God, oh God, loosened things up, got everything moving, and then Peter was taking him, one stroke after another, before the aftershocks were even over. Neal moaned gratefully and let his head sprawl back against the pillows, curved his arms up towards the headboard, bought and paid for, ready for Peter to take him home.