hoosierbitch | FIC: history of us, 3/4, NC-17

Title: history of us
Author: hoosierbitch
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Neal/Peter
Series: "Broken Road" Part 1 / Part 2
Warnings: References to past noncon, dubcon, and underage noncon.
Word Count: 3,800
Notes: So, what started out as one story with maybe a coda, has turned into a full-on series. There's at least one part left. I don't think there's more than that, but that's what I said last time, to, and, uh. Nope. Thank you so much to those of you who are sticking with the story - I can't tell you how much I appreciate your feedback and support! Extra props to photoash, who has been patiently listening to me whine about this pretty constantly since I started. Thank you. [title taken from the Indigo Girls song of the same name, Neal's sauce recipe by lemmealone]

Summary: Neal's never done anything like this before. But he's willing to give it a try.

It wasn’t rape. It was a fair trade.

The first time he paid for something with his body he was ten. “Let’s go for burgers,” his teacher had said, “I’ll drive you home,” because the art club had let out an hour earlier and Neal’s mom still hadn’t shown up. They ordered happy meals and Neal got to keep both toys. When his teacher pulled up in front of his house (his trailer, it was a double-wide, his mom repeated over and over like that made it better) he put a hand on the back of Neal’s neck and pulled him in and kissed his closed lips and said “You’re welcome.”

By the time Neal left for New York at 15 he’d learned he could trade his body for the lead in the school play, protection from bullies, straight A’s, $50, and blackmail material.

He fucked his way up through the ranks. Slept with art thieves and critics alike, business men and women and their spouses and children and bodyguards and anyone else who could give him a foothold, give him an advantage, give him something they didn’t know he was taking. Trust was the first thing he stole. Then money and art and bond certificates and passwords and a reputation.

When he was eighteen he met Moz. Who did him favors without asking for anything in return, who didn’t fuck Neal even when he was spread out naked on his bed and asking for it, who gave him books to read and leads to follow and one night, when he was nineteen and drunk and sore, said “You’re better than this” like he believed it.

When Neal was twenty and ready to believe him they went to Europe and smoked pot and fleeced American tourists and drank expensive wine and ate at patisseries every morning. Moz hardly ever slept but sometimes when he did he’d curl up next to Neal and throw an arm over his waist and drool on his shoulder and that was it. That was all.

They went to Italian tailors and Neal started to care about what he looked like in his clothes more than he did out of them. They pulled job after job where all Neal had to do was smile, flirt, and trust Mozzie’s plans. They went to museums and analyzed the security systems and the guards’ rotation patterns and the flow of the crowds and sometimes just sat for hours and looked at the paintings. Millions and millions of dollars (a double-wide), and worth every penny.

Moz bought him paint and canvas and Neal created forgery after forgery.At some point Moz asked him if he'd ever tried painting anything original, anything of his own. He'd been working on a series of nudes and he knew the human body, so after he finished the Goya and put it in the oven to age he pulled out a blank canvas. He stared at it for days, palate covered in a rainbow of flesh tones, remembering body after body after body but nothing beautiful came to mind.

Twenty-two and he fell in love. She was young and brilliant and desperate, and Neal and Moz gave her a bed of her own and a new set of lock-picks and she argued about Kerouac with Moz over the French press and sat in the Louvre all day with Neal and sometimes slept in their bed, curled in the spoon of Neal’s body, snoring like a chainsaw.

Twenty-three and the map of Vinland, victory sex in a janitor’s closet, declarations of fidelity and forever in a tiny apartment back in New York. And they were poor for a while, setting up a new network and contacts and making new names for themselves. Poor and drunk and giddy, Moz complaining about their crappy couch, the world theirs to steal.

Twenty-four and Peter Burke was on his trail everywhere he went. He scared away Neal’s contacts and showed black-and-white photos of him to every art museum, discovered his forgeries before he could get paid for them and waved from the surveillance van with a little smirk whenever he caught Neal watching.

Twenty-five and it wasn’t a game. Not cat-and-mouse, not flirting, Peter was a lion not a house cat and behind Peter and his mountains of paperwork were men and women with guns and handcuffs and warrants getting closer and closer to Neal and Kate and their crappy couch.

Twenty-six and he was almost grateful to be caught. To stop running. Moz and Kate could live their own lives again and not have to bail Neal out or cover his tracks or create elaborate distractions. He could stop looking over his shoulder. Take a break and catch his breath and recharge, plan for what he’d do after he was released.

Twenty-seven in prison.

Twenty-eight in prison

Twenty-nine in prison.

Thirty in prison.

It wasn’t rape. It was a fair trade.

He misses Peter. Which is ridiculous because they work together every day for insanely long hours, and they still finish each other's sentences and Peter confiscates Neal's toys and Neal steals Peter's wallet. And if anyone had asked him, months before, what he wanted? This is what he would have asked for. And as normal as it should feel, as grateful as he should be to have his safety guaranteed and his evenings free to do whatever he wants with them - he misses Peter.

He takes the subway to work, now. Walks the six blocks from June's and sits on benches that smell like sweat and urine and tries to look inconspicuous. He eats lunch on his own. Sometimes with Jones or Cruz, sometimes with the giggly interns from the mail room, but never with Peter. Peter goes out, most days. Meeting Elizabeth, maybe, or else he's just avoiding Neal.

There are two bottles of Peter's beer in his fridge. Neal renews his subscription to the premium sports channels. He buys more of the light blue sheets (cotton not silk), and wakes up remembering the week El had been out of town and Peter made him breakfast in bed and they'd gotten whipped cream on everything.

It's hard. To miss something he'd invested so much in believing he didn't want. To start wondering if he could trust and want and have Peter, the same way he had Kate, dependable and gentle and exhilarating. Neal's never dated a man before. Not as himself. In cons, in character, he's dated princes and CEOs and (for one whirlwind of a month) Tom Cruise. But not under his own name, in his own clothes, not without an escape plan and a motivation that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with lust.

Peter's gone but the space Neal carved out for him remains. And it's not a wound, it's not like parts of him are missing, it's just - in the place where he expects Peter to be there's no one. The beer sits in his fridge and his TV stays tuned to PBS and the sheets stay clean. He eats his lunches on his own and rides the subway and then - then they go on a stake-out and Peter eats one of those horrendous sandwiches that he takes some perverse sort of pride in being able to stomach, and because there's nothing else left to say Neal tells him - not everything, but - enough. And Peter listens. And holds his hand.

Four days later Neal asks him out and he says yes.

Their first date doesn't start out particularly well.

Peter brings him flowers. A horrible bouquet that looks like he bought it at the gas station (and which, after extensive prodding, Peter admits is true). Neal laughs until he cries and Peter tries to throw them away. Neal rescues them and sticks them in an antique vase, and when he comes back to the door Peter's still blushing and Neal's so distracted by it that he trips down the stairs.

During the movie (some horrible action film that perverts the Greek myths in a truly tragic fashion) Peter holds his hand awkwardly and spills all the Sno Caps during the previews. About halfway through, Neal leans over and asks (quietly, there are giggling girls sitting two rows in front of them and drunk frat boys four seats over), "Can I give you a handjob?"

Peter freezes. His hand squeezes Neal's uncomfortably tight and Neal licks his lips when he sees the hard line of Peter's cock through his jeans (jeans, blue jeans, it pains him that Peter didn't dress up but on the other hand his ass looks exquisite in denim).

"No," Peter says, and he sounds angry and Neal spends the rest of the movie trying to breathe normally. His hand in Peter's sweats uncomfortably and he'd pull it back but he doesn't want Peter to think Neal's pulling away, that he's hurt, that he wants more distance because his mouth aches for the weight of Peter's dick, the taste of his cum, the friction on his lips, for Peter. So they hold hands and Neal tries to get into the movie but the majority of his attention is still focused on Peter's cock, hot and hard and Neal knows he could make Peter happy, make up for the crappy movie, make Peter come and relax and smile at Neal (he got it right).

There's a gelateria a few blocks down and after the movie they walk there slowly, talking idly about modern interpretations of Greek myths. They both think Icarus was a dumb ass and Zeus a glorified blowhard. They don't hold hands. Of course they don't. They're in public. Peter's not homophobic, not by a long shot, but there's a difference between accepting other people's lifestyles and holding another man's hand in public. Especially since Neal's on his left. Wedding ring. Neal puts his hands in his pockets and tries not to stare at Peter too much.

They probably don't look like they're on a date. They don't match, the way that most couples do, the way Peter and El do. Neal's suit is fitted and grey and thirty years old, and Peter's wearing jeans and a button-down. It works for him, though. The top two buttons are undone (Elizabeth's hand at work, Neal would guess), the sleeves rolled up, paired with dark brown boots Neal's never seen before. Peter's got strong forearms, nice collarbones, a lickable dip in the hollow of his throat and Neal's hands tighten to fists in his pockets because he's not got the best impulse control and he doesn't want to fuck this up.

The gelataria's small, nearly empty, the teenage barista too bored to give them anything but the daily specials. Neal orders pistachio, Peter caramel, and they take their cups and snag a booth tucked away in the back.

"This is nice," Peter says, and Neal itches with how much better it could be. If Peter'd let them go outside his two-mile radius, if he'd been able to get Peter off already, if Peter would stop looking at him like he expects Neal to run and is preparing to pretend that he's okay with it.

They make small talk about nothing in particular. Jones' dating life and Nicholas Cage and Renoir, and Peter has a bit of caramel just to the right of his lips, just beyond the reach of his tongue, and they're alone in the back of the store and he wants this, he does he does he does, so he leans across the table, gaze darting between Peter's eyes and the corner of his mouth and Peter doesn't move except to close his eyes.

They kiss.

And it's not like a first time. Not like a discovery, not a revelation, because he knows the taste of Peter, even underneath the chill and caramel and hesitation. Knows the curve of his lips, the texture of his teeth, knows the slick space underneath his tongue. And it's not like coming home, not like kissing Kate had ever been, because Peter just waits for him. He licks into Peter's mouth with more eagerness than grace, still half-crouched over the table. It's sloppy and wet and Neal licks the smudge of caramel away and takes Peter's lower lip between his teeth because he wants to reclaim not only his right to pleasure he wants to reclaim Peter.

They finish eating in silence, exchanging small, secret smiles, and Peter doesn't ask Neal if he's okay, if he's sure, and Neal knows it's not because he doesn't care. It's because he trusts that Neal's going to be honest with him.

So when Peter drives him home and kisses him again, their seat belts still on, skin tinged a light green from the light of the radio, Neal pulls back first and doesn't ask Peter to come up.

He gets inside, strips off his clothes, squirts some lube on his hand and pretends it's Peter, Peter and melted gelato and a dark movie theatre and holding hands and he comes, eyes closed, imagining Peter: eyes dark hands rough breath hot. He bites his lip and comes in stripes that spill all over the hardwood floor, Peter and the last lingering hint of caramel on his lips.

After their second date (Indian food and ice cream) Peter parks the car in front of June's and they unbuckle their seat belts and make out until Neal's lips feel chapped and he's about a second away from giving up any pretense of dignity, climbing over the steering wheel, and riding Peter like a mechanical bull.

"Wait," Peter says, pulling back with a groan. "Before we go any farther, Neal, I need to know some things." And Neal winces and tries to figure out what Peter could possibly want from him that he hasn't already offered. "I'm guessing that there are some things that we shouldn't do. Maybe even things that we've done before that you didn't enjoy. And I don't want to do anything you don't want to do, and I don't want to accidentally trigger you, okay?"

Trigger. Like Neal's a gun and the safety's off. And as much as he would like to pretend that he is a dull, collapsible knife, no trigger to speak of - Peter's right.

Neal doesn't like to be bitten. He doesn't want Peter's fist again. Doesn't want Peter to come inside of him, to feel the semen spread like blood, like urine, there are things he doesn't want to do.

"I'll make a list," Neal says. Peter nods, looking at Neal carefully, but he doesn't protest when Neal pulls him in for a kiss before he leaves.

Neal puts a piece of paper in his pocket and over the course of the next week fills up the entire page. No fast food drive-thrus. No fisting. No asphyxiation. No gangbangs. No biting hard enough to leave bruises.

And every item on his list comes with a story that he has to imagine telling to Peter. Starting with "my art teacher" and ending with "they filmed it and fucked me again while it played on the tv." He starts taking case files home from the office again, and stops sleeping.

They go out for lunch on Monday and Neal hands Peter the list. Neither of them eats a thing but Peter spreads his legs out under the table until their ankles knock together and when they walk back to the office Peter slings his arm over Neal's shoulders and tugs him in tight. And they don't match and they don't hold hands but on Tuesday Peter drives him home and thanks Neal for writing the list. Says that he should start a second one, of all the things he does want to do.

Instead of a list Neal writes notes. He leaves them in Peter's pockets and wallet and desk drawers. Peter's blush has become a constant feature around the office these days, and Neal takes a perverse pleasure in asking if he's feeling under the weather.

Peter never asks Neal to explain the things he doesn't want to do, and because of that, Neal thinks one day, maybe, he'll be able to tell him.

On their third date, instead of flowers, Peter brings Elizabeth.

Neal's spent the afternoon cooking, so by the time the Burkes arrive he's got a wonderful sauce simmering on the stove (olive oil, tomato, zucchini, eggplant, garlic, red wine, basil, oregano, cracked pepper, kalamata olives), lightly salted organic pasta in the strainer, and a bottle of Shiraz open on the counter. El kisses him on both cheeks and Peter gives him a quick peck on the lips. They brought fresh bread, and Peter slices it and sticks it in the oven while Elizabeth gets out a Tupperware container full of homemade bruschetta.

"Smells like heaven," El says with a happy sigh, and Neal beams.

"I know how you like Italian," he says with a grin, and Peter rolls his eyes.

"I'm never going to live that one down, am I?"

"I've actually still got the sign," El says, pouring them all more wine. "Somewhere in the attic."

The food's delicious and filling, the wine rich and smooth, the conversation light and interesting. He's got a mix CD that June had given him playing on the stereo, and the soft jazz and candles make the dinner feel intimate, comfortable, special. Elizabeth relaxes about half-way through the meal - loses some of the leftover tension from her last visit, maybe, when Neal had been fucked-up and confused and hurt. Peter just seems - content. To watch his partner and his wife bicker about roses patterns on china and the offensiveness of mini quiche and where Neal can buy his own set of Satch Socks.

Neal had thought it would be awkward - a date with a third wheel, only he wasn't sure which wheels he and El were supposed to be - but it's not. They eat and laugh and flirt and drink, and at the end of the meal Neal pours the last of the bottle of wine and smiles lazily at them.

They're looking at each other in a way Neal hasn't seen before. Calm and relaxed, some sensual promise in the way they're leaning towards each other. "Peter catching you is one of the best things that's ever happened to us," El says, and she's smiling at Peter over her half-empty glass of wine and Peter's grinning stupidly at both of them and Neal is cold, suddenly. His jaw clenches and his eyes burn and his lips twitch and he thinks about covering it up, about smiling and laughing and making some sort of comment about how unexpectedly things turn out. Because he is glad to have them (both of them) in his life but the fact of the matter is that before Peter put him in prison Neal was a different person. And 90% of the list of things Neal doesn't ever want to do again can be traced back to the last four years.

And they're smiling at each other over the last of a bottle of nice red and Neal realizes that they don't have the constant threat of danger tightening their chests, their skin doesn't crawl when someone touches them unexpectedly, they spent the four years Neal was in prison picking out their dog and trying out caterers and decorating their house. They're happy and Neal is ugly and broken and changed. They're happy that Peter caught him.

"Get out," he says, and his voice is raw and horrible and too loud.

"What?" And they have identical looks of worry and surprise on their faces and Neal needs them to leave before he breaks something. "I'm sorry," El says. "Did I say something wrong?" And they look at him like they expect him to be able to talk it out, work through it, forgive them.

"You put me in prison," he says. And Peter just looks at him expectantly, like he's waiting for Neal to continue, like that isn't enough. "You put me in prison," he repeats, because the only other things he has to say are unforgivable. "Get. Out." And they stand up and grab their coats and apologize again while moving towards the door and Peter steps towards him (hands outstretched, like he's surrendering, like Neal's some wild animal) and Neal stands up so fast his chair falls over and he bumps the table and two of the wine glasses spill and "This is my space, this is my apartment, I want - I want you gone," and he's not crying but it sounds like he is and when they leave he just - stands there, panting like he's just run a race, soft jazz still playing in the background. He burns with useless adrenaline. He told them to leave and they left.

Four years. One thousand four-hundred and eighty-five midnight bed checks and tally marks on the wall, fifty-nine days in solitary, twelve cards mailed to Peter for birthdays and anniversaries and Christmases that he celebrated with Elizabeth, one-hundred and seventy-six red-eyed visits from Kate, one visit from Peter.

The wine bottle shatters against the wall. The last two bottles of Peter's favorite beer follow. Then the wine glasses and the plates and the candle holders and one of the chairs before he stops to breathe and take stock of the wreckage and realizes that this is the first time he's let himself be angry. Let himself be hurt and pissed off and betrayed and irrational and just let go.

He can't help the urge to call Peter, to apologize and say it was a mistake and hide his own anger and soothe Peter's hurt and make everything easy. But it's not. Not easy or smooth or safe, not like what he had with Kate, his cell phone buzzes with a text from Elizabeth and he throws his phone, too, against the wall and the case splits in two. The silverware and water glasses and vase make a satisfying crash when he sweeps his arm across the surface of the table because he needs to break something and there's no one here to fight but himself.

It doesn't feel cathartic. He doesn't feel cleansed. He feels exhausted, and petty, and dangerous.

In the morning he wakes up to sunlight through the window, a clean apartment, and Moz sitting at the table with Neal's broken cell phone in his hands.

(please comment if you have the time!)

FIC: history of us, 3/4, NC-17

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