SquidgeWorld Archive

Title: Wine Tasting
Author: Ursula
Rating: rating: R
Genre and/or Pairing: Neal Caffrey and Peter Burke preslash

Notes: I think this was the fourth story I wrote in White Collar
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Pre Slash and Slash Fan Elizabeth
Word Count:
Summary: A social evening at the Burke home

Disclaimer: No profit made. White Collar belongs to Jeff Eastin and USA.

OooOooO

You couldn't help watching him. Neal was keyed up from his close encounter with the Ghost, a subject Peter needed to talk with him about at some later point.

Not now. Let Neal enjoy the spotlight, even the AD grudgingly admitting that Neal's wit had saved the day. Neal was the man of the hour, sitting on Peter's desk, foot kicking, never mind the bracelet showing. For once, Peter's fellow agents were not avoiding Neal as if he carried the plague and Neal, social butterfly as he was, was eating it up.

Seeing Peter's eyes on him, Neal grinned, a big sparkling grin that you could fall into and never want to leave. Peter shook his head and took a step toward hiswell what the hell could he call him and still keep his job?

Phone was ringing. Peter answered it.

"Are you going to come home from dinner?"

Elizabeth. Neal was watching him, his eyes asking a question. He wasn't ready to go back to June's. Peter had already figured that one out. June indulged him, babied Neal, but she had her routine which did not include late nights. She liked her beauty sleep and her Chianti. Which left Neal lonely. Peter knew that Neal did not always sleep well. It was hard for him to settle down enough to rest.

"Yes," Peter said, a little torn by his decision.

"Are you still with Neal?"

The question made him blush for some reason. Peter said, "We're at the office. We just finished writing the report."

Neal wrote most of it. Peter removed the florid passages before Hughes saw them.

"Bring him with you," Elizabeth coaxed. "I want to talk about the party."

Peter smiled. He had enjoyed watching them, his wife and hisNeal. They had been adorable co-conspirators, planning the event as if it was real and the social coup of the season.

"I can do that," Peter said. He waved Neal to him, saying, "Elizabeth wants me to bring you home for dinner."

Bouncing off the desk, Neal barely touched the ground to reach Peter's side. "Great. Let's go. I'm starved."

Why did Peter think that Neal wanted him on the menu?

OooOooO

Dinner passed by in a blur. Peter felt drunk and he only had one glass of wine with Elizabeth's Burgundy Beef. Somehow they ended up on the couch and Peter was fairly certain that he was not the one who invited Neal into the middle. Not that he wanted him to move. Neal was purring like a cat. He leaned toward Elizabeth, their heads nearly meeting as they laughed over the memory of a cat fight between two models, neither of them female.

Another man would have been worried and angry over the look of intimacy. Peter couldn't muster a protest. Neal stretched, his arms reaching around both of them. He sighed contentedly.

Elizabeth refilled all three wine glasses. Neal disentangled himself to take the glass.

"We should be partners," Elizabeth declared. "Peter, you should give Neal to me. I adore his style."

Peter reached for Neal's trouser, plunking his ankle on the table. "I think the government has a prior claim."

"That was so rude," Elizabeth chided. "Tell Neal you're sorry."

No mention that Peter's hand still enveloped Neal's ankle.

"I just think of it as his little love token," Neal chirped. "I just wished it came in more colors. Hard to wear anything but black shoes with it."

"Ill put that in the suggestion box," Peter said, finally remembering to let go of Neal.

Neal's left foot joined the right. He crossed his ankles. He winced and said, "It could use a little padding too."

"I'm sorry," Peter said and he genuinely was.

"You poor baby," Elizabeth cooed, kissing Neal on the forehead.

Neal ate that up, glancing Peter's way for a reaction. Peter just smirked.

A third glass of wine followed the sudden disappearance of the second glasses. Peter was tipsy and Neal was down right drunken, Peter suspected Neal's tolerance had been reduced considerably by nearly four years of enforced sobriety. Neal's fingers seemed unable to loosen his tie.

Peter went to the rescue, his tongue thrust out to aid his suddenly uncooperative fingers. He managed to get the knot undone and helpfully guided the tie from Neal's neck. Elizabeth aided by undoing the tightly buttoned collar.

"More comfortable," Peter said. He gave Neal's leg a pat. "Lots more comfortable."

Big blue eyes gazing into his. Damn. Peter wanted to jump him on the spot, right on the couch with Elizabeth watching.

Acknowledging his state, Peter announced, "I'm too drunk to drive you home."

Neal's head flopped onto Peter's shoulder. He said, "That's okay. I'm too drunk to let you."

"What are you doing?" Elizabeth asked.

Neal grinned and said, "Taking your man."

Elizabeth giggled and said, "Take him."

Which had Neal laughing too.

It took a moment for Peter to join in. But it was a short moment.

OooOooO

Elizabeth made it to bed with minor help. She pulled her nightgown over her head. Never mind it was the wrong side out. She pointed to the door and said, "You get Neal in bed."

"Help him to bed?"

"Oh, if that's all you can do, I suppose," Elizabeth said, tossing her hair petulantly.

Which left Peter's head more befuddled than before.

OooOooO

Neal was sitting on the stairs with a dopey smile when Peter rescued him.

"Can't sleep in my clothes," Neal complained as Peter tried to put him to bed sans only shoes and jacket.

Oh, hell, this was only going to make it worse. Delightfully worse.

Neal was a double handful of wiggly, happy drunken pretty.

"But what am I going to wear tomorrow?" Neal whined when Peter left on his boxer shorts.

"I have a new pair you can have," Peter said.

"They won't fit," Neal argued.

"Yes, but you can wear them long enough to stop at June's and find a pair of whatever the hell those are."

"Silk boxer briefs," Neal explained. "You like?"

"Very nice, now give me your foot and we'll get your socks off."

Peter could give Neal the benefit of the doubt at where the foot landed, even when Neal wiggled his toes enticingly instead of pulling back.

Neal's ankle was a little red around the tracer. Peter said, "You need to stop playing with it. It's not supposed to hurt you."

'Feels better when you rub it."

Peter was reasonably sure Neal was talking about the ankle.

Covers pulled up, sleepy smile as Neal snuggled down into the pillows and the nice sheets with whatever the hell the thread count was that made them so expensive.

"Kiss me goodnight."

Shouldn't.

Did.

Would probably like to do more.

Peter tasted the wine on his way from the room.

Neal's taste was sweeter.

The End