Title: Relationship Mixology
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Length: 1700 words
Notes: Neal/Peter(/El), set during 4.02. Their time on the island is an interruption to their business-as-usual working relationship. Many thanks to mergatrude for beta. <3
Summary: Side by side, looking out at the shadowplay of slopes and trees and the silver-white shimmer of surf on the beach far below. "You once told me you didn't want to run anymore."

Relationship Mixology

The night was warm and thick as velvet, alive with strange tropical sounds. A ceiling fan spun lazily in the shadows above him, but Peter missed his air conditioner. This was miercoles, Mozzie's island safe-villa, and it was furnished to sleep two, which meant Peter was on a dilapidated fold-out couch that creaked every time he moved, in an otherwise empty third bedroom with painted-shut windows.

He lay on his back reciting cocktail recipes for nearly an hour, waiting vainly for sleep to claim him, before he grumbled profanely and sat up, hot and restless. It was too late for a shower—he'd wake the others—but he could at least get a drink of water. He padded barefoot along the hallway to the kitchen, found a glass more by feel than anything else and cracked open the blindingly bright fridge in search of water. There was only juice, so he took some of that, pre-emptively grimacing at the imminent combination of citrus and toothpaste.

When he straightened, he caught a glimpse of movement outside. It wasn't a full moon, but there was some light, and when Peter's eyes had recovered from their assault by refrigerator, he could make out Neal standing motionless beneath the trees outside, staring out at the night landscape. He was wearing the white tank and pale khakis that seemed to be his preferred form of dress here.

Peter silently let himself out of the house. The paving stones were warm and smooth beneath his feet, the night sky fragrant and studded with stars. The occasional bat flew overhead. Every sense reminded Peter he was thousands of miles from home.

For a few seconds, he thought he could hear Neal's breathing, but it was just the ocean rolling ceaselessly against the land.

"Hey," said Peter softly, when he was close enough. "How's the leg?"

Neal turned his head, his features clear enough in the moonlight, his eyes dark and unfathomable. He shrugged. "Can't sleep?"

The answer to that was self-evident, so Peter didn't waste his breath. He came to stand beside Neal, thrillingly aware of him, of his hot, lithe body in the hot, vibrant night. Side by side, looking out at the shadowplay of slopes and trees and the silver-white shimmer of surf on the beach far below. "You once told me you didn't want to run anymore."

"Yeah," said Neal, almost a sigh.

Peter's hands curled into loose fists. "You've made a life here."

"This island is burned," Neal reminded him. "The whole archipelago."

"You could do it again. Start over." Peter didn't know why he was giving Neal an out, except that it was the middle of the night in a foreign land, a night suffused with doubts and awareness and a hundred different alcoholic combinations, and in the moonlight Neal was like a wild thing, mysterious and elusive. There was a lot Peter wanted to say, here, hidden from the rest of the world, from responsibilities and conventions. No anklet, no jurisdiction. Just the two of them and, thousands of miles away, El. "Neal—"

"I want to come home," said Neal. Maybe he was caught in the same midnight enchantment. "I want—" He must have shifted his weight, because their bare arms whispered against each other, sending a shiver across Peter's skin, and then somehow their fingers hooked and tangled like tentative vines.

Words died in Peter's throat. Slowly, carefully, he uncurled his fingers, gently negotiating until they were palm to palm, knuckles interleaved. He smoothed his thumb over Neal's, felt an answering caress.

"Peter?" Neal sounded dazed and wondering.

"El said to bring you home." She'd also tucked condoms into Peter's shaving kit, a clear statement of optimism and approval, but Peter couldn't bring himself to say that, to burden this delicate moment with crude practicalities.

"And what about you?" asked Neal, misunderstanding.

Peter looked at his familiar face with its unfamiliar beard, the undisguised longing in his eyes. "I've been waiting a long time," he said simply. "If you don't—I'll live."

"Good to know. Not what I was asking." Neal turned fully to face him, eclipsing the nocturnal beauty of the island, standing so close his breath sent a flush across Peter's cheek. "I didn't know you'd been waiting."

Peter discarded all possible responses—those conversations could wait, everything could wait—and brushed his lips across Neal's temple, his cheek, breathing in his scent. Neal turned his head a fraction and met his mouth, and they kissed. Their clasped hands tightened painfully, but Peter didn't care, consumed as he was with deep, blooming tenderness and desire, blindly lost in the magic, in Neal. And Neal kissed back with focus and intensity, his jaw whiskery and rough, his tongue slick and seeking, his body burning. Peter's worn t-shirt and thin cotton shorts were no barrier at all. It was nothing like the sedate tryst with Maya that Peter had witnessed earlier.

With bone-deep reluctance, Peter pulled away, his heart thudding so hard he felt like the epicenter of an earthquake. "Elizabeth too?"

"Elizabeth too," said Neal. "Both of you. God, Peter, I can't believe it's taken this long." He freed his hand to grip Peter's shoulders and draw him close again, clearly intent on resuming the kiss, and Peter couldn't find fault with that—he let his hands drift downward, tugged their hips together, Neal's thigh pressed between his.

Neal winced, gasping, and Peter was brought back to his senses. "Your leg. I forgot. You should get the weight off that."

Even in the dark, he could make out Neal's suggestive expression.

"That wasn't a come on," Peter clarified. "I was talking medically."

"Just medically?" Neal sounded skeptical and disappointed.

"Maybe not just," Peter conceded, and Neal laughed, low and joyful, and led him to the picnic table in the dim shadows of the courtyard. Peter glanced over his shoulder, toward the villa. "Mozzie?"

"Moz has drunk a lot of bad martini today." Neal perched on the edge of the table and fisted his hands in Peter's t-shirt, obviously intent on one thing only.

Peter was torn between concern and need. "This doesn't count as keeping your leg elevated."

"I'll live. I'm fine," said Neal. "Come here."

He sounded so sure, so urgent, Peter couldn't argue. They'd take care of Neal's wound properly later. First, this. Peter peeled his shirt over his head, threw it aside and stood between Neal's legs, lowering him onto the table and folding over him till they were kissing and rocking together, Neal's hands dragging long desperate arcs down Peter's back, pushing the shorts aside and groping Peter's ass shamelessly. Peter hooked his arm under Neal's leg and raised it, trying to keep the pressure off it, and that introduced all kinds of interesting sensations, apparently for Neal too—he kissed harder and deeper, groaning into Peter's mouth with evident pleasure.

Peter was almost naked now, under the waxing moon, but Neal was still clothed, albeit disheveled with his tank riding up. Peter kissed Neal's throat, sucked the angle of his neck, scratched his short nails lightly across Neal's stomach and over the front of his pants to the outline of his cock. Neal swore and insinuated his hands between them, making short work of his own belt and fly, bucking up so he could shove his clothes out of the way. Peter took the opportunity to drop his shorts too, and then, at last, there was nothing between them but desire.

Peter swallowed hard and moved in again, and when he lifted Neal's leg this time, protective and lust-driven, his hand smoothed up the back of Neal's bare thigh and stayed there, gripping hard, holding him in place as they rutted. "Missed you like hell," Peter murmured in Neal's ear breathlessly. "Don't—don't leave me again."

"Don't let me go again," Neal answered. "Promise me." He was holding Peter's hips, dragging him rhythmically up and down—just a few inches, but his arm and thigh muscles bunched with the effort, his whole body coiled.

"Never," Peter told him. "I promise." His cock slid against the tangle of Neal's pubes, the hard plane of his belly, glanced against Neal's erection, and a dark erotic tension thrummed in the air, in Peter's hands and groin, at the base of his throat. His eyes fell shut, and all he knew were the strong hands taking from him, taking everything they needed and giving so much. "Oh, Christ—Neal—"

Neal was using Peter's support of his leg for leverage now, twisting up desperately, and his eagerness, not a hint of doubt or hesitation, and their cocks trapped in the sweaty space between them, and a few more thrusts—the swirl and clench of pleasure, and Peter's name on Neal's lips—it was all Peter needed. He stiffened bodily, his toes curling tight against the warm paving stones, and came. A second or two later Neal's frantic movements stilled abruptly and he followed.

A few seconds to catch enough breath, and Peter moved to roll his weight to the side, a courtesy El would have demanded, but Neal held him firmly in place, ghosted fingers along his jaw. Neal's eyes were bright, almost shining. "Hey."

"Hey, yourself," said Peter, past the awkward lump in his throat, the stored ache of six weeks' loss and worry and emptiness, now rendered obsolete. It had been those six weeks that had convinced him and El that life was too short to pass up opportunities when they arose. And the rightness, the truth of that choice was plain on Neal's face. "You know, El wanted to come with me. There wasn't time."

"It's dangerous," said Neal. "Collins is dangerous. And Dobbs. We'll be home soon."

"We will." Peter knew it. The two of them with Mozzie's help could perform miracles. Peter would tend bar, and the three of them would frame Dobbs. He had no doubt the plan would come together. But that was for tomorrow. For now, there was just this, him and Neal, skin to skin on a picnic table. A new start, hidden in the silver and ink of a tropical night.


END