Title: Last Night
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing: Neal Caffrey/Clinton Jones
Rating: R
Length: ~3100 words
Note: Set during 3.11. I wrote this as a sequel to Back on the Horse, but it can stand alone. For secretsolitaire, for last year's prompt, "Learning something new + Jones".
Summary: Taurus (Apr 20-May 20): A successful bust means time is running out. Take a gamble on an associate while you've got the chance.

Last Night

"Caffrey."

Neal looked up from the leather-bound drinks menu to see Jones standing, hands on hips, watching him curiously. Neal took the Montecristo cigar from his mouth and smiled. "Jones. You came."

"How could I resist your cryptic summons." Jones took the seat across from him and tilted his phone. Neal already knew what the text message said: Taurus (Apr 20-May 20): A successful bust means time is running out. Take a gamble on an associate while you've got the chance. Beekman, 7pm. "What's up?"

Neal blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling and shrugged, hiding a wince. His back felt like one giant bruise and he had a low-grade nagging headache which could mean mild concussion, but he'd survived worse in the past and recovery would have to wait. "It's my last night as a free man. I could use some company."

"What are you talking about?" Jones frowned. "Keller's in cuffs. Diana and Peter are interrogating him now."

"It's not about Keller," said Neal. "Not directly. Tomorrow I'm going to turn myself in." He raised his chin. Saying it aloud put the weight of inevitability behind him. He shook off resistance and the hopelessness that threatened to seize him: the decision was made. "For now—one more night of freedom, no anklet, no restrictions."

"And you're inviting me along for the ride," said Jones, slowly. "Why?"

"I told you." Neal met Jones' gaze and let his attraction show. "Good food, port, cigars—I thought you'd appreciate it. My treat."

"Given your probable sources of income, I'll pay my own way, thanks," said Jones. He reached across and plucked the drinks menu from Neal's hands.

"Fair enough." Neal studied him covertly through the ambient cigar smoke.

Jones ordered Tullamore Dew and a Manesova. He lit up and puffed for a moment. "So," he said, "the art."

Neal ducked his head, avoiding the question. He was going to confess to Peter first. He owed him that. "That was good work you guys did today, finding Elizabeth."

"She more or less rescued herself," said Jones, accepting the change of subject with good grace. "We just had to make the arrest."

"Yeah." Neal suppressed a shiver. "I'm glad you got him. I never meant for any of this."

"If any of us believed you'd had a hand in it, you'd be back in prison already." Jones leaned back in his chair. "Tell me something I don't know."

"Like what?" Neal puffed on his cigar and forced himself to relax. Tonight was for self-indulgence. Everything else could wait. "I've already told your horoscope. Want me to read your palm too?"

Jones looked around. "Here?"

They were at a relatively secluded table in the corner, and it wasn't like Neal was going to run into anyone in this bar again in the next ten to fifteen years, so he sent Jones a challenging grin. "Scared?"

Jones rolled his eyes and held out his hand, fearless and immovable. "This had better be good."

Neal set his cigar on the rest and reached across, his pulse picking up as he took Jones' warm, strong hand and stroked his fingertips lightly over the lines of the palm. The rest of the room, with its hubbub of voices and rich scents, receded. "That's—" He cleared his throat. "That's an impressive life line you've got there."

Jones watched his face, eyebrow raised but demeanor patient. His pulse raced under Neal's fingers.

Neal met his eye and felt the connection in the pit of his stomach. "I don't want to con you." It was an admission, but Jones didn't tease him for it.

"Okay." Finally Jones' gaze dropped to their hands, still joined. His voice was low and dark. "So teach me how to con."

Neal blinked. "You want me to teach you to do a cold reading?"

"I'll read your palm." Jones turned his hand, taking possession of Neal's, baring his palm. Neal hadn't realized before what a vulnerable position that was.

"Not so cold," said Neal. "But okay. Sure." He gathered his thoughts, roused by the opportunity to show off his expertise. "Okay, the most important part is to keep your statements vague. Everything has to have multiple potential meanings, so your mark can read into it."

"I see a door opening up," said Jones drily.

"Yeah, like that." Neal suppressed thoughts of doors opening or slamming closed. "That's good. Now glean everything you can from the person's demeanor and appearance. What are they wearing? How's their posture? Do they seem anxious?"

"Do they have cuts and bruises all over their face?"

Neal sent him a severe look. "Do you want me to teach you or not?"

"Go on." Jones eyes gleamed, but the teasing was warm rather than mocking, almost flirtatious. Neal licked his lower lip and continued.

"The advantage of palm-reading over posing as a run-of-the-mill psychic is that you get extra information: is their pulse reacting, are their palms sweaty, do they pull away from you. Use that. If you hit a nerve, pursue that line. If they lean back or shake their head, try something else."

Jones' thumbs whispered across Neal's palm. "They won't get suspicious?"

"Just like every witness you've ever interviewed, people are experts at discounting evidence that doesn't fit their theory. If they want to believe you, they'll only hear the parts that ring true to them."

"And how do you make them want to believe you?" Jones sounded interested, as if the gentle caressing of Neal's hand were an absent-minded fidget.

"Flattery." Neal made himself focus on the conversation. "Contradictory compliments—'you're reliable, but you have a spontaneous streak.'"

Jones' eyebrows inched up. "You're smart, but you make some really stupid decisions."

"Compliments," Neal reminded him pointedly, amused at how quickly the lesson had turned personal. "I feel safe with you. You keep me on my toes."

"You're driven and competitive, but you care deeply about the people in your life."

"You—"

"I wasn't finished," Jones interrupted. "You're a brilliant con artist, and I know that, but I trust you anyway."

"Don't." It was too much—too intimate, too much responsibility. Too much exactly what Neal needed to hear.

Jones' eyes were dark. "You've earned that trust."

Neal shook his head. "Jones—"

"Clinton." Jones' expression was unreadable. "One last night of freedom?"

Neal nodded, knowing he was revealing too much—the tension in his hand, the mixed emotions on his face. He took his hand away before he could make it worse, reached for his cigar, long since gone out, to disguise the withdrawal. But Jones—Clinton—was already ahead of him.

"You want to get out of here?" he said, his meaning unmistakable.

Neal's pulse leaped. He dropped the Montecristo back onto its rest without a second thought. "Yeah."


*


It was the slowest taxi ride in the history of New York City.

Clinton's place was closer, but Neal wanted to spend one last night at June's, in his own bed, surrounded by beautiful things, and Clinton was amenable. Agreeable. Easily persuaded. Neal didn't know if this was a charity fuck or if there was something more between them, but at this stage, with the clock ticking down, he figured it was better not to ask. Clinton was a grown man, he'd made the first move with his eyes open. If it was charity, at least it wasn't a con. And Neal's urgency was mounting right alongside the fare on the meter.

He tried to play it cool, but a vibration had started in his core when Clinton said he trusted him, and it kept trying to escape, to jiggle his knee or make him straighten his clothing. Around 57th St, Clinton put his hand on Neal's thigh, and Neal covered it, stroked up the soft skin of Clinton's inner wrist, sneaking under his shirt cuff.

Clinton's grip tightened, and he turned his head and leaned across to meet Neal's mouth, hot and soft, for a few seconds—the kiss shocking in its abruptness and simplicity—before pulling back. "Not here."

"Of course," said Neal, trying desperately to keep his voice even. He itched to feel Clinton up, move this along, get naked, but he made himself wait. Not here. There was still time.

He loosened his tie.


*


Neal was first in the door, but Clinton was on his heels and he closed it behind them, not too loud, and pushed Neal back against it. Neal, who'd been checking to make sure Mozzie wasn't there, more out of habit than expectation, was caught off-guard, and he gasped as the ridges of the door collided with his bruised back.

Clinton swore under his breath, apparently misinterpreting the gasp, and moved in, and Neal wanted that more than he cared about the pain. He put his hands on Clinton's hips and drew him close, and then Clinton's mouth was on his, greedy and invasive, his leg fitting snugly between Neal's thighs, rocking up, his hands tugging at Neal's clothes, and Neal was pretty sure this wasn't just charity.

Neal let his head fall back with a thunk and tried to breath, caught in the cross-currents of pleasure and pain, unable to get his footing. Maybe if they moved to the bed— He grasped Clinton's shoulders to push him in that direction, but his hands moved of their own accord, shoving Clinton's jacket aside, yanking his tie recklessly from its knot.

"We should—" he started, meaning relocate, but Clinton was feasting himself on Neal's jaw and down his neck, and Neal's words devolved into an incoherent stream of encouragement, all the tension of the day, the fears and concerns and anger, all of it coalescing into a tight twist in Neal's belly that needed release.

Clinton's hips were still rocking up, and Neal felt the solid line of an erection glancing off his own, and it was that and the dark ache starting behind his balls that made him grit his teeth and push off the door with his abused shoulders. "Come on," he murmured in Clinton's ear.

Clinton squeezed him tight, all but lifting him off his feet to rub their groins together, and this time Neal's pained gasp was unmistakable for anything but what it was.

Clinton raised his head, mouth swollen, eyes blurred with desire, and blinked at him. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," said Neal, unsteadily. "Fine. Come on." He grabbed Clinton's hand and dragged him toward the bed, but Clinton was frowning.

"Show me."

Neal hesitated, reluctant to risk losing the momentum, but Clinton raised his eyebrows, more self-contained with every passing second, and there was still time. So Neal took off his cufflinks, unbuttoned the collar of his shirt and tried to strip it and his undershirt off in one movement. His breath caught in agony when his arms reached shoulder height, and Clinton had to help him the rest of the way.

Clinton scowled at the state of Neal's arm, the angry welt where Keller's Napoleonic walking stick had struck him the first time. He turned Neal gently to see the rest of the damage. "Jesus Christ. Keller did this?"

"Is it bad?" Neal hadn't had a chance to check. An EMT had cleaned his face, but he'd kept quiet about the rest—the pain hadn't really kicked in, and the important thing had been getting Peter home to Elizabeth.

"It's not pretty." Fingers feathered the hot skin up to the top of his spine. "We don't have to do this."

"I'm fine," said Neal, immediately. "Soft mattress, I'll be fine. Really. Fuck me. I want it."

Clinton moved to face him. He was frowning, the glazed lust almost completely gone. "Neal."

"One night only," said Neal. "Please."

"If you're sure." Clinton unbuttoned his shirt and slung it over the nearest chair back, but when he took Neal into his arms, he was gentle, his kiss tender and concerned, and that wasn't what Neal needed at all.

He steeled himself to raise his arms without wincing and took Clinton's head in his hands, pulling him deeper into the kiss, slowly ramping up to an exchange as dirty and passionate as they had been before. Clinton hesitated, but let him, and by the time they fell to the bed, nearly naked, their hands and bodies were frantic, writhing, their mouths fused together.

Preparation was cursory—condoms, lube, a couple of fingers. It was enough. They fucked hard and fast, with Neal on his back and Clinton over and in him, gazing down with that shuttered expression. Neal was sweaty and flushed, tight in his own skin and wholly undone. He felt exposed but in the end, it didn't matter. None of this would matter in a few hours. It would just be hot memories, a talisman to hold onto like graffiti: Clinton Jones, secretly sexy federal agent, was here.

Neal came first, unraveling in Clinton's hands, spilling between them in a mess of profanity, and Clinton followed with a groan not more than a few minutes later. He pulled out and sprawled next to Neal, heedless of the sheets or Neal's comfort, and they both lay there, catching their breath.

Neal must have been more tired than he realized, because that was it for him, lights out. He woke, aching and sore, unsure how much time had passed. Hours, maybe. The room was dark but for the lamp by the couch, and Clinton was asleep next to him, still naked, lying on Neal's arm. It burned like hell. Neal tried to extricate himself without waking Clinton, but his back muscles had seized up making his maneuvers painful and clumsy, and a breathless yelp escaped despite his best efforts.

Clinton's eyes blinked open, and he lifted up to free Neal's arm.

"Hey." Neal sat up as naturally as he could.

Clinton was still half asleep. "You okay?"

"I'm good." Neal gave him a reassuring smile.

Clinton smiled back, warmth on his face, and for a second Neal thought he'd successfully distracted him, maybe there was still time for round two, but Clinton's gaze dropped to Neal's side, the bruised arm and probably the cusp of Neal's back, and after a moment, he kissed Neal's hip and got up. He got rid of the condom, and Neal watched him pad across the room, purposeful and unself-conscious to wash his hands. Then he dug out a couple of ice packs out of the freezer, grabbed a dish towel and came back to bed. "Lie down. Come on. You'll be a mess tomorrow otherwise."

Neal hesitated. "You don't have to."

"It looks bad," said Clinton, and when Neal still didn't move, he added, "Humor me."

Neal breathed a laugh and gave in, rolling onto his front so Clinton could cover him with the dish towel and lay the ice packs across the worst of his bruises. At first, it stung and Neal had to grit his teeth against the pain, but after a few seconds, the cooling started to work its magic. Neal sighed and gave in to it. "Thanks."

Clinton's hand rested heavy on his head for a moment, fingers in his hair. "Okay. You got any food in this place?"

"Uh, yeah." Neal frowned, trying to remember what was in the fridge, but Clinton was already pulling on his pants and going to investigate. He was an investigator. Neal closed his eyes and breathed, feeling the aches subside and listening to the sounds of cooking. Soaking in the feeling of being cared for.

He turned his head to check the time. It was well past 4am. He couldn't just lie here.

He shrugged off the ice packs and went to the bathroom, craning to see his back in the mirror. It was immediately plain why Clinton had insisted on ice packs—his skin was a stormy rainbow-colored bruise extravaganza. He shifted his shoulders experimentally. They already felt better. Another ten or fifteen minutes of ice would make all the difference.

Maybe later. For now, he cleaned up and washed his hands and face, then pulled on a pair of sleep pants and went to see how Clinton's midnight feast was coming along.

"I was just going to send out a search party," said Clinton, dishing up pasta and sauce onto two plates. "Here, just a little something I threw together."

Neal sat down at the table and took a cautious bite. "It's good."

"Don't sound so shocked," said Clinton.

Neal grinned and kept eating, surprising himself with how hungry he was. It had been a long twenty-four hours. Clinton sat at the head of the table, next to him, clearing his plate with relish, and Neal realized it was unlikely the team searching for Elizabeth had stopped for meal breaks either.

But Elizabeth was safe now, and here they were. It felt natural and right. "If things were different—"

Clinton looked up, met his eye. "If things were different?"

"Would we be here now?" It was a mistake to start this conversation. Neal should be flirting, offering contradictory compliments or some such thing, but he was tired and sore, and Clinton was a symbol of everything he was about to give up. He couldn't help himself.

Clinton pushed his plate aside and folded his arms on the table. "If things were different, probably not. No."

Neal nodded. He'd known that. "So—I guess that means things being the way they are has a silver lining."

"Neal." Clinton's eyes were dark, serious. Concerned. "You going to be okay in there?"

"Cake," said Neal, refusing to think about it. He'd survived four years intact. He could do it again. "Take care—of everybody, okay? I'm counting on you." He meant it as a joke, but it came out hoarse.

"Yeah." Clinton stood up and went to get dressed, and Neal stayed where he was and finished his meal. He could barely taste it. When he put down his fork, Clinton was waiting.

Neal stood up, and Clinton's hands landed gently on his shoulders. Clinton kissed him, a press of lips, not passionate now, but all the more real for that. "Goodbye, Neal."

"Clinton." Neal splayed a hand on Clinton's chest, feeling his strength through his shirt. His tie was slung around his neck, unknotted. Neal let his hand fall to his side.

The sky was starting to lighten out on the patio. Neal stood in his doorway and watched Clinton tread down the stairs quietly so as not to wake anyone. The house was still resting, still sleeping. But even as Neal thought that, he heard—or imagined—distant sounds from the kitchen. He shut the door and looked around his apartment.

It was morning. His time had run out.


END