Title: Rainbow Connection
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~5,250 words
Content notes: Neal/Clinton. Many thanks to vaudevilles and mergatrude for beta.
Summary: It's quarter to eleven at night, and Neal needs an FBI escort to the Village.

Rainbow Connection

It was nearly quarter to eleven when Clinton climbed out of the surveillance van. Diana had gone home to Christie fifteen minutes earlier, leaving him to brief Carson and Pickering, so he came out alone, stiff and mentally weary after an eight-hour stint. He stretched out his neck, rolled his shoulders and breathed in the mild night air. The street was quiet and still.

"Hey, Jones." Caffrey was leaning under a streetlight as if he'd been waiting. He wore a different hat from the one he'd toyed with at the briefing that morning, and there was a messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

"Caffrey." Clinton hid both weariness and wariness. "It's late."

Neal tilted his head, acknowledging the truth of that. The shadow of the brim of his hat hid his eyes. "I need a favor."

"What kind of favor?" Clinton walked over, analyzing his stance, trying to figure out what was going on. He liked Neal well enough to work with, but this out-of-hours request was unprecedented.

"Nothing illegal," said Neal, answering Clinton's first concern without his having to voice it. "I need an FBI escort to the Village."

"The Village."

"Yeah. I need to run an errand—" Neal checked his watch. "—now, and Peter said I could go if I could find someone to go with me."

Clinton sighed inwardly and harbored evil thoughts towards his boss, who must have known Clinton was the one Neal would ask: Diana would've laughed in Neal's face, and Blake was too new to risk saying yes.

"I'll owe you," said Neal, and there was just enough sincerity in that, Caffrey's trademark confidence cut with a hint of vulnerability, a soupçon of urgency, that Clinton bit back the "No" on his lips and sighed—outwardly this time.

Really, he told himself, it was curiosity more than anything that made him say, "How long is this going to take?"

Neal grinned, a flash of teeth in the night, and pushed off from the lamppost with his shoulder. "I just need to make a delivery."

"Nothing illegal," Clinton reminded him, smiling back despite himself.

Neal crossed his heart. "On my mother's grave."

"Has your mother passed?" They started walking as one toward the main road, where they'd be able to flag down a taxi.

"You know, I honestly couldn't say," said Neal lightly.

Clinton slanted him a sideways glance, taking in his profile and settling into his company with a surprising amount of pleasure. This could be nothing, or it could be an adventure—with Caffrey you could never tell—and after eight hours in the van, Clinton was due any excitement that should happen to come his way.

They approached the corner of the street and Neal slowed his steps. "The Marshals."

"Right," said Clinton. They were nearing the edge of the radius. He made the call.


*


The cab pulled up in a side-street in the Village, outside a low-rent nightclub with an old pink neon sign above the door: Club Boa. There were a dozen smokers hanging around outside, including a couple of people in high heels and fake fur coats who towered over the others. There was no bustle of fashionable pretty people. This didn't seem like a Caffrey kind of place.

Neal paid the cab driver, and they stood on the pavement as it pulled out from the curb and disappeared into the night.

"This is not what I was expecting," said Clinton, keeping his voice expressionless. He was pretty sure based on the clientele and the locale that Club Boa was a gay club, maybe a drag queen revue. Was Neal gay? Perhaps it shouldn't come as a surprise, given his fastidious taste in clothes and everything else, but Clinton had always assumed that was just Neal, a con artist thing. The idea that he might actually be gay was weirdly disconcerting. Clinton was suddenly aware of how close they were standing, side by side, with their arms almost touching. He made himself relax. He was a New Yorker, a sophisticated guy and a federal agent; there wasn't much he hadn't seen before.

Neal paused, his eyes on the open door of the club. "You don't have to come in. I'll be right back," he said, obviously without any expectation that Clinton would agree to wait, which he didn't.

"I'm responsible to Peter for your whereabouts," he said. "I'm coming with you." Belatedly, it occurred to him this might be a relationship deal. What if Neal were here to hook up—or break up—with someone? "I won't get in your way, and I can keep a secret," Clinton assured him, just in case.

"Good to know." Neal sent him a cryptic look, then ducked his head in capitulation and led the way inside.

The club was dark, hot and deafening. The air pulsing with the Priscilla Queen of the Desert soundtrack or something like it, and it felt as if every square inch of space was crowded with guys holding beer bottles and the occasional wine glass, yelling to each other over the music. There was a small stage in one corner, backed with black curtains, but it was empty.

Following close on Neal's heels as he pushed through the mass of people, Clinton felt disoriented and self-conscious: would people think they were together? And so what if they did? With bodies pressing in on all sides, the close smell of sweat and beer, and the way the music was thudding under his skin, Clinton couldn't focus enough to figure out why it mattered.

Neal went to the bar and had a shouted conversation with the barman, none of which Clinton could hear from his position a few feet away. Neal held up his messenger bag. The barman, a short, stocky guy with tattoos on his neck, pointed toward a door by the stage, and Neal nodded and headed that way. Clinton trailed after him, letting Neal talk them both past the large guy leaning against the wall, a kind of informal doorman.

Clinton half expected private booths or something equally seedy, but the door led backstage to a hallway that was almost as crowded as the club, but marginally quieter and teeming with color. It was like walking into a kaleidoscope. Neal turned and touched Clinton's arm. "Wait here."

"What?" said Clinton, but Neal was already threading through the colorful throng of feather boas and sparkles. Clinton looked at the people in their theatrical makeup, the wigs, the glittery dresses, none of them paying him the slightest attention, and wondered if this was Neal's world. Did he shave and primp and strut? The idea sent a smoky curl of fascination through Clinton. He shook it off and leaned against the wall, trying to keep out of the way.

A tall guy came out of a nearby room. He—she—Clinton wasn't sure how to think of him—was wearing a cherry red halter-neck dress, matching high heels and a white-blond wig that almost glowed under the fluorescent lights. "Looking for someone, sugar?"

"I'm here with a friend," said Clinton, trying to sound casual and not like an FBI agent.

The guy looked around for the alleged friend and, coming up empty, raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh." He turned away and said over his shoulder, "Zip me up?"

Clinton obliged, pulling the shiny fabric together and inching the zip up the last few inches to cover warm ebony skin and red bra strap. Unbidden, he imagined Neal in just such a costume, asking Clinton to help him dress. Was that why Neal had brought him here? Curiosity flared, and although Clinton felt slightly uncomfortable about impinging on Neal's privacy, when the red high heels retreated back into their dressing room, he couldn't resist making his way down the corridor to find out.

No one paid him much attention, and there was something familiar about the atmosphere, chatter and good-natured insults flying and the underlying sense of tension and excitement. It took Clinton a minute to make the connection and when he did, he grinned to himself: he'd played football in college and the scene around him now was weirdly reminiscent of a locker room before a game.

He inched past a trio of canary-yellow-frocked chorus dancers and turned a corner to see a fire exit and, next to it, Neal. He was still suited, his hat still angled on his head, and he was lounging in a dressing-room doorway, talking to Mozzie, who was standing side on with a blue-green iridescent dress pulled up to his inelegant waist. The scene was so different from the images in Clinton's head, he had a moment's dissonance, a pang of visceral disappointment: it was supposed to be Neal in the dress. It should have been Neal.

Mozzie looked different with the elaborate eye-makeup and a perfect cupid's bow mouth, and he was about a foot taller than usual thanks to his platform boots, but he was bald and wearing his glasses and unmistakably himself. Clinton watched him fasten a bra in front and rotate it so the clasp was at the back, the stuffed cups in their proper place—Clinton averted his eyes before he could figure out what they were stuffed with. Mozzie stuck his arms through the straps, hauled them onto his shoulders and adjusted his breasts, talking to Neal as he did so.

Clinton retreated back around the corner to where Neal had left him. Mozzie? It was one thing to spy on Neal, who was supposed to be under FBI supervision, whose M.O. was all about drawing the eye, but Clinton had no business watching Mozzie in a situation like this, and he didn't want to feed into Mozzie's already lively paranoia about The Man. On the other hand, there'd been more food for thought in the last half hour than in Clinton's last week of shifts in the van, so when Neal showed up a few minutes later, said, "Okay we can go," and moved past him toward the door, Clinton replied, against his own better judgment,

"Don't you want to stay for the show?"

Neal stopped and turned, his expression open with surprise. "I thought you'd want to get out of here."

Clinton shrugged. He was open to new experiences, and he'd never witnessed a live drag show before. He barely admitted even to himself that under his determination to play it cool and unflappable, there lurked a nagging desire to see Neal's reaction to the show. To find out if this really was his world, or if he were just visiting on Mozzie's behalf.

Neal slid his hands into his pockets. "Just a couple of numbers then."

"Okay."

They found a place by the wall with breathing space and a view of the stage. Neal went to the bar and came back improbably quickly with drinks, handing Clinton a cold, sweating beer bottle just as the show started.

Neal watched the opening acts with an air of detachment, as if he were assessing them from an aesthetic angle rather than out of any prurient interest. The cherry-red-dress guy whose zipper Clinton had fastened sang an ABBA song, and the next two performers, a duet with one in men's clothing, gave a dramatically lip-synched rendition of Need You Now, a song Clinton recognized from the radio. When they finished, Neal applauded with a grin, his face bathed in the stage lights, first gold, then red. Clinton copied him.

Mozzie came on fourth, and with the lights and the full costume, Clinton might not have recognized him if he hadn't seen him half dressed in his heavy-framed glasses backstage. He was introduced as Jacqueline, pronounced in the French way, and he seemed bigger and brighter than Clinton could have imagined, not to mention curvier. He moved around the small stage with uncharacteristic confidence, lip synching to Annie Lennox's Legend in My Living Room.

For the first verse and chorus, Neal kept stealing glances at Clinton, checking his reaction, and Clinton was just as aware of Neal, though he did his best not to show it. He drank his beer and watched, initially bemused and then genuinely charmed by the performance. Jacqueline left the stage to a burst of applause, and Clinton almost started when Neal nudged him and said, "Shall we?"

Clinton nodded and they left.

In contrast to Club Boa, the night was cool and private. They walked down the street, not hurrying, not talking, not looking for a cab. Clinton was getting his thoughts in order, assimilating what he'd seen, and Neal seemed willing to just walk. They reached 7th Avenue, and Neal said, "Coffee?"

"Yeah." Clinton let him pick the place, a diner that Clinton would have pegged as being insufficiently trendy or exciting for Neal. But then, maybe all of his previous assumptions about Neal were based on shaky premises. He emptied a sugar packet into his coffee and cleared his throat. "So Mozzie's gay?"

Neal's lips twitched slightly, but otherwise his expression was relaxed, a little wry. He set his hat down next to the paper napkin dispenser and straightened his shirt cuffs like a stage magician. "Mozzie doesn't do labels. Or relationships, usually. There have been exceptions."

Something in the way he said that made Clinton wonder if Neal had ever been one of those exceptions, but it wasn't technically any of his business and he wasn't sure he actually wanted to know, so he sipped his coffee and didn't ask. "I'm surprised ABBA was in the line-up. Isn't that kind of a cliché?"

"Depends who you talk to." Neal smiled. "And some things are clichéd for a reason. That was your first show?"

Clinton nodded. Aside from a drug bust once a long time ago when White Collar had teamed up with the DEA on a case, that had been his first gay club period. "Have you ever done drag?"

Neal considered, as if deciding how much to say, and Clinton wondered what was showing on his own face. After a moment, Neal leaned back and, not quite smiling, said, "Dressed up once or twice in private. I don't make a habit of it."

"You don't have a name," said Clinton, deadpan teasing.

Neal's eyes glinted. "Oh, I've got a lot of names, but they're all male."

Clinton grinned.

"So far, anyway," added Neal smoothly. "How about you?"

"All my names are male," said Clinton. "All one of them." He wasn't sure what Neal was asking.

Neal picked up his coffee cup. "That's too bad. A little glitter, get you into the spotlight for once. Could be dazzling."

"I don't think so," said Clinton, absurdly flattered and doing his best to hide it. "I'm more the behind-the-scenes type. I'll leave the dazzling to Jacqueline."

"She does like the attention." Neal covered his mouth and yawned. "Sorry."

Clinton caught the yawn off him but didn't let it derail the conversation. "She's not the only one. I can just see you up there."

"Can you?"

The question sounded innocent, but Clinton could sense a trap opening, one in which this new Neal Caffrey—with his ambiguous sexuality and his easy passage through a colorful alien world—was both the hunter and the bait. Maybe Clinton wanted to get caught, maybe he didn't, but he wasn't thinking clearly enough to know for sure, and he didn't take risks when he wasn't sure. "It's late," he said. "I should head home."

Neal drank a big mouthful of coffee and pushed his cup away. "I've kept you out past your bedtime. Oops."

"I didn't say that." Any attraction that might have been budding was swamped by irrational irritation. Clinton stood up and dropped some notes on the table.

Neal followed him out and gave him back the money, folding it matter-of-factly into his hand. "My treat. Did I say something wrong?" He settled his hat on his head, watching Clinton's face as he did so.

"I'm just tired." Clinton could hardly say he'd preferred the suggestion he try drag to the implication he was dull and set in his ways, however much truth there was in the latter. The idea of an existential heart to heart with Neal seemed fraught with risk right now. And either Neal recognized that and wasn't going to push or he was bored and ready to call it quits, because he was already hailing them a cab with typical Caffrey efficiency.

They were both quiet on the ride back to Clinton's place, and Neal wouldn't take any money for the cab fare either. "I've got this. Thanks, Clinton. I owe you."

"Whatever," said Clinton. Fatigue really was catching up with him, and it helped muffle the fact that the most startling part of the entire weird-ass evening was Neal addressing him by name like that. "See you tomorrow."


*


The next morning, first thing, Clinton went up to the mezzanine to drop the surveillance reports on Peter's desk.

Peter looked up from his computer screen. "I see Neal talked you into going out with him last night."

He must have been checking Neal's tracking data. Clinton wondered what level of detail he was viewing it at, if he knew where they'd been. In the absence of further comment, he assumed not.

"You knew he was going to ask me," said Clinton, vindicated and slightly cranky.

Peter sat back in his chair with an inquisitive gleam in his eye. "He said he wanted to buy you a drink. I figured he owed you for something."

"Yeah. Just a cup of coffee." Clinton didn't know what to make of that, how much of last night Neal had planned, and he wasn't sure who he was covering for—himself, Neal or Mozzie—but his instinct was to cover, and it wasn't like they'd done anything wrong.

He jogged back downstairs, wondering if Neal would treat him any differently when they saw each other, but it was a busy day. Neal turned up while Clinton was coordinating a bust with Diana, and when Clinton finally had time to catch his breath and think about it, he decided Neal was behaving exactly the same as always. That was, until the surveillance van that afternoon, when Clinton looked up and caught Neal staring.

For a long moment, Neal didn't look away. Clinton's stomach swooped inexplicably and he couldn't move, his breath caught. Then Peter said something to Neal, and the world started up again. But before Neal turned to answer, he sent Clinton the tiniest flicker of a wink.


*


A week later, when Clinton would have sworn everything was back to normal, and his and Neal's late-night excursion to the Village might as well have never happened, he climbed out of the surveillance van at ten forty-five. Diana had left early again, and Clinton was already planning a nightcap in front of the second half of The Daily Show, followed by a shower and bed.

He turned to scan the street for a taxi and stopped dead. There was a tall figure lurking in the shadows of a nearby doorway, familiar but not. Dark curls spilling onto his shoulders, a blue dress falling around his knees in soft folds. Smooth calves, curves in all the right places and a laughing challenge in the tilt of his chin. The only thing marring the effect was the GPS tracker blinking green over the top of his high-heeled ankle boots.

All the speculation and inconvenient attraction Clinton had pondered and puzzled over and, finally, firmly put aside came rushing back, along with a desire so hot it made his mouth go dry. He licked his lips. "Hey."

"Hey, sailor," said Neal. His voice was low and husky, of indeterminate gender but undeniable sexiness.

Clinton walked right up to him and tried not to gawp at his cleavage, which was creamy and improbable, topped with a fine gold chain. "What are you doing?"

"Following a hunch." Neal's dark red lips turned up at the corners. "Buy a girl a drink?"

And damn, they were only a dozen feet from an FBI surveillance van; this was dangerous and ridiculous. Clinton met Neal's gaze, doubting his intentions. "Last week you told Peter you wanted to buy me a drink, not go to the Village. Were you covering for Mozzie, or was the whole thing a con?"

"I wouldn't call it a con, exactly," said Neal. "Moz really did need my help. It was a mercy mission—and maybe an exploratory exercise."

"Why me?"

Neal stepped forward, his heels loud on the sidewalk. In the boots, he was the same height as Clinton, and there was nothing to stop him pressing a slick kiss to Clinton's mouth. Clinton sure as hell wasn't stopping him; he was frozen in place, torn between sudden burning desire and a lifetime habit of commonsense.

"I like you," murmured Neal. The words seemed to glitter in the night air. "And I thought you might say yes."

"I said yes to escorting you to the Village," Clinton pointed out. "I didn't say yes to this."

"I know." Neal's eyes were dark, sultry with makeup. "For the record, this doesn't have to include this." His gesture encompassed the hair, the dress, the shoes. "In fact, it probably doesn't. These shoes were designed by sadists, and don't get me started on the underwear." His tone had turned light and almost conversational.

"Then why—" Clinton reached out and touched a strand of synthetic hair, letting it curl around his finger.

"I thought you might like it." Neal rested his hand lightly over Clinton's tie, and Clinton caught it and studied it, fascinated by how the simple addition of long red nails had feminized Neal's not-so-feminine hands, taken off guard when catching his hand turned into holding hands.

Clinton pulled Neal forward, hard up against him, and this time when they kissed, he closed his eyes and let himself feel it, the heat and strength and eagerness of Neal's mouth on his, and the answering excitement rising up in himself, hammering in his chest, at the base of his throat, turning him on. It was a long time since Clinton had been aroused in public—or at all, just from a kiss—but God, this was new and hot, and well, it was just as well they were under the cover of night.

"Come home with me," said Neal, breathlessly, his grip tightening on Clinton's hand, and Clinton forgot The Daily Show and the shower and sleep. His free hand cupped Neal's breast, which felt fake, but the skin of his cleavage was definitely real under Clinton's thumb, and Neal inhaled sharply. "You can fuck me in the dress."

"I don't need the dress," said Clinton, but the idea of it was rich and powerful, and he wasn't sure he was going to make it back to June's. For that matter, June's seemed entirely too public. Neal might have made sure Mozzie would stay out of the way, but there was still June and her staff to consider. "My place?"

"Anklet," countered Neal.

"Right." Clinton took an unsteady breath and fought down every instinct and impulse so he could think. If they went to his place, Peter would know, but Clinton wasn't going to do this behind Peter's back anyway. He should—being open about it could only lead to complications, and Clinton didn't even know what it was they were doing, a one-night stand or more—but either way, Clinton had standards, and he wasn't going to sneak around like it was something to be ashamed of. "My place is closer."

Neal breathed a laugh and kissed him again, wicked, dirty and triumphant, pressing against him in tight, slippery fabric that was warm from his body. The relative proximity of their apartments became exponentially more urgent. "Your place it is."


*


Neal's complaint about the underwear made Clinton expect something complicated and constraining, but in the half-light of Clinton's bedroom with their mouths fused together, both of them horizontal and still dressed, when his hands travelled up Neal's pantyhose past the smoothness of knee to the textured, unshaven thigh and higher, he found the unapologetic outline of Neal's erection. His investigation made Neal clutch at him, kissing him harder, a desperate thrust of tongue, and the combination, the reality of all of it was electrifying—desire and broken taboos, and the novelty of Neal bound up in the tight bodice of a dress, his hips lost in the shiny, rustling skirt. Clinton pushed the skirt up impatiently, bunched it at Neal's waist and fumbled for the top of the pantyhose, desperate for more intimate access. Neal reached down to help, wriggling out of the filmy, useless things and sending them fluttering to the floor, followed by cotton briefs.

Neal was as good as naked now, his long arms and legs, his cock and ass and mysteriously faked cleavage. He turned his attention to Clinton, to helping him out of his work suit. Clinton had a brief flash of panic, of wondering what the hell he was doing, and then Neal had unfastened his pants, was pushing them down and Clinton felt the cool-smooth brush of skirt against his hip and wanted it so badly he swore out loud. He kicked off his shoes and pants and rolled on top of Neal, his cock sliding helplessly in the silky folds of fabric, his thighs hot, pressing hard between Neal's legs. Clinton dipped his head and kissed Neal's chest, his cleavage, which smelled and tasted of makeup, pushed the bra out of the way and licked a nipple, teasing it with his teeth, making Neal writhe.

If Neal had been a woman, Clinton would have pushed into her then, fucked her for as long as he could, with her legs wrapped around him maybe, her head thrown back, but this was Neal and Clinton didn't have the control or patience to figure out how to fuck him right now, and the incongruous skirt was driving him out of his mind. He moved up again, panting, and drove against the tangle of slippery fabric and Neal. None of it gave him exactly what he needed, but he couldn't stop long enough to make it better, not until Neal bent his knee, rolled Clinton onto his back and slithered down his body to blow him.

Jesus Christ. Clinton panted at the shadowy ceiling, drowning in lust and pleasure, reminding himself that this was Neal, Neal Caffrey, a thought that should have made it weird or unnerving but only made it that much hotter. He made a halfhearted attempt to take off his already loosened tie, struggle out of his shirt, but couldn't summon the coordination. Instead he got up on his elbows so he could watch in the dim light from the hallway as Neal sucked him off.

Neal's wig was gone, his lipstick was smudged—Clinton was probably wearing most of it by now—and the straps of the dress were falling off his shoulders. His breasts were in deformed disarray. None of that mattered; his eyes were shut as if giving head were as much a turn-on for him as it was for Clinton, as if he loved it.

Unexpected affection clenched in Clinton's chest, a warm tight glow blending with mounting arousal, and he tried to hold on, to make it last for both their sakes, but his hips wouldn't keep still, and Neal hollowed out his cheeks, and Clinton couldn't find a foothold or any single thing to grab onto to stop his fall, however tight he fisted the sheets. He came with a sense of vertigo and confusion, shuddering through it until he was spent.

Neal dropped his head to Clinton's thigh for a moment, as if catching his breath, and Clinton reached for him, pulled him up, confusion forgotten the moment their mouths met. They kissed for a long time until it dawned on Clinton that Neal was still hard, that the dress was more in the way, now, than anything else. He helped Neal out of it, that and the bra, and Neal unbuttoned the rest of Clinton's shirt and pushed it aside, and then they were naked together, Clinton and Neal Caffrey. Neal.

Clinton spread his hands over Neal's long pale back, his swimmers' shoulders, and Neal raised up a little and thrust against him, shallow, needy thrusts that must have been unsatisfactory, must have been, but seemed to be enough. Clinton sensed the tension in him coiling so tightly it was almost visible, building and building until Neal let loose with a ragged gasp, rolling onto his side almost before he'd finished, his hands still on Clinton, his eyes dark.


*


"Lend me a change of clothes?" It wasn't really a question. Neal sat up and started gathering his things. "And a bag for all this."

It was just shy of midnight. Clinton switched on the lamp and rubbed his eyes against its brightness. "You're going?"

"Plausible deniability," said Neal, pulling on his boxer briefs. He put his foot on the bed and tapped the anklet to illustrate. "I could be here for any number of reasons." Clinton pointed him to the dresser, and he helped himself to sweatpants and a t-shirt.

Clinton pried himself off the bed and found a carry bag in the closet. He gave it to Neal and lay back down to watch him dress. "So—why me? Really. What was that?"

"I told you." Neal came and sat on the side of the bed, leaned over and kissed him.

"You also told me you owe me for last week," said Clinton. "I'm calling it in: tell me the truth." Neal frowned in protest, and Clinton caught him by the wrist. "It's okay. You won't hurt my feelings. I just need to know."

Neal turned away a little and said, as if he were choosing his words carefully, "I wanted to be with someone I know. Someone who—is aware of my situation. And out of the available and appealing options, you were—are—the most available and appealing."

Clinton laughed, despite himself. It sounded so calculated and dorky. "Okay."

He released Neal's wrist.

"Okay?" Neal ran his hand through his hair, settling it into place. He looked almost his usual self, except for the last traces of eye makeup and the absence of sharp suit and tie. "Okay what?"

"Okay, I can live with that." It wasn't a con, that was the main thing, or if it was, it had at least been driven by honest desire.

"Good to know," said Neal. There was the faintest hint of bitterness in his tone, just enough to make Clinton stop and think. Neal was embarrassed, either by the admission of need or his lack of other opportunities. He was lonely. He looked tired too, smoothing the front of Clinton's t-shirt, which hung loosely off his shoulders, nothing like the satiny dress he'd arrived in.

Affection rose up, and Clinton wiped the smile from his face. "Hey." He waited until he had Neal's attention. "You want to stay over?"

Neal hesitated. "What about plausible deniability?"

Clinton shrugged and threw open the covers in invitation. It might not be wise, but it was Neal, and he was done questioning it. Somehow they'd got this far, and after all was said and done, Clinton was due an adventure. "Forget all that," he said. "Stay."


END