Title: Of Bored Hunters and Forgers
Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.
Warning: Neal/Dean slash
Note: One shot; 2nd pov
You turn away from Peter as you turn to grab a glass of champagne from the passing tray. You toast the agent standing next to you and lift the glass to your lips.
And then you forget all about Peter and the mark and you're no longer hearing Jones' voice in your ear as you're lost to hazel-green eyes.
The glass is still frozen at your lips as you blink and take in the rest of the man standing not too far away. The man smiles at you lazily and begins to saunter (yes, he is sauntering) towards you.
He was tall and lean; you could just see the muscle hidden and yet accentuated by the hideously cheap suit. You slowly lowered your glass and unconsciously took a half-step away from Peter and towards the stranger.
There was a smirk on his lips as his eyes raked over your body, and you wondered at the shiver that raced down your spine – something about this man screamed danger, but you ignored it and leaned in close as he stopped in front of you.
"And here I thought this would be boring," you said. Your nostrils flared as you took in his scent: soap and leather and gun oil.
"So did I," he said as he extended his hand. "My name's Dean."
"Neal!" Peter was suddenly behind you just as you took Dean's hand. You practically jumped into the Dean's arms.
As you took a deep breath to get over the startle, you rounded on the agent.
"What?" you hissed.
And just as Peter opened his mouth to reprimand you, you felt a whisper-warm breath on your neck.
"Call me when you ditch the Fed," you automatically leaned back into Dean's chest as he slid a napkin into your pants pocket.
You broke into a grin as you turned and watched Dean leave the party.
"Did you just get a number?" Peter lifted an incredulous eyebrow. "Really?"
You fingered the napkin in your pocket and smiled giddily at Peter.
End.
