I've got Matt Bomer fever and WC is my newest obsession. Be warned, I have no idea what this is.
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Worst Case Scenario
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This happens before he catches him.
Before FBI agent, Peter Burke discovers Neal's one tender spot, a Kate Moreau among all the cons he's pulled. He doesn't raise a gun to keep him in place, he lets that familiar face he's committed to memory slide into the seat across from him, smooth and sly, like he's been practicing all night long.
A late lunch at Central Park, he hopes El is behind schedule the same time he is grateful he's left two whole minutes earlier than usual.
He doesn't hand him a bright green sucker, hot fingertips lingering, not this time, he's too much of a classics guy to pull the same trick twice on one man. But nothing, and nothing at this point will convince Peter otherwise that this is a coincidence. Not when Neal Caffrey is licking at his lips, slick tongue gliding between his parted mouth.
A silent oh, a quiet pant. He is not a fantasy, Peter reminds himself.
Instead, Neal Caffrey laces his fingers on the stone table.
"What do you see when you look at me?"
While his eyes are piercing, like he wants an answer, he doesn't wait for him to reply.
This man, sitting across from Peter, isn't that patient, docile Neal Caffrey waiting for that tracker to be snapped on to his ankle, again and again to confine him to such a close proximity. He isn't even a convicted felon, an inmate still inside an orange jumpsuit counting down the days with white chalk on a prison wall. He continues, lips gleaming.
"You see an alleged forger, a thief…" he pauses for effect, "a criminal."
"Caffrey. What are you pla—"
"I'm none of that." He closes his eyes, shakes his head in the summer sunshine as it casts shadows on his cheeks. And his smile isn't true, almost wistful, but he's always looked that way when he thinks no one else is glancing his way. Picture perfect and unreal, a ghost slipping free from between Peter's fingertips before he even realizes he's had him.
He opens his sky-eyes, brilliant blue bright as he dips his head to look at Peter through his lashes, dark locks falling to frame his face. Peter doesn't allow himself to reach out even when his fingers itch, beneath the skin, with a yearning he doesn't quite understand.
He warns him, "this is not a game, I will catch you."
Leaning in, Neal Caffrey seems as though he is finally willing to tell the truth.
But Peter isn't ready, doesn't want to hear it. This man is always bad news when he comes and goes, this way and that. Standing up before the seat is even warm.
"I'm not Neal Caffrey," and then he adds, in a whisper as his eyes twinkle in a way that's got Peter's heart in a vice, "not the way you're Peter Burke at least."
But it comes, nonetheless, the other foot to start the stampede coming his way.
Neal Caffrey pities no one. And the smile doesn't go away.
Peter sees his wrist beneath the sun and imagines handcuffs scarring the tender skin. Sharp white lines cutting into a rude red into an ugly purple, bruises forming with each struggle.
"Hon?"
He turns at the sound of his wife's voice, turns to see a sky blue dress the same moment he whispers, sadness seeping from every word, like he wants to be the man Peter will catch, red-handed (fingernails still retching with the scent of wet oil paints) in the middle of a switch.
"I'm not the man you're looking for, Peter."
He snaps his head back but he knows what to expect.
"Hurry up."
Neal Caffrey is long gone, or perhaps, he's never been here from the start.
XXX Kuro
Like I warned you beforehand: idek.
