Warnings: violence, discussion of fantasies about nonconsensual sex. (Of course, fantasies are not always reflective of what one really wants or would do in real life. However, please don't read if this subject matter bothers you.)

Note: This is based on the story mention in "The Book of Hours" where Neal tells of a duke and a count who are enemies all year but then once a year they have to answer one question truthfully; the trick is to pick the right thing to ask.

Peter had asked Neal about the story one night, celebrating a victory at work with wine at June's place. A little too much wine.

"We should play that game, Neal," he had said, leaning forward a little, pressing into Neal's space.

"Sure, it'd be great for you, your life is an open book anyway," Neal said, half meaning it, half running through his list of things he would really like to know about Peter.

Peter just grinned. "I think you'd be surprised. If you manage to pick the right question."

Neal looked away for a second. Peter could see he was troubled, yanked on Neal's sleeve gently. "Neal, it'd be like a contest. If you think you're as good at asking questions as you are at avoiding them."

Neal smiled and let out a breath. "Yeah, I'm that competitive that I'm going to agree to it just to prove how smart I am."

Peter smiled back, enough predation in it to send a pleasing chill up the back of Neal's neck. "I think you are."

Neal sighed. I really shouldn't drink so much when I'm with Peter, he thought to himself before giving just the briefest of nods.

Delighted, Peter gave Neal a hearty pat on the thigh, lingering just long enough to float in the space between friendly and forward. But then he stood, ready to leave, go home, kiss the one he loved and sleep in the home he made with her.

Neal closed the door behind him as Peter left. That was stupid, he knew. It was dangerous.

But there was that one part of Neal, that part that refused to accept that category of 'Things Neal Caffrey Cannot Have,' and it took his will from him that night. It made him agree to a horrible, horrible deal.

Because he would know, at last, if Peter wanted him the way Neal did.

Neal sometimes thought he might. Too many fond looks for mere pride or friendship. Too many sparks in their conversations, one man leaping in and out of the others thoughts, pulling forward or pushing back, until their words ran fast and easy like fire on a dry branch.

And of course, Peter might not feel anything for him beyond friendship and respect and care. But Neal caught Peter, sometimes, looking at him like he wanted more. And not just looking at Neal's body, at his mouth, but deep, hard looks into Neal's eyes, searching for something even harder to give than answers.

It's possible this is just a fantasy. Neal has always had the problem of hanging on to fantasy.

But Neal has to know.

Of course if he makes Peter admit something he feels guilty about, that could be a problem. If by some odd chance, some desperate hopeful chance, Peter wants Neal, even close to the way Neal wants Peter, then... well, that could be great. Or it could be wrong, wrong, wrong, with Peter feeling guilty and uncomfortable and sealing Neal off from that closeness they had found with each other, that intimacy that let Neal imagine he shared a life with Peter and not just a cameraderie.

And then there would Peter's question. Which would be good, Neal knew.

He kind of hated all the things that Peter was good at sometimes. Though he knew it was mutual.

And Peter's question would have all sorts of ways to strain their tie, to make it crumble. Neal didn't think Peter would use it against him legally, but there are a lot of other things Peter could take.

Neal realizes suddenly then, that he had never told the end of the story. The part where the two noblemen end up dying, hundreds of miles away, poisoned on the same day by assassins hired by the other man. They kept each other's secrets, all right. But the game of truth and lies - it's not really a game.

Neal wondered how it was possible, all of sudden, that he knew that and Peter didn't.

"El, I think I may have done something stupid."

"Sounds plausible."

"El, I'm serious."

She looked at him, hands over his face as he lay there with a morning hangover. He did look like he was being serious, and she wondered briefly if he was about to confess that he slept with Neal. How many stupid things could he have done at June's place while drunk, besides the obvious?

"El, I told Neal I would answer one question, and he would have to answer one of mine."

She smiled. "The Italian Duke and the French count, right?"

He nodded, groaned as he sat up in the bed. "Don't ask which one I am, I have no idea."

Let me count the ways that statement is true, she thought. But she asked, "Sounds like a game that's more to your advantage than Neal's?"

He sighed, and then said, "I'm worried about him. If I press him too hard, he's not going to trust me. He's been a little... emotional lately."

"I told you it was more than a crush."

He smiled at her, his 'you were right' smile. "What do you think I should ask him?"

"You mean you need help choosing from your mental list of twenty thousand questions?"

"Yup," he said.

She laughed. "Ask him what you most want to know. Don't play games, just be up front with what you want from him. Answers, or otherwise."

He frowned, thinking of all the things answers he could take from Neal, could use the game to coerce from him. "I don't think that's a good idea."

She peered into him, wondering about that side of him that Neal brought out. That hint of jealousy, not from Neal wanting her husband but from Neal getting to make Peter think things he was deeply ashamed of. She enjoyed it, a little - seeing Peter's self-loathing as he confessed what his latest dream about Neal was, looking to her for comfort, for a promise that he was more than his fantasies. And there was relief, that Peter didn't want her in that way, that fire of need to turn her into his thing. But still, she wondered about it, and why she wasn't part of that side of Peter. Maybe because he knew her, he knew that she would be there always, he didn't want to rip her apart to get at her hidden life.

But her husband was looking for her advice for his and Neal's game of secrets. And she wasn't ready yet to play her own version of the game. So she said, "Whatever you ask him, be careful what you do with the answer."

He nodded, pleased with her wisdom. She found it adorable, his nervousness about him and Neal, his ready acceptance of her advice.

"Who asked to play this game?" she found herself asking.

"Me."

"Why?"

"I...was drunk. And I just..." He bit his lip uncertainly. She sighed, knowing that he probably had no awareness at all of why he did it. Though she had a feeling that she did.

She smiled and put her hand on his cheek, her signal that he didn't have to explain if he didn't know how. He was relieved, she saw, and she wondered briefly if Peter would ever be able to make that same gesture to Neal.

But he just asked her, "What do you think Neal will ask me?

She thought, then: "He's going to ask if you love him back."

He started, looked concerned for some reason. "You think so, El?"

She nodded. "He wants to know. Bad. Even if he's too scared to ask directly, he'll find a way."

"Huh," he said, and leaned toward her a little. She nestled so he could place his hand on her hip, could flex his fingers on her flesh just a little even as he stared ahead at the ceiling.

"Maybe I should call off the game," he said finally. A question for her.

She thought silently. Longer than Peter was expecting, surely. But she answered, "No, you can't back out. It wasn't just a game. It was an agreement."

On the day of questions, they get out of work late, and Peter drives him to June's and heads up with them.

Neal offers wine. Peter declines, thinks they should be sober.

Neal thinks that's the worst idea he's ever heard and he's heard some. But he leaves the wine and sits at the table across from Peter. They place their hands on the table as if they really were aristocrats of old, revealing that they are unarmed.

Of course, Peter, as usual, actually is armed.

"Both questions first, then both answers, is how it goes," Neal says.

Peter nods at him, inviting him to ask first.

Neal smiles, and it's all teeth and smirk and knowing laughing eyes. "What's the dirtiest,
darkest, most depraved sexual fantasy you've ever had about me?"

Peter's eyes widen as a series of images flash before him. His lips thin and it is obvious he doesn't like the question.

Neal looks satisfied, Peter notes. Like all he was looking for was confirmation that Peter had at some point in passing found Neal attractive. Like he was going to let Peter pretend it was some innocent desire borne from all their time together, something any two friends might have. Even though Neal likely just wanted some small admission to use as an in, as a joke that he could use to fluster Peter and then turn that embarassment into some other beast, some greater devotion.

Of course the great Neal Caffrey wouldn't ask the question that storms the castle. He would whisper the question that would just get him past the guard at the gate.

Too bad Neal has no idea that it wasn't Cinderella's castle. It was Bluebeard's.

Peter wants to get up, run out the door, go home to El and pretend he never had this idiotic idea to play a game like this, to think that he could get away with making everyone think he was an open book when he actually could barely look at himself in the mirror after jacking off to thoughts of Neal. And this irrational desire to run, to screw the consequences, makes him think that for that moment, he has become just like the man across from him.

But Neal is just grinning, thrilled that Peter looks like he's going to be sick, like he thinks that Peter is just humiliated to be caught with a crush.

"So, not so vanilla, are we?" Neal laughs and then swallows nervously. He wants to ask more, he wants to ask if there's more, but he is waiting for the right time, Peter can tell.

"My question. And you answer mine first," Peter says. No use making Neal scared of him before getting his own answer.

"Shoot," Neal says, cocky exaggerated smile on his face. The kind he gets when he is terrified, Peter knows.

"What's the thing you're most afraid I'll find out about you?" Peter asks.

Neal isn't smiling any more then. He sets his jaw. "That's cheating, Peter."

"It's not."

"It's like asking a genie for a million extra wishes. It doesn't count," Neal says, and there is real anger behind it, despite how petulant he sounds.

"You said that we should each ask the best question we could," Peter reminds him, accusation in his voice, wondering if maybe he can get Neal to call the game off, and then hating himself for his own cowardice.

Neal glares at him, and it's not the first time Peter thinks this was a really dumb idea. He can see the thoughts running through Neal's mind as his eyes dart around, can see the lightning fast possibilities imagined and discarded. He can see Neal looking for an escape.

He speaks when he finds it. He looks Peter in the eye and says, "I'm afraid to tell you that sometimes I fantasize that Elizabeth leaves you and you quit your job and then you have nothing. I wish I could see that happen to you." There's spite in his voice, and Peter isn't used to it, but he sees through it anyway.

"You said 'I'm afraid to tell you.' Not what you're most afraid of. There's a difference," Peter points out calmly. He knows better than to point out that Neal had confessed that to him - and the rather innocuous reasons why he wanted it - the last time he got himself drugged out of his mind by not following protocol while on a case.

Neal folds his arms and stares downward. It isn't like him to show his walls so physically, Peter notes.

"Neal," Peter says softly, and he tries his best to make it sound like a promise.

Neal exhales and puts his hands back on the table. He is clenching his fists still.

Finally he says, more quietly than Neal Caffrey has ever said anything, "Cary Nicholls."

Peter searches his memories for what that could mean until he looks again at Neal, who is sitting upright with perfect posture yet still manages to look like he's curling into a ball.

"Oh," Peter says. Neal's real name.

Neal smiles, more bitterness than Peter liked to see in it. "I just didn't want anyone to find out my background is so boring. No deep dark mysterious trauma to make me who I am. It's quite pedestrian." Peter wonders why he would even bother making an excuse like that, why Neal's armor suddenly seems so ill-made.

But Neal is waiting for Peter's answer. His nostrils are flaring, his eyes regretful and accusatory, like the two of them were in a duel and Neal just now realized that Peter was a good shot.

Peter swallows. He feels like if he reaches across the table to grab Neal's hands, Neal might just run out of his own apartment and not come back.

He says, carefully, "Thanks for telling me, Neal. If you want... if you want, I can... not look into it. At least not right away."

Neal looks confused. Peter tries not to think about how much he likes it when Neal looks confused.

"You wouldn't be able to not look the name up," Neal says tentatively.

"I would hate it," Peter agrees readily, "But if it means that much to you... I'll wait. You tell me how long - less than a lifetime- and I will wait to do anything with that name. Not even a google. Unless the one in a million circumstance comes up where your safety relies on me knowing about your childhood, I do nothing with the name."

Neal stares at him for a second, and Peter thinks that this is what he must have looked like to El when she agreed to marry him. Surprised. Like he never thought he would get something that good. Peter cringes just slightly to think that Neal can be so grateful for so little.

Neal asks, not even bothering to hide his relief, "Is this one of those things where you prove to me that I can trust you?" The question is mocking, or pretends to be.

"This is exactly one of those things," Peter confirms.

Neal looks down for a moment and then meets Peter's gaze. "Four years," he says, and waits to see if Peter's word is as good as he thinks it is.

Peter nods. Appropriate choice. Wise, even, in some ways.

Neal exhales and offers another smile, this one warm. He waits almost a minute before remembering to goad Peter again.

"Your turn."

Peter had almost forgotten. For a moment, he thinks that maybe he should have made Neal angry enough to storm out.

But resentment, just a hint, flashes through Neal's eyes, and Peter understands why. Neal just revealed something that was painful to speak aloud, for whatever reason. And in Neal's mind, Peter was holding off on admitting some banal sexual fantasy. Not very fair reciprocation, to match Neal's courage with such cowardice.

"Come on, Peter, the dirtiest, filthiest thing you've ever thought about me," he says, and he sounds genuinely curious, even as he's taking his tiny revenge for Peter's well-chosen question.

Peter reminds himself to face up to his failings. To accept responsibility for the person he is.

He still turns bright red as he says, "We're having sex."

Neal laughs, "I figured. Tell me more. Maybe it'll help if I phrase the question differently: what's the dirtiest most depraved sexual fantasy about me that you're most afraid to tell me?"

It doesn't help. The answer's the same.

Peter mumbles, "Oral sex."

Neal smiles, a small victory to compensate for his earlier hurt, he thinks. "In your fantasies, am I going down on you Peter?" he encourages.

Peter nods just slightly.

Neal is enjoying Peter's fear now. He thinks Peter is uptight, repressed, ashamed of sex.

He goads, "I bet I just love your cock in this fantasy, right Peter? I want it so bad?"

Peter closes his eyes. "No. You don't want it."

"What?" Neal asks.

Peter looks at Neal then, and Peter wishes he could run out of there, go where Neal wouldn't be able to make him live up to his commitments. He wonders just for a second when he became the Neal of the relationship.

But he screws his courage to the sticking place and says, "In my fantasy. I am... in your mouth. And you don't like it. You..." You are gasping and crying and begging, "You ask me to stop. And I... don't."

Peter stares at the table, and the weight of his shame has slid down on all his features. He waits and waits until Neal eventually just says, quietly, "Oh."

Peter doesn't respond until Neal says, "Why don't you stop?" Neal's tone is flat, and Peter can't discern what that means.

But he answers, "I... like that you don't like it," and Peter pinches the bridge of his nose as if he's stressed but they both know it's an excuse to cover his face.

"Then what?" Neal says, and this time Peter can see through the neutrality to the fear in Neal's tone.

"Then we have sex," Peter says, wishing he could just end this, could find it in himself to just lie to Neal, screw the promise.

"You fuck me?"

"Yes."

A pause. Then, "Do I ask you to stop?"

You scream for me to stop. I've whipped you until you're covered with welts and I fuck your face and then I slam you over a table and you scream the entire time. And you're so tight and you hurt so much but you love it even though you're scared and hurting and confused.

"Yes."

Neal presses, "Then what?"

Peter can't even look at Neal at all now. He says, to the table, "I keep going."

Neal says nothing for a moment. There are too many moments of quiet for Neal, Peter thinks.

Finally he says, "That is not what I expected, Peter. From your question or from your answer."

"Yeah," Peter agrees, grateful that Neal doesn't ask what happens next in Peter's worst fantasy.

"I'm, um... going to take some time to process," Neal says. Peter manages to look at him, sees that this is more than Neal thought that he would have to discover about Peter. He sees that Neal is genuinely worried. Not scared of Peter or that he might actually do that.

But worried.

"Understandable," Peter says. He gets up, goes to make his escape. He thinks just for a second about whether he could convince Hughes to let Neal work mostly with Jones.

Neal grabs his hand on the way out.

"I know you, Peter," Neal says, and Peter knows Neal is trying to make him feel better, but it sounds like a terrible accusation.

He nods and leaves.

He shouldn't have agreed to play this game.