A/N: I am very sorry for taking so long, I hope this chapter makes up for it!
Also, some people have asked if this story is going to involve slash between Neal and Peter, and the answer is yes, it will at some points. I'm v sorry if that's not what some of you wanted, but I had thought I made it clear enough in the description :(
For the rest of you, though, enjoy!
Neal had spent the night tossing and turning in his small bed. When it got to four o'clock the following Sunday morning, he gave up and padded over to roast a pot of coffee. While he waited for the kettle to boil he leant against the counter, his elbows resting on the countertop with his head in his hands.
He wasted time for two more hours before deciding six o'clock was an appropriate time to make a call. All he got was Mozzie's voicemail, though.
"Listen, Moz." he began. "We're getting that painting tomorrow. Call up the gallery sometime today and let them know our restoration company is coming to pick up a few paintings for check-ups." Neal thought that if they only took one, it would look suspicious. They'd return the others – no need to be greedy – and be long gone by the time the gallery realised they were missing one.
He hung up and tossed his phone onto the bed, glancing at the blueprints laid out on the table. Just two more days, and then he'd be out of here. No more fake names, no more Keller, no more Peter.
As it should be.
His eyes were drawn to a half finished painting in the corner of the room. It was the one he'd promised to forge for Peter, for his investigation into the gallery's robbery. Neal sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He had promised.
Alright, fine. He'd finish that forgery, give it to Peter, get Kate's painting and then he'd be gone. Might as well start now.
And that was how he spent the day: perfecting Peter's forgery and briefly speaking with Mozzie on the phone, who'd called to say the gallery had agreed to his visit. He was still unhappy about having to be the one to actually deal with people, but Neal had reminded him that Elizabeth was bound to be working then, and they couldn't risk her spotting him.
As he worked, Neal couldn't help wondering how Peter was recovering after his attack the night before. Elizabeth had texted him earlier that morning, assuring him that he was fine, if not a little quiet, but Neal still felt a sliver of worry residing in the back of his mind. Every so often he felt the urge to visit Peter, to see with his own eyes that he was getting better, that Keller hadn't seriously harmed him. Those urges were quickly tampered down and Neal consciously ignored them, forcing himself to think of Kate – as he should be.
By nine in the evening he was done. The forgery was as close to perfect as he could get it, and by then he was sick of the sight of it. It sat on his easel and served as a reminder to Neal that once he was rid of it, he had no reason to stay in New York. He couldn't afford a reason to stay in New York. As soon as it was handed over to Peter, he'd be gone.
Neal found he'd developed a hatred for this painting.
When a knock at the door interrupted his disdainful glares he was shooting at the forgery, Neal turned with a frown. He doubted Mozzie would be calling, he was most likely still arranging everything for the heist tomorrow. It was strange for anyone else to visit this time of the night.
A small part of him worried that Keller was out there in the hallway, waiting for him with a gun and a threat. It wouldn't surprise him, and as Neal moved closer he realised he was suddenly furious, ready to confront Keller and make him pay for hurting Peter.
All thoughts of Keller were washed out of his mind, though, when he opened the door to see the man he'd been thinking about all day leaning against the opposite wall.
"Peter." Neal stated, his eyebrows raising. "How did you find–"
"El." he interrupted, and it was when he looked up at Neal – having been staring down at his feet – that Neal was suddenly able to note his dishevelled appearance. His hair was mussed around the bandage on his head, his shirt was unbuttoned at the top, his tie was loosened, and he wore a mildly stunned expression, as if he was surprised Neal had answered the door.
Neal took a few paces out into the hall and moved closer to Peter, wondering what the other was doing here. Peter remained leaning against the wall.
"Are… are you drunk?" Neal asked, fairly certain he could smell alcohol.
"I was drunk, but then I stopped." Peter said, nodding to himself. "Your coat. S'here." He held up the aforementioned clothing that had been folded over his arm. "I stopped drunking to bring it back."
"Oh, well, that's nice of you." Neal responded, his frown remaining on his face. He gingerly took Peter's arm and tugged him closer. "Let's go inside for a bit, yeah?"
"Do you have drinks?" Peter asked.
"Uh, I've got wine."
Peter pulled a face as Neal led him to the small sofa. He sank down onto it and looked up at Neal. "I don't want wine."
"Well, I've got nothing else."
Peter grumbled something under his breath, but Neal didn't catch it. He remained standing in front of him, still unsure what to do now that a drunk Peter was in his home. Hell, Peter was never supposed to find out where he lived. He could only hope his friend was drunk enough to be unable to remember his address in the morning.
That thought then brought up the question of what he was supposed to do with Peter.
"Here, give me your coat." he said, leaning down to help Peter unravel himself from it. Three black, circular discs clattered to the floor having escaped from a pocket.
"What are these?" Neal asked, mostly to himself because he'd assumed Peter was too out of it to have noticed.
"Trackers." Peter replied, thudding onto his knees and picking one up as Neal collected the others. "Diff'rent from some others we got. These turn on themselves."
Neal frowned. "What?"
The agent thrust his tracker in Neal's face. "I mean, there's no… no transmitter or anything that turns it on. You turn these on and then place them wherever."
"Ok. That's… fascinating."
"You can have this one." Peter grabbed Neal's arm and brought him closer, popping the tracker into an inside pocket of Neal's suit jacket.
"How kind of you." Neal replied, helping Peter back onto the sofa and rolling his eyes when the other man flopped down onto it, one arm covering his eyes. Neal got to his feet and deposited the other two trackers back in Peter's coat, folding that and his own coat over the back of a chair. "What's the matter, then?"
"M'tired." Peter said. "Head hurts."
Guilt trickled down his spine, and Neal paused at the table for a moment. "Oh." he said. "Is it getting any better?"
"A lil'." he mumbled. "But I don't wanna go in tomorrow."
"Into work?"
"Yeah." Peter answered with a heavy sigh.
"Well then call in sick." Neal suggested, heading over to his kitchenette and pouring a glass of water.
"Can't." Neal rolled his eyes. "Have to interview a CI tomorrow. Said they recon… recongi…" Peter trailed off, and Neal looked over his shoulder at him.
"Recognised?"
Peter fluttered a hand in his direction. "Recognised someone, yeah. At the gallery."
"Handy." Neal said, heading back and removing Peter's arm from his face. "Sit up and drink this."
"Why?" he asked, frowning at the proffered glass and leaning away from it. "I don' like water."
"Nobody likes water, but you'll thank me in the morning. Come on."
"No." Peter pushed his hand away. "I wanna stay like this." He gestured vaguely at himself.
"Fine. Whatever." Neal headed back to the kitchenette, placing the drink on the counter. "Why are you drunk on a Sunday night, anyway?" He bent down to open a cupboard and rummaged through it in search of aspirin. He had a feeling Peter would be wanting some later on. "And why did you come here?"
"Wanted to stop thinking." He heard Peter say. "Couldn't think 'round El."
"Lover's tiff?" Neal teased, though internally he wondered what on earth Peter was talking about.
Peter didn't reply, and a few seconds later Neal located the aspirin. He straightened and turned, only to barrel straight into Peter, who had apparently snuck up behind him.
The two of them crashed to the floor, Neal jarring his back as Peter landed on top of him. The bottle of aspirin rolled across the aged floorboards.
"What the hell was that for?" he grunted, screwing his eyes shut as he waited for the pain in his back and head to pass. Peter had made no move to get off of him, and for a heart-stopping second Neal thought he had hit his head, too, only with worse consequences.
When he opened his eyes, though, Peter was not unconscious. Instead, he was looking down at him with a frown, his arms casing Neal's head.
Neal patted his side. "Come on, Peter, move. You're hurting my ribs." That was, admittedly, one of the reasons why Neal wanted Peter out of his personal space, the other reason was due to the quickening of his heart that – he'd come to accept – he had no control over.
The agent was still frowning at him, his eyes skimming over Neal's face. "Your eyes look like El's." he said, his voice quiet.
Neal returned the frown. "Many people have blue eyes, Peter." He hadn't missed how the agent's gaze had moved from his eyes to his lips has he spoke. His mouth had gone dry, suddenly, and he was finding it difficult to breathe – and not just because Peter was still atop him.
"You're diff'rent from her, though." Peter muttered, almost to himself. His head kept bobbing slightly, and Neal had to remind himself that he was drunk, and clearly not thinking properly.
"Yes I am. Well observed." he said, trying to sound calm and collected even while his insides were churning. He couldn't ignore how he enjoyed having Peter's warmth against him, and oh God, he needed to get out of this situation soon.
Peter's face was gradually getting closer, still nodding faintly from intoxication. "You… you held m'hand yesterday. At th' hosp'tal."
"Yes I did." Neal said, his voice equally as quiet. "You were in pain, I was trying to help."
The agent's gaze never strayed from his mouth. "It did." he mumbled. "I… liked it."
Peter's tongue poked out to wet his lips, then, and Neal found he couldn't look away. "Peter," he said, trailing off as the other man dipped his head closer to Neal's.
Peter gave a small smile, and Neal knew then and there that he would give him anything. "Yeah, Nick?"
It was like a bucket of ice water had been dumped on him. Suddenly, Neal wanted to get as far away from Peter as possible, to escape the man who didn't even know his real name. If Peter ever learned his true identity, this sort of situation would never be possible. And yet, Neal didn't want this situation to occur while the agent didn't know who he was. He felt as though his heart was being tugged in different directions, and while he knew he could stop this flash of pain by continuing the façade, he knew he was being selfish. It wouldn't be fair to Peter. And, God, it wasn't fair to Elizabeth.
"Peter," he said again, this time more assuredly. "I know you got drunk to stop thinking, but now you need to. You know this isn't right, don't you?"
The agent was inches away from him, but he stopped moving as Neal spoke. "You don'…?"
"I do." Neal replied swiftly before he'd had time to think about it. "I do a lot, but best case scenario is you forget all of this tomorrow morning depending on how much you've drunk tonight–"
"An' wors' case?"
Neal sighed. "Worst case scenario is you remember everything and tomorrow morning you wake up and you have to go back to Elizabeth knowing you've been unfaithful, even if your relationship only has just begun."
"El," Peter repeated, as if he'd only just remembered her, which Neal had a sneaking suspicion he had.
"Yeah, El. It's either me or El you hurt, and I'm gonna save you the choice."
Peter frowned down at Neal's chest, clearly thinking over what Neal had said. "I di'nt wanna…"
"I know you didn't, and that's okay, but it's probably for the best if you sleep this off, yeah?"
"Yeah." he responded, looking a little dazed. He began to push himself up, and Neal could finally breathe properly again. "Yeah, I'll jus' go."
"No, don't be stupid, you can take my bed." he said, sitting upright as Peter sat back on his heels.
Neal helped Peter get to his feet and they slowly padded the short distance towards his bed, stopping every so often to let Peter fend off waves of nausea. Eventually, the agent had collapsed on top of Neal's covers, his eyes drifting closed already. Neal stepped back and studied the man for a few moments, wondering what they'd be doing right now if he'd kept his mouth shut.
Well, he knew they'd be doing something he'd be incredibly happy about, that's for sure. Instead, he was left to stick a bucket next to the dozing lump of a man he somehow developed feelings for and hope he wouldn't throw up on his sheets.
A text from Moz giving him a time to meet up tomorrow brought him out of his reverie, and he discovered with some unease that he wasn't as enthusiastic about retrieving Kate's painting as he had been before.