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the island of conclusions

The Toes of a Forger (Neal/Peter, R)

the island of conclusions

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The Toes of a Forger (Neal/Peter, R)

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bright star
Apparently, being icebound for days on end is conducive to writing R-rated ficlets, even when (especially when) one is supposed to be doing something else. Who knew?

Anyway, we are free now, but here's another Five Acts fill, still part of Project Angst Begone, this one White Collar.

(There's a third, which I'll try to put up tomorrow, but that one is Southland and thus, by necessity, somewhat angsty.)

Title: The Toes of a Forger
Rating: R
Pairing: Peter/Neal (established)
Word Count: ~1.1K
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit.
a/n: written for rabidchild as part of the Five Acts meme. The act included is: sex in a public place with a real chance of getting caught.
Summary: Neal has nimble toes.

It was quite possibly the most boring meeting Peter had ever had the misery to sit through.

And it took a lot to bore Peter. He liked minutiae. He found the labyrinthine structure of mortgage fraud fascinating.

But there was something about this new Assistant Director—Danvers. He outranked Hughes, if the alacrity with which Hughes had chivvied them two flights up to this fancy conference room was anything to go on. But Danvers had a thing for—well, Peter supposed the nice way to put would be that he had a thing for history. Thorough history. Extensive history. And so they were being treated to endless images of every officer of the ban, every building, every paper trail.

Peter involuntarily rolled his eyes, and was thankful that the lights had been dimmed in the wood-paneled room (no glass walls up here) so that they could better see the screen. Chances were nobody had seen the movement.

Then he caught the flash of white teeth across the narrow oak table, and knew that no, of course Neal had noticed, of course Neal was delighted to finally catch Peter being bored.

Peter resolutely focused his eyes the screen, but moments later the inevitable gambit arrived. A foot nudged up against his, poked gently at his instep.

Peter narrowed his eyes at Neal, and pursed his lips disapprovingly. Whatever they might get up to in their off hours, they were not, absolutely not, going to play footsie at an important Bureau meeting. He turned away again, but not before he saw the outlines of a smile—a very particular smile—a Neal-Caffrey-can’t-resist-a-challenge smile—hanging in the air like a Cheshire cat’s.

Inwardly, Peter sighed. He was in for it now, no question. And sure enough, right on schedule, the foot was back. Neal’s right foot, Peter noted, light as a feather and anklet-free. Barefoot now (how had that happened?), and nosing its way under the cuff of Peter’s trouser leg, tugging down his sock. Caffrey had nimble toes, Peter would give him that much.

Then he had to suck in a hard breath because damn, who knew that precise spot behind the anklebone was such a circuit board of sensation? Little darts of ohmygodsogood flew out from the contact like a starburst, sent a shudder across his shoulders.

“You okay, Boss?” Jones whispered, leaning in from the right.

“Mmm. Yeah. Mmm.” Peter managed. “Felt a draft, that’s all.”

Jones furrowed his brow, but went back to watching the screen. Peter snuck a glance at Neal, who was also apparently concentrating on the images, upright and perfectly composed--betraying no sign above the waist that his toes were even now negotiating the underside of Peter’s left knee.

There was no way Peter was going to be able to stop the foot’s slow ascent up his leg without seriously disrupting the meeting, he realized. He wasn’t even entirely sure he would have stopped it if he could. It felt—well, amazing. Those toes—Neal could’ve picked a lock with those toes—Christ, he could’ve forged a Rembrandt—and they were tracing patterns up Peter’s inner thigh that had him hard as a rock and straining against the zipper of his trousers.

When Neal’s foot finally came to rest at the crease of Peter’ groin, inches away from his aching cock, Peter couldn’t help himself. He let out a tiny yelp, barely turning it into a throat-clearing at the last moment.

“Agent Burke?” said Danvers. “Did you have something to contribute?”

“I think Agent Burke was struck,” Neal put in before Peter had had a chance to improvise, “by the similarity between Kramer’s handwriting, and that of the alleged borrower, Miller. There’s a distinct similarity in the loops of their ‘g’s.”

And sweet Mother of God if he didn’t simultaneously sketch just such an elegant and precise circuit of Peter’s dick with his big toe.

Peter was so close to the edge it was almost painful, his pulse pounding in his ears, and his vision whiting out at the corners. Neal working him over like that, in that languorous, playful, yet challenging way that was so inimitably Neal, would have been hot under any circumstances. But now? Here? Their secret carried out under the eyes of both superiors and subordinates, at the heart of the FBI? It was like opening the door to some special room of kink Peter had never known he had.

Peter gripped the table hard under the file in front of him and tried to think of cold things—showers and snow drifts and his grandmother’s frosty front room. It didn’t do much good. Neal waggled his toes expressively against Peter’s erection, and all the heat in the world rushed to Peter’s face.

But just then, when Peter was absolutely sure he wouldn’t be able to hold out a second more, that his career in the Bureau was about to come to an abrupt and inglorious end, the lights came up.

The presentation was finally over.

Everyone rustled around a bit, and Hughes looked at Peter sharply.

“You alright there, Burke? You look a little flushed.”

“Yeah.” Diana tilted her head and peered at him. “Sweaty.”

“’M okay,” Peter managed. He cleared his throat a few times, and then took refuge in a fake cough for the sole purpose of getting a hand over his face.

Then Neal cut in, smooth as watered silk. “I’m worried he’s coming down with something. That flu that’s been going around, probably. He’s been—I don’t know—kind of sluggish all day. Isn’t that right, Diana.”

“Mmm,” Diana agreed, with what Peter sincerely hoped wasn’t a hint of amusement in her voice. “Sluggish. Poor man.”

“I’ll get him out of here. No point in him spreading his germs to the rest of you.” Neal trotted out his best you-can-rely-on-me look of quiet competence—the one which, in Peter’s experience, marks found almost impossible to resist.

Sure enough, Hughes, Danvers and the rest of them nodded in relief, looking gratefully at Neal as if he were Peter’s minder instead of the other way around.

Peter shamefully took advantage of Neal’s ploy, and just moaned pathetically when Neal came around the conference table (fully shod once more, and how had he managed that?) and put a hand around his bicep to help him up. Neal kindly positioned his body to help hide the goddamn circus tent billowing out the front of Peter’s trousers and they exited to a chorus of gruff “take it easys” and “feel better soons.”

“Let’s get you home to bed, partner,” Neal said smugly, and had the gall not to flinch when Peter elbowed him hard in the ribs.

In the end, though, they only made it as far as the elevator—hitting the emergency stop button two floors from the bottom. But Peter came into Neal’s hand, at least, instead of into the trousers of his second-best suit. So he was willing to count it as a win.

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