Author: Regency
Fandom: White Collar
Title: Natural Fit
Labels: implied slash
Spoilers: None; could be set pre-series.
Pairing: Peter/Other UST, implied Peter/Elizabeth, possible
implied Peter/Neal UST
Rating: PG
Word count: 1,168
Summary: Peter might not wear a fedora with style or instinctively
know Dolce & Gabbana from Hugo Boss, but he knew human nature. He could con human nature.
Author’s Note: Inspired by a momentary smile on
Peter’s face during a scene of The Book of Hours. I bet he could con a million
out of the U.S. Mint with that unbidden smirk.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any characters recognizable
as being from White Collar. They are the property of their producers, writers,
and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was
made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.
~!~
Peter smiled gently at the bright young thing seated beside him. He was
cute—unexpectedly so—with light brown eyes and dark brown hair and a touch of olive to his skin. It wasn’t a wonder he was a model. Peter would have
bought Elizabeth a magazine with his face on the cover, even if she didn’t ask for it.
Duncan Bell, too sweet and conniving by half, seemed to pick up on the appreciation in Peter’s eyes and slid
a half-foot closer in the cozy little booth they occupied in a loud, but trendy club in Midtown, New York.
His fingers brushed the tips of Peter’s as he moved to mirror his position; an arm draped across the back of
the seat, legs crossed, and limber fingers wrapped loosely around a perspiring glass. Of course, it looked a dozen times better
when Bell did it, and Peter was reminded sharply of how dangerous temptation could be and in how many forms it could come.
“I’ve never seen you before,” the model said, sporting a slightly drugged half-smile.
Peter Burke turned himself ever so slightly towards the younger man to treat him with a lazy grin; the kind that had
made Elizabeth’s stomach flip when they first met and still took her breath now and again. “Maybe you just never
noticed me.”
Distractible fingers through perfectly-coiffed hair and hazel eyes on his unfamiliar lips told Peter the story before
Bell could say the words. “Not likely.”
He could only nod in inexplicable understanding as he brought his near-empty glass to his lips. It was mostly melted
ice now, but it soothed his parched throat all the way down. He could feel those
selfsame eyes tracing his throat, the tell-tale bobbing of his Adam’s apple, the glide of his tongue along his lower
lip to catch that last lingering drop of moisture at its corner. He put on a
show because he had an audience. This part, he loved, just a little.
“Would you like another drink,” his companion asked, swaying ever so attentively toward him. He worried his bottom lip in a way that Peter found almost endearing.
He didn’t pretend he couldn’t interpret the look in his eyes; this work was easier when he didn’t
kid himself. As young as Duncan Bell seemed, he hadn’t been innocent in
years. No doubt his mind was filled with things far from gumdrops and sugar plums.
“Sure, a refill’d be nice. Why not?” He nudged his glass toward Bell, only quirking a brow when he,
in turn, raised an absent hand to have it whisked away by some heretofore unknown flunky skulking in the background. Peter wasn’t impressed in the least and he knew it showed as he sat back, putting
a few more inches of distance between the two of them. It was what the other
man would watch for, he knew, him responding as a perspective romantic interest—a disappointed one at that. Can’t be bothered to replace my drink himself, he tutted. Now, he’ll have to work for it.
For Peter’s part, it was a game. He wanted Bell begging, he wanted
him leaping through hoops, flaming rings. He wanted the younger man to want him
so badly that there was nothing he wouldn’t give or tell to have Peter. While
a bit cruel and unusual, Peter knew it was crucial to the Bureau’s investigation for someone to get close to a member
of this little circle of high-paid delinquents. Between their part in the happily
haphazard distribution of designer drugs and the abrupt, but repeated thievery of priceless jewels, they had gotten to be
a bouquet of lovely thorns in Reese’s side. And what was a nuisance for Reese quickly became a problem for Peter, one
that he was immediately assigned to fix. Somehow.
Peter straightened in his seat, retreating from the curious hand that had grasped his forearm not long ago. He could play hard-to-get at the championship level. “As enlightening as this evening has been, I
think it’s time for me to call it a night.”
Bell performed an impressive pout that might have tempted a lesser man of baser goals, but that man Peter wasn’t. Just the same, he dragged blunt thumb across the proffered lip, claiming a perverse
victory in the quick intake of breath that rushed by in response. He dropped
his hand when the aforementioned minion returned with a glass that interested neither of them.
Sliding out of the booth and smoothing his tailored sports jacket, Peter gave every indication of a man who’d
reached the end of his adoration. He let his gaze sweep around the lounge as
though in search of some more exotic and beautiful thing to command his attention; sensing those eyes, darker now, clinging
to him with a fervor that would have worried him in a violent man.
“It was a pleasure to see you tonight. Good night, Mr. Bell.” Impersonal, distant, just the impression
Peter wanted to give as he began to walk away.
“Wait!” the proverbial prince that hundreds would have killed to have shouted after Peter. He was out from under the table and all but in Peter’s arms in a matter of seconds. Tan cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling beneath pathetically fashionable lighting, he gave the indomitable Neal
Caffrey a run for his money in seduction. If he turns out to be a Venus Flytrap masquerading
as a rose, they may be even.
He whispered, panting, “I don’t want you to go yet.”
Peter raised an eyebrow in a mockery of confusion and shrugged nonchalantly. “I have to go sometime.”
“At least, tell me your name first. You know who I am, how fair is it that I don’t know you?”
“Life isn’t always fair, Mr. Bell.” Peter observed a
minute shiver and wondered whether pleasure or unease was the cause.
“Call me Duncan. Everyone else does.”
Peter leaned closer, so that he could see the blown pupils of his mark’s eyes.
“I’m not everyone else.” The lazy grin returned of its
own volition as he capped his words with, “Mr. Bell.”
This time he knew where the shiver came from—and he liked it.
Peter would return come some other night and the other man would try again. He’d continue to fail at acquiring
the hand or even the name of the man he was beginning to crave; at least, until Peter wanted him not to fail. He’d learned
long ago how to pick an addictive personality out of a crowd and the model wore that truth like skin. When he wanted, when he desired, he expected his wishes to be fulfilled. When that didn’t happen,
he would make demands, offer gifts, bribe. Failing that, he’d bargain, maybe even plead.
In whatever order it passed, he’d eventually break.
And, when he did, he’d land right in Peter’s hands, where he already seemed so desperate to be.
I can hardly wait, Peter mused
with an enigmatic smile.
God, he loved his work.
