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Dear Everybody:

OMG I AM SO SORRY I HAVEN'T RESPONDED TO HALF OF YOUR COMMENTS. It is not because I do not LOVE AND APPRECIATE them and it is not because I don't, seriously, LOVE AND APPRECIATE YOU. It has just been kind of a roller-coaster of a week, what with the breakup and starting my new job (did I mention that I have a big girl job? Because...because I have a big girl job. TODAY I WROTE A PRESS RELEASE THAT IS GOING TO BE SENT TO NEWSPAPERS BFSKDGDJSKDJSKLDLS JOY! OKAY SHUTTING UP ABOUT IT NOW). Also,

augustbird and I are working on something that I AM SO THRILLED ABOUT I CANNOT EVEN SPEAK OF IT. But oh, man, is it going to be fun.

That being said, I plan to respond to all the comments this weekend because seriously, you guys, I can't even tell you how much I love you all. This whole thing would have been unbearable without you and, just. So much awesome.

I am also working on all of the prompts you guys so generously offered! And, uh, here, as an apology for the comment!fail, have some cookies and also a poem.

Girl!Neal, again, some more.

Peter waits until he hears the bedroom door shut before turning to his wife. "Fuck," he says, and she laughs.

"Oh, honey," she says, draping her arms across his shoulders and kissing him soundly. "You've had a long day, huh?"

"He had a panic attack," Peter growls, "and Diana tried to hit on him--"

"She's always had good taste."

"Yeah, well, that aside--but he is gorgeous, isn't he?"

"Definitely," El murmurs. She must see the contemplative look in Peter's eyes, because she adds, sternly, "No. Not unless he says it's okay, and don't you dare ask him."

"I wasn't going to," Peter snaps defensively. "I know how weird this is, alright? And you didn't see him when it happened, I thought he was going to stop breathing--"

"Okay," El interrupts, gently. He must have been yelling--he only realizes how loud he'd been when he hears how soft her voice is. "I know you wouldn't, I just wanted to make sure. It's all going to be fine, it's just until tomorrow."

"Yeah," he says, taking a deep breath. El presses their foreheads together for a minute and Peter thinks, for the hundred thousandth time this week, that he is the luckiest man on the planet. Then he remembers that Neal is upstairs, and considers how long he's been upstairs, and that he has a tendency to flee in times of stress--

"I'm going to go check on Neal," he says. El raises an eyebrow but doesn't argue, and he takes the stairs two at a time. "Neal?"

There's no answer, and Peter pushes open the bedroom door, fearing the worst. What he sees is Neal, very much still present, staring at himself in the mirror. He's wearing a pair of Peter's old flannel pajama bottoms and one of El's white t-shirts; it clings to him in all the right places, leaving a thin strip of midriff visible.

"Neal?" he repeats. Neal turns around, his expression creased with surprise.

"I'm pretty," he says, almost helplessly; his gaze is dragged back to the mirror, seemingly against his will. Peter laughs, steps forward, and puts his hands on Neal's hips; Neal leans into him, back flush against his chest, and meets his gaze in their reflection.

"Yeah, Narcissus," Peter says, in Neal's ear, "you're very pretty."

--

Bottom!Peter + Library!Sex = Win?

"What've we got?" Neal threw himself into the chair in front of Peter's desk, resisting the urge to rub his eyes. They'd been up late the night before. He handed Peter the coffee he'd picked up from the cart outside, taking a greedy sip of his own cup. Peter raised an eyebrow.

"Bought me coffee," he said, dryly. "Trying to butter me up for something, Caffrey?"

Neal smiled. "Just thought you might need some; I know you had a hard night." They locked eyes, determination and a little fire behind it--everything was a competition, in the end. After a long moment Peter broke the gaze, gave in to the slow flush creeping up his neck.

"Yeah, well," he muttered. Neal's smile widened, even as he had to fight the urge to splay himself across the desk, glass walls be damned; Peter was oddly compelling when he was flustered.

"So," Neal repeated, to distract himself from this, "what've we got?"

Peter sighed. "The usual. Cold cases, that Cardovan thing from last week--"

"I told you, he's holed up at his property in Bombay if he's anywhere--"

"I know," Peter said, and scowled. "But we've still got to follow up on any leads."

Neal sighed. "Right, right. I know. That's really it?"

"More or less." Peter scrubbed at his face, and Neal sympathized--slow days at work meant paperwork. "Oh, yeah," Peter added, flipping through a folder, "and some nutjob called last night. Told us he was going to steal Ptolemy's Cosmographia from the New York Public Library."

Neal sat up. "Can I see that?" Wordlessly, Peter handed over the file, and Neal flipped through it. Anonymous tip, giving the location, the target, and the date of the expected robbery...not to mention the transcript of the call, which demonstrated a speech pattern he remembered.

"This isn't a nutjob," he said, slowly. When Peter raised his eyebrows, Neal continued, "This is an old acquaintance of mine, this is his M.O."

"What," Peter scoffed, "warning his intended victims beforehand? He must not be very good."

"He's not very good," Neal murmured. "He's great." He flipped through the file--there wasn't much in it, just the transcript of the tip-off and of the courtesy call to the library. He noticed that the head librarian seemed surprisingly unconcerned by the idea of someone stealing such a rare item, and grinned. Double-crossing on an inside job--that was Riley's style, all right.

"Look," he said, pointing to the transcript of the call with the librarian. "Right here. She says 'That's not even at this branch right now.' But that's not true--I happen to know exactly where they keep the Cosmographia, and it's where the caller claims it is."

Peter gave him a dirty look, and Neal raised his hands. "What?" he protested. "It's valuable! I may have looked into it, in my youth. I'm not interested in it now."

Peter held his gaze and then sighed and let it go. He took the file from Neal, lifting the top sheet to read the transcript of the phone call with the librarian again. "I think you just don't want to do cold cases," he said, and Neal could tell from his voice that he was intrigued, but would need a bit of convincing. He leaned across the desk, a little too close, and smiled.

"Tell you what," he murmured, "let's make this interesting."

"And how do you propose we do that?"

Neal shrugged. "We check it out," he said. "Stake out the library, see what happens. If I'm right, I'll try out that cock ring you've been so urgent about." Peter hissed in a shocked, aroused breath and Neal, who in actual fact had absolutely no compunctions about putting on a cockring, knew he'd been right to save that incentive for a rainy day.

Peter gave him a contemplative look. "Alright," he said, slowly. "And if you're right?"

Neal smiled, just this side of vicious. "If I'm right," he said, "we fuck in the library, and I get to top."

--

Poetry: YOU ARE HARDER THAN YOU ONCE WERE. Oh, for the days when I could write these without driving myself crazy.

dearest:
(because I have always been the kind of girl more inclined to weep than cry)
i am thinking about the order of things.
if A hadn't followed B, if i hadn't followed you up the stairs
of your rickety old heart that night, costumed and
brimming with--

but the problem with that game is the loop to it,
and i can go back further than you. i can go back
to her and her slender fingers and haunted too-
old eyes, and then back, and back, and
eventually

i'm looking at a baby picture, smiling uncomplicated or
a maenad or the tongue of my ancestors, not
so austere, then. i'm looking at tantalus's
hungry years, his wide starving eyes, and there you are
staring, greedy.

and do you know, the worst of it? now he's icarus and
i am nothing so much as a pair of wax wings, constructed
with greatness and forever in mind; his only fault
was wanting the sun and my only fault is you, you and
that tendency you left me with

you know, the one where i melt in warmth