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Peter bought him coffee. Italian roast, hot and black, with one of those little, wrapped amaretto cookies on the side. He set it down next to Neal's elbow as he was reviewing the file on the Gendarme heist, a job that filled Neal with not a little admiration and more envy than he liked to admit. Neal glanced up at Peter and saw a flush race across his cheeks before Peter ducked his head and dug into his own file. "Just thought you'd like some coffee," he muttered before he furrowed his brow and asked Neal how far he'd gotten with the forensics report.
A few days later Peter showed up one night when Elizabeth kicked him out to hold some kind of "women's meeting," as he referred to it, shoving a bottle of red wine into Neal's hand as he came in. "It's Cabernet Sauvignon," he said, as if Neal couldn't read the label. "From Chile." He frowned. "The guy at the store recommended it."
Neal examined the label. It was a good winery, a better than good year. "Looks terrific," he said, smiling. He cocked his head, studying Peter's face. There was that look of embarrassment again, mixed with relief. "I'll get a corkscrew."
In the days that followed there were more gifts of coffee. Carefully casual invitations to have a drink after work. Seemingly off-hand compliments about his hat, his vests, his ties.
Neal asked Cruz if she'd noticed anything different about Peter lately. She rolled her eyes at him and told him not to get her involved in any of his schemes. He asked Jones if Peter had ever commented on any of Jones' ties, and Jones looked at him liked he'd lost his mind.
Now that Neal was paying attention, he couldn't miss the subtle changes in Peter's behavior. His more than occasional hand on Neal's arm, or sometimes at the small of his back. Peter's awkward but strangely determined smiles. How often, when Neal looked over at Peter, he found Peter looking back.
One day it hit him. They were walking back to the office, and Neal came to a dead halt in the middle of the sidewalk and Peter's recitation of all the reasons they didn't enough evidence have for a warrant. A smile spread across his face when Peter turned back to him, realizing Neal had stopped.
"Oh, my god," Neal said, "you're flirting with me. You're flirting with me."
Peter did that thing where he opened his mouth to protest and then just stopped, turning a deep red. He put his hands in the pockets of his coat, turning away slightly. "Jesus." He sighed. "Elle says I'm lousy at flirting."
Neal laughed, rich and throaty, and reached out to tug him around again. He slung an arm around Peter's neck, pulling his head down. "She's right," he said, whispering in Peter's ear. "Good god, is she right." And then Neal kissed him.