At this point, Peter Burke can just about count the good things in his life on his fingers. His job pays enough to survive on, the heating in his rowhouse isn't on the fritz anymore, Satchmo is as happy and healthy as ever, and in just a few short weeks he'll be heading upstate to spend some time with his parents and sisters. Oh, and his new route home has a stoplight conveniently located on the same block as his two favorite shops in this part of town: Premiere Floral and New Met Gallery, a florists and a private art gallery, respectively.

Both are out of his budget, of course, but they always look so cheerful and well-lit, and not at all as snobby or pretentious as the name would imply. It doesn't hurt that they're run by people who may as well have designed his type, with their dark hair and blue eyes and easy smiles. Elizabeth Mitchell is the proprietor of Premiere Floral, and she's offered him discounts every single time he comes in, no matter how often he insists he's just looking.

("No one to buy flowers for," he'd explained with a shrug, but she'd just smiled and written him another coupon. "No reason you can't buy flowers for yourself," she said. "There's no shame in that, and look - this arrangement is mostly greenery anyway, and very low maintenance. It'll last for weeks, clean up the air, and really invigorate your kitchen."

"My kitchen doesn't need to be invigorated, thanks," Peter had said, hoping he didn't sound as strangled as he felt. Elizabeth gave him a knowing look.

"Come on, honey," she'd said. "Everyone's kitchen needs to be invigorated. But why don't you take this—" she'd handed him the slip of paper, "—and think about it? It's good all month if you change your mind.")

The New Met, on the other hand, is run by a guy in his early thirties that, well. Peter's known he's not straight for a good long while now, but fuck if Neal Caffrey isn't a whole bunch of trouble wrapped in a particularly gorgeous package and goddammit, he knows better.

And then he'd found out that Neal not only curates and sells the art, but also creates a fair portion of it himself, and that's just too much.

So the stoplight is a good thing. He gets to admire the shops from the safety of his car, and runs no risk of embarrassing himself any more than he already has. Nice and simple. Elegant. Foolproof.

A couple of days later, there's a tap on his window as he waits for the light, and he startles badly. Elizabeth Mitchell is standing next to his car holding a flower and looking expectant, so he rolls down the window.

"Sorry for startling you," she says, not looking sorry at all. "I just wanted to give you this." She holds out the deep purple pansy and smiles brightly.

"Thank you," Peter says slowly, and reaches out for it, half-expecting it to be snatched back.

"Oh, don't thank me," Elizabeth says cheerfully. "That's from Neal. He just asked me to pass it along to you since he's with a customer right now. Well, your light just changed, so I'll see you later!" She steps back onto the sidewalk with a wave, and Peter reluctantly pulls his eyes - and thoughts - back to the road.

Well, that was certainly….something. Probably just a mistake of some sort. Or a hallucination. Probably not that, but still. It's not until he pulls into his driveway that he realizes he's still holding the flower carefully in one hand.

The week after that Neal shows up with a cup of coffee and temptingly ruffled hair.

Then it's Elizabeth again, with a cut crystal vase "from Neal" and a gorgeous turquoise wrap-around dress that makes it frankly challenging to keep his eyes at a gentlemanly height.

Then it's Neal with a beautiful arrangement of rosebuds, blue hydrangea, and sprays of some round berry so dark purple it's almost black — "from Elizabeth," naturally — and a wink.

The flowers fit perfectly in the vase, and Peter has no idea what it's all supposed to mean.

That Saturday, he takes a cab down to the gallery and pushes the tinkly door open only to find Neal absent.

"Can I help you?" asks a short, bald, spectacled man in a Hawaiian T-shirt. He's leaning over the table at the back, tagging a canvas.

"Where's Neal?" Peter demands, too wound up to care that it comes off as rude.

The short man doesn't seem to notice, though, just looks up and nods like that's the expected response.

"You must the Suit, he says, like that means anything, and puts down the canvas. "Neal's at the florist shop next door. He should be back soon, but between you and me I'd recommend going over there now." Then, when Peter hesitates a second too long, "Go, Suit! Don't just stand there like you're part of the exhibit!" He's literally shooing him away, and looks about a second away from coming around the table to push him out, so Peter goes.

The door to Premiere Floral also has a bell over it, naturally, and Neal and Elizabeth look up together at the sound of it, clearly in the middle of a conversation.

"Peter!" Neal says brightly. "Great, you made it! We were wondering how long it'd take."

"You," Peter says, looking at Neal, "and you," looking at Elizabeth. "Are you together?"

Neal and Elizabeth look at each other, then back at Peter. "Not exclusively," Elizabeth says carefully and Peter freezes. Is this? Is…? What?

"We're not trying to freak you out," Neal jumps in, sounding concerned, "or coerce you into anything. We'd just like to get to know you a little better—"

"And if you're not interested in, well, us," Elizabeth adds, "we'd still like to get to know you as a friend. But honey, come on. You're really not subtle."

"Hey," Neal says, defensive. "Don't say it like it's a bad thing, it's part of his charm."

Peter finds his voice again. "Are you seriously… Are you asking me to…. To be with you?" He swallows. "Both of you?"

"We're just asking if you're interested in trying," Elizabeth assures him, "that's all. Just one date, and if that's it, then that's it. But if you want more…" Her smile turns devious, and she takes a step closer. "Well, we can certainly do that."

Peter swallows again, mouth gone dry. This is so much more than he'd ever imagined, more than he'd even allowed himself to imagine.

"Yeah," he gets out at last. "Yeah, I'd like to try."

They grin and high five each other, and honestly, god bless that stoplight.

I wrote this back in December as part of a "short story celebration" that marked the third birthday of takingoffmyshoes fanfic. As a thank-you to everyone who'd supported me and encouraged me, I spent two weeks taking writing requests on tumblr, and then posted the finished stories first to tumblr, and then to my AO3 account in February. I initially wasn't going to post them here, but then I thought why not? You guys have been just as kind and encouraging here, and I'll make sure to open up requests on this site as well when December rolls around again.

As always, thank you for reading! Any feedback you'd like to leave is welcomed and appreciated.