elrhiarhodan

Title: Leaving Me In Silence
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, Peter/Neal
Spoilers: Slight spoilers for S3.06 (Taking Account)
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: An A/U called The Rocker El 'verse.
Word Count: ~ 12,000 (Published in Three Parts - The story is complete - this is NOT a work in progress. Parts 2 and 3 will be published on 8/17 and 8/18 respectively.)
Summary: Not a whole lot of plot here, just some angst and character development. Set in an alternative universe where Elizabeth Burke is a rock star who uses the stage name, Lizzie Bordyn and she is long divorced from her FBI agent husband. Neal Caffrey is the same, except that Kate broke up with him before he started serving his sentence and Moz disappeared. Peter is Peter – but without Elizabeth.



Author’s Notes: Greatly expanded and revised from the series of ficlets written during Promptfest VI, starting with the original prompt from ladygray99, Elizabeth - Rock n Roll. Title from Annie Lennox', No More I Love Yous.

Beta'd by rabidchild67 and jrosemary. Thank you! All mistakes are mine and mine alone.
_____________________________


2005 through 2009

Neal Caffrey started serving his sentence and it was as bad as he expected.

What was worse was that Kate abandoned him and Moz disappeared as if he never existed.

It was strange to think that the only person he regularly communicated with was Peter Burke, the man who put him here. It started with a birthday card - he didn’t expect the man to write back to him.

After a rather spectacular beat down his first night, Neal was given a private cell when he got out of the infirmary. The warden had told him it was at the request of the FBI, which meant that Peter arranged it. That was why he had sent Peter a birthday card to begin with - a sort of “thank you for keeping me alive,” and maybe just to let Peter know he hadn’t forgotten him.

They actually became prison pen pals. Peter had a compassionate streak a mile wide and deep as the earth itself. Neal thought about playing on that - but as compassionate as he was, Peter was also the smartest man Neal met. He’d know instantly if Neal was running a con on him, and Neal needed this human connection more than any of the privileges he could wrangle out of sympathy. He needed to know he wasn’t alone, that there was someone in the outside world who remembered his name.

Theirs was an old fashioned sort of correspondence, with handwritten notes. Neal would have preferred linen stationery, but settled for a yellow legal pad. Peter used the same, but mailed his letters in envelopes with the FBI seal on it. Neither of them ever wrote anything deeply personal. Most of the time Neal would tell Burke about the wonderful places he’d been when he was on his Con Man’s Grand Tour, describing the art and architecture, the good food and beautiful women he enjoyed, but being careful never to admit to anything. Peter would write back about how close he’d been to catching him at this or that particular place. Most of the time Neal got a laugh out of Peter’s descriptions of his frustrations in chasing after him, but there was one that had hurt. It was the false trail Peter had laid with Europol that smoked him out of the Palazzo Sasso in Ravello, on the Amalfi coast. His sojourn there had been a golden moment in his life, and he became unreasonably angry when he learned that it ended unnecessarily.

Stewing, Neal didn’t write back to Peter for three months after that revelation. He ignored the agent’s letters, leaving them unopened. It wasn’t until one of the screws, Bobby, escorted him to the visitors’ room reserved for lawyers and their clients that Neal learned that Peter had become concerned by his silence.

Burke was standing by a window, the bright light haloing his head, making his features indistinguishable. Neal was suddenly reminded of one of the seraphim on the Sistine Chapel. There was something powerful and otherworldly about the man standing there, and Neal started to tremble. He sat down before he collapsed.

Peter broke the illusion when he approached the table - he became human again. A tired, slightly careworn human in an ugly tie and ill-fitting suit. The tension in Neal evaporated.

“Agent Burke! What brings you to my humble abode?” Neal hid is shock with a big, fake grin.

“Caffrey - just tell me the truth. Are you all right?” Peter approached and looked him over quite thoroughly.

“I’m fine - couldn’t be better. Why do you ask?”

“I haven’t heard from you since early March. I had a day off - so I thought I’d come and check up on you. Make sure you were okay.”

Neal was stunned. This was the last thing he ever expected. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time someone cared enough about him to check and make sure he was all right - if ever. He dropped the smile and said in all honesty, “Peter - I’m okay. Nothing’s happened to me.”

“Then why haven’t you written back?” There was no mistaking the aggravation in Peter’s tone.

“I was – well, just a little pissed off at you.”

“You were? Why?”

Neal licked his lips. “Honestly, I was angry at you for scamming me into leaving the Palazzo Sasso in ’03.” He gave a little huff of laughter. “Silly really - you were doing your job. It wasn’t personal.”

Peter got an annoyed look on his face, then just chuckled. “Can’t believe you got into a snit about that. I run you down in Venice; you jump off of the Rialto and salute me from the top of a water bus. I track you to Prague and you laugh at me while you defenestrate yourself. But I use a little smoke and mirrors to get you out of your bolt hole in Southern Italy and you get your panties in a twist.” He shook his head. “I guess I’ll never really understand you.”

Neal grinned. “What can I say - I never wanted to leave there. And to find out that I didn’t have to. Well, it hurt.”

“Just as long as you’re okay.” Burke’s faced reddened in embarrassment and he mumbled, “I was worried about you.”

Neal ducked his head, a little embarrassed as well. “Thank you, Peter. It’s nice to know that someone’s looking out for me.” It was, and for a brief moment, Neal wondered if he could use this. And immediately discarded the thought.

“You’re young, Neal. You’ll get out of here - you’ll still have your whole life in front of you.”

“Is this the other side of the ‘scared straight’ lecture?”

“No, not really. I just hate to see talent and intelligence like yours wasted.”

“What would you have me do?” Neal knew that there weren’t many paths opened to a man with a felony conviction.

“I don’t know - but we’ll figure something out.”

“We? I didn’t realize there was a ‘we’ here.”

“Would you scorn help if it was offered?”

“Depends on the help and who’s doing the offering.” Neal shrugged. He still had three years to go - the future was going to be a long time coming. This conversation was making him uncomfortable. “So, Agent Burke - how is your life going? Shouldn’t you be at home with your wife, two-point-four children and the family dog instead of checking up on a worthless felon like me?”

“You’re not worthless, Neal. Don’t ever think that.”

Neal gave Peter a mock salute. “Aye-aye, Captain America!”

“Neal, come on.”

“Okay, okay. But I noticed you didn’t answer my question. Why are you up here on Memorial Day in a suit instead of spending it with your family?”

Peter’s answer stunned him. “Don’t have one. No kids, no wife, no dog.”

Neal leaned back and looked at Peter. “I thought you were married - I’ve seen pictures of your wife.”

“You have?”

“Yeah - just as you wanted to know all about me, I needed to know all about you. She’s beautiful. A musician, right?” Neal was surprised at himself - talking about Peter’s family so casually was not the way to get on his good side. He sat up, put his hands palms down on the table and relaxed his shoulders, making his posture as submissive and non-threatening as possible.

Peter didn’t even notice. He walked over to the window and looked out onto the yard. “We’re divorced. It was final on the day of your sentencing.” Peter’s own shoulders drooped. “I went from the finest moment in my career to the worst day of my life.”

“She couldn't take you being an agent?”

“No, I could’t take her career. Elizabeth was touring non-stop.”

“Touring?” Neal was confused. He thought Elizabeth Burke was a classical guitarist.

“My ex-wife is Lizzie Bordyn - maybe you’ve heard of her?”

Of course he had - the woman was the hottest musical act on three continents. A few years ago, he was almost trampled by a mob of fans in Japan rushing to meet their idol in the Ginza.

“I had no clue, Peter.”

“Yeah, well. That’s the story of Peter Burke, schmuck.”

Now it was Neal’s turn to prop Peter up. “You’re not a schmuck.”

“Yeah, Neal - I am. I asked the woman I loved for a divorce because I hoped she’d try to fight for our marriage. Instead, she got her lawyer on the phone faster than I could say ‘sorry, never mind.’ She wanted out and I let her go.”

Neal didn’t quite know what to say - he understood heartbreak like this all too well.

Peter scrubbed at his face. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

“You’re not the only fool for love, Peter. Remember Kate?”

“How could I forget - she’s why I captured you.”

“Well, guess what? Kate has left me behind - she couldn't take the thought of being a prison widow. She was shacked up with a former compatriot before I got my orange jumpsuit.”

Peter winced. “Sorry.”

They both sat there, contemplating the wrecks of their lives.

Neal gave a small chuff of laughter. “Does sharing all this man pain mean we’re friends now?”

Peter grinned. “Yeah, I guess so - strange as it sounds. We’re friends. And friends don’t take ignore friend’s letters. I couldn't understand why you wouldn’t answer me.”

“I didn’t open them. I was too pissed off. ”

“Well, don’t let that happen again.” Peter put a bag on the table. “And by the way, happy birthday.”

“Peter?” Neal was shocked.

“I’ve already cleared it through the warden. Open it.”

Neal reached inside the brown Trader Joe’s bag and pulled out a box of pastels and one of charcoals, plus two pads of good quality drawing paper.

Peter stuck his hands in his pockets and said diffidently, “I thought you’d like these - I couldn't bring pencils or anything that would have to be sharpened.”

To say he was touched was an understatement. “Thank you, Peter. Thank you very much.” But he didn’t tell Peter that the date of birth in his records wasn’t real - that wasn’t important.

Peter watched him with an odd intensity, and finally got up. “I have to go.” But he seemed reluctant to leave.

Neal stood up and completely against prison protocol, he held out his hand. Peter took it briefly before the guard intervened.

“Take care of yourself, Neal. Stay safe.”

“You too, Peter.” He watched as the guard buzzed Peter out, following him with his eyes until he passed through the security gate and was out of sight.

Their correspondence became more frequent. Letters went back and forth two and three times a week - mostly about inconsequentialities, but sometimes they were deeply personal. Peter wrote about the humiliation he felt when he saw his ex-wife and she wanted to pay him alimony. Neal told him about his first night in prison, how scared he’d been.

Peter wasn’t a regular visitor, but he did make it a point of seeing Neal on Christmas Day, the weekends closest to his birthday of record and at least one or two Federal holidays a year.

As the end of his sentence approached, Peter brought him all sorts of literature. College applications, commercial art programs, teaching programs (with the note that he’d vouch for his character) and one for becoming a professional art therapist. Neal thanked him, promised to look them over and tossed them out before he got back to his cell.

Neal knew that this wasn’t the path his life was going to take. He wasn’t going to end up in some Midwestern high school, explaining color theory to a bunch of freaks and geeks and jocks.

No, he had other plans.

On his release date – a cold, clear and windy October day - they handed him back most of the clothes he went inside with: a pair of dress pants and shoes. His shirt and jacket were missing, which annoyed him. He had liked the suit - it was made for him in Hong Kong. But there was nothing he could do about that now. They gave him a plain white t-shirt and a black peacoat. Neal felt like a sailor on shore leave. All he needed was a black watch cap to complete the outfit.

Peter was supposed to have picked him up, but he sent a message saying that he was out of town on an important case, and he was sorry. There was a typical Peter comment that Neal could stay the extra day or two if he really wanted to wait for Peter to come get him. Otherwise, they’d get together as soon as he got back.

Neal was disappointed, but not fatally. This would give him a few days to put some plans in action.

One of the older cons on his cell block, a clever grifter named Ford, told him about an old friend who had a house on the outer edge of the Upper West Side. She might be willing to help him out. Neal went and introduced himself, turned on the charm and found himself a patron, so to speak. June was lovely, smart and completely unmoved by Neal’s smile. And yet, on the strength of Neal’s association with Ford and a shared love of the classics, she gave him a room and a closet full of her late husband’s custom made suits.

As Neal settled in, he wondered what Peter would make of all this. He was certain his friend would have a few choice words about conning little old ladies and getting something for nothing. It had surprised Neal to find out that Peter was a lapsed Catholic, because the man seemed to epitomize the Calvinist work ethic.

He just sent Peter a message: I’m out and have a place to stay, you good?

Peter replied within the hour: Home now. Sorry I couldn’t be there to pick you up. Lunch on Friday to make it up to you – how does The Four Seasons sound? (You know I'm just kidding, right?) BTW - What are you going to do for the rest of your life?

Neal didn’t bother to reply.

Instead, he took the subway downtown, to the FBI offices, connived his way past the guards and took the elevator up to the twenty-first floor. He checked himself in the security mirror. He had to say that he looked good and no one would realize just how nervous he was.

Neal got out, went to the guard at the door, said he was here to see Agent Peter Burke, and no, he didn’t have an appointment.

They made him wait just outside the office bullpen, but Neal saw that Peter had his own office up a small flight of stairs. He shoved his hands in his pockets, held his shoulders back, his chin up and smiled as Peter came down the stairs to greet him.

“Neal - what in the world are you doing here?”

“I’m out and I want to work for you. Could you use a CI?”

---

2016

Elizabeth Burke made sure her guitar was tuned and set it on the stand at her mike on the stage. She wouldn’t dream of allowing a roadie to touch any of her instruments. This concert was the last one of a two-year sold-out worldwide tour, and she was both relieved and a little melancholy. Touring was grueling business - especially for a female rocker. The music business wasn’t what it used to be and touring was the only sure-fire way to make money. It put cash into her pocket and drove album sales. And unless her music made money, she’d be cut by her studio in an instant. There were a dozen acts just waiting for her to stumble, “artists” who were autotuned and prerecorded – little more than dressed up dolls with big tits and little talent who’d take her place on the charts in a heartbeat.

If she didn’t love the music – even the hard work of performing - so much, Elizabeth would have given up long ago and settled into a quiet suburban life. She probably should have. The music business cost her everything that once mattered; her husband, any right to a family, and almost all of her friends. The music was all she had left.

At least by recording under the name “Lizzie Bordyn,” and keeping away from her old life as a Julliard-trained classical guitarist, she was able to keep the hounds away from those who were close to her - including her ex. They maintained a cordial, if distant relationship - which was just what Peter wanted.

As she walked the length and breadth of the stage, checking the placement of mikes and booms, she thanked all the powers that be that her ex never knew how much she still cared for him. It would have been far too humiliating.

Not that Peter would have ever done a kiss-and-tell on her. He was a senior FBI agent and well schooled in the need for discretion. Their marriage just couldn’t withstand the long separations, the rigors of the tour, the demands of her sexually provocative concert persona. They had tried to brush off the wild speculations about her sex life, the constant rumors that always circulated about drug use on and off the tour, but it just was too much. When Peter asked for a divorce, she agreed.

He never asked her to give it up. Not once. Peter just looked at her with that grave and beautiful face and said that he didn’t want to be married anymore. He needed more than she could give him. He was right. Not that it was what she wanted, but it made sense and she couldn’t find a way to balance what she was and what he needed.

The divorce papers came the same day her first single went platinum. The best day of her life and the worst. But she was a survivor, and took the remnants of her pride and made a new life for herself.

Except that it was an empty shell of a life; a collage of endless years of living out of hotel rooms, surrounded by an ever-changing cadre of body guards, meaningless relationships with men who wanted her fame and not much else, fighting off the press, grabbing what little privacy she had. Sometimes she wished she had the strength to tell Peter that she’d give it all up for him; he didn’t even have to ask her to make a choice.

Elizabeth went backstage and began the process of become Lizzie Bordyn. Leather pants cut low enough to show off her tramp stamp – a pair of axes and a guitar, a leather vest that displayed her cleavage and her navel, the dog collar with a hamsa that her manager, Mozzie said would differentiate her from the masses of Madonna and Gaga wanna-bes. Her makeup was a cross between Goth and glam and her long dark hair hung loose.

She knew she looked good - she worked hard at it. But after tonight, after this last performance, she was done.

Maybe she’d be able to rebuild what she’d lost, maybe find a way back to the life she should have had. Or maybe find something completely different.

A knock on her door interrupted the reverie. It was Mozzie, carrying a massive display of long-stemmed white roses. The little man staggered into the room and all but dropped them onto a small table.

“Who are they from?” She was a little shocked - white roses were her favorite.

“What do I look like, the Amazing Kreskin?” Moz had a sharp tongue and a low threshold for stupidity. He was also incredibly paranoid and infinitely creative.

“Moz - come on. You check everything before it’s brought in.”

He grimaced at her and wiped his glasses, then pulled a small envelope out of his pocket. “I didn’t want to give you this before you went on.”

She took the card and was surprised how her hands shook. It was from Peter - she recognized the bold, slashing strokes of his handwriting. She read the card and smiled.

Free tomorrow? Meet you at Café Strezza @ 1? Good luck tonight, hon. Knock ‘em dead.

Hon.

Maybe everything wasn’t lost, after all.

To Be Continued