elrhiarhodan

Title: I Have Missed Your Sighs
Author:  elrhiarhodan
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing:Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Neal Caffrey, Mozzie. Peter/Neal/Elizabeth
Fandom:  White Collar
Spoilers: 3.04 - Dentist of Detroit, 3.07 - Taking Account, 3.10 - Countdown 
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Slightly angsty crack. Or is that slightly cracky angst?
Word Count: ~3800
Summary: Future fic, but not the Vinegar Hill continuum. Moz and Neal have had a falling out, and Peter wants to heal the breach. Something goes very, very wrong. For my Hurt/Comfort Bingo Card - Abandonment Issues.

Beta credit: The superiorly awesome rabidchild67.

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Peter knew he should have tried to call Mozzie first before coming over. Hunting down a professional paranoid was never a good idea. It was a little less than a year since he and Neal had become lovers, since he and Neal and Elizabeth became a family. Something which Mozzie seemed to disapprove of entirely.

It started when Neal joined the Bureau as an analyst after his anklet came off and they were both free of the legal obligations that had once bound them and kept them apart. Mozzie was furious. Neal hadn’t said anything, but the number of times that Moz gave him dirty looks or stormed out of Neal’s apartment when he showed up was a big clue. Then Moz was never there at all.

He had tried to be subtle. He would ask Neal how Mozzie was doing; and Neal would shrug and look away instead of answering. It hurt to see the pain in Neal’s eyes. Peter asked June, too. He knew that the two of them were as thick as thieves. But she had no answers either. June didn’t tell him that Moz was a regular most Thursday nights and Monday afternoons. What she did with her free time and in her own bedroom was none of Peter’s business. If Mozzie wanted to avoid Peter, that was his prerogative.

Peter was hurt, too. Not only for Neal, but for his own sake. Moz had been as much a part of his life for the last four years as Neal had. He liked the man’s quirks, he liked sparring with him, he liked his cunning, his sense of honor and fair play. Very simply, Moz was smart, and he liked smart.

He really should have called Moz first, but the number he once had was long out of service.

Peter wanted to make things right between them, or at least try to heal the breach between Moz and Neal. Among other things, he hoped that Moz wasn’t jealous. Peter had believed Neal when he said that they’d been over as a couple for years, but it could be possible that Moz was still carrying a torch.

He really didn’t know what he was going to say to the little guy. Maybe reassure him that he had no intention of keeping Neal away, and that he trusted Neal to do the right thing. They were friends and now lovers, and certainly a family – but there was always going to be room at the table for Moz.

When Peter wanted to fix things, to make them right, he didn’t want to wait six months to do so. On a Thursday night, a rare one without Neal in the house, Peter decided to tap his final resource, his wife.

“Hon.”

Elizabeth was folding clothes and looked up, smiling. “What?”

He kissed her. “Just felt like saying ‘hon’ and seeing your smile.”

She passed him some towels, which he started folding. “And I like seeing yours.”

They worked in companionable silence.

“Hon?”

“Hmmm, yes?”

“I need to find Mozzie.”

El looked back at him, this time she wasn’t smiling. “Why?”

“I need to fix this. To make things right. I don’t like the idea that we’re the reason he’s cut Neal out of his life.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t think that the problem with him and Neal is something you can solve.”

“But maybe if I tell him we want him as our friend, too. This doesn’t feel right.” Peter hadn’t forgotten the role Moz had played in El’s kidnapping - both before and after.

“Moz - he has issues, hon. I think he’d rather cut Neal off than risk having Neal leave him behind. It’s not easy to change those feelings.”

“I know, I know. But I still have to try - you understand?”

“I do - because you’re Peter Burke, mensch.”

After much consideration and extracting promises about not intimidating or otherwise threatening Mozzie, El told Peter that he’d moved back into Tuesday, and could be found there on most Sunday mornings.

So, on Sunday morning, leaving a warm bed filled with Neal and Elizabeth, Peter went on a Mozzie hunt. And as Elizabeth had promised, Moz was back at the safe house known as Tuesday. Following the sounds of Edith Piaf mournfully singing of lost love, he made his way through the Zen garden with its ancient bonsai, past the dojo and into a lab filled with bizarre equipment whose purpose he could only guess at. Moz was humming about a life in rose colored glasses and tinkering with something that looked like a ray gun from a 1950’s science fiction movie, attached to an oscilloscope that was clearly Soviet-era surplus.

Peter’s chuckle must have startled Moz, which was always a bad idea. The next thing he knew, he was engulfed in a bright purple ray

---

Neal wasn’t surprised at Peter’s early morning departure, he usually did a bagel and Sunday New York Times run. What did surprise him was Elizabeth, who started breakfast without waiting for the ritual bagels and newspaper. Neal asked why.

“Oh, Peter had some errands this morning.” She waved her hands in the air, as if that explained everything.

“What type of errands?” Neal wasn’t happy about being left behind. Peter always took him on errands. That was what partners did – they fetched and carried and pushed the cart. Neal had learned to love places like Home Depot and Lowe’s and even the really funky old hardware stores. He found he liked tools – and why not? Band-saws were just as much fun as borescopes.

“Oh, just … errands.”

Neal stared at Elizabeth, not liking her vagueness one bit.

She didn’t seem to notice his annoyance, or she was doing a very good job of pretending not to notice. She brushed past Neal, kissed him on the corner of his mouth and asked if he’d like eggs for breakfast.

Neal wanted to pout. He didn’t want eggs, he wanted bagels and the Times and Peter and maybe a domestic project or two. Maybe something with copper pipes and brazing. He could get into that. Or putting up shelves. Peter had very patiently taught him how to use a level and the plumb-bob and the stud finder. It was just math, and he was good at math.

When it became clear that Peter wasn’t going to show up with either bagels or newspaper, he allowed Elizabeth to make him some eggs, which she burned. Neal ate them anyway (gagging only slightly). He didn’t allow her to make him coffee though. He wasn’t that good an actor. By ten, Peter still wasn’t home and he helped Elizabeth with the breakfast dishes, then went for a run with Satchmo, hoping that Peter would be home when he got back. He wasn’t.

El kissed him and took herself off for a planning meeting with her latest society bridezilla. She was vague about when Peter would be back, but was happy to accept his offer to cook dinner.

Neal looked through the Burkes’ fridge and pantry and quickly decided to go shopping. Halfway to the market, his cellphone rang. He was so startled by the caller that he nearly crashed.

“Moz?” It had been at least four months since he’d heard from him - all of his calls had gone unreturned.

“You’d better come over to Tuesday. There’s been an accident.”

“Are you okay?”

“Not me, it’s your Suit.”

Neal’s heart stopped. “Peter - what’s happened?” An awful thought occurred. “What did you do to him, Moz?”

“Just get here as soon as you can.”

---

Neal floored it - thankful that the traffic into Manhattan was light. But still, the trip was an agonizingly long twenty minutes. He parked next to Peter’s Taurus and ran to the back of the old warehouse. The elevator creaked as it ground to a halt on the second floor.

He burst into the main room. It was empty. “Moz? Where are you? What’s going on?”

“Back here, Neal.”

Heart racing, Neal followed the sound of Moz’s voice, deep into the room he called “the Lab,” and ground to a halt.

He didn’t know what to expect. Peter hurt, bleeding and unconscious. Or maybe tied up and angry. A dozen different scenarios ran through his mind as he pushed open the door. What he did not expect to find was his friend, lover and partner sitting on the floor, playing with wooden blocks and Legos.

More importantly, he did not expect to find the normally 6’3”, 51 year old Peter Burke sitting on the floor, dressed in tiny blue jeans, a tiny Yankees t-shirt and a pair of sneakers that randomly lit up. He looked about three years old.

Neal stood there, shocked speechless. “Neal! You’re here, come pway wif me.”

Neal turned to Moz. “What the hell happened?”

“Watch your language.” Moz cautioned him.

Little Peter hauled himself up on two chubby legs and made a beeline for Neal, clinging to him like a limpet. “Neal, I want you to pway bwocks wif me NOW!” Despite his cuteness, this tiny boy was as imperious as the grown up Peter Burke,

Neal, paralyzed and vaguely terrified of this small version of the man he respected and adored, snaped, “In a minute.” His voice was unaccountably sharp, Peter’s lower lip began to tremble and two big fat tears rolled down his cheeks.

Neal, who hated crying children the way grown-up Peter hated crying women, surrendered without another word. He looked at Moz, who just shrugged, and doffed his hat and jacket. He squatted down next to the little boy and picked up a few wooden blocks. The little boy’s tears magically disappeared and he gave Neal a smile filled with brilliance and baby teeth.

“What are we making?”

“A castle, siwwy.”

“Ahh" Neal didn’t know what else to say.

They stacked the blocks and the walls went up quickly. Peter put a small figure on one of them. “This is the pwincess.”

He just had to ask. “And what is the princess’ name?”

Peter looked at him like he was the three year old. “She’s my pwincess. Ewizabef.”

Neal was surprised by how much the toy looked like Elizabeth - it had a cap of dark hair and blue eyes. “And are you going to rescue Princess Ewizabef? Elizabeth?.”

“No - the Pwincess wescues me.”

Neal grinned. Peter took another figure, this one with freckles and brown hair and dropped it from a great height. Or at least as much of a great height as a small boy could achieve. Part of the castle broke off. Peter picked up the blocks and thrust them at Neal. “Fix it!”

“Excuse me, little FBI agent, but manners?”

The little boy bit his lip and looked up at Neal from rather outrageously long eyelashes. “Sowwy. Pwease fix?”

Neal sighed. It seemed that he couldn't resist Peter, young or old, and snapped the blocks back into place.

Moz had wandered off while they were playing, but now was back. “I think it’s time for someone to have a snack.”

Neal looked up, hungry, but realized that the juice box, dish of apple sauce and container of yogurt were not for him.

Peter got up and ran over to Mozzie, who lifted him onto his lap. Neal could not believe how competent Moz was at feeding a small, squirming child.

“Do I want to know why you have children’s toys and clothes here? ”

“I’ve been collecting stuff to send to Mr. Jeffries.”

“And the juice box?”

Moz shrugged. “Emergency supplies. I don’t think I can live on Barolo and Pinot Noir when civilization finally collapses.”

Peter finished and very nicely thanked Moz. He went to Neal, gave him a hug and tugged him back to the toys. Neal looked at Moz, who just smiled. He resigned himself to waiting a little longer for an explanation for why Peter Burke was now a toddler.

They played with the blocks, building and tearing down the castle over and over again to the point where Neal wanted to throw a tantrum. But someone beat him to it. He was building according to Peter’s dictates when the small boy pulled a block out of Neal’s hand and threw it at his head. Peter started screaming “No, no, no – the wed bwok doesn’t go there.” Neal pressed his fingers to the spot where the block hit him, and was surprised that it had drawn blood. He sat there, appalled at both the wound and the little boy’s behavior.

Thankfully, Moz intervened. He scooped up the screaming toddler, held him so that he’d avoid the worst damage from the flailing hands and feet and started rocking him, all the while crooning, “Who’s such a tired little FBI agent and needs a nap in the big-boy bed? Who’s so tie-tie?”

Eventually, the very tired and very cranky little FBI agent calmed down and his eyelids began to droop. Mozzie rocked him a little more. To Neal’s complete and utter amusement, Peter’s little thumb made its way into his mouth and he sucked as he fell into an exhausted sleep.

Neal followed Moz into the bedroom, where he efficiently stripped Peter and tucked him under the covers.

They stood over the bed where little Agent Peter Burke slept and Neal again asked, “What the hell happened?” And again, Mozzie shushed him when the boy stirred restlessly. “I don’t want to have to tell you one more time, watch your language.” He pulled Neal out of the bedroom. “I was here in the Lab and your pet Fed surprised me - so I sort of accidentally zapped him with a rejuvenating ray.”

Of all the things Neal ever expected to hear out of his friend’s mouth, that was probably the last on the list; but he had to ask, he had to know, “Why are you working on a rejuvenating ray?”

Moz gave him the Look – the one reserved for the stupid questions. But Neal wasn’t buying that brand of cheese today. He tapped his foot, waiting for an answer. Mozzie sighed and relented. “Not working on it. Recalibrating it. Look, sometimes I like to be young again, I like having hair and a little more vim and vigor – I was adjusting the setting on the machine and Peter startled me. I didn’t mean to shoot him.”

Neal found a chair and dropped into it, and then dropped his face into his palms. “How am I going to tell Elizabeth that her husband of fifteen years is now a three year old with bad socialization skills?”

Moz said “Don’t worry about it – the ray will wear off in about three hours, give or take -- a few hours.” Neal didn’t like the sound of that last bit, or the little wavering hand gesture that accompanied it.

“How can you be certain?”

Mozzie chortled and said, “Experience – I’ve been using the ray for almost as long as I’ve known you…you don’t think those were ALL wigs now, did you?”

Neal sighed and shook his head. This wasn’t the way he ever expected to spend his Sunday. Then something occurred to him. “If you knew the ray was going to wear off, why did you call me?”

Moz pulled off his glasses and started wiping them needlessly. He blinked and put them back on, but wouldn’t look directly at Neal.

“Moz?”

“I’ve … missed you. I guess I just wanted an excuse to see you. That’s all.”

Neal blinked against the sudden tears. “I’ve missed you too. It’s been difficult without you.”

Moz didn’t say anything for a few moments. “I still don’t approve of your relationship with the Suits.”

“Moz - it’s not Stockholm Syndrome. I’m not Patty Hearst.”

“It’s not that. Look - I know you made a choice to stay when we could have run with the treasure. I understood it then - you had that thing on.” Moz pointed somewhere in the vicinity of his left ankle. “You had obligations.”

“I also had a life I liked, one I wasn’t ready to give up.”

“And now that your choke chain is off, you still aren’t ready to give it up.”

“Moz, don’t you get it? It’s not just the FBI, not just being able to run with the big dogs. I love them.”

“Neal, these things never work out. You’re a fool and a hopeless romantic if you think it won’t end in tears. Guys like us...”

“No, Moz. Don’t say it. We’re all entitled to love. Whoever we are, whatever we’ve done. We’re just as entitled to love and happiness and security as the righteous, stand-up Suits you claim to despise.”

Moz didn’t say anything, and he refused to look at him. Suddenly, after all the years of their friendship, the scales fell away from his eyes. He understood.

“This isn’t like when you were twelve and had your hopes of a family and a normal life dashed away.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Moz - I know why you are afraid. I understand.”

His friend didn’t say anything, but he took his glasses off and started to clean them again. Neal looked closely, Moz’s eyes were wet and shining. “I won’t abandon you, Moz. You are my friend - my oldest, truest friend.”

Moz put his glasses back on. “But you’re with them now. They have different priorities than us.” He licked his lips and corrected himself. “Than what we used to have. You’ve changed.”

“Things do not change. We change.”

“Don’t quote Thoreau to me.”

“Then how about Maugham? ‘Nothing in the world is permanent, and we're foolish when we ask anything to last, but surely we're still more foolish not to take delight in it while we have it.’ Moz, I love them. They love me. We make each other happy. ”

“So you realize it’s not going to last? Nothing does.”

Neal shook his head. “Death ends everything. There is an end, always.”

Moz got up and left Neal sitting in the Lab. He came back with a bottle of Shiraz and some first aid supplies.

The cut from the wooden block was surprisingly deep. Moz cleaned away the dried blood with hydrogen peroxide and Neal hissed in pain.

“Stop flinching.” Moz blew on the wound to ease the stinging.

“You’re very good at this.”

“I’m very good at a lot of things.”

“I mean the whole childcare thing - you handled Peter like a pro. You dressed him, fed him, soothed him like you’ve done it a thousand times before.”

Moz put a small bandage over the wound. “Try to keep that covered for a day or two, you don’t want it to get infected.”

“Moz?”

His friend put away the first aid supplies and opened the wine. “At the orphanage, I’d help Mr. Jeffries with the really little ones. Those are skills you never really forget.”

Neal took a sip and smiled. “I had wondered where that one went.” Trust Moz to have filched only the best bottles.

“We’ve got a while until the ray wears off. Hopefully, Peter will stay asleep until that happens.”

“There aren’t going to be any side effects?”

Mozzie looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“Okay - so you’ve been using the ray for years. But have you ever turned yourself into a toddler?”

Moz had the grace to look sheepish. “Remember when we ran the Rizzoli job?”

Neal grimaced. “How could I forget. We lost out on the Duc d’Orleans’ collection of seventeenth century erotica. It was a two man job and you disappeared.”

“Yeah - well, I didn’t precisely disappear. A moth had gotten into the refracting chamber and I accidentally turned myself into a four year old. I hated being four years old.”

“And that was the only time?” Neal was skeptical. Now that he thought about it, Moz had a way of just going off the grid.

“Well, there was the time I make myself seven. And nine. And do you see any long-term effects on me?” Moz held out his arms.

“You really want an answer to that?”

Moz grimaced.

They sat there in very companionable silence.

“So, we’re good?” Neal asked, the question straining with hope.

Moz gave him a considering look. “I don’t know if I can ever approve of this relationship. But maybe it’s because I’m just envious. You’ve been kicked around by life, maybe worse than I have. But you’ve never given up hope. And it looks like that hope’s been rewarded.”

“It’s not too late for you. It’s never too late.”

Moz shrugged. “I heard from Sally a while back. She was looking to upgrade her physical security.”

“Call her, Moz. There’s no reason why you have to be alone.”

They chatted - catching up on the months they’d been apart. Moz didn’t want to know the exact details of his relationship with the Suits, but it was good that Neal was happy. Of course, he didn’t say anything about his arrangement with June. It suited him for Neal to think he really was all alone.

True to his word, about three hours later, Peter emerged from the bedroom, naked but for a towel wrapped around his waist, a puzzled look in his still sleepy eyes, and a small Lego figurine in his hand. “Will someone please tell me what happened to me, and why I was clutching this when I woke up?”

Mozzie didn’t explain what happened - he just said it was best that they never talk about this again. Peter found his clothes, dressed and left with Neal, who knew that Peter wouldn’t let it rest. “I’ll tell you everything once we get home. You’ll probably need at least a six-pack before you believe me.”

FIN

Author’s Note: This story is based on a series of sentences I wrote for Sentence Fest back in April for one of the cracky prompts. I was surprised how angsty it became once I fleshed it out. Title from Carbon Leaf’s Desperation Song.