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elrhiarhodanTitle: Paris in His Mind
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke (P/E/N)
Fandom: White Collar
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~1000
Summary: There is a perfect place in Neal’s heart called “Paris”. Written for Day Eight of the Eight Days of Fic-can-ukah, forpenguingal. Her prompt was “There Is A Place Called Paris.”
______________________
Neal had tried not to think about other places when he was locked up. He was wise enough to know that it only made things worse. Of course, he couldn’t control his subconscious, and there were way too many nights when he woke in tears after a particularly vivid dream. The Amalfi Coast was always a featured destination in the Land of Nod.
But as time ran down on his sentence, Neal’s waking discipline began to crack. Six months left and he was incessantly thinking about where he’d go with Kate. They’d have to stop in Zurich first, since that was where most of his stash was. But from there, they had the whole world to choose from.
Given her fondness for the classics, Neal wondered if she’d prefer Florence or Rome after they finished in Switzerland. He made endless plans and arrangements in his head. Moz would get them fresh identities, clean passports and they’d never look back.
Of course, those plans were never kept and the closest Neal was going to get to Switzerland for the next four years was the cheese counter at Balducci’s.
His two-mile radius was livable – he had the Met and the Frick and the Guggenheim. If Peter was feeling generous and in an art-y mood, he could go to the Cloisters, the Powell, the Channing and the Rubin. And of course, he could have as much of Rome and Florence as he could imagine.
As much as he loved Rome and Florence and the Amalfi coast, there was one place that he could never stop dreaming of.
Paris.
In prison, he longed for Paris the way a child longs for a lost toy, with endless heartbreak. Paris haunted him like a bitter old ghost during his waking hours and through so many nights.
The longing eased a little after he made his deal. The apartment at June’s, in that beautiful Beaux Arts mansion, was a clever facsimile of a place he had once stayed at in the Marais, and it was enough to settle him in those early days when Kate was just out of his reach. But it wasn’t enough to contain that longing after his dreams became so much oily smoke and raining drops of fire.
He might have told Sara that his stay in the Palazzo Sasso in Ravello, was the most perfect time in his life, his paradise. But the truth was, if he settled down and called a city home, it would be Paris, with its Art Nouveau subway entrances, cathedrals and palaces filled with art, the sheer beauty of living in a city which breathed culture.
In his mind, Neal never saw the graffiti that despoiled the architecture, or the Brutalist high rises that blocked the perfect golden light. He never remembered the beggars and scam artists who robbed tourists as easily as they breathed. He didn’t see the souvenir vendors pushing their cheap wares at the endless lines of tourists. He didn’t remember the heat and the stink and the casual cruelty of Paris in August, when families left their elderly to die in unventilated, un-air conditioned apartments.
Paris in his memory was perfect; it was the home of his soul. Or so he thought for the longest time.
One night, sometime towards the end of his four year, close enough to the end of his sentence he could taste it; he was sitting with Peter and Elizabeth in the house in Brooklyn, Satchmo at his feet. It was a Friday in late spring and nice enough that the front windows and the back door were open. A breeze drifted through the living room, carrying evening birdsong along with the laughter of the foot traffic along DeKalb.
El smiled at him as she filled his glass with the last of the Malbec they had with dinner and handed Peter a fresh bottle of cold beer before she retreated to the couch to let them work in relative privacy. He tossed out a few ideas about a new case, suggesting some connections to a file from the cold case box, Peter ran with it and it seemed like he just blinked and it was ten to midnight.
Elizabeth had gone up hours ago. Satchmo was bedded down. Peter yawned expansively and asked “Wanna spend the night? It’ll take ages for a cab.”
Neal stood up and stretched. “Yeah – thanks, I think I will.” They’d been lovers, on and off for the last year. Although there was something so inevitable, so right about the three of them coming together – there was never a demand for true commitment.
Peter and Elizabeth knew that when his sentence was done, he’d be gone. They accepted that and never pressured him for anything more.
As he was getting ready for bed, doing the usual things one does, regardless of where the bed is, a strange feeling stole over Neal. It something stirred in him, something unfamiliar, something earthshaking.
It was peace, and her sisters – contentment and happiness.
Years ago, when Neal had told Mozzie that there were things about this life that he wasn’t ready to give up yet, he never meant that he wasn’t ever going to give them up. He just wanted to be able to have them for a time, to be able to come back to them.
Them was not some random collection of people and places, them was Peter and Elizabeth. Running would have taken that away forever.
He knew now that he was wrong about what he told Moz – he would never be ready to give this life up.
Peter came into the bathroom, wearing nothing more than a pair of worn boxers, fit only for sleeping. He casually pressed a kiss on his shoulder and nudged him away from the sink.
Neal just stood there. There may be a place called Paris with all its attendant glories, but it would never be home.
Home was a place you come back to, where you were safe and could rest without worry. Home was the place you make with people you love.
Peter nudged him again. “You coming to bed?”
Fin
Author:
elrhiarhodanRating: PG
Characters/Pairing: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke (P/E/N)
Fandom: White Collar
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~1000
Summary: There is a perfect place in Neal’s heart called “Paris”. Written for Day Eight of the Eight Days of Fic-can-ukah, for
penguingal. Her prompt was “There Is A Place Called Paris.” Neal had tried not to think about other places when he was locked up. He was wise enough to know that it only made things worse. Of course, he couldn’t control his subconscious, and there were way too many nights when he woke in tears after a particularly vivid dream. The Amalfi Coast was always a featured destination in the Land of Nod.
But as time ran down on his sentence, Neal’s waking discipline began to crack. Six months left and he was incessantly thinking about where he’d go with Kate. They’d have to stop in Zurich first, since that was where most of his stash was. But from there, they had the whole world to choose from.
Given her fondness for the classics, Neal wondered if she’d prefer Florence or Rome after they finished in Switzerland. He made endless plans and arrangements in his head. Moz would get them fresh identities, clean passports and they’d never look back.
Of course, those plans were never kept and the closest Neal was going to get to Switzerland for the next four years was the cheese counter at Balducci’s.
His two-mile radius was livable – he had the Met and the Frick and the Guggenheim. If Peter was feeling generous and in an art-y mood, he could go to the Cloisters, the Powell, the Channing and the Rubin. And of course, he could have as much of Rome and Florence as he could imagine.
As much as he loved Rome and Florence and the Amalfi coast, there was one place that he could never stop dreaming of.
Paris.
In prison, he longed for Paris the way a child longs for a lost toy, with endless heartbreak. Paris haunted him like a bitter old ghost during his waking hours and through so many nights.
The longing eased a little after he made his deal. The apartment at June’s, in that beautiful Beaux Arts mansion, was a clever facsimile of a place he had once stayed at in the Marais, and it was enough to settle him in those early days when Kate was just out of his reach. But it wasn’t enough to contain that longing after his dreams became so much oily smoke and raining drops of fire.
He might have told Sara that his stay in the Palazzo Sasso in Ravello, was the most perfect time in his life, his paradise. But the truth was, if he settled down and called a city home, it would be Paris, with its Art Nouveau subway entrances, cathedrals and palaces filled with art, the sheer beauty of living in a city which breathed culture.
In his mind, Neal never saw the graffiti that despoiled the architecture, or the Brutalist high rises that blocked the perfect golden light. He never remembered the beggars and scam artists who robbed tourists as easily as they breathed. He didn’t see the souvenir vendors pushing their cheap wares at the endless lines of tourists. He didn’t remember the heat and the stink and the casual cruelty of Paris in August, when families left their elderly to die in unventilated, un-air conditioned apartments.
Paris in his memory was perfect; it was the home of his soul. Or so he thought for the longest time.
One night, sometime towards the end of his four year, close enough to the end of his sentence he could taste it; he was sitting with Peter and Elizabeth in the house in Brooklyn, Satchmo at his feet. It was a Friday in late spring and nice enough that the front windows and the back door were open. A breeze drifted through the living room, carrying evening birdsong along with the laughter of the foot traffic along DeKalb.
El smiled at him as she filled his glass with the last of the Malbec they had with dinner and handed Peter a fresh bottle of cold beer before she retreated to the couch to let them work in relative privacy. He tossed out a few ideas about a new case, suggesting some connections to a file from the cold case box, Peter ran with it and it seemed like he just blinked and it was ten to midnight.
Elizabeth had gone up hours ago. Satchmo was bedded down. Peter yawned expansively and asked “Wanna spend the night? It’ll take ages for a cab.”
Neal stood up and stretched. “Yeah – thanks, I think I will.” They’d been lovers, on and off for the last year. Although there was something so inevitable, so right about the three of them coming together – there was never a demand for true commitment.
Peter and Elizabeth knew that when his sentence was done, he’d be gone. They accepted that and never pressured him for anything more.
As he was getting ready for bed, doing the usual things one does, regardless of where the bed is, a strange feeling stole over Neal. It something stirred in him, something unfamiliar, something earthshaking.
It was peace, and her sisters – contentment and happiness.
Years ago, when Neal had told Mozzie that there were things about this life that he wasn’t ready to give up yet, he never meant that he wasn’t ever going to give them up. He just wanted to be able to have them for a time, to be able to come back to them.
Them was not some random collection of people and places, them was Peter and Elizabeth. Running would have taken that away forever.
He knew now that he was wrong about what he told Moz – he would never be ready to give this life up.
Peter came into the bathroom, wearing nothing more than a pair of worn boxers, fit only for sleeping. He casually pressed a kiss on his shoulder and nudged him away from the sink.
Neal just stood there. There may be a place called Paris with all its attendant glories, but it would never be home.
Home was a place you come back to, where you were safe and could rest without worry. Home was the place you make with people you love.
Peter nudged him again. “You coming to bed?”
