elrhiarhodan

Title: Travel Well and Come Home Safe
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Peter/Elizabeth/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~7400
Beta Credit: miri_thompson, theatregirl7299
Summary: During his years in prison, his time on the anklet, Neal dreams of travel. He’s a free man now and when the opportunity to consult with the Los Angeles field office comes up, he doesn’t hesitate to accept. Getting to LA isn’t a problem, it’s getting back to New York that the issue.

A/N: Written for the Second Annual Caffrey-Burke Day, in celebration of the fourth anniversary of the airing the White Collar Pilot, otherwise known as “Snow White and Her Seven Little Men.”

__________________



John F. Kennedy International Airport

During his four years in prison, Neal dreamed of traveling the world: flying away at a moment’s notice, Kate at his side, Mozzie carrying the bags. They would go to London and Paris and Rome and Venice. As the years progressed, those dreams took him further afield, to the gaming palaces in Macau and Hong Kong, the glittering spires of Singapore, the pink sand beaches of the Maldives.

When he made his deal with Peter and the FBI, he tried not to think about travel, at least not until he was sure he could get out of the anklet, find Kate and get away clean. Randomly dreaming about travel was pointless. After all, he had a two-mile radius, which equaled twelve and a half square miles, certainly an upgrade from his five by eight foot cell in Sing-Sing.

And yet, it didn’t take long for Neal to feel the pinch of that two mile radius. Too many things were off limits. Places like museums and galleries and storage units. It took less than six months for Neal to begin dreaming of going just as far New Jersey. Alone, without an FBI guard dog. Not that he really wanted to go to New Jersey, except that there were plentiful fresh tomatoes, peaches and corn, not to mention the storage unit in Netcong that held some of his stash …

Four years, plus untold dreams of transit later (and Neal didn’t count that six-week round trip to Cape Verde and back), he was finally free of his tracking anklet, finally free of his two mile radius. Finally free to see the world without worrying that the FBI or Interpol or the Marshals were going to find him and drag him back to a prison cell for the rest of his life. He could travel and use his own name, not one of the many aliases that Peter never knew about.

But he didn’t leave. He couldn’t leave. He was chained to New York far more thoroughly than any tracking anklet could ever bind him. He loved and was loved in return.

While Neal kept his apartment in June’s mansion, home was really a Cobble Hill townhouse, complete with one bathroom, an aging Labrador who spent most of his life sleeping and farting, and a third floor studio that had excellent light. But even better than the light or the Lab, this was this lovers’ home, and spending his night between Peter and Elizabeth, wrapped in sheets from Target was infinitely better than sleeping alone on Italian linens in some luxurious hotel on the Mediterranean Sea.

He has no regrets about abandoning those long-held dreams of travel. Peter and Elizabeth were his whole world, and Neal knew down to his DNA that no matter how far he traveled, they were his home, his heart, his soul.

So he stayed and went into business, doing what he knew best. Not lying or stealing or forging, but helping people. Helping them figure out how not to be cheated, and becoming something of a professional fixer. The work was almost as satisfying as what he did with Peter, but paid a hell of a lot better. And since he was no longer tethered to the FBI, he could be choosy about his clients.

Neal didn’t need to advertise; he didn’t chase ambulances, or hang out on the courthouse steps. He was not a lawyer, after all; just a man with a stack of business cards and a disarming smile, a man who knew how to help people out of a jam.

All legally, of course. Except for the parts that needed a little creative intervention. For those, he called on Moz (who only pretended to be reluctant). Or June, who delighted in providing all the high-quality, no-so-legal assistance that she could. On occasion, Neal even turned to Sara, although her assistance was best for the sort of in the gray legal/not-quite-illegal areas.

As much as he enjoyed helping people, Neal hadn’t cut all his ties with the art world. He had a reputation to maintain, one that had been burnished by a dozen or more high-profile art fraud cases he’d handled as a CI. Technically, Peter had solved them, but Peter was never shy about promoting Neal’s contributions. It was that support, a constant for his four years with the FBI, which repaired his reputation with the movers and the shakers and the people who wrote the really big checks in the art world.

So, on occasion, he helped museums the way he helped people. Those occasions became frequent enough that he had a second set of business cards printed up: "Neal Caffrey, Art and Authentication Consultant."

This amused him to no end. Museums that once banned him now welcomed him with open arms and deep wallets. He lunched with the chief curator at the Met, his name was on the speed dial and cellphone of the directors of both the Channing and the Powell. He also had a contract with the Bureau (of course he had one of those, Peter insisted). Peter also insisted that the FBI got first dibs on his time. Neal agreed, but he insisted that they pay a premium on his hourly rate.

About a year after he went out on his own, a call came from the White Collar division on the West Coast, requesting his expertise with a suspected forgery donated to the Getty. Actually, Peter got the call and recommended Neal, who could barely restrain his excitement. He didn’t let the fact that he was going to be looking at a Degas painting bother him. Instead, Neal focused on the fact that he was going to travel, his first plane ride since his parole ended.

He knew that flying to Los Angeles, on the Government’s dime, was a different story from his former style. No chartered flight. No first class. Not even business class. If he wanted an upgrade, he would have to pay for it himself. But Neal figured that it was time to stop living in the clouds. The Bureau’s given him a travel budget, he should stick with it (he also took a look at first class, direct flight fares and nearly passed out from the shock).

So, it was going to be economy all the way there and back and Neal felt just a bit smug and virtuous as he packed. He told himself that this was the price of being a solid citizen. Or as Peter might say, he was being the man and not the con.

Neal’s flight to LA was a very early one; the FBI was expecting him to get in and hit the ground running. He thought about going out the night before and starting fresh, but the FBI wasn’t going to pay for the extra hotel night and frankly, Neal was reluctant to be away from Peter and Elizabeth any longer than he had to.

He hadn’t told Peter that, but maybe Peter knew anyway. Neal had figured he’d get a cab to the airport, because even though he was flying coach, he was still Neal Caffrey and Neal Caffrey doesn’t do public transportation. But Peter told him not to bother with a cab, he’d take him to JFK and then head into the office early. After all, that was what lovers and friends and partners did for each other.

El was still sleeping when they left, it was barely five AM. She batted a sleepy hand at him when he tried to give her a goodbye kiss.

"You know she’s not a morning person," Peter whispered as they left the bedroom.

Neal shrugged. "Yeah, but I had to try."

His bag was waiting at the foot of the stairs, fiercely guarded by Satchmo. The Lab gave them a half-hearted tail wag before rolling over and going back to sleep.

Neal looked at the dog and smiled. "Pity he can’t come along for the ride."

Peter chuckled. "You’re like a little kid going on the first airplane trip of your life."

"Well, it sort of feels that way." Neal was surprised at how true that felt.

Peter shook his head, not quite getting how momentous the occasion was. He hustled him out the door. "Let’s go. You don’t want to miss your flight."

They talked during the ride to the airport, and Neal – if just for form’s sake – fiddled with the buttons on the car’s navigation system. Peter didn’t bother to slap away his hands and gave him the lowdown on his contact at the LA field office, Michael Stokes. They had been classmates at Quantico, and kept in touch over the years, which was why he’d called Peter for a recommendation in the first place.

Traffic was light at that hour, and the trip from Brooklyn took about a half-hour. Peter pulled up to the curb in front of the terminal and got out with him. He straightened Neal’s coat collar. "Call me when you land."

Neal raised an eyebrow at the request. "I really have traveled before."

"What, I can’t worry?"

A warm and happy feeling settled in Neal’s midsection, and he smiled from the tips of his toes to the top of his hairline. "If it makes you happy…"

"It does."

“Then I will.”

Neal retrieved his bag from the back seat, but was reluctant to leave. "See you on Friday if I can’t get home sooner." He lingered, suddenly wishing he was back home, curled up between his lovers, watching them sleep.

Peter hauled him close. "You don’t get to leave without giving me a goodbye kiss." He didn’t wait for Neal to take action. Peter cupped his cheek and planted a hard, wet kiss on his lips. Neal dropped his bag, and leaned in, opening his lips. Peter just took over; pouring so many years of love and longing into him and Neal swallowed it whole. If not for the honking of the passing cars, and someone shouting "get a room," he wasn’t sure if that kiss would have ended.

Peter finally pulled back, blinking. "Wow."

"Yeah. Wow."

"You better get going."

"Hmm?" Neal’s whole body was singing. The only thing his brain was capable of processing was that kiss.

"Your flight – you’ve got to check in.’

Nothing seemed to be making sense. "What?"

"Neal – you’re booked on a Jet Blue flight to Los Angeles. It leaves in about ninety minutes. You need to go through security. Unless you want to call the LA field office and tell them you’re too horny to travel?"

Peter’s words finally penetrated. Los Angeles. The FBI. The Getty. "Yeah. I’ve got to go."

"Right." Peter smiled, then sobered up. "You’ll be okay traveling?"

He understood exactly why Peter was asking him that. Kate. It was as if Cape Verde never happened and Neal wasn’t going to remind him. So he played along. "Yeah. I think so. If things get bad, I’ll let you know."

"How?"

"The plane has Wi-Fi service in-flight. I’ll be in touch if I’ve got problems."

They stood there, looking at each other, until Peter reminded him, "You’ve got to go."

"I have to go." But Neal made no move towards the terminal.

Peter gave him a gentle shove. "Neal. Go."

"Yeah, I’m going." He took one step, then another and he was halfway towards the building when he turned back. Peter was still standing there.

This time, he didn’t sigh Peter’s name. He smiled and this time, Peter didn’t have that terrible, hopeful, desperate look in his eyes. He just waved and called out. "Go and come back to us. Travel safe."

In Transit

The endorphin rush from Peter’s farewell lasted until Neal’s plane was in the air. The flight was about half-full and Neal had the row to himself. He spent a little time reviewing the case file and, frankly, felt very grown up. Except that the trouble was that he got bored with being a grown-up. So he paid for Internet access, and pinged Elizabeth.

Text from Neal to Elizabeth, 8:59 AM EDT


Text from Elizabeth to Neal, 9:01 AM EDT


Text from Neal to Elizabeth, 9:05 AM EDT


Text from Elizabeth to Neal, 9:07 AM EDT


Text from Neal to Elizabeth, 9:08 AM EDT


Text from Elizabeth to Neal, 9:09 AM EDT


Text from Neal to Elizabeth, 9:10 AM EDT


Text from Elizabeth to Neal, 9:9 AM EDT


Text from Neal to Elizabeth, 9:12 AM EDT


Text from Elizabeth to Neal, 9:15 AM EDT


Text from Neal to Elizabeth, 9:18 AM EDT


Text from Elizabeth to Neal, 9:20 AM EDT


Text from Neal to Elizabeth, 9:21 AM EDT


Text from Elizabeth to Neal, 9:23 AM EDT


Text from Neal to Elizabeth, 9:25 AM EDT


Text from Elizabeth to Neal, 9:27 AM EDT


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

They chatted for a few more minutes, and the byplay got more and more outrageous, until El finally begged off, claiming that she had to go meet a client. Neal turned off his iPad and decided to enjoy the buzz he got from their sexting for the rest of his flight. Truthfully, it was the idea of sexting with Elizabeth from 30,000 feet that was hot. Their texts really weren’t all that erotic.

The buzz didn’t fully dissipate until he was on the ground in Los Angeles and realized that no one from the local field office was going to meet him. Neal didn’t bother calling them. He hailed a taxi, instead. The FBI might only reimburse him for coach, but he’d be damned if he had to ride the bus from the airport. After all, Neal Caffrey doesn’t do public transportation.

As he clung to the suicide strap, Neal considered the possibility that a bus might have been the safer alternative. The trip from LAX was harrowing, to say the least. Neal was certain that the cabbie thought he was auditioning for a part in the remake of the remake of The Italian Job. Mozzie, with his occasional dreams of being Jeff Gordon, was never quite this reckless.

At least the folks at the FBI field office were welcoming, and there were effusive apologies for the mix up at the airport. Someone got him a caffeine-free, unsweetened vegan chai latte. It was disgusting but he drank it to be polite.

Michael Stokes was Peter’s counterpart in the LA office; the senior SAIC in the local White Collar unit. "We’ve got some time before we can head over to the Getty. Feel like attending a staff meeting?"

"Sure, why not?" It didn’t seem polite to turn down such a generous offer, and besides, Neal sort of missed being part of a team. Moz and June were terrific, but they weren’t Diana and Clinton and Blake and the rest of the Harvard crew.

Nor were the agents in Los Angeles’ version of White Collar. Or it might be that Neal was prejudiced.

Regardless, they took great delight in his presence at the meeting, coaxing a half dozen war stories out of him with ease. In a weird way, it wasn’t all that that different from the show he once put on for George Oswald’s Criminology class, or that time that he and Peter did a star turn as speakers at the FBI tech conference.

The agents asked him about a half-dozen news-worthy cases he’d worked on and a few were even brave enough to question him on some of his pre-Bureau activities. Neal smiled a lot, gave away nothing of importance and enjoyed the opportunity to talk about his time with Peter and the team.

The meeting broke and it was time to head over to the Getty. Stokes was taking him there. He was a bluff and genial man, and while he didn’t have Peter’s sheer presence, Neal could see that this man was just as relentless. He wondered what Peter told him and he cautioned himself to say as little about his personal life as possible.

And Neal, reformed as he was, was still too much of a social engineer to let an opportunity pass him by. Not that he was going to use the information, but he figured that a little subtle (or not so subtle) interrogation couldn’t hurt. "Peter told me you’ve known him for a while."

"Yeah. We were at Quantico together. He was Big Bad Peter Burke even then."

Big, bad Peter Burke. How fitting. But Neal commented, "I thought his nickname was The Archeologist."

"Ah, that’s what the old man, Kramer, called him. Peter was his pet probie."

"You worked with Agent Kramer too?" Neal had the feeling that Stokes wasn’t as enamored of the Art Crimes specialist as Peter had once been.

“Yup.”

Neal had to ask, "Did he give you a nickname?"

"Yeah. Kramer called me The Hulk."

"Huh?" Stokes wasn’t particularly large and overwhelming. Average height, the beginnings of a beer gut, but nothing that would suggest an enormous green rage monster.

"Yeah, because I tended to smash things. Not the best quality for working with Philip Kramer. I transferred to San Francisco for my second year. It was for the best. Kramer and I – we didn’t get on so well. Kramer was a good agent, but personally, a bit of a prick."

Neal was a little surprised at how forthcoming the man is. He barely had to make an effort to coax the information out of him. "I can … sympathize with you there."

Stokes gave him a sharp look, and by mutual, unspoken agreement, they dropped the subject. The silence became uncomfortable, so Neal picked a topic that he figured was safe for any Angeleno – the traffic.

Michael laughed. “I’ve driven in Manhattan. This isn’t all that different.”

“This is nothing like Manhattan traffic. Isn’t this supposed to be an expressway?”

“Freeway – they’re called ‘freeways’ out here.”

“Freeway, expressway, highway – whatever you want to call it, it’s more like a parking lot.”

“Which isn’t so different from getting through the Lincoln Tunnel during rush hour.”

“That’s during rush hour. This is not rush hour. It’s just past midday.”

“Well, I’ll give you that.”

Stokes turned the conversation to their upcoming meeting at the Getty. He quizzed Neal on his knowledge of 19th century European art, particularly Degas. Neal was both appalled and thrilled that that he was going to be examining a never before seen painting of the artist’s favorite subjects – ballerinas. Thank goodness, Stokes didn’t know anything about Neal’s last foray into the world of French Impressionists.

He was impressed by Neal’s responses to some of his more obscure questions. "Peter’s right – you do know your stuff."

The Getty Museum was an oasis, a world away from the hustle and grind of urban Los Angeles.

"Nice." Neal admired the architecture. It was very modern, very Californian.

"You’ve never been here?"

"Nope."

"Not even to case the place?"

Neal chuckled and shook his head. "Let’s just say I was focused on the Old World."

"Allegedly."

He smirked. "Allegedly."

They signed in and a docent took them into a well-equipped lab, one of the best Neal had ever seen. The alleged Degas has been removed from its frame and was on a table set up with low-heat lighting, overhead cameras and a hell of a lot of security.

The file Neal read on the plane ride had told him a whole lot of nothing. The paint for the Degas passed all of the spectrographic tests; the canvas was from the right period. But canvas and pigments could be faked in many different ways, as Neal was well familiar with. With the right equipment, the actual painting itself could be aged well enough to fool even the most skilled analysis.

What this job needed was someone who was intimately familiar with how Degas painted; his techniques, his use of color, light and shading. His thought processes, his emotions. It needed Neal.

And still, figuring everything out wasn’t easy; it was nothing like what he spoon fed to Kramer for his forgery of The Entrance of the Masked Dancers. Simply pointing out a few anomalies in the way the paint aged wouldn’t be enough for the Getty or his reputation.

Neal was thrilled to have to work for it. Forgeries were usually “fifty-footers”, fakes he could spot across a crowded room. This one made him work for his fee.

He worked on the painting for nearly four days, examining every inch of the painting, taking macro-level photos with the equipment provided by the museum, making copious notes. His nights - lonely without Peter and Elizabeth - were spent reviewing the data, drilling down on the photos until he was certain of his conclusions. Only then did he make the call to Agent Stokes.

Neal expected to be taken back to the FBI office, but was ushered into a boardroom instead. Stokes briefly explained that as a condition for access to the painting, the Getty’s Board of Directors required the FBI’s chosen expert to present his findings to them first.

More than a dozen men and women were seated around a large U-shaped table. The man at the head, probably the museum president, anxiously asked, "Well?"

Neal told them simply, "It’s a fake. An excellent piece of work, but a fake none the less. I’d say it was painted within the last three years."

The curators and trustees exploded into angry accusations. Many of which were directed at Neal – his criminal past, his lack of formal educational qualifications, his motives.

None of that really mattered to him. He came here to do a job and he was more than ready to go home. Out of politeness, he spent some time explaining his conclusions, and tried not to get annoyed when he was personally attacked. After an hour of fielding both questions and insults, Neal was done and just walked out.

Stokes followed him out of the museum.

"What now?"

"Well, the Getty is going to have to manage yet another image problem. I’m going to get search warrants for the donor’s financial records and tax filings and hopefully make some arrests soon."

"Is there anything else you need from me?" He hoped the answer was no.

Stokes did, asking, "Do you have any idea who may have painted it?"

"It was good, very good."

"It wasn’t one of yours?"

Neal gave him a very pointed look, not liking the accusation.

Stokes held up his hands in apology. "Just kidding. If it was, you wouldn’t have identified it as a forgery."

"It wasn’t mine. It wasn’t that good." Neal couldn’t resist the bit of arrogance.

Stokes chuckled. "Peter told me you were something else. But if you have any thoughts on who painted it, we’d appreciate the help."

Neal did, and the two people at the top of his list were art forgers that he didn’t mind burning. "I have a few ideas. I’ll put them in my report."

All business now. "When can you get that to me?"

"Probably by next Wednesday. Along with my bill."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Los Angeles International Airport

When he fled to Cape Verde, via a half-dozen stops using as many different aliases, he went first class and didn’t have to deal with the never-ending litany of humiliations like the rest of the world dealt with. Coming back from Africa, he was in the custody of a pair of Federal agents and no one dared interfere with them.

Before this trip, Peter warned him that the romance of air travel was not only dead, it had been cremated and the container of ashes dropped into the Mariana Trench. Neal hadn’t believed it was quite that bad. Leaving New York on Monday, the process had been unpleasant but not unbearable. Like everyone else, he shuffled through lines, removed his shoes, put up with random luggage searches, but the process was efficient. It was New York, after all.

But going through the same process on the trip home was an unmitigated horror.

Security at LAX included backscatter x-ray machines, and Neal really didn’t care about them, though Moz would insist that he should. Except today that the machines were off-line and everyone going through this terminal was subject to the enhanced security pat downs. After waiting in line for over an hour and a half, Neal’s considerable patience was worn thin.

And it all but snapped when the TSA agent, a man in his late forties with bad teeth and worse hygiene took hold of his cock through his pants and pulled on it.

"Hey!"

"Sorry - just doing my job." The man smirked at him. "Turn around."

When he stuck a finger up his ass, Neal had enough. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

"Like I said, my job."

"I don’t think your job includes sexually assaulting me." In his anger, Neal let his voice carry through the security area, causing heads to swivel.

The TSA agent smiled at him again and Neal was reminded of one of the guards at prison, a man he learned to stay away from. "Do you want to file a complaint against me?"

Neal gritted his teeth and memorized the man’s name and badge number. He’d ask Peter to look into this bozo at the first opportunity.

"Well, do you want to file a complaint?"

"No, not right now." He collected his composure, wallet, shoes and bag. Peter was right, there was no joy left in air travel.

As if the humiliating pat down wasn’t bad enough, Neal got to the gate only to find that his flight was delayed.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Text From Neal to Peter, 7:42 am PDT


Text from Peter to Neal, 10:45 am EDT


Text From Neal to Peter, 7:46 am PDT


Text from Peter to Neal, 10:47 am EDT


Text From Neal to Peter, 7:52 am PDT


Text from Peter to Neal, 10:55 am EDT


Text From Neal to Peter, 7:54 am PDT


Text from Peter to Neal, 10:55 am EDT


Text From Neal to Peter, 7:57 am PDT


Text from Peter to Neal, 10:59 am EDT


Text From Neal to Peter, 8:02 am PDT


Text from Peter to Neal, 11:05 am EDT


Text From Neal to Peter, 8:08 am PDT


Text from Peter to Neal, 11:09 am EDT


Text From Neal to Peter, 8:11 am PDT


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal’s phone rang, but he couldn’t answer it. He was arguing with the gate agent. Arguing. He never, ever argued. He’d smile, he’d charm, he’d social engineer his way through any situation. Neal Caffrey never argued.

Today, he argued.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Duluth International Airport

Text From Neal to Peter, 1:37 pm CDT


Text from Peter to Neal, 2:40 pm EDT


Text From Neal to Peter, 1:41 pm CDT


Text from Peter to Neal, 2:42 pm EDT


Text From Neal to Peter, 1:44 pm CDT


Text from Peter to Neal, 2:45 pm EDT


Text From Neal to Peter, 1:47 pm CDT


Text from Peter to Neal, 2:49 pm EDT


Text From Neal to Peter, 1:52 pm CDT


Text from Peter to Neal, 2:54 pm EDT


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Text from Elizabeth to Neal: 4:14 pm EDT


Text from Neal to Elizabeth, 3:17 pm CDT


Text from Elizabeth to Neal: 4:14 pm EDT


Text from Neal to Elizabeth, 3:17 pm CDT


Text from Elizabeth to Neal, 4:21 pm EDT


Text from Neal to Elizabeth, 3:22 pm CDT


Text from Elizabeth to Neal: 4:24 pm EDT


Text from Neal to Elizabeth, 3:27 pm CDT


Text from Elizabeth to Neal: 4:30 pm EDT


Text from Neal to Elizabeth, 3:31 pm CDT


Text from Elizabeth to Neal: 4:32 pm EDT


Text from Neal to Elizabeth, 3:34 pm CDT


Text from Elizabeth to Neal, 4:35 pm EDT


Text from Neal to Elizabeth, 3:36 pm CDT


Text from Elizabeth to Neal, 4:37 pm EDT


Text from Neal to Elizabeth, 3:38 pm CDT


Text from Elizabeth to Neal, 4:38 pm EDT


Text from Neal to Elizabeth, 3:39 pm CDT


Text from Elizabeth to Neal: 4:40 pm EDT


Text from Neal to Elizabeth, 3:41 pm CDT


Text from Elizabeth to Neal: 4:42 pm EDT


Text from Neal to Elizabeth: 4:43 pm EDT


Text from Elizabeth to Neal: 4:44 pm EDT


Text from Neal to Elizabeth: 4:44 pm EDT


Text from Elizabeth to Neal: 4:43 pm EDT


Text from Neal to Elizabeth: 4:44 pm EDT


Text from Elizabeth to Neal: 4:45 pm EDT


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"What are you doing?"

"I was just texting with Elizabeth"

"Texting or sexting?"

"You know me too well. What was she wearing when you left the house this morning?"

"Hmm, a black dress. Very… sassy. Got leather on the front. Or maybe vinyl. Shows off her magnificent breasts."

"Your wife is evil."

"You’re just finding this out?"

"I gather you’re alone in the van."

"No, not really. Jones and Blake are avidly listening to me talking about my wife’s breasts to my former CI."

"Seriously?"

"No, of course not. I’m back in the office. Diana is sitting on my lap."

"You and your wife are evil."

"Are you doing okay?"

"Other than being bored out of my mind and thoroughly disgusted with the Duluth International Airport, I’m fine."

"You’ll be home soon enough."

"Soon enough? It’s four hours to Phoenix, then a two-hour layover in Atlanta, but at least I don’t have to change planes. Another two hours until my flight lands in New York. Ten more hours in transit."

"At least."

"At least?"

"There are tornado warnings out for the Atlanta area. It looks like the airport is closed."

"I hate you."

"You’ll hate me even more when I tell you that that flights are now backed up all over the country. You may do better to go back to LA and fly home tomorrow."

"I already thought about that. No available flights anywhere except to Phoenix. I can’t even get a hotel room."

"Hmmm, poor baby."

"You are heartless. I hate you."

"You already said that."

"Your schadenfreude is unpleasant."

"You wanted to travel. You were so tired of your two-mile radius that you couldn't wait to leave."

"Rub it in, why don’t you?"

"Just saying. It was your choice to take the assignment in California."

"I hate you."

"I know. I love you too."

"What are you wearing?"

"Neal - I am not having phone sex with you now. And you’re sitting in a public terminal in an airport. You really want to do this?"

"I’m desperate, Peter."

"Neal."

"Please, pretty please? I am going out of my mind here."

"Okay, okay. But nothing graphic."

"Thank you. Hmmm… What tie are you wearing?"

"The yellow and brown one."

"You wanted hot dogs for lunch today, right."

"Yeah - this one hides the mustard stains."

"Four years with me and you haven’t learned a thing."

"I like this tie."

"That tie is revolting."

"I thought we were supposed to be having phone sex?"

"Let’s call this foreplay."

"You are strange, strange man, Neal Caffrey."

"But you love me anyway, right?"

"Caffrey…"

"Peter?"

"Yes, I love you. Despite and because of everything. I love you."

"Peter…"

"Come on, Neal - tell me what you want."

"Roll up your sleeves."

"Roll up my sleeves?"

"Yeah - I like your forearms."

"Hold on. Okay. Sleeves rolled up. Now what?"

"Loosen your tie."

"Okay - tie loosened."

"Can you put the glasses on?"

“No, I can’t. I only need them for reading. It would look strange if I put my glasses on if I was talking on the telephone.”

“Can’t you pretend?”

“What’s the point?”

“Peter, do you really think phone sex operators are really doing those things when they’re talking? It’s all about the fantasy.”

“Okay, all right. Putting on my glasses.”

sigh…

“What’s with the sigh?”

“Now I know you’re faking it.”

“Geez, Caffrey. What do you want from me? I’m not good at this. And it feels weird. Like everyone knows what I’m doing.”

“Are you wearing your shoulder holster?”

“Yes”

“Mmm. And your sleeves are rolled up?”

“Yes. My sleeves are rolled up. My tie is loosened.”

“Touch your mole.”

“WHAT!?!?!?!”

“Just touch it. Gently. Please???? I’m stuck in Duluth.”

“Okay, okay. Touching my mole.”

“Thank you.”

… … …

“Umm, Neal???”

“Yeah, Peter.”

“How much longer do I need to keep touching my mole?”

“You can stop now.”

“Neal?”

“Yeah?”

“Miss you.”

“Miss you too.”

“When you get home…”

“Yeah, Peter?”

“We’re going to have to talk about your weird fantasies. My holster, my mole.”

“What’s wrong with fantasies? How do you think I lasted four years in Sing-Sing?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“And Peter, just so you know, my favorite fantasies weren’t about Kate. They were about you.”

“Really? Seriously?”

“Yeah. Maybe I’ll tell you about them someday.”

“Get your ass on a plane and come home to me.”

“That’s the plan. Shit.”

“Wait, what do you mean, shit?”

“My flight – it’s cancelled. Wait, no. It’s boarding. I’ve got to go. Love you. See you … eventually.”

“No, see you soon. Love you, too.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

LaGuardia Airport

Neal couldn’t remember ever being this tired in his entire life.

Maybe he was just getting old. Or maybe it was the endless amount of hours he had just spent trying to get from Los Angeles to New York. The thought was so appalling that Neal tried not to do the mental arithmetic, but he couldn’t help himself.

It took thirty-four hours to get home. Thirty-four hours that he’d never get back.

First there was the two hour delay leaving LAX. Add in the three hours he was in the air before making an emergency landing. Plus nine hours waiting in Duluth for a four-hour flight to Phoenix, where he has to wait for another seven hours, most of which was spent sitting on a floor next to a power outlet, charging his phone, his iPad and his laptop. He had been seriously tempted to take a short hop back to Los Angeles and try to get a direct flight home, but he had rejected that plan in a fit of fiscal responsibility. The only guaranteed seats were in first class and he didn’t want to spend three thousand dollars. In retrospect, he couldn’t help but feel that it would have been worth every penny.

Connecting from Phoenix meant a four-hour flight to Atlanta, the busiest airport in the world. He might have missed the tornados, but he got a chance to enjoy a three hour wait for the only open runway. By the time his plane landed at LaGuardia, more than two hours later, the experience was akin to his four years in Sing-Sing.

Or maybe worse.

The flight back to New York didn’t have Wi-Fi and he drained the battery on his iPad watching a half-dozen episodes of The Addams Family. To make matters worse, he had forgotten to turn off his cellphone, so that was dead, too. He guessed that he should be glad he didn’t cause the plane to crash.

Before the plane left the gate in Atlanta, a little before ten, Neal had left messages for Elizabeth and Peter, telling them both not to pick him up. It’would be too late and he take a cab home. He didn’t care about the cost. All he wanted was to get horizontal on a bed and sleep for the next three or four months.

But he knew that at three AM, getting a cab to Brooklyn might be a dicey proposition. He could have called Moz, except that Moz was somewhere not in New York right now. And as much as he loved his friend, at this moment, he’d just prefer some peace and quiet. Moz after midnight was extraordinarily verbose.

Along with a hundred other weary travelers, Neal dragged himself out of the plane, down the jet way and through the nearly-abandoned terminal. At least he didn’t have to wait for luggage and it was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other. Neal just kept walking because if he stopped, he might collapse. His goal was the exit and he was grateful that the terminal was small and he didn’t have far to go.

“Neal!”

He thought he heard someone call his name. But that wasn’t possible. It was three AM, and everyone he loved was in bed, sleeping.

“Neal!”

It’s definitely his name, but it’s not like it’s an uncommon one.

“Damn it, Neal, slow down.”

Okay – that sounded like Peter. Someone grabbed his arm. It was Peter.

“What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.”

“I didn’t tell you when my flight was coming in, deliberately. You shouldn’t have …”

“Shut up.”

“Peter –”

“Just shut up and let me …” Peter doesn’t finish his sentence. He took Neal’s bag off his shoulder, dropped it on the floor, and hugged him.

Despite his utter weariness, Neal wrapped his arms around Peter and held him as tightly. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Did you really think I wasn’t going to come for you? I always come for you.”

“I – ” Neal doesn’t complete the thought. He just rests his head on Peter’s shoulder. “Love you.”

“Love you, too. But come on, El’s in the car, waiting. She’s got my badge in case someone hassles her.” Peter let him go and picked up his bag.

Neal perked up. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, and I think she’s really looking forward to the opportunity to flash it. You’re a terrible influence, Caffrey.”

Neal tried to muster the slightest bit of outrage at this accusation. But not only was he too tired, he knew that it was true.

Peter draped an arm around him and gently propelled him forward. The exit was right there, and just beyond the glass doors, he could make out the outline of a familiar car.

The journey had been endless, but coming home to this was worth every moment.

FIN