elrhiarhodan

Title: The Miracle of Love (In This Heartless World)
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R (with some NC-17 moments)
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Mozzie, Elizabeth (Mitchell), Diana Berrigan, Christie, Sara Ellis, OMCs; Peter/Neal, Elizabeth/Mozzie, Diana/Christie
Word Count: ~5500
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Beta Credit: sinfulslasher
Summary: A Wonder(ful) Years story, set on the morning after their thirtieth high school reunion, as first mentioned in the original Wonder(ful) Years story, and detailed in The Chaos of Our Lives (When Tomorrow Comes). Peter and Neal have brunch with their old friends and before they head back to Manhattan, they go visit Peter's childhood home, and find something unexpected.

Author’s Note: Written for my dearest pooh_collector, who selected "The Geography of Home" and a timestamp for The Wonder(ful) Years for the fourth night of Fic-Can-Ukah.

Title from the Eurhythmics song of the same name.

__________________



White Plains, New York, Early Spring

Peter rolled over, mildly uncomfortable. This wasn't his bed. These weren't his pillows. He stretched and encountered a warm body. But this was his husband.

"Mmm, it's too early to get up." Said husband rolled over and into his arms. He nuzzled Peter's neck, pressing a soft kiss just below his ear before falling back to sleep.

Peter opened his eyes a crack and focused on the unfamiliar bedside clock – it was a little after six. That was late for them, but they were on vacation, sort of, and had been up with the old gang, reliving their teenage triumphs until nearly two in the morning. He relaxed and let Neal's steady heartbeat lull him back into slumber.

The next time he woke, it was after nine. The bed was still not his, the pillows were still uncomfortable, and from the sound of running water, Neal was in the shower.

He wiped the crust from of his eyes and sat up, feeling – if just for the moment – almost every one of his forty-seven years. Too much to drink last night.

But he didn't let the mild hangover stop him from his morning routine. Figuring that the floor of a four-star hotel should be mostly clean, Peter did his basic routine - fifty push-ups and fifty sit-ups. He was about to head down to the hotel's exercise room and put a half-hour in on the treadmill, but Neal came out of the bathroom wearing nothing more than some water droplets and a towel around his lean hips. Peter smiled.

Neal looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "What?"

As if he didn't know what was going through his mind. "I was just reconsidering my plans for an aerobic workout." He grabbed Neal and tossed him onto the bed, stripping away the towel and then his own shorts.

"You are such a goat, Peter Burke."

He chuckled; that was a familiar 'complaint' from his husband. "And you love it, Neal Caffrey. You always have and you always will."

Neal wrapped those endless legs around his hips and canted his body forward. "I love you."

They said those words to each other every day and they never lost their power, their meaning. "I love you, too." Peter cupped Neal's head and kissed him, devoured him. He let himself be devoured, too. Neal was just as hungry, just as needy for this as he was. It was a constant source of wonder that after thirty years together, sex was just as hot as it was when they were teenagers.

"Mmm." Neal sighed his pleasure. "Fuck me." He pushed against him, his cock a hard, heavy blade against his own penis.

Peter reared back and started to reach for the lube, but Neal stopped him.

"Not needed. I'm already slicked up. Just fuck me."

Peter hissed as his desire increased almost exponentially. He got to his knees and pulled Neal's hips onto his thighs. The light was just bright enough that he could see the glimmer of slick. "You're so fucking dirty, so fucking eager for it, aren't you?"

"Are you going to interrogate me or fuck me?" Neal's taunted.

"Oh, I think I'll fuck you." Peter pressed his cock against Neal's lubed hole and sank deep. They'd been together for three decades – there had never been anyone else for either of them – but it was only since their wedding that they'd completely abandoned condoms. The heat of Neal's body on his bare flesh was something he thought he'd never become accustomed to, something he'd never be able to take for granted. And yet, it was like coming home.

Sunk as deep as he could go, Peter released Neal's legs and stretched out on top of him, relishing the full body contact. Neal wrapped himself around him and rocked up and into him, fucking himself, fucking his own cock against Peter's belly.

This coupling might have started out as something a little rough, but it became something richer and deeper as Neal captured Peter's mouth and held his head close, his fingers cradling the base of Peter's skull. They kissed and it was like they were seventeen again, coming together for the first time, reveling in the wonder of mutually discovered love.

Neal arched against him, groaning his pleasure, and Peter couldn't hold back any more. He spilled himself into Neal and the world turned white.

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

Neal was sorry he couldn't linger in the shower, even though it was his second of the morning. Peter had just given him a glorious blow job and was now washing him from head to toe. The hotel room shower was orgy-sized, with four wall-mounted sprays and an overhead rain shower spray that was positively sybaritic. If there was anything lacking in their Riverside duplex, it was a truly luxurious bathroom and he wanted to take advantage of this one.

But they couldn't linger and play. They were meeting with the old gang at eleven for brunch and then they all had to go their separate ways again. Diana and Christie had reservations on the 1:30 Amtrak back to D.C. and Moz and El had offered to take Sara to Hartford. Her company had its headquarters there, and since they'd paid for her flight from Seattle, Sara thought it would be a good idea to show her face for a few days.

So he reluctantly turned off the wall jets and rinsed off. "We've gotta get going."

"Pity we have to go, when you just came." Peter grinned at him.

Neal laughed. "Dog."

"I thought I was a goat?"

Neal stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel. "You're a sex god, okay?"

"Fine with me, as long as you remain my willing supplicant."

"And I worship nightly at the altar."

"And most mornings, too."

Neal let Peter pass and snapped his ass with the towel, is if they were sixteen year old boys in the locker room.

"Ouch!" Peter rubbed at his offended cheek.

Neal just laughed and let Peter finish his grooming.

By the time Peter came out of the bathroom, Neal had dressed in a pair of pressed black wool pants and an ice blue cashmere turtleneck. It might have been spring according to the calendar, but winter was not quite willing to give up its hold. He'd laid out a similar combination for Peter – gray wool pants and navy pullover.

Peter, of course, put up a token objection. He grumbled as he dressed. "I'm nearly fifty, you know. I can pick out clothes for myself."

It was a familiar complaint, and Neal retorted with a familiar answer. "Consider yourself my own personal Ken doll."

They packed, checked the room for anything left behind, such as the phone charger that was still plugged into the nightstand, grabbed their coats and left.

They were meeting the gang at the City Line Diner, here in White Plains, a relatively new place that had opened a few years after they'd graduated from Harvard. It was close to the hotel and a familiar spot for them. He and Peter had eaten there many times with Peter's folks when they'd visited. The old ice cream parlor in Brookville Falls was still there, and it might have been fun to meet there. But it was still tiny. Getting a table for seven on a Sunday morning would be next to impossible, and besides, they were all pushing fifty and ice cream for breakfast didn't hold the same appeal as it did when they were ten.

They pulled into the crowded parking lot and Peter commented, "Good thing you made reservations. You did make reservations, right?"

"That was El's job." Neal spotted a big Audi hybrid SUV with an amusing collection of bumper stickers and Massachusetts plates. "Looks like they're already here."

"Which means that Diana and Christie are here, too. Moz said something about dropping them off at the train station after we finish."

A car pulled out and Peter zipped into the space, and narrowly missed clipping the Prius that was about to take the spot. The driver leaned out of the window and started shouting. Peter got out of the car, said nothing and just pulled his coat away from his hip, neatly displaying the gold shield there. The driver closed his mouth, glared at them and drove away.

Neal had to ask, "Why are you wearing your badge to brunch with friends?"

"I wasn't – I put it on when I was getting out of the car. Thought it would diffuse the situation."

"I think the guy in the Prius might have been waiting for that spot."

Peter shrugged. "Or he might have been trying to steal it. I didn't see him waiting."

Neal shook his head. As much as he loved him, sometimes Peter could be a bit of a dick. "Let's go in."

As expected, the old gang was already there and ensconced in a table along the back wall. Everyone was drinking mimosas. Well, everyone but Elizabeth – apparently the designated driver – and Moz, who wouldn't dream of adulterating even cheap bubbly with orange juice. He was having his straight up.

Brunch was a pleasure – not for the food, which was typical diner fare – but for the company. Elizabeth beamed at everyone; it had been her suggestion to meet up before going their separate ways. "We really shouldn't let another thirty years go by before we do this again, you know."

Sara nodded. "I'm on the East Coast a least three or four times a year. I'd love to get together when I'm here."

Even Diana and Christie agreed, and Diana added that she was not taking any more overseas assignments and there was no reason why they shouldn't see each other more often.

Then everyone looked at him and Peter, as if their buy-in was essential. Neal glanced at his husband and Peter shrugged, as if to say, If you do this, it's on your head.

And so he made the offer. "We have a place that could work for a get together, you know."

Elizabeth chuckled. "I was waiting for you to offer that up."

And, of course, Diana asked, "What type of place?"

"A cabin, in Vermont." They'd bought it about a dozen years ago, mostly as an investment. Much of the year, it was rented out to vacationing families, but they'd been spending long weekends and vacations there for a while.

Christie wanted to know, "How big?"

Moz, who'd been a frequent visitor, filled everyone in. "Big enough for a small army. And don't let the word 'cabin' scare you off. I've been to five-star hotels in the Swiss Alps with fewer amenities."

And just like that, they made more-than-tentative plans to get together for a week in August and again around Christmas.

As they waited for the check, Elizabeth mentioned that she'd stopped to see her childhood home. "It's unrecognizable – someone put an extra story on it, redid the entire front façade, changed the landscaping. If it didn't have the same address, I wouldn't have believed I'd grown up there."

Neal agreed. "Same thing – I went by my aunt's place on Merry Lane. I think they tore down the original structure. What's there now is a big and ugly and very ostentatious McMansion."

Peter asked, "What about my parents' place?"

"You didn't go to see it?" That surprised Neal.

"No – I figured I'd head over there if I didn't find you at the playground."

But he had found him and they hadn't had the chance to go back to the old neighborhood. "We have plenty of time. Do you want to swing by before going back to the city?"

Peter nodded.

The server came by with their check and Peter and Moz started to squabble about who was going to pay. To everyone's surprise, Sara plucked the check from Moz and announced that brunch was on her. "My treat. I expected to be lonely and bored and this weekend to be a thousand kinds of awkward, but I can't remember the last time I enjoyed myself this much."

Eventually, they made it out to the parking lot and it was another fifteen minutes of exchanging email addresses, phone numbers and hugs and kisses. Elizabeth mentioned something about coming to the city for a writers' conference and that led to another round of discussions about staying at their place. Moz wanted Peter's opinion on some privacy issue and the two of them might have gone at it for another hour, but Christie interrupted, reminding them that they had a train to catch.

They watched as the five friends negotiated the seating arrangements in the Audi before getting into their own car. "You really want to go back to the old place?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah, I do. I haven't seen it since mom and dad sold it – what was it, fifteen years ago?"

Neal thought back. "Fifteen years, that's about right." After they'd settled into their careers in the FBI, Uncle Joe and Aunt Cathy had decided they'd wanted something a little easier to maintain, and moved into a condominium complex in Rye.

"Is it like your aunt's place, like Elizabeth's place – unrecognizable now?"

Neal shook his head. "It's definitely different – but not as bad as what happened to the house on Merry Lane."

They cruised along the Bronx River Parkway, turning off just before Scarsdale, and meandered along the suburban roads until they reached the small town of Brookville Falls. After a few minutes along the main road, they passed the small park where Peter had found him on Friday morning.

A right turn, a left turn, another left and around the curve and they were home.

But home wasn't like it used to be.

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

Peter didn't know what to feel. He parked across the street and got out of the car. Neal joined him and they gazed silently at his childhood home.

The comfortable ranch-style house had metamorphosed into something else. It wasn't, thankfully, as garish as some of the other houses on the block now, but it wasn't anything like the place he'd grown up in. The big oak tree that had been the bane of his Saturday mornings – it was his chore to sweep up the leaves and acorns that littered the front lawn and driveway - was gone. So were the aluminum overhangs on the windows. The front entrance, which his mother had always hated - it was too dark and dreary - had been replaced by an inviting porch, complete with matching rocking chairs for two adults and two children.

The back yard had been fenced in, but Peter could see that there were at least two small children in residence - a pair of pink bicycles with training wheels were parked on the side yard.

The landscaping was pretty - the rhododendrons and azaleas that his mother had adored were beginning to bloom and when Peter took a deep breath, he could smell the faint perfume of the flowering andromeda bushes that had once been so popular throughout the neighborhood. "It's not … bad," he admitted.

"No, it's not."

"But it's different." Peter sighed, feeling more than a little melancholy. "It's not like I should have expected it to stay the same. But …"

"Yeah, but… I know how you feel." Neal leaned into him. "This place saved my life. As much as you and Aunt Cathy and Uncle Joe and Satchmo saved me, so did this house."

Peter rested his head against Neal's. "I feel so old, and yet - it's all just like yesterday, isn't it?" Peter briefly closed his eyes and could hear the echo of his childhood.

The front door opened and two little girls - obviously twins - tumbled out and started to play some elaborate game on the driveway. A man followed, watching his children. They weren't so far away that Peter couldn't see the concern on his face when he spotted two strange men watching his home. Before Peter could make up his mind and walk over to introduce himself, the man called for his girls and sent them inside. He shut the door behind them and came over.

Neal murmured, "We've been busted."

"Looks that way," Peter whispered back.

"Can I help you?" The man - who looked to be in his mid-thirties - was trying not to act aggressive, but he was clearly suspicious and worried.

Peter smiled and held out his hand. "Sorry for spooking you. I used to live here. We were back in town for our thirtieth high school reunion and I thought I'd take a look at the old place."

"You did?"

"Yeah. I grew up here - and so did my … husband, Neal." Peter paused at that last word, for just an instant, not certain of what reaction he was going to get.

And the reaction he did get was surprising. The man's expression turned both curious and pleased. "Are you Peter Burke?"

"Yes, but how did you know that?"

The man didn't answer. "And you're Neal Caffrey?"

Neal nodded.

"Oh my god. You're Peter and Neal! You got together again and you got married!"

Neal looked at him, totally baffled. "How do you know who we are?"

"Sorry - I can't believe this. This is so wonderful." The man seemed overcome, he covered his mouth with his hand and he looked like he was about to burst in to tears. Or song. "You'll have to excuse me - this is incredible, incredible news."

Peter wasn't sure what was going on. "Do we know each other?"

"No - yes - no. Not really." The man took a deep breath and managed to get control of his excitement. "Sorry - I'm Bradley. Bradley Winters-Lee. I bought this house about four years ago - me and my husband, Scott. We got married in Massachusetts, by the way, but …" Bradley shook his head. "You know what, you'd better come in and we'll explain."

Peter half wished he had his sidearm. He looked back to Neal, who shrugged. Even though Bradley was as tall as he was, he was weedy, had a little paunch and looked like he spent most of his day at a desk. Peter figured that he could put him down on the ground without too much effort. And Neal could certainly take care of himself.

"Okay." Peter followed Bradley into the house and was once again struck by the strangeness of the place. Most of the interior walls were gone – the living room, kitchen and dining room were now open and modern, like something out of a magazine, except there were toys everywhere. The two little girls were nowhere to be seen.

Bradley called into the back of the house, where the bedrooms had been, and probably still were. "Scott, come in here - you're not going to believe who I just met! Who's in our kitchen!" He turned back to them, his face wreathed in inexplicable joy. "Would you like some coffee?"

Peter declined, as did Neal.

Another man, also in his mid-thirties, joined them and Bradley introduced him. "This is my husband, Scott Winters-Lee, Scott - this is Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey. And they got married! To each other! Can you believe it?"

Peter couldn't remember if he'd ever heard anyone speak in so many exclamation points.

Scott's reaction was just as over-the-top as Bradley's. He kept repeating, "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god – you're married to each other! That is so unbelievably wonderful." It was like someone had told him he had just won the lottery.

Neal interrupted. "Umm, excuse me, but how do you know anything about us? Because we don't know you."

That seemed to calm both men down. Scott sighed and said to Bradley, "Get the notebook."

Bradley disappeared and Scott also offered them coffee. They both declined, again. "At least take a seat." He all but dragged them over to the large island in the middle of the kitchen. "I bet you think we're a pair of lunatics."

Peter was about to say yes, but Neal discreetly elbowed him. "No – but you have to admit that this is kind of strange."

Bradley came back and reverently placed an ancient spiral notebook on the island counter. In the center, someone had written, "Property of Peter Burke. Private."

Not someone, him.

Peter took a deep breath as memories rushed back. He had forgotten about this book, but now he remembered. Everything.

Scott pushed the notebook towards him. "We were renovating the girls' bedroom – pulling up the flooring - and we found this underneath some boards in the closet. I think it's yours."

Peter nodded. "Yeah. It's mine."

"Peter?" Neal touched his wrist.

"We read it." Bradley sounded a touch abashed. "We didn't know what it was, and we were curious. And once we started, it was kind of hard to stop."

Peter tried to tell himself that it had been over thirty years since he wrote the words in that notebook, that there was no reason to be embarrassed. But he was.

Of course, Neal noticed his reaction. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." He pursed his lips and pushed the notebook towards Neal. "I was sixteen."

Neal opened the cover and gasped audibly. There was a sketch - one of his own works - back from junior high, back when Neal had thought about becoming an artist. It wasn't terribly good - the perspective and proportions were a little distorted, but the subjects were recognizable. It was the two of them, arms looped over each other's shoulders - Peter was fifteen and Neal was fourteen. Neal had made the sketch from a photograph - they'd just won their very last Little League game. Peter had tossed a shutout and Neal had hit the game-winning RBI. Peter's dad had been their coach.

"I remember doing this."

"You weren't happy with it and ripped it out of your sketchpad." Peter added needlessly, "I saved it."

Neal turned the page and mouthed the words he read there.



Bradley interrupted the moment. "There were some pictures and some other stuff too. We saved them."

Peter barely heard the words. He kept staring at the book, then at Neal's face. For some inexplicable reason, he felt like he was seventeen years old again and his world was shaking apart. Like he was walking on a tightrope. Like disaster was about to happen.

And then it wasn't. Neal closed the notebook and turned to him, steadying him. He cupped his hands around his cheeks, his fingers gently caressing. "I love you, Peter Burke. I loved you then, I love you now." Neal kissed him, with reverence, with joy. "I love you."

Peter murmured back, between those kisses. "I love you, Neal. Forever."

They rested their foreheads against each other and all but forgot that they weren't in their own home. The moment was broken by a little girl's voice, ."Daddy? Can we go play outside now?"

Neal stepped back and Peter was chilled. Scott had gone over to the patio door and opened it, instructing his children to stay inside the yard. Bradley was looking at them with tears in his eyes. He explained. "You have to understand. Reading your notebook, it was like reading my own heart, seeing all my fears and all my pain. Loving someone who will never love you back. And now, to learn that he did. And that you have been happy and together for so many years."

Neal looked at him, puzzled.

Peter explained. "I started this when we were in eleventh grade, just after I started dating Elizabeth. I stopped writing in that notebook a few weeks after I - I dumped you as a friend. It hurt too much to think about you. There was a piece of loose flooring in my bedroom closet. I couldn't bear to throw the book away, but I didn't want anyone to find it, so I put it there. With some other things. And then I nailed everything shut, so I couldn't get to it and no one would find it."

Scott rejoined them. "It's powerful stuff."

Peter shrugged, trying to downplay it. "Teenaged angst."

Bradley didn't agree, "No, really. It's a lot more than that. Have you ever thought about telling your story?"

"What do you mean?"

"You fell in love and thought you were doing the right thing by pushing your best friend away. But it seems like love triumphed over everything. It's …" Bradley shrugged, "like a Hollywood fairytale. And don't look at me like that, you know what I mean."

Neal wove his fingers through his and answered for both of them. "We know what you mean, and we know that what we have is beyond rare. Before we got married, a friend sort of ambushed us - she sent in our story to a columnist for the New York Times. They wanted to talk with us for one of their relationship features. We sat for the interview, but then killed the story."

Scott asked, "Why?"

Peter answered. "A few reasons, but mostly because we're active FBI agents. And no, there's no problem with being gay and in the FBI. But we both still work undercover and there was too much of a risk that someone would recognize us. And, besides …" He shrugged. "It felt weird. Friends know about us, how long we've been together, what we've gone through. But the rest of the world? We didn't want that."

The four men sat there. Neal was still staring at the words written on the first page, but he was toying with the edge - like he wanted to turn the page but was afraid to. Peter took the book out of his hands. Neal was entitled to read this, but not here, not now.

Bradley said, "I get that you're private people, but the world - our world - needs heroes. People who are living proof that it does get better."

Peter understood that. They both did, and even though they'd been out for a long time, there was still a lot of learned caution that made the thought of such exposure uncomfortable.

Neal answered for them. "We'll think about it."

Scott gave them a rueful smile. "I'm a writer and you have no idea how tempted I was to use what was in there." He looked at the notebook. "But I couldn't – knowing that you're real people, that you might find it. I actually went to the library and looked at your high school yearbook. I also thought I might find you on Facebook, but there were too many Peter Burkes and no Neal Caffreys of the right age."

"We do have Facebook accounts, but they are pretty tightly locked down."

"Ah, yeah. FBI agents, of course." Scott sighed. "If you change your mind, contact us. Your story is worth sharing. Even if just the early parts."

Peter repeated what Neal had already told them. "We'll think about it." He picked up the notebook. "We should get going. Thank you for this."

Bradley held them up. "Wait a moment. There's some other stuff we found." He disappeared into the bedrooms.

Neal looked at him, obviously wondering what else he'd hidden in his closet. Peter remembered one particular item.

Bradley came back, holding a small box. He was smiling like he knew a secret and of course he did. He handed it to Neal with something of a smirk. "I'm so glad that we finally got the chance to meet you. You're our hero – our heroes. Both of you."

They escorted them to the door, and to Peter's discomfort and Neal's obvious amusement, they got hugs from both men.

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

Neal refused to relinquish the box. Which was only fair, since Peter had retained possession of the notebook, even going to far as to put it in his luggage in the trunk of the car, so Neal couldn't read it on the drive back to Manhattan.

"Do you mind if I look at this?"

Peter shrugged, but seemed a little embarrassed. "If you want."

Neal waited until Peter pulled onto the parkway before delving in. He wasn't sure what he expected, what a sixteen year old Peter Burke would hide under the floorboard in his closet.

The first thing he found was an envelope with a few dozen snapshots. His heart almost broke. These were pictures of him and Peter from the time they had been in junior high and all throughout their high school years. Aunt Cathy had been an avid photographer, intent on documenting their lives, and she was always taking pictures. He'd seen most of these. They were copies of the ones that were in the photo albums that Uncle Joe had. But it touched him that Peter, as a teenager, had asked for these prints. And broke his heart that he'd once needed to hide them away – not from the world, but from himself.

He sighed. "We were so young."

"Yeah, we were."

"The world's changed so much."

"For some; for others, it's just as hard."

"You're thinking about Scott's suggestion? That we should tell our story?"

"Maybe, but change the names to protect the innocent. If it can help just one kid… "

"I've thought about it - you know. Sharing what we went through. Because, for us, it did get better."

Peter's concurrence was thoughtful. "Maybe we should."

Neal put the photos back in the folder and looked at the rest of the contents of the box. "My Yankees cap - you had it!" He'd been so pissed when it went missing, especially since he'd gotten it signed by Reggie Jackson on Opening Day, 1980. Peter still had his signed cap, almost thirty-five years later.

"And now you have it back."

There was one more thing in the box - something made fabric that had yellowed from age, in a zip-lock bag. He lifted it up, puzzled. He could make out writing along one strap. Then not so puzzled. "Please tell me that this isn't a jockstrap. Tell me that you didn't steal my jockstrap."

"Well, I didn't exactly steal it. You might have left it behind. I was sixteen. Remember what it was like when you were sixteen?"

Neal dropped the bag back into the box and laughed. "I love you, Peter Burke." And he repeated the words again and again, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

FIN