Title: When the Day Goes Down
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke; Peter/Elizabeth, Peter/Neal
Word Count: ~4800
Spoilers: All of Season 6, especially S6.06, Au Revoir
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Beta Credit: theatregirl7299
Summary: Episode tag for series finale. Neal waits for Peter to find him. He's stopped counting how many times that's happened.

Author’s Note: Written for Day 6 of Fic-Can-Ukah, for my dearest friend, kanarek13, who asked for "A History of Whispers". Title from the Eurythmics song of the same name.

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Neal sat at a table outside his favorite café in the Marias. It was a little after three on an overcast afternoon in early July. The weather report said it was going to storm by early evening. He hoped the rain would hold off until then.

He could have picked an inside table for his café au lait, but he really wasn't here for the caffeine. He was waiting.

Well into his second cup of coffee with steamed milk, Neal continued to wait. The wind died down and the sky seemed to be clearing. Maybe the forecast was wrong. He opened the afternoon edition Le Monde and told himself to be patient, like he had every day this week. He made it through the editorial page when he heard a chair scrape against the pavement as someone sat down at his table.

"This makes me, what, five and o?"

Neal looked up and couldn't keep the grin off his face. "Took you long enough. And honestly, I've stopped counting."

Peter sat down and waited for the server to bring him a cup of coffee. "My first thought was, 'He's alive. Thank god, Neal's alive.' My second thought was…"

" 'I'm going to kill him.' "

"Yeah, exactly." Peter took a sip and smiled appreciatively. His tone, though, was a bit cold. "That was a pretty crappy thing to do to someone you called your 'best friend'. And someone who thinks you were his best friend. I have Elizabeth and the baby. Mozzie doesn't - didn't - have anyone but you."

Neal sighed deeply and rubbed his forehead. "I know it was cruel. It wasn't a decision I made lightly."

"It took a hell of a lot of planning, too. You had to have this in the works for a while. Getting all that stuff shifted."

"I had help."

"Not Mozzie, of course."

"No, not Mozzie. I couldn't let him know." Neal waited for Peter to make the next obvious connection.

"Ah, June."

"Yeah. She followed my plans to the letter."

"You didn't have her move everything?" Peter seemed a little appalled that he'd have asked an elderly woman to do such physical labor. Less outraged that she'd participated in such an elaborate con.

"No! She enlisted Cindy and her boyfriend. She'd send pictures and I'd ask for adjustments. I'd send a few things to be added. "

"Like the newspaper article about the Louvre?"

"That was the last piece. Until I contacted Mozzie. He left the playing card."

"When did you tell Moz?"

"Right after the Panthers were sentenced. I couldn't risk it any sooner. I sent word to him that evening. He picked the bottle up from June and left it for you."

Peter smiled. "I recognized the handwriting on the cork."

"I was hoping you would."

"It was quite a shock. And nice touch with the wine bottle. Not only the cork, but the invisible ink on the label."

Neal grinned. "I know how much you love the classics."

Peter lost his smile. He shook his head, troubled. "You had a contract, Neal. Why didn't you trust me? Trust us?"

Neal shook his head, too. "It wasn't that I didn't trust you, Peter. Or trust that the FBI would actually let me go. I knew you'd move heaven and earth and raise all sorts of unholy hell if they had tried to weasel out of the agreement." He paused, the truth still a sour taste in his mouth. "I needed to disappear, to get off of everyone's radar for a while."

"I don't understand."

Neal sighed. He'd had this discussion in his head for a year. "The Panthers."

"What about them? They've all been sentenced. They are all in separate facilities, in secure housing units. Woodford was sent to the Supermax in Florence, Colorado. He had tried to kill one of the guards. He's going to go mad in solitary."

"And until that happened, they were too much of a danger to you, to Elizabeth, to the baby. To everyone who could be connected to me."

Peter was still puzzled.

"If I was alive, I'd have to testify. I'd have to explain that I had been working as a confidential informant for the FBI for over three years. Woodford's attorney would come after me with everything, he'd make sure that my entire history and everyone I've associated with would be named, publicly."

"I still don't understand, Neal."

"There was a history of whispers about the Panthers. Moz always thought they were gentlemen thieves, and maybe they were at one point. But since I've known about them, they were as vicious as a pack of rabid dogs. You cross them, you're dead. Your family's dead. Everyone you've ever associated with. Your friends, their family. If Woodford found out that I was working for you, you'd be a target. So would June. Diana and Theo. Clinton. Mozzie. He might be in a Supermax now, but once his lawyer started digging up the life and times of Neal Caffrey, no one would be safe. I couldn't risk that."

Peter shook his head. "I wish you told me this, we could have put protections in place. Confidential informants are allowed to testify behind blinds. Hell, undercover FBI agents do, too."

"I was counting on that for you. I knew that you'd have to testify and that you'd be behind a shield. And even though you'd have to testify that you had an insider in the Panthers, you wouldn't have to identify that insider. Or if you did, I was dead and that would be that. But I wouldn't get the same courtesy. If I wasn't charged and tried along with the rest of the gang, they'd know it was me. And if they were told that I made a deal to testify in exchange for my freedom, it would be the same endgame." Neal paused and closed his eyes against the pain of the decision he'd made. "You stayed in New York for me. I left New York for you."

"I wish you'd told me what you were planning."

"I couldn't. You'd have to lie under oath. No matter what avenue I explored, the only one that wasn't a dead end was faking my own death."

"Still, it was a horrible thing to do."

Neal heard Peter's grief in every syllable. "I'm sorry. I loved the life I had in New York. Remember what I told you that day, when Keller had kidnapped Elizabeth?"

Peter nodded. "How could I forget? You stayed because of me, because of all the good things you had in your life there."

"Every time I tried to leave, I turned back. You always brought me back, Peter. This time, I couldn't risk it. If anything happened to you or Elizabeth or the baby because of me, I don't know what I'd do." Neal nearly sobbed that last word. A year's worth of his own pent up grief tried to welled up and spill out. "Sorry."

The wind picked up and the promise of clear skies disappeared. Neal's newspaper almost blew off the table and the napkins scattered.

Peter, thankfully, ignored the emotional outburst and gestured towards the cafe, "Shall we go in? Don't feel like getting drenched."

"My apartment is on this block. We can talk there."

Neal handed Peter the newspaper and held onto his hat as they ran across the street. The wind was blowing and the first raindrops started to fall as Neal opened the front door of his apartment building. From the exterior, it didn't hold much promise, but the inside was an Art Nouveau gem, complete with swirling wrought iron and softly colored tile work. He led Peter over to the elevator, an elaborate birdcage-like structure that slowly creaked its way to the top of the building.

Unlike his last abode, he needed a key to enter this apartment. Neal unlocked the door and pushed it open, gesturing for Peter to precede him.

And as he expected, Peter came to a dead stop and laughed. "What's the expression the French use? The more things change…"

"I think you mean, plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose."

"Yeah, that's it."

His apartment wasn't quite the same as the place he'd left behind, but it was close - practically a mirror image. At his request, June had shipped some of his favorite pieces of artwork along with Byron's - no, his - clothes. It wasn't just the art on the walls, but the overall layout - a small kitchenette to the right, a seating area to the left and then the bedroom. The dining table, a fireplace against the far wall. And the terrace. The exterior space was tiny, especially compared to the vast expanse he had in New York. And of course, this was Paris and the view was not of a hundred skyscrapers, but of copper mansard roofs and the Eiffel Tower.

"Only you, Neal. Only you would leave one magnificent apartment behind just to find another, almost identical one. But somehow, I don't think this is costing you seven hundred a month."

Neal shook his head. "No, it's not. I own it. It was June's. She and Byron acquired it in the seventies. Cindy lived here when she was studying at the Ecole de Beaux Arts. June was considering selling it and allowed me to buy it."

Neal could see the wheels turning in Peter's brain. He knew Peter was dying to ask how he could afford it. But Peter didn't ask.

Neal volunteered the answer, though. "She sold it to me for twenty thousand Euros. The equivalent to the purchase price she and Byron paid in 1972. Pretty much wiped me out until I could get settled."

Peter shook his head. "That sounds almost too incredible to believe, and exactly like something June would do for you."

"Yes, I don't know what I would have done if I had to cut that tie, too." Neal went to the refrigerator and pulled out two bottles of Stella Artois. "Couldn't find your favorite brand in Paris. I hope this will do."

Peter took the beer and wandered around the apartment. He paused at a large cloth-covered object on a table. "Your latest masterpiece?"

Neal smiled. "You can look if you'd like."

Peter tossed back the cloth and stepped back, completely shocked. More than a dozen small birds - some yellow, some brown, and a few that were bordering on pink instantly woke up. "Canaries?"

"Yeah." Neal pulled the cover completely off the cage and the birds started singing. "I rescued them. They're good company. All guys, by the way. "

Peter shook his head in amusement. "Forever the white knight, Neal?"

"Yeah."

Peter sat down. "Why now, Neal? Why not just let us think you were gone forever?"

Neal join him at the table. "I actually didn't think my plan would work. There were so many holes in it. I was half-hoping you'd see through it."

Peter looked at him, confused. "Really?"

"For starters, they gave you the slug. Did my body have any surgical scars?"

Peter closed his eyes and Neal could almost see him remembering. "No. Of course not. You were perfect except for the hole in your chest. I didn't even think about that."

"And I thought you might even check for a pulse."

"I couldn't bear it. But I would have found one if I was patient. You used puffer fish toxin, right?"

"You noticed the picture."

"I know it slows down the heart rate, inducing near-death like catatonia. You could have accomplished in reality what you were trying to fake. You take too many risks."

Neal shrugged. "I knew what I was doing."

Peter stared at him over the beer bottle. "You didn't answer my question, Neal. Why now? Why give me the wine? Why leave the clues?"

"The Panthers are in prison, now. You've testified. All of the links back to me are broken. You're safe. Moz is safe. June's safe. I couldn't bear it anymore."

The rain outside battered against the windows and the sky darkened as the summer storm picked up in intensity. The weather echoed the suddenly dark mood in the apartment.

"I've missed you, Neal." Peter took a swallow of beer. "A day didn't go by that I didn't think of you. That I didn't see you out of the corner of my eye. That I didn't think, 'Neal would get such a kick out this.' Then I remembered - you were dead and I couldn't share anything with you anymore. My heart broke all over again." Peter put down the bottle and rubbed his eyes.

Neal felt his own emotions teeter on the edge. He took a deep breath and fought to keep control. "I'm sorry. I couldn't see any other way out." He stood up and went over to the window, watching the rain. "Keller said something to me, just before it ended."

"What?"

"That Kate was dead the moment she met me." Neal took a shuddering breath, still fighting against his tears. "I know he was trying to cause me the maximum amount of pain, trying to get me off-guard. It worked, in a way. His words have haunted me, because I think about Kate and then I have to think about what happened to Ellen. What Rachel did to herself. What happened to Elizabeth. What happened to you. What happened to Mozzie, twice. How many people have been hurt, killed, died, nearly lost everything because I was involved in their life? Because of who I was? I did this to keep that from happening ever again."

Peter got up and joined him at the window and Neal took comfort from a closeness he'd longed for but had denied even wanting.

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

Peter understood everything Neal said to him. He even agreed with it, intellectually. But he still couldn't accept it. The pain he'd suffered felt so pointless. "I almost didn't come."

Neal turned to look at him, shocked.

"I have a life I love, a family that needs me. If I missed you, it was because I missed our friendship. But I didn't miss the constant fear, the endless lack of trust. The unceasing worry." Peter knew his words were harsh, but he needed to give vent to some of the anger.

Neal nodded. "I understand that. And one of the reasons why I waited this long was because I knew you needed to be with your family. You have a wife and son who needs and deserves a father who comes home every night after spending a day doing nothing more strenuous than signing budget approvals."

Peter sighed, a little more in control. "But I did miss my friend. I missed him when I came out of the delivery room to tell my family that my wife and son were beautiful and healthy. Damn it, Neal - you were supposed to have been there! Why weren't you?" Peter just let it go, let the tears fall. He leaned his head against the cool glass. "You were gone and I missed you."

"I wanted to be there. I wanted, like hell to be there. I wanted to see your face when you held your son for the first time. I wanted to hear the details of every first moment of his life. I'd asked June to let me know that everything was okay, but I told her not to tell me any details. I knew I couldn't stay away if she did."

Peter felt another moment of shock ripple through him. He'd figured that June would have told Neal everything. "So you don't know?"

"Know what?" Neal's voice was filled with anxiety. "What happened?"

Peter smiled. "Nothing bad." He pulled out his phone and turned it on. His son's face, wearing the serious expression that only newborns can achieve, glowed from the screen. "Meet Neal Michael Burke."

Neal took the phone and his whole face crumpled. "Neal? You named your son after me?" Neal stepped back and crashed into a chair. Peter helped him sit.

"Yeah. I named him after my best friend."

Neal wouldn't relinquish the phone and repeated in disbelief, "You named him after me."

Peter felt the last of his anger evaporate. "He's actually quite like his namesake."

"You named him after me." Neal was still staring at the phone. "You named him after me."

"Yes, Neal. I did." Peter gently pried the phone out of Neal's hands and turned on the photo album feature. "You can see what a charmer he is." He gave the phone back to Neal, who flicked through the images and kept muttering to himself, "You named him after me."

Peter smiled, not quite understanding Neal's bemusement.

Neal finally gave the phone back to him. "Had I known, I would have come home. I would have been back before Elizabeth was home from the hospital. Nothing would have kept me away. I've missed so much."

Ah. "And will you come home, now?"

Neal wouldn't meet his eyes. "Don't ask me that."

"Why not? There are people who love you, who need you. You've told me how much you miss us all."

"I can't go back. Neal Caffrey's dead."

"But Danny Brooks isn't." Peter pulled something out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Neal. "This is as legit as mine. Danny Brooks lives, has a valid social security number, a birth certificate. Everything that a citizen needs."

Neal flipped through the passport and put it down. "I have a life here. A job."

"Yes, I know. Georges Duval is the hottest name in museum security systems these days. Just won a major contract with the Louvre." Peter couldn't keep the grin off his face. "I'm proud of you. Very proud."

"I was afraid you'd think that I was taunting you with that article. That I had robbed the museum and they were upgrading their security in response."

Peter shook his head. "No. The message you wrote with everything in that shipping container was very clear - you were giving back the rest of your ill-gotten stash. The Degas, the scarab - which I had no idea you had, the macuahuitl you took from Forsythe, which I sort of suspected that you lifted. All of that reinforced what you told me that night, before all hell broke loose. You were going straight. I believed you then. I believed you when I told the FBI that you deserved your freedom. I still believed it when I spoke at your memorial service."

Neal ducked his head, his cheeks were bright red.

"You knew about that?"

"June recorded your eulogy. I didn't ask her to, but she did and she sent it to me. It helped me through some very dark nights."

Peter felt the tears well up again. "Then it was worth it."

"Have you told Elizabeth that I'm alive?"

"Of course." Peter smiled at the memory. "She wanted me to kick your ass, by the way."

"Is she still angry?"

"Not anymore. But I think her anger was more for my pain, and of course, for Mozzie's." Peter pulled one more item from his jacket, a letter. "She asked me to give this to you." Peter dropped it on the table.

"What does it say?"

"I don't know. I don't read my wife's correspondence."

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

Neal looked at the letter and back at Peter, who was wearing that smile. The one that always made him worry, just a bit, at what was going to happen next.

There was so much history between him and Elizabeth. A relationship separate from the one he had with Peter - in all its facets. Peter might be his lodestone, his magnetic north. But Elizabeth had always been his guiding star. He'd missed her wisdom, her kindness, her generosity. He'd missed her friendship as much as he'd missed Peter's.

And he'd left New York because he couldn't stay and watch her husband constantly tear himself in two. She asked him to protect Peter. He would have taken a bullet for him.

And in a way, he did.

"Aren't you going to read it?"

Neal was surprised at how his hands shook when he picked up the letter. This was worse than revealing himself to Moz, who still hadn't quite forgiven him. His friend had rushed to Paris, berated him for an hour, then suggested that they relieve his new employer of a certain set of Renaissance paintings that he'd always admired - Guiseppe Arcimbaldo's vegetable portraits. Neal had declined and Moz had stormed out in high dudgeon.

He'd be back in a few days. Of that, Neal was certain. Moz would eventually reconcile himself to Neal's newly stainless life and they'd fall back into their rhythm.

Peter didn't hover. Neal watched as Peter knelt in front of the cage and watched the birds flutter around. They'd need to be fed soon.

He toyed with the envelope, which was strangely heavy. Elizabeth must have written quite some letter. Neal slipped a finger under the flap and opened it. He pulled out a single page - but there was something else in there. Whatever it was was wrapped in another small envelope. Neal ignored it in favor of Elizabeth's words.



For the third, or maybe the twentieth time today, Neal felt himself on the verge of tears. Of all the gifts he'd ever received in his life, of everything he'd ever stolen, the love that Peter gave him was the most valuable of all. They hadn't shared a bed all that often, a few dozen times across the span of years they'd worked together. It was hard to make love when there was too much mistrust between them. And Peter wanted him to have stability and security, and had seen Sara as the key to that.

They hadn't been together since just before Peter had been arrested for Pratt's murder - the afternoon before everything went bad at the Empire State Building. They'd gone upstairs and made love in the guest room. It had been a hurried coupling, almost frenzied. Brutal and animalistic in a way that they'd never been like before. For a long time, Neal had regretted that afternoon. It was a terrible memory to live on for all the weeks that Peter had been in jail, for the horrible months that followed when they all but hated each other.

But this year, Neal was reconciled to that memory. There were so many nights when he could still feel Peter's hot hands on him, the roughness of his gun calluses as he gripping his hips, as he stroked his cock, bringing him to the edge of completion and then drawing back. Neal would touch his shoulder and he wished he could still feel the imprint of Peter's teeth marking him, claiming him as his own.

He might have resented the fact that their last coupling was so brutal, but he never regretted the act itself.

"You okay?" Peter's question yanked him back to the present.

Neal nodded, bereft of words. He picked up the small envelope that Elizabeth had included with her letter and opened it. He was expecting to find baby pictures. Instead, a wrapped condom and a packet of lube slipped out.

Neal started laughing. And he couldn't stop. He gasped for air, but the laughter was uncontrollable. And then he started to cry. For himself, for everything he'd left behind, for the people he loved and hurt in his absence. He cried and it felt like something was being ripped out of him. Maybe he had cried like this when Kate was killed, but he couldn't remember feeling such pure agony.

"Hey, hey." Peter wrapped his arms around him and held him. One hand stroked his back, another held his head. "Shhh, I've got you. It's okay, it's okay."

Neal wasn't sure how long he clung to Peter, as helpless as a baby. As his namesake. And that thought sent him off in another wave of grief.

He let Peter take him into the bedroom area and start to undress him. He struggled, a little.

"Shhh, let me take care of you."

Of everything, those words soothed Neal. He relaxed into Peter as Peter sat him on the bed. First his shoes and socks, and Peter's hand lingered on his left ankle, where the tracker used to rest.

He confessed, almost against his will, "I miss it sometimes. I miss knowing that you're there, watching out for me."

Peter's laughter was a comfort. "And you teased me about my separation anxiety."

"I know." Neal felt lightheaded - from the crying, from the waves of emotion that had almost pulled him out to sea. "I didn't expect to feel that."

"I could always put one back on you." Peter eased him out of his suit jacket, loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt.

"Not funny, Agent Burke."

But Peter didn't laugh. "I had joked once with Elizabeth about getting a tracker for the baby. I never made that joke again."

Neal raised his hips as Peter stripped off his pants, but left his shorts on. Somehow, he was under the covers and he couldn't ever remember being this tired. It might have been early evening in early summer, but the storm - now dying off - was still smothering the sunlight and the room was as dark as if it were a winter day.

The dimness was soothing and he closed his eyes. He listened to the once familiar sounds of Peter getting undressed. The bed dipped slightly as he joined him.

Neal rolled over and rested his head on Peter's shoulder. He sighed in pure pleasure as those strong arms wrapped around him and for the first time in a year, he didn't fall asleep to the echo of bitter regret.

FIN