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elrhiarhodanTitle: Return and Rebuild the Desolate Places – Chapter Thirty of Thirty
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, Mozzie, Reese Hughes, Clinton Jones, Diana Berrigan, Olivia Benson (L&O: SVU), Section Chief Bruce (McKinsey) Original Characters
Spoilers: White Collar, all of Season 5; no specific spoilers for L&O: SVU, but set in Season 15. No spoilers for Season 6, A/U from S5 finale forward.
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Kidnapping, torture (off-camera), rape (off-camera),
Word Count: This chapter – ~8,600 / ~90,000
Beta Credit:sinfulslasher
Story Summary: Six months after Neal disappears, Peter still has no answers and his decision not to go to Washington has had significant repercussions for both his career and his marriage.
Chapter Summary: Neal finds the courage he needs to leave the safety of his apartment. He has to go see Peter, but when he arrives at the FBI Building, he's greeted with some unexpected news. And when he finally does talk with Peter, he gets the shock of his life.
__________________
Previous Chapters: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen | Chapter Nineteen | Chapter Twenty | Chapter Twenty-One | Chapter Twenty-Two | Chapter Twenty-Three | Chapter Twenty-Four | Chapter Twenty-Five | Chapter Twenty-Six | Chapter Twenty-Seven | Chapter Twenty-Eight | Chapter Twenty-Nine
A/N: Title from Alan Hovhaness’ wind concerto, which takes it from the Old Testament.
Art bykanarek13
Sometime in Late April – Wednesday Afternoon
Neal's cell phone buzzed with an incoming text. It was Peter.
You doing okay?
He responded quickly. I'm fine.
Feel like a visit tonight?
He hadn't seen Peter since Friday night, since their argument, or whatever it actually was. Because an argument takes two people, and he was the only one who was angry. And although Peter had stayed away – he'd gone to D.C. for the weekend and been back since early Monday morning – he hadn't cut off communications.
The first email arrived about an hour after Peter had left the apartment – just long enough to go home to that empty house in Brooklyn. The message was short and it made Neal laugh and cry at the same time. It was a picture of the infamous "grumpy cat" with the caption, Sun is out, flowers are blooming, sky is blue. Go fuck yourself. Underneath the macro was a simple message, "Call me if you need me. Or, even if you don't need me."
Neal hadn't called, but he emailed back, with an equally silly dog GIF – a six month old golden retriever puppy endlessly chasing its tail and falling on its face. He hadn't included a message, but that hadn't stopped Peter from responding with another ridiculous cat picture. The silly emails had continued through the weekend, punctuated by the occasional text.
On Monday, Peter had asked if he could stop by. Neal had put him off, and Peter hadn't pressed. Nor had he reminded him about his physical therapy appointment that night. He got another text on Tuesday with a similar request. Again, he told Peter he wasn't up for company, and had been surprised that Peter had actually respected his request. He was certain that Peter would just show up and had even texted back, around eight that evening, asking if everything was okay. It was. Peter had gone home and that had been that.
Now, Neal was debating whether to tell Peter to come by. The evenings were long. Moz had been in residence over the weekend, but on Monday, he'd taken off for Boston or Detroit or Trenton, someplace that needed his attention. Moz hadn't been too clear on the wheres or whys; all he said was that he needed to go out of town, but he was reachable if necessary.
It had been three days, and Neal missed Moz, except that he didn't miss the constant push to leave New York, which had become incessant since the tracker came off. June was a soothing presence, never urging him to do more than keep his doctors' appointments and take care of himself. Moz, though, didn't want to accept Neal's limitations and Neal was tired of listening to him make plans that were never going to happen.
His phone pinged again. Neal?
As lonely as he was, Neal wasn't sure he was ready to see Peter. Not 2nite sorry
Okay
The texts stopped and Neal figured that Peter was heading into a meeting. Maybe he'd bite the bullet and call him tonight. They could talk about things; maybe Peter could run some of his current cases by him. Neal missed that. And he missed Peter's gentle, relentless pressure to do everything he needed to do to heal physically and psychologically. The love – and he knew it was love, not guilt – was like a soft down comforter.
If only he could just step outside.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sometime in Late April – Early Friday Afternoon
It was strange to be so footloose.
This wasn't like that difficult interval after he'd been suspended for punching Fowler, when it all went to shit on the runway. Then, he was focused on getting his badge back and getting Neal out of jail. He hadn't really had time to just relax and take it easy.
Not that he really was relaxing and taking it easy.
Wednesday, after leaving the office for the last time, he'd texted Neal and asked if he was up for a visit. Neal had taken a few minutes to respond and Peter had hoped that it was a good sign, that he'd say yes, and give him the green light to resume their friendship.
No, that wasn't right. They were still friends and the meltdown on Friday was really nothing worse than any of the other hiccups in their relationship. When he'd told Elizabeth about what had happened, she said it was a good sign – that Neal was finally pushing back at him. El was right, Neal had become very passive-aggressive and he'd been expending a lot of energy trying to get Neal to take some action.
El suggested that he let Neal set the pace, as long as he kept in contact with him. She said he shouldn't let more than a few hours go by without reaching out, as casually as possible, but not to push things. That was a hard bit of advice to follow, especially when he'd made a career out of pushing things, especially with Neal.
And it was hard to believe his career was officially over. He wasn't unhappy about it and he had no regrets, but it was just a little strange not to get up in the morning, dress in a suit and tie, clip his badge on his belt, get his gun out of the safe and drive to work. It had only been two days, he still had to get used to all of this free time.
Or more accurately, all of this unstructured time, because it wasn't as if he was lazing around the house, watching early season Yankees games.
There were plenty of things he had to do.
And he wanted to do none of them right now. The house was clean, the dog was washed, there was food in the fridge for the weekend – El would be home tomorrow morning. Bills were paid; all of the accumulated papers from the last few months were sorted and filed. Yesterday had been all about efficiency.
Today was all about planning for the future.
He'd finished reading the paperwork for the mortgage pre-qualification, filled in some numbers, did some calculations, redid those calculations without El's salary, and confirmed that they didn't have to sell this house to afford the property they were considering in Maryland. Of course, it would be easier if they rented this place. If everything worked out as they hoped, they would do that for a few years, and then sell it when the time was right.
It was really amazing how much cheaper everything was in Maryland, and even in Northern Virginia, at least compared to New York. He and El had bought this place a few years before Brooklyn became Hipster Central and the price of residential real estate went nuts. They could easily get several million for the house now, despite the lack of a first floor bathroom.
The place they were most interested in, the one they'd seen last weekend, had four bedrooms, four baths, a pool and best of all, a small, completely finished guesthouse. It would be perfect for Neal.
But until he talked to Neal, until he got the sense that leaving New York permanently was a possibility, none of this paperwork mattered. And based on what Elizabeth had said this past weekend, if Neal wasn't interested in having a place with them in D.C., if he felt he'd never be able to leave New York, she was going to leave her job at the National Gallery and resume her life here.
Peter was fine with either decision, although the place in Maryland was really nice. They could even have horses.
The alarm on his phone buzzed, reminding Peter that he needed to connect with Neal. He thought about calling, but he still wasn't sure that was a good idea. Neal was comfortable with his emails and the texts, calling might still be too much.
Miss you. Up for company tonight?
Peter pressed "send" and put the phone down, willing himself not to hold onto it while he waited for Neal's answer.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Miss you. Up for company tonight?
Neal looked at his phone and bit his lip. He missed Peter, too. And this self-imposed separation seemed stupid and pointless now.
It was so beautiful outside – the perfect spring day in New York. Bright blue sky, high clouds drifting lazily in the breeze; and the birds – they were going crazy after the almost endless winter. Their chirping began at dawn and continued through the day, a riot of sound that Neal had always loved. In earlier years, he'd have his first cup of coffee out on the terrace and listen to the birdsong. First were the city sparrows, more cheeping than tuneful. The pigeons would start with their mournful cooing, and then the rest of the flock – the cardinals and warblers and other denizens of the nearby park – would soon join in.
One memorable March morning two years ago, he'd even seen a bald eagle soaring on the rising thermals. A much smaller falcon – probably one of the local peregrines – went after it, fiercely defending its territory. The eagle flapped its wings, screamed once, and wheeled away, not interested in going into battle over the local pigeon population.
Nature, red in tooth and claw, was never all that far away. Not even here in Manhattan. He missed it. He missed so damn much. Just going out to the corner coffee shop for an espresso. Or for a walk with June. A visit to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Or the Whitney. Or even the Rubin, all the way downtown. It used to be just on the outer edge of his radius, but he didn't have a radius anymore. He could go to the Bruce Museum in Greenwich, Connecticut. But he had to be able to leave his apartment first.
That was the biggest stumbling block of all.
Yesterday, June had taken him to his shrink appointment, and Neal didn't want to think about how much time she'd spent coaxing him downstairs and outside. He'd felt like such an idiot. When he'd told his doctor, who specialized in helping victims of violent crimes, she had strongly urged him to accept a prescription for a very mild dose of Ativan. Worried that he'd become addicted to the drug, he'd refused her earlier offers.
She'd asked him, "Have you ever had a problem with drugs? Prescription drugs?"
"No. But I tend to get very – ummm – loopy on them." He explained what had happened with Doctor Summers and her special "Goodnight Cinderella" concoction.
She'd been appalled. "Now I can understand your lack of trust with me."
Neal had brushed her concerns away. "It was not a therapeutic session. It was for a case." He didn't tell her he'd gotten his revenge easily enough.
The doctor had still insisted, "Look, how about I write you a script for ten pills at the lowest dosage? You can't refill the prescription and I won't write another one for you if I have any concerns about abuse or overmedication."
Neal had finally agreed.
The doctor had given him one more piece of advice. "If you can bring yourself to leave your apartment without taking one, carry the bottle with you. This way, if you have a panic attack, you'll have the medication if you need it."
The advice was sound and before he could overthink it, he'd given the script to June, who'd been splendid about going to the pharmacy for him.
The bottle of pills was on the table, within reach. Right next to his phone. And not so far from the pile of papers that the Marshals needed him to sign, papers that Neal still hadn't sent over to Peter. He really did need to take care of that, before the Marshals came back. And there was something else he needed to give to Peter.
He didn't let himself think about what he was doing. He grabbed the papers, his phone and the bottle of pills and went into the closet and got a hat and jacket, a wallet with some of his "spare" identification and a bit of cash. And something that Peter had given him a long time ago, something he'd once given back, something he'd once left behind. Something that symbolized a life he'd once both loved and resented.
His consultant's identification.
Neal rubbed his thumb over the plastic encased document and he could hear Peter telling him, "Figured if we didn't, you'd end up making one of these on your own."
Neal was out the door and down the stairs before he could change his mind. June was having lunch with Cindy and the household staff was elsewhere.
For just a second, at the front door, Neal felt like he had the day he walked out of Sing-Sing, dressed in the guard uniform he'd bought with the warden's wife's American Express. It felt like he was escaping prison. What was the man's name? Neal opened the door and as he put his foot on the top step, he remembered. Haskley. He'd been a little nebbish of a man, so obviously ill-suited to running a maximum security penitentiary, so easy to manipulate.
Neal kept thinking about Haskley and how he'd responded to Neal's simple flattery all the way to the corner of 78th and Riverside. Without considering what he was doing, he raised his hand as a sea of yellow cabs cruised by. One pulled over, in front of him and Neal stared at the door.
The driver opened the passenger side window and shouted at him, "You going to get in, mon? Don't have all day."
Neal took a deep breath and opened the door. He remembered the time that Peter had hailed cab after cab and he'd kept letting the pretty models take their places, because it was just so much fun to annoy Peter.
"Where to, mon?"
"The FBI Building, thanks."
"Sheesh, mon. You want to go all the way into midtown during lunch hour; you'd better relax and be patient. It's going to be a loooong ride." The cabbie shook his head and the beads decorating his dreadlocks clattered pleasantly.
It was a long ride, but Neal found it hard to relax. He thought about asking the driver to lock the back doors so no one could reach in and drag him out, and then rethought that idea. If the doors were open, he could jump out if the driver decided to go for a little detour.
So he watched the passing scenery and forced himself to remember the last time he was at a particular point in the route. Sometimes he remembered waiting on a corner with Moz, sometimes he remembered walking two steps behind Vincent Adler on that street, but most of his memories were about treks with Peter. They probably had walked the entire length and breadth of the city – at least Manhattan – over the years.
He missed that.
"Almost there, mon. You doin' okay?" The cabbie turned to look at him as they were stopped at the light at 59th and Broadway. "You seem a little pale."
Neal smiled and the gesture felt natural, for the first time in a long time. "It's been a long winter, didn't get out much."
The cabbie nodded. "Ah, yeah, it was a hell of a winter. The sunshine's back and all too soon, we'll be complainin' about the heat and the humidity."
"The New Yorker's conversation – when all else fails, bitch about the weather."
"That's right, man. The weather – she's a bitch sometimes. But not today. Today's glorious. Today's a day to make a man happy he's alive."
The cab lurched forward and turned the corner. Neal clung to the suicide strap. They were at the corner of Sixth and 54th and Neal felt his heart start to race. Almost there, almost safe.
No. Not almost safe. He was safe. No one was going to hurt him. No one.
The cab pulled up in front of the FBI Building and Neal paid the fare and a generous tip. "Thanks for the ride, man."
"Hey, mon – no problem. You have a good day in this sunshine."
"I'll try."
"No, don't try – do."
Neal laughed, "Thanks, Yoda."
The cabbie chuckled and honked as he pulled away from the curb.
Neal took a deep breath and looked up at the building that had helped define his life for so long. He remembered all the times he'd entered this building with Peter at his side and put one foot in front of the other. He didn't see masked faces in the shadows, just memories of good times.
He could do this.
The guard at the front desk actually recognized him. "Hey, Mr. Caffrey, it's been a while. You doing okay?"
Neal wondered how much the guard knew. He decided that he probably didn't know – why would he? "Doing fine, thanks."
He walked over to the bank of elevators and the guard called after him. "Sorry – need you to sign in if you don't work here anymore."
"Ah, right." As he scrawled his name in the log book, Neal thought about flashing his consultant's ID, if just for old time's sake.
He waited for the elevator and felt the sweat pool at the base of his spine and his heart began to race again. He reached for the bottle of pills, not to take one, but to reassure himself they were there if he needed one. At that thought, Neal laughed to himself. It seemed like the shrink knew what she was doing.
The elevator made a few stops, people got in and got out – but no one Neal recognized. This was okay, no one was going to snatch him from an elevator car in the middle of the day. But he still kept his back to the wall and his eyes fixed firmly on the security camera. It took one minute and forty-seven seconds to travel from the ground floor to the twenty-first, except that it felt like a lifetime.
No one else got off with him and Neal was immeasurably grateful that there was no one from the White Collar division waiting in the lobby. The last time he had been here, Peter was packing up his office and Neal had promised him that he was going to visit so often, they'd have to kick him out.
That was a good memory, a good place to stop the tape. Because everything that happened after that was … No. No. No. He pushed open the familiar glass doors.
"Neal?" Allen, the guard at the door, greeted him with a huge smile. "Good to see you!"
This time, Neal felt like his smile was plastered on. "Good to see you, too." Before he could ask to see Peter, which was another kind of strangeness, he was mobbed by a sea of smiling, familiar faces.
There was Andrea, Peter's admin. Price and Winters and Cohen, three of the division's most seasoned agents. Other faces, familiar and friendly, but no Peter.
Everyone started talking at once and it seemed like the walls were closing in. But Neal kept smiling. He kept looking up at Peter's office, but it was dark. Was Peter gone for the day?
Someone grabbed his hand and Neal almost – almost but didn't – scream. It was Jones. He was smiling too, but Neal saw something behind his eyes – compassion and worry. "Come on, guys – give Neal some space."
The pressure from the crowd receded and Neal caught his breath and his sanity. He thanked everyone for their concern and their good wishes, for the flowers and fruit baskets and everything else that had been sent to the hospital and to his apartment.
Eventually, they all went back to their desks, but Neal could feel the weight of their collective gaze.
"Come upstairs, okay?" Clinton gestured up towards Peter's old office.
"You've been promoted again?"
Clinton nodded but didn't elaborate.
Neal sat down in the same chair he'd occupied so many times. "So, how does it feel to be upstairs?"
"Good. Really good. Got my own task force, too."
"Nice." This felt so weird and awkward. "Thanks for rescuing me, back down there."
"No problem. I figured you were feeling a little overwhelmed – you had that deer caught in the headlights look on your face."
"Yeah, I'm not surprised. It was a bit much. But it's nice to be missed."
"True, true." Clinton cleared his throat and asked awkwardly, "What brings you back here? I mean not that there's a problem with you visiting, but I'd think this isn't a place you'd just casually pop into."
Neal wondered if Clinton knew about his problems. "I have some paperwork for the Marshals, I thought I'd drop it off and surprise Peter." He pulled out the papers and tapped them against his knee. He didn't take out his ID folder – that was for Peter and Peter alone.
"Peter? Here?"
"Yeah, here. Peter Burke, Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the White Collar Division? I think you know him, he's been your boss for a few years."
"Have you seen Peter recently?" Now Clinton was giving him a funny look.
"Not since last Friday, when the word came that the rest of my sentence was commuted." He sighed. "I behaved like a bit of an asshole and we both decided that we needed a little space. We've been in touch, though. Why?"
Clinton wiped his mouth and didn't answer right away.
"What's going on?" Neal couldn't begin to imagine what the problem was. "Peter's okay? He texted me a few hours ago."
"Peter retired."
"What?"
"He retired, effective Wednesday."
"I don't understand. Peter retired. From the Bureau?"
Clinton nodded. "He didn't talk about it with you?"
Neal shook his head. "No, not at all. We've talked about a few of his current cases – he asked for my opinion on a couple of fraud schemes, but he said nothing about leaving the Bureau." Neal felt heartsick. This was his fault; it seemed that he couldn't escape the collateral damage.
Clinton looked like he was about to say something, but changed his mind. "He's retired and he's happy about it."
"How can he be?"
"Maybe you should go ask him?"
"Right, right." Neal got up, eager to get out of there. But before he left, he tossed the papers he'd brought with him onto the desk. "Listen, could you take care of this for me? Send it over to the Marshals so they don't come banging on June's door, again."
"Sure." Clinton took the papers. "I probably should say something about if you're ever interested in coming back, in any capacity, we could probably make something work – but that doesn't seems very appropriate."
Neal laughed, but he didn't quite feel the humor. "I think, at this point, my answer would have to be no, anyway."
"Right. Neal– take care of yourself. And stay in touch, okay?"
"I promise." Neal reached into his pocket and clasped the bottle of Ativan. He had to get to Brooklyn first. Then, maybe he would take a pill.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter checked his phone, still no response from Neal. He was tempted to call June, but didn't. There were any number of reasons why Neal hadn't responded, and none of them were sinister. He'd give it a few more hours before hitting the panic button and heading over to Manhattan.
Besides, he had a reason to visit. He had a gift for Neal – it arrived with the day's mail. Tonight, they'd talk – really talk. He'd tell Neal about his retirement, he'd make Neal understand that he was happy with this development, because that was the goddamn absolute truth.
And he had other, even more important news to share.
But that was for this evening. Right now, he deserved a little reward for all his hard work. He was going to go out for a run.
Already dressed in workout clothes and sneakers – his usual around-the-house attire – Peter grabbed his keys, the slimmed down version of his wallet he kept for just such occasions, and his phone. He wasn't going far, probably around the block, up through the park, and back – his regular route. The run would clear his head, settle him down, help him work through problems.
He'd always loved running, and if there was one thing he regretted about living in the Northeast it was that he was usually restricted to treadmills and indoor tracks in the winter – especially the past few, which had been unusually cold and snowy.
But the snow and the cold were gone, hopefully for the next eight months, and he could indulge himself to his heart's content. Or at least until his aging knees started to protest.
Satchmo looked up as he went to the door, saw what Peter was planning and went back to his doggy dreams with a contented sigh. The Lab had never been a runner and once he'd left puppyhood, he became the worst possible running partner. Actually, even as a puppy, he'd been terrible.
"Watch the house, boy. I'll be back soon."
Satch didn't bother to reply.
It was as perfect a spring day as Peter could remember. Last weekend, when he'd visited El, he'd gotten up early and had a run along the Washington Mall. A few of the famous cherry trees were still in blossom and the air smelled sweet, but there were thousands of rats hiding in the shrubbery, too.
If they relocated to Maryland, he wouldn't have the Mall, or even a well-mapped out urban grid to run along. He'd have a few acres of pasture and a country road connecting the property to the nearest town, five miles away. It would certainly be different.
He ran the circuit through the park, past the playground, the dog run, the ball fields, and soon enough, he was back on DeKalb and home was just up the block.
Peter jogged in place for a few seconds, not quite sure he believed what his eyes were seeing. There was a man in a sport coat and a light gray hat sitting on his stoop.
Neal?
He rushed forward, almost tripping on a cracked piece of sidewalk. Peter caught his balance and looked up again. Neal was still there, staring up at the house. As he approached, Neal turned – he probably heard the sound of his feet against the pavement. A small smile curved his lips as Peter came to a halt.
"Nice day for a run."
"Yeah, nice day to be out and about."
Neal took a deep breath and Peter could see him doing his best not to panic at the exposure. But rather than make a big deal out of it, he just climbed the steps and expected Neal to follow.
Satchmo must have sensed Neal, because he practically ran over Peter to get to his old friend. Neal, for his part, relished this reunion, going down on his hands and knees to give the boy an enthusiastic greeting.
Peter let man and dog get reacquainted while he retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge. Watching the two of them play made his heart hurt, in a good way.
Neal got to his feet and Satchmo retreated to his dog bed. Peter stepped aside to let Neal into the kitchen and wash his hands. This all felt so normal, so perfect.
Afraid to shatter the golden mood, he waited for Neal to say something.
"I stopped by the office, had to drop off the papers the Marshals left. I talked to Jones."
"Ah."
"Ah? That's all you're going to say?"
Neal wasn't combative, not like he'd been the last time he'd seen him. But the time for secrets, for evasions, for good intentions and incomplete communications was over. So he put it out there. "I retired. The brass in D.C. asked me to, but it was a decision I'd been seriously thinking about for a long time."
"They asked you to leave because of me, didn't they?"
Peter nodded.
Neal sucked in his breath. "I always knew I'd cost you your career."
"No, Neal – you didn't. I have my twenty years, I've enjoyed my work as a field agent, as a supervisory agent, as ASAC, but I've also come to realize that I have a family that needs me more than I need to be an FBI agent. And I want to be with my family more than I want to be an FBI agent."
Neal stared at him, his eyes almost burning with emotion. "Once, you said I was your family. At that moment, you hadn't seemed too happy about it."
Peter smiled, although the memory that Neal summoned wasn't a happy one. "I wasn't a happy man at that moment. Six weeks behind bars had really messed with my head." And then he winced. "Sorry, you did four years…" And six months in a hell hole enduring the unendurable.
But Neal didn't take offense. "I always knew that prison was a possibility for me, from my earliest criminal efforts. You – you never expected a life behind bars, a life where you spent every moment fearing you'd get shivved because you're a Fed. One day you're facing a life sentence, the next, you're getting a promotion and word that you're being groomed for a chair at the really big table. That has to mess with your head."
Peter nodded sharply, grateful that Neal was able to understand what he'd gone through. After everything. "And to answer the question that you were asking, you are my family. No qualifications."
"Clinton said you seemed happy about this."
"I am." Peter smiled. "I am kind of surprised at how happy I am."
"I always figured they'd be carrying you out feet first."
"Maybe I once thought that, too. But that might have worked for guys like Hughes, who didn't have a family."
"And who had second careers as NSA section chiefs."
Peter just raised an eyebrow.
"Moz told me. He also told me that Reese tried to recruit him for the Company or the Service or whatever they're called."
Peter didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "I can just imagine Mozzie's reaction to that offer."
"I'm not so sure he turned it down. He's been doing a lot of traveling lately."
Peter shook his head in disbelief. "Well, stranger things have happened."
Neal leaned forward, bracing himself against the island countertop and stared at him. "You're really okay with this?"
"I am."
"I think I believe you."
"You should believe me. It's the truth."
Neal went to the fridge and took out a bottle of water, but he didn't open it. Peter watched him drift from the kitchen to the living room, as if he was trying to reground himself in the space. "I'd say I liked what you've done with the place, but I'm not a fan of the half-packed, half-unpacked look."
"It's a work in progress."
Neal picked up one of the framed photos that he'd unpacked when he'd first decided to stay in New York, when he was desperately trying to find his own normal ground. It was the picture of the two of them in their tuxedos, the one that had given Phil Kramer such heartburn. He put it down without commenting and picked up the one that had graced his desk at work, of him and El on their honeymoon.
Peter couldn't take the silence anymore. "I'm glad you're here, Neal. Really glad."
"Aren't you going to ask me how I managed it?"
"If you want to tell me."
"You know, I really kind of hate that passive-aggressive approach. I've been meaning to tell you that. I get it from my therapist, I don't need it from you." Despite the words, Neal didn't seem angry.
"Okay, sorry. For the record, I was kind of shocked to see you at my doorstep, considering how reluctant you are to leave your apartment unless you absolutely have to."
"I saw my shrink yesterday – the MD, not the PhD. She gave me these." Neal pulled a bottle of pills out of his pocket and tossed them to Peter.
"Ativan? For the anxiety? They're helping?"
Neal took the bottle from him and put it back in his pocket. "I haven't taken any, but knowing that I have them got me out of the house and out on the street. And you know what helped me even more?"
Peter shook his head.
"Seeing the city and remembering being with you. There, at Columbus Circle when you half-jokingly accused me of stealing Louis Thayer's Untitled Number 2, or at the corner of Broadway and Sixty-Third, near the old New York Room. You and me – and this city – we're everywhere together. That's what kept me going."
Peter rubbed his eyes, his fingers wet from the tears. "Neal – "
"Last Friday, when I was so stupidly angry at you, I thought of our relationship in terms of some sick co-dependence. I was wrong. We need each other, but not in some terrible, twisted way."
"We're family, Neal." Was that his voice, so harsh?
"Yes, Peter, we are."
Peter gathered his thoughts. Maybe the time was right; maybe there wouldn't ever be a better moment. "Can I show you something?"
Neal nodded.
Peter retrieved a folder from the dining room table and handed it to Neal. "Tell me what you think."
He watched Neal's expression carefully. He could see the curiosity, the appreciation, and a touch of fear.
"It's gorgeous, Peter. Twelve acres of prime Maryland farmland. There's a barn and a fenced in pasture. You'll be able to keep horses."
"Yeah, but that's not the best part of it." He took the folder and turned it towards a very specific page. "This is."
Again, he watched Neal's face, and this time all he saw was confusion. "A guesthouse?"
"It's got two bedrooms, a gourmet kitchen, a full bathroom and a powder room. There's eastern exposure in the living area and a screened in patio with western exposure. I – no we – El and I – thought it would be perfect for you."
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal looked at the glossy real estate brochure and was surprised to see it was shaking. No, his hands were shaking. He put the booklet down and curled his hands into fists.
"Neal?"
"For me?"
"If you want it. If you think you'd like living in Maryland, with us. Even part time. It could be your home base, a place to rest and recharge your batteries. If you were going to travel again, you would always be able to stay with us, in your own private space. It has full security – a single entrance and a panic room, too. So does the main house."
Neal stared at the brochure as Peter rambled on, saying how June was wonderful, that he'd always have a place with her, too. But she was getting older and if there came a time when she couldn't keep the house, Neal would always have a place to come to. A place where he'd be safe, where there were people who loved him. A place with his family. Peter stumbled over his words and when Neal finally looked up, he saw the tears pouring down his friend's face.
"Why are you crying?"
"I don't know." Peter did something that endeared him to Neal like nothing else ever had, he wiped his nose with the back of his hand, looked at the mess and wiped it against his shirt.
"Peter Burke, the world's oldest four-year old boy."
Peter laughed, a watery chuckle. "Sorry about that."
"I'm glad I don't have to do your laundry." Neal joked. If he didn't he might just start crying too.
"What do you think?"
"About this?" He touched the brochure describing all the features of a guesthouse that was probably bigger than the entire Burke home here in Brooklyn. "I think you and Elizabeth are truly wonderful, to do this – for me."
"Is it something you'd consider?"
Neal wanted to scream, yes, yes, yes, but something stopped him. It could have been a caution brought on by too much trauma, or his fear of actually having something he'd never dreamed he could really have, or that perverse imp that delighted in messing up every good thing Peter had done for him. So he just said, "I might. I need to think about it."
"Okay." Peter did seem a little disappointed.
Neal had to know, though. "If I say no, if I say that I want to stay in New York, what happens?"
Peter sighed and smiled. "Then I stay in New York. El leaves the National Gallery and comes back, permanently. We've decided we're not really suited for a bi-city marriage. We need each other too much. Especially now."
"I don't like the idea of Elizabeth giving up her dream job for me. It's bad enough – "
Peter held up a hand, holding him off. "El's not giving up her dream job for you. Just as I didn't leave the FBI because of you – well, not completely. There's another bit of news I was going to share with you tonight, along with my retirement. It's not something I wanted to tell you via text or email."
Neal couldn't begin to imagine what other bombshell Peter was about to drop. And what a bombshell it was.
"El's pregnant." There was such joy in Peter's face that it almost hurt to look at him. "We're going to be parents. She's about three and a half months along. Neither of us wants her to be a married single mother – so we're going to be together, either here in New York or in Maryland. But you're part of us, part of our family. Our child is going to need to grow up knowing his or her godparent."
The news about Elizabeth's pregnancy was almost less shocking than their expectations about him. "Godparent? Me?" Neal heard the squeak in his voice.
"Yes, Neal. You. There's no one I would trust more with my child's well-being than you."
He stood up abruptly and wrapped his arms around himself. This was too much, too much. "I need to go. I need to think about everything. Sorry, sorry. Sorry." His heart was racing and he was panting, trying to drag in enough air.
And Peter was beside him, stroking his back, murmuring that it was okay, that nothing bad was going to happen, he – Peter – wouldn't let it.
The words penetrated the fog of panic and his heart started to beat normally, the buzzing stopped, and he was – amazingly, miraculously – okay. Not perfect, but okay – Peter's hands stroking his back, the damp and sweaty tee-shirt under his cheek were comforting him down to his soul. He didn't know how long he clung to Peter, but as long as Peter didn't care, he wasn't going to move.
"Do you want to take a pill?"
"No, I'm good."
"You sure?" Peter seemed skeptical, but he didn't let go of him.
Neal reassured him. "No, I really am." He took a deep breath and everything felt as close to normal as things felt these days and he finally pulled away. "I didn't say it, but congratulations, Peter. This is wonderful. You must be so thrilled, after everything." Neal couldn't help but remember Elizabeth's distress at the state of her marriage last January, and one of the great pleasures he'd had during his months of recuperation had been watching Peter and Elizabeth do their own healing.
There was still worry in Peter's eyes, worry for him, but that joy was back. "We'd tried, back when we were first married, but then decided we really didn't want children. El had her career, I had mine and it didn't seem fair that either of us would have to make the sacrifices necessary. But we're at a point in our lives now when this makes perfect sense."
"And you really want me to be your offspring's godparent?"
"Yes, absolutely. It's a big responsibility; do you think you're up for it?"
Neal was curious, "What are a godparent's duties? I didn't have one, you know – so I haven't the slightest clue what I'm supposed to do."
Peter stroked his chin and Neal thought he saw a spark of mischief there. "Well, you'd need to teach him or her how to pick a lock."
Neal stared at Peter, not certain he heard what he thought he had heard.
"And how to recreate some fine Italian Renaissance bronze medals out of chocolate."
A bubble of laughter escaped his lips. "Peter!"
"Hush, I am serious. Let's see – no forging antique spirits, at least not until he or she's old enough to drink. But since I think that most children are natural con artists, I'm pretty certain you'll have no problem developing your own curriculum."
Neal shook his head. "Stop teasing me."
Peter did, and smiled at him. "Okay. I expect you to teach my son or daughter the things you are best at – loyalty, generosity, creativity. Love. Can you do that?"
"I can try." Neal then remembered the cabbie's words to him. "No, I can do."
"So, you'll think about the place in Maryland?"
"Yes. When do you need to know?"
"The place has been on the market for a few months without any offers, so there's no immediate rush. El's going to be moving back to New York in a few weeks, regardless. Once the morning sickness starts, I don't want her to be alone."
Neal opened his mouth to point out the obvious, but Peter continued. "And her apartment is small and there isn't room for two adults and a dog. Besides, I'm not leaving you behind, so get used to it."
This was getting to be a bit too much. Not that he felt panicky, but simply overwhelmed. "I think I need to think about this, on my own."
"Okay, but I have one more thing for you."
"Seriously, Peter? How much more do you think I can take?"
Peter didn't say anything as he picked up a box on the coffee table and handed it to him. "I got this for you."
Neal made a joke, "My birthday was last month. You already gave me a wonderful present." Peter had given him a pair of dog socks, hot pink ones with poodles on them.
"This isn't a birthday present, but I think you might want it. Or maybe not."
Neal took the box; it was badly wrapped in thick brown paper – quite possibly a recycled bag from Trader Joe's. "Elegant."
"Shut up and open it."
"Nice, Peter. Very nice."
He pulled the paper apart slowly, knowing he was tormenting Peter. And then he stopped, overwhelmed all over again. "Peter…"
"I know that you're not really a watch guy, and gadgets are a means to an end for you, but I couldn't forget what you'd said to me about the tracker. And I know what you've been going through, so I thought…" Peter's voice trailed off.
"You got me a GPS watch."
"Yeah – it's one of those fitness trackers, but it has a GPS locator in it. And I can sync it with an app on my phone and my computer."
"You could pull up a map on my travels when you're having your morning coffee."
"If you want me to."
"You'll always be able to find me."
"As long as you're wearing it."
Neal stared at the device. It was stylish, if you liked the high tech ultramodern look, and it was certainly a lot more attractive that the black plastic anklet he'd hated and resented and longed for. "Have you set it up?"
"Not yet – I didn't know if you wanted it."
Neal strove for control and found it. "More than I wanted hot pink doggie socks with poodles on them. And I really like those socks." He pulled the watch from the box and shoved it at Peter. "Set it up. Please."
Peter pulled out his phone and started the process. "The app's actually better than the one the Marshals have. More accurate."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"I remember that Marshal, Deckard, bragging about the accuracy of the new trackers. Whatever happened to him?"
Peter kept focusing on the app and the watch, but replied, "He's doing twenty to life in a protective custody unit in Allenwood. On lockdown twenty-three hours a day so the other cons can't get to him." Peter finally looked up at him. "We had some good times, didn't we?"
"Yes, we did. We did good, too."
"Yes, we most certainly did." Peter handed the watch back to him. "You're all set. You'll need to charge it, of course. Unlike your tracker, this doesn't have replaceable batteries."
Neal put the watch on. It was light, but it was also an anchor. It would keep him from simply drifting out to sea, lost forever. "I have a lot to think about."
"Yes, you do. El will be home tomorrow morning; can we come over for brunch?"
Neal hated the studied diffidence in Peter's voice, the very fact that he'd even asked if he was allowed to visit. Neal knew he put that there and he needed to take it away. "You don't ever have to ask. You, both of you, are always welcome."
Peter nodded. "Okay, great. Let me get my car keys and I'll take you home."
"No, no need. I can manage."
"It's no big deal."
"It's Friday and it's rush hour. I can get a cab."
Peter gave him a skeptical look.
"I haven't lost my magical superpowers – at least not that one."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I need to do this."
"All right, but call me when you get home, okay?"
Neal grinned. "Of course I will, Dad."
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter stood and watched as Neal left, every instinct telling him that he should follow; he should wait with Neal until he got into a cab. He should just put him in the car and take him back to June's, regardless of the damn traffic. But he didn't.
What he did do was pull out his phone and call up the tracking app for Neal's new watch. Neal was walking at a steady pace, and then he stopped when he reached the corner. He didn't move for a minute, and then he started to move again, this time a lot more quickly. Neal was in a cab.
Peter felt relieved and very drained. This afternoon had gone well – a lot better than he'd expected – but the whipsaw emotions had taken their toll. He'd shower and call Elizabeth. He needed to hear her voice. He needed her love, her wisdom.
Then maybe, a nap.
Shower accomplished, he called El.
"Sorry, hon. Can't talk – snafu with the caterers for tonight."
"How are you feeling?"
"Tired, but good. Would be better if I got out of here on time. How are you doing?"
"I talked to Neal today."
"How did that go?" Peter could hear the worry and love in her question.
"A lot better than I expected. And I told him everything. He had a minor freak out about the godparent thing."
"Oh, hon – you probably should have held off on that."
"Nah – it's okay. He's happy for us; he just needs to wrap his brain around everything." Peter didn't tell her that Neal had come to the house on his own. That news he'd save for tomorrow.
"That's wonderful." There were voices in the background. "Hon, I've got to go. I'll see you tomorrow morning, without fail."
"Love you, hon."
"Love you, too, hon."
The phone disconnected and Peter felt a little less exhausted. The Yankees were playing at home tonight. He'd make himself a sandwich, turn on the game and enjoy a little downtime while waiting for Neal to call and let him know he was home. Given the time of day, it would probably take close to an hour for Neal to get back to Riverside. Not that Peter couldn't check the tracker, but he wanted to hear from Neal. A blue dot on a map wasn't going to give Peter any sense of how his friend was doing, mentally.
He went downstairs and came to a halt.
Neal was sitting on his couch, petting Satchmo and looking a little wrecked. He jumped up when he saw Peter.
"Neal?" When did he come back?
"I hope you don't mind. I picked your front door lock." Neal held up a pair of lock picks. "They were in my breast pocket. My spares. I remembered I had them just before the cab got to the bridge. So I had him turn back."
"You came back because you were carrying spare lock picks?" That didn't make any sense.
"No. I came back because I realized I wouldn't have to stand outside to wait for you to open the door."
"Oh. Okay." Neal seemed a little fragile, like he'd taken one huge step back from just a half-hour ago. Peter waited for him to continue.
"I forgot to give you something."
Peter had no idea what Neal was talking about until he reached into his jacket pocket and then he was hit by déjà vu so hard it stole his breath.
Neal pulled out a black leather folder. "I think I need to give this back."
Peter didn't take it. "Consider it a well-earned souvenir."
Neal smiled. "Just don't use it?"
"That would be wise."
Neal made no effort to leave. "There's something else. I came back because I had to tell you something. And I couldn't wait." Neal licked his lips.
Peter swallowed hard against the hope rising in his soul. "What, Neal?"
Neal clenched his fists and wouldn't quite meet Peter's eyes.
"Neal?"
Neal finally looked at him, pain and fear and joy and love warring so clearly on his face. "I can't do this without you."
"Do what?" Peter held his breath on Neal's answer.
"Be the man you think I can be. You've always been the one to see the good in me. I can be good, but I can't do it without you."
There was so much pain and hope in those simple, desperate sentences, so much unspoken meaning. So much that didn't need to be said. Peter wrapped his arms around Neal, gently, cautiously. Like that time in Praia, Neal hesitated for a brief moment, and then hugged him back. He held on tight, like a man clinging to a life preserver, and he kept whispering, "I can't do this without you."
Peter held him and whispered back, "You don't have to. You never have to."
GO TO EPILOGUE
Author:
elrhiarhodan Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, Mozzie, Reese Hughes, Clinton Jones, Diana Berrigan, Olivia Benson (L&O: SVU), Section Chief Bruce (McKinsey) Original Characters
Spoilers: White Collar, all of Season 5; no specific spoilers for L&O: SVU, but set in Season 15. No spoilers for Season 6, A/U from S5 finale forward.
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Kidnapping, torture (off-camera), rape (off-camera),
Word Count: This chapter – ~8,600 / ~90,000
Beta Credit:
sinfulslasher Story Summary: Six months after Neal disappears, Peter still has no answers and his decision not to go to Washington has had significant repercussions for both his career and his marriage.
Chapter Summary: Neal finds the courage he needs to leave the safety of his apartment. He has to go see Peter, but when he arrives at the FBI Building, he's greeted with some unexpected news. And when he finally does talk with Peter, he gets the shock of his life.
Previous Chapters: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen | Chapter Nineteen | Chapter Twenty | Chapter Twenty-One | Chapter Twenty-Two | Chapter Twenty-Three | Chapter Twenty-Four | Chapter Twenty-Five | Chapter Twenty-Six | Chapter Twenty-Seven | Chapter Twenty-Eight | Chapter Twenty-Nine
A/N: Title from Alan Hovhaness’ wind concerto, which takes it from the Old Testament.
Art by
kanarek13Sometime in Late April – Wednesday Afternoon
Neal's cell phone buzzed with an incoming text. It was Peter.
You doing okay?
He responded quickly. I'm fine.
Feel like a visit tonight?
He hadn't seen Peter since Friday night, since their argument, or whatever it actually was. Because an argument takes two people, and he was the only one who was angry. And although Peter had stayed away – he'd gone to D.C. for the weekend and been back since early Monday morning – he hadn't cut off communications.
The first email arrived about an hour after Peter had left the apartment – just long enough to go home to that empty house in Brooklyn. The message was short and it made Neal laugh and cry at the same time. It was a picture of the infamous "grumpy cat" with the caption, Sun is out, flowers are blooming, sky is blue. Go fuck yourself. Underneath the macro was a simple message, "Call me if you need me. Or, even if you don't need me."
Neal hadn't called, but he emailed back, with an equally silly dog GIF – a six month old golden retriever puppy endlessly chasing its tail and falling on its face. He hadn't included a message, but that hadn't stopped Peter from responding with another ridiculous cat picture. The silly emails had continued through the weekend, punctuated by the occasional text.
On Monday, Peter had asked if he could stop by. Neal had put him off, and Peter hadn't pressed. Nor had he reminded him about his physical therapy appointment that night. He got another text on Tuesday with a similar request. Again, he told Peter he wasn't up for company, and had been surprised that Peter had actually respected his request. He was certain that Peter would just show up and had even texted back, around eight that evening, asking if everything was okay. It was. Peter had gone home and that had been that.
Now, Neal was debating whether to tell Peter to come by. The evenings were long. Moz had been in residence over the weekend, but on Monday, he'd taken off for Boston or Detroit or Trenton, someplace that needed his attention. Moz hadn't been too clear on the wheres or whys; all he said was that he needed to go out of town, but he was reachable if necessary.
It had been three days, and Neal missed Moz, except that he didn't miss the constant push to leave New York, which had become incessant since the tracker came off. June was a soothing presence, never urging him to do more than keep his doctors' appointments and take care of himself. Moz, though, didn't want to accept Neal's limitations and Neal was tired of listening to him make plans that were never going to happen.
His phone pinged again. Neal?
As lonely as he was, Neal wasn't sure he was ready to see Peter. Not 2nite sorry
Okay
The texts stopped and Neal figured that Peter was heading into a meeting. Maybe he'd bite the bullet and call him tonight. They could talk about things; maybe Peter could run some of his current cases by him. Neal missed that. And he missed Peter's gentle, relentless pressure to do everything he needed to do to heal physically and psychologically. The love – and he knew it was love, not guilt – was like a soft down comforter.
If only he could just step outside.
Sometime in Late April – Early Friday Afternoon
It was strange to be so footloose.
This wasn't like that difficult interval after he'd been suspended for punching Fowler, when it all went to shit on the runway. Then, he was focused on getting his badge back and getting Neal out of jail. He hadn't really had time to just relax and take it easy.
Not that he really was relaxing and taking it easy.
Wednesday, after leaving the office for the last time, he'd texted Neal and asked if he was up for a visit. Neal had taken a few minutes to respond and Peter had hoped that it was a good sign, that he'd say yes, and give him the green light to resume their friendship.
No, that wasn't right. They were still friends and the meltdown on Friday was really nothing worse than any of the other hiccups in their relationship. When he'd told Elizabeth about what had happened, she said it was a good sign – that Neal was finally pushing back at him. El was right, Neal had become very passive-aggressive and he'd been expending a lot of energy trying to get Neal to take some action.
El suggested that he let Neal set the pace, as long as he kept in contact with him. She said he shouldn't let more than a few hours go by without reaching out, as casually as possible, but not to push things. That was a hard bit of advice to follow, especially when he'd made a career out of pushing things, especially with Neal.
And it was hard to believe his career was officially over. He wasn't unhappy about it and he had no regrets, but it was just a little strange not to get up in the morning, dress in a suit and tie, clip his badge on his belt, get his gun out of the safe and drive to work. It had only been two days, he still had to get used to all of this free time.
Or more accurately, all of this unstructured time, because it wasn't as if he was lazing around the house, watching early season Yankees games.
There were plenty of things he had to do.
And he wanted to do none of them right now. The house was clean, the dog was washed, there was food in the fridge for the weekend – El would be home tomorrow morning. Bills were paid; all of the accumulated papers from the last few months were sorted and filed. Yesterday had been all about efficiency.
Today was all about planning for the future.
He'd finished reading the paperwork for the mortgage pre-qualification, filled in some numbers, did some calculations, redid those calculations without El's salary, and confirmed that they didn't have to sell this house to afford the property they were considering in Maryland. Of course, it would be easier if they rented this place. If everything worked out as they hoped, they would do that for a few years, and then sell it when the time was right.
It was really amazing how much cheaper everything was in Maryland, and even in Northern Virginia, at least compared to New York. He and El had bought this place a few years before Brooklyn became Hipster Central and the price of residential real estate went nuts. They could easily get several million for the house now, despite the lack of a first floor bathroom.
The place they were most interested in, the one they'd seen last weekend, had four bedrooms, four baths, a pool and best of all, a small, completely finished guesthouse. It would be perfect for Neal.
But until he talked to Neal, until he got the sense that leaving New York permanently was a possibility, none of this paperwork mattered. And based on what Elizabeth had said this past weekend, if Neal wasn't interested in having a place with them in D.C., if he felt he'd never be able to leave New York, she was going to leave her job at the National Gallery and resume her life here.
Peter was fine with either decision, although the place in Maryland was really nice. They could even have horses.
The alarm on his phone buzzed, reminding Peter that he needed to connect with Neal. He thought about calling, but he still wasn't sure that was a good idea. Neal was comfortable with his emails and the texts, calling might still be too much.
Miss you. Up for company tonight?
Peter pressed "send" and put the phone down, willing himself not to hold onto it while he waited for Neal's answer.
Miss you. Up for company tonight?
Neal looked at his phone and bit his lip. He missed Peter, too. And this self-imposed separation seemed stupid and pointless now.
It was so beautiful outside – the perfect spring day in New York. Bright blue sky, high clouds drifting lazily in the breeze; and the birds – they were going crazy after the almost endless winter. Their chirping began at dawn and continued through the day, a riot of sound that Neal had always loved. In earlier years, he'd have his first cup of coffee out on the terrace and listen to the birdsong. First were the city sparrows, more cheeping than tuneful. The pigeons would start with their mournful cooing, and then the rest of the flock – the cardinals and warblers and other denizens of the nearby park – would soon join in.
One memorable March morning two years ago, he'd even seen a bald eagle soaring on the rising thermals. A much smaller falcon – probably one of the local peregrines – went after it, fiercely defending its territory. The eagle flapped its wings, screamed once, and wheeled away, not interested in going into battle over the local pigeon population.
Nature, red in tooth and claw, was never all that far away. Not even here in Manhattan. He missed it. He missed so damn much. Just going out to the corner coffee shop for an espresso. Or for a walk with June. A visit to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Or the Whitney. Or even the Rubin, all the way downtown. It used to be just on the outer edge of his radius, but he didn't have a radius anymore. He could go to the Bruce Museum in Greenwich, Connecticut. But he had to be able to leave his apartment first.
That was the biggest stumbling block of all.
Yesterday, June had taken him to his shrink appointment, and Neal didn't want to think about how much time she'd spent coaxing him downstairs and outside. He'd felt like such an idiot. When he'd told his doctor, who specialized in helping victims of violent crimes, she had strongly urged him to accept a prescription for a very mild dose of Ativan. Worried that he'd become addicted to the drug, he'd refused her earlier offers.
She'd asked him, "Have you ever had a problem with drugs? Prescription drugs?"
"No. But I tend to get very – ummm – loopy on them." He explained what had happened with Doctor Summers and her special "Goodnight Cinderella" concoction.
She'd been appalled. "Now I can understand your lack of trust with me."
Neal had brushed her concerns away. "It was not a therapeutic session. It was for a case." He didn't tell her he'd gotten his revenge easily enough.
The doctor had still insisted, "Look, how about I write you a script for ten pills at the lowest dosage? You can't refill the prescription and I won't write another one for you if I have any concerns about abuse or overmedication."
Neal had finally agreed.
The doctor had given him one more piece of advice. "If you can bring yourself to leave your apartment without taking one, carry the bottle with you. This way, if you have a panic attack, you'll have the medication if you need it."
The advice was sound and before he could overthink it, he'd given the script to June, who'd been splendid about going to the pharmacy for him.
The bottle of pills was on the table, within reach. Right next to his phone. And not so far from the pile of papers that the Marshals needed him to sign, papers that Neal still hadn't sent over to Peter. He really did need to take care of that, before the Marshals came back. And there was something else he needed to give to Peter.
He didn't let himself think about what he was doing. He grabbed the papers, his phone and the bottle of pills and went into the closet and got a hat and jacket, a wallet with some of his "spare" identification and a bit of cash. And something that Peter had given him a long time ago, something he'd once given back, something he'd once left behind. Something that symbolized a life he'd once both loved and resented.
His consultant's identification.
Neal rubbed his thumb over the plastic encased document and he could hear Peter telling him, "Figured if we didn't, you'd end up making one of these on your own."
Neal was out the door and down the stairs before he could change his mind. June was having lunch with Cindy and the household staff was elsewhere.
For just a second, at the front door, Neal felt like he had the day he walked out of Sing-Sing, dressed in the guard uniform he'd bought with the warden's wife's American Express. It felt like he was escaping prison. What was the man's name? Neal opened the door and as he put his foot on the top step, he remembered. Haskley. He'd been a little nebbish of a man, so obviously ill-suited to running a maximum security penitentiary, so easy to manipulate.
Neal kept thinking about Haskley and how he'd responded to Neal's simple flattery all the way to the corner of 78th and Riverside. Without considering what he was doing, he raised his hand as a sea of yellow cabs cruised by. One pulled over, in front of him and Neal stared at the door.
The driver opened the passenger side window and shouted at him, "You going to get in, mon? Don't have all day."
Neal took a deep breath and opened the door. He remembered the time that Peter had hailed cab after cab and he'd kept letting the pretty models take their places, because it was just so much fun to annoy Peter.
"Where to, mon?"
"The FBI Building, thanks."
"Sheesh, mon. You want to go all the way into midtown during lunch hour; you'd better relax and be patient. It's going to be a loooong ride." The cabbie shook his head and the beads decorating his dreadlocks clattered pleasantly.
It was a long ride, but Neal found it hard to relax. He thought about asking the driver to lock the back doors so no one could reach in and drag him out, and then rethought that idea. If the doors were open, he could jump out if the driver decided to go for a little detour.
So he watched the passing scenery and forced himself to remember the last time he was at a particular point in the route. Sometimes he remembered waiting on a corner with Moz, sometimes he remembered walking two steps behind Vincent Adler on that street, but most of his memories were about treks with Peter. They probably had walked the entire length and breadth of the city – at least Manhattan – over the years.
He missed that.
"Almost there, mon. You doin' okay?" The cabbie turned to look at him as they were stopped at the light at 59th and Broadway. "You seem a little pale."
Neal smiled and the gesture felt natural, for the first time in a long time. "It's been a long winter, didn't get out much."
The cabbie nodded. "Ah, yeah, it was a hell of a winter. The sunshine's back and all too soon, we'll be complainin' about the heat and the humidity."
"The New Yorker's conversation – when all else fails, bitch about the weather."
"That's right, man. The weather – she's a bitch sometimes. But not today. Today's glorious. Today's a day to make a man happy he's alive."
The cab lurched forward and turned the corner. Neal clung to the suicide strap. They were at the corner of Sixth and 54th and Neal felt his heart start to race. Almost there, almost safe.
No. Not almost safe. He was safe. No one was going to hurt him. No one.
The cab pulled up in front of the FBI Building and Neal paid the fare and a generous tip. "Thanks for the ride, man."
"Hey, mon – no problem. You have a good day in this sunshine."
"I'll try."
"No, don't try – do."
Neal laughed, "Thanks, Yoda."
The cabbie chuckled and honked as he pulled away from the curb.
Neal took a deep breath and looked up at the building that had helped define his life for so long. He remembered all the times he'd entered this building with Peter at his side and put one foot in front of the other. He didn't see masked faces in the shadows, just memories of good times.
He could do this.
The guard at the front desk actually recognized him. "Hey, Mr. Caffrey, it's been a while. You doing okay?"
Neal wondered how much the guard knew. He decided that he probably didn't know – why would he? "Doing fine, thanks."
He walked over to the bank of elevators and the guard called after him. "Sorry – need you to sign in if you don't work here anymore."
"Ah, right." As he scrawled his name in the log book, Neal thought about flashing his consultant's ID, if just for old time's sake.
He waited for the elevator and felt the sweat pool at the base of his spine and his heart began to race again. He reached for the bottle of pills, not to take one, but to reassure himself they were there if he needed one. At that thought, Neal laughed to himself. It seemed like the shrink knew what she was doing.
The elevator made a few stops, people got in and got out – but no one Neal recognized. This was okay, no one was going to snatch him from an elevator car in the middle of the day. But he still kept his back to the wall and his eyes fixed firmly on the security camera. It took one minute and forty-seven seconds to travel from the ground floor to the twenty-first, except that it felt like a lifetime.
No one else got off with him and Neal was immeasurably grateful that there was no one from the White Collar division waiting in the lobby. The last time he had been here, Peter was packing up his office and Neal had promised him that he was going to visit so often, they'd have to kick him out.
That was a good memory, a good place to stop the tape. Because everything that happened after that was … No. No. No. He pushed open the familiar glass doors.
"Neal?" Allen, the guard at the door, greeted him with a huge smile. "Good to see you!"
This time, Neal felt like his smile was plastered on. "Good to see you, too." Before he could ask to see Peter, which was another kind of strangeness, he was mobbed by a sea of smiling, familiar faces.
There was Andrea, Peter's admin. Price and Winters and Cohen, three of the division's most seasoned agents. Other faces, familiar and friendly, but no Peter.
Everyone started talking at once and it seemed like the walls were closing in. But Neal kept smiling. He kept looking up at Peter's office, but it was dark. Was Peter gone for the day?
Someone grabbed his hand and Neal almost – almost but didn't – scream. It was Jones. He was smiling too, but Neal saw something behind his eyes – compassion and worry. "Come on, guys – give Neal some space."
The pressure from the crowd receded and Neal caught his breath and his sanity. He thanked everyone for their concern and their good wishes, for the flowers and fruit baskets and everything else that had been sent to the hospital and to his apartment.
Eventually, they all went back to their desks, but Neal could feel the weight of their collective gaze.
"Come upstairs, okay?" Clinton gestured up towards Peter's old office.
"You've been promoted again?"
Clinton nodded but didn't elaborate.
Neal sat down in the same chair he'd occupied so many times. "So, how does it feel to be upstairs?"
"Good. Really good. Got my own task force, too."
"Nice." This felt so weird and awkward. "Thanks for rescuing me, back down there."
"No problem. I figured you were feeling a little overwhelmed – you had that deer caught in the headlights look on your face."
"Yeah, I'm not surprised. It was a bit much. But it's nice to be missed."
"True, true." Clinton cleared his throat and asked awkwardly, "What brings you back here? I mean not that there's a problem with you visiting, but I'd think this isn't a place you'd just casually pop into."
Neal wondered if Clinton knew about his problems. "I have some paperwork for the Marshals, I thought I'd drop it off and surprise Peter." He pulled out the papers and tapped them against his knee. He didn't take out his ID folder – that was for Peter and Peter alone.
"Peter? Here?"
"Yeah, here. Peter Burke, Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the White Collar Division? I think you know him, he's been your boss for a few years."
"Have you seen Peter recently?" Now Clinton was giving him a funny look.
"Not since last Friday, when the word came that the rest of my sentence was commuted." He sighed. "I behaved like a bit of an asshole and we both decided that we needed a little space. We've been in touch, though. Why?"
Clinton wiped his mouth and didn't answer right away.
"What's going on?" Neal couldn't begin to imagine what the problem was. "Peter's okay? He texted me a few hours ago."
"Peter retired."
"What?"
"He retired, effective Wednesday."
"I don't understand. Peter retired. From the Bureau?"
Clinton nodded. "He didn't talk about it with you?"
Neal shook his head. "No, not at all. We've talked about a few of his current cases – he asked for my opinion on a couple of fraud schemes, but he said nothing about leaving the Bureau." Neal felt heartsick. This was his fault; it seemed that he couldn't escape the collateral damage.
Clinton looked like he was about to say something, but changed his mind. "He's retired and he's happy about it."
"How can he be?"
"Maybe you should go ask him?"
"Right, right." Neal got up, eager to get out of there. But before he left, he tossed the papers he'd brought with him onto the desk. "Listen, could you take care of this for me? Send it over to the Marshals so they don't come banging on June's door, again."
"Sure." Clinton took the papers. "I probably should say something about if you're ever interested in coming back, in any capacity, we could probably make something work – but that doesn't seems very appropriate."
Neal laughed, but he didn't quite feel the humor. "I think, at this point, my answer would have to be no, anyway."
"Right. Neal– take care of yourself. And stay in touch, okay?"
"I promise." Neal reached into his pocket and clasped the bottle of Ativan. He had to get to Brooklyn first. Then, maybe he would take a pill.
Peter checked his phone, still no response from Neal. He was tempted to call June, but didn't. There were any number of reasons why Neal hadn't responded, and none of them were sinister. He'd give it a few more hours before hitting the panic button and heading over to Manhattan.
Besides, he had a reason to visit. He had a gift for Neal – it arrived with the day's mail. Tonight, they'd talk – really talk. He'd tell Neal about his retirement, he'd make Neal understand that he was happy with this development, because that was the goddamn absolute truth.
And he had other, even more important news to share.
But that was for this evening. Right now, he deserved a little reward for all his hard work. He was going to go out for a run.
Already dressed in workout clothes and sneakers – his usual around-the-house attire – Peter grabbed his keys, the slimmed down version of his wallet he kept for just such occasions, and his phone. He wasn't going far, probably around the block, up through the park, and back – his regular route. The run would clear his head, settle him down, help him work through problems.
He'd always loved running, and if there was one thing he regretted about living in the Northeast it was that he was usually restricted to treadmills and indoor tracks in the winter – especially the past few, which had been unusually cold and snowy.
But the snow and the cold were gone, hopefully for the next eight months, and he could indulge himself to his heart's content. Or at least until his aging knees started to protest.
Satchmo looked up as he went to the door, saw what Peter was planning and went back to his doggy dreams with a contented sigh. The Lab had never been a runner and once he'd left puppyhood, he became the worst possible running partner. Actually, even as a puppy, he'd been terrible.
"Watch the house, boy. I'll be back soon."
Satch didn't bother to reply.
It was as perfect a spring day as Peter could remember. Last weekend, when he'd visited El, he'd gotten up early and had a run along the Washington Mall. A few of the famous cherry trees were still in blossom and the air smelled sweet, but there were thousands of rats hiding in the shrubbery, too.
If they relocated to Maryland, he wouldn't have the Mall, or even a well-mapped out urban grid to run along. He'd have a few acres of pasture and a country road connecting the property to the nearest town, five miles away. It would certainly be different.
He ran the circuit through the park, past the playground, the dog run, the ball fields, and soon enough, he was back on DeKalb and home was just up the block.
Peter jogged in place for a few seconds, not quite sure he believed what his eyes were seeing. There was a man in a sport coat and a light gray hat sitting on his stoop.
Neal?
He rushed forward, almost tripping on a cracked piece of sidewalk. Peter caught his balance and looked up again. Neal was still there, staring up at the house. As he approached, Neal turned – he probably heard the sound of his feet against the pavement. A small smile curved his lips as Peter came to a halt.
"Nice day for a run."
"Yeah, nice day to be out and about."
Neal took a deep breath and Peter could see him doing his best not to panic at the exposure. But rather than make a big deal out of it, he just climbed the steps and expected Neal to follow.
Satchmo must have sensed Neal, because he practically ran over Peter to get to his old friend. Neal, for his part, relished this reunion, going down on his hands and knees to give the boy an enthusiastic greeting.
Peter let man and dog get reacquainted while he retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge. Watching the two of them play made his heart hurt, in a good way.
Neal got to his feet and Satchmo retreated to his dog bed. Peter stepped aside to let Neal into the kitchen and wash his hands. This all felt so normal, so perfect.
Afraid to shatter the golden mood, he waited for Neal to say something.
"I stopped by the office, had to drop off the papers the Marshals left. I talked to Jones."
"Ah."
"Ah? That's all you're going to say?"
Neal wasn't combative, not like he'd been the last time he'd seen him. But the time for secrets, for evasions, for good intentions and incomplete communications was over. So he put it out there. "I retired. The brass in D.C. asked me to, but it was a decision I'd been seriously thinking about for a long time."
"They asked you to leave because of me, didn't they?"
Peter nodded.
Neal sucked in his breath. "I always knew I'd cost you your career."
"No, Neal – you didn't. I have my twenty years, I've enjoyed my work as a field agent, as a supervisory agent, as ASAC, but I've also come to realize that I have a family that needs me more than I need to be an FBI agent. And I want to be with my family more than I want to be an FBI agent."
Neal stared at him, his eyes almost burning with emotion. "Once, you said I was your family. At that moment, you hadn't seemed too happy about it."
Peter smiled, although the memory that Neal summoned wasn't a happy one. "I wasn't a happy man at that moment. Six weeks behind bars had really messed with my head." And then he winced. "Sorry, you did four years…" And six months in a hell hole enduring the unendurable.
But Neal didn't take offense. "I always knew that prison was a possibility for me, from my earliest criminal efforts. You – you never expected a life behind bars, a life where you spent every moment fearing you'd get shivved because you're a Fed. One day you're facing a life sentence, the next, you're getting a promotion and word that you're being groomed for a chair at the really big table. That has to mess with your head."
Peter nodded sharply, grateful that Neal was able to understand what he'd gone through. After everything. "And to answer the question that you were asking, you are my family. No qualifications."
"Clinton said you seemed happy about this."
"I am." Peter smiled. "I am kind of surprised at how happy I am."
"I always figured they'd be carrying you out feet first."
"Maybe I once thought that, too. But that might have worked for guys like Hughes, who didn't have a family."
"And who had second careers as NSA section chiefs."
Peter just raised an eyebrow.
"Moz told me. He also told me that Reese tried to recruit him for the Company or the Service or whatever they're called."
Peter didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "I can just imagine Mozzie's reaction to that offer."
"I'm not so sure he turned it down. He's been doing a lot of traveling lately."
Peter shook his head in disbelief. "Well, stranger things have happened."
Neal leaned forward, bracing himself against the island countertop and stared at him. "You're really okay with this?"
"I am."
"I think I believe you."
"You should believe me. It's the truth."
Neal went to the fridge and took out a bottle of water, but he didn't open it. Peter watched him drift from the kitchen to the living room, as if he was trying to reground himself in the space. "I'd say I liked what you've done with the place, but I'm not a fan of the half-packed, half-unpacked look."
"It's a work in progress."
Neal picked up one of the framed photos that he'd unpacked when he'd first decided to stay in New York, when he was desperately trying to find his own normal ground. It was the picture of the two of them in their tuxedos, the one that had given Phil Kramer such heartburn. He put it down without commenting and picked up the one that had graced his desk at work, of him and El on their honeymoon.
Peter couldn't take the silence anymore. "I'm glad you're here, Neal. Really glad."
"Aren't you going to ask me how I managed it?"
"If you want to tell me."
"You know, I really kind of hate that passive-aggressive approach. I've been meaning to tell you that. I get it from my therapist, I don't need it from you." Despite the words, Neal didn't seem angry.
"Okay, sorry. For the record, I was kind of shocked to see you at my doorstep, considering how reluctant you are to leave your apartment unless you absolutely have to."
"I saw my shrink yesterday – the MD, not the PhD. She gave me these." Neal pulled a bottle of pills out of his pocket and tossed them to Peter.
"Ativan? For the anxiety? They're helping?"
Neal took the bottle from him and put it back in his pocket. "I haven't taken any, but knowing that I have them got me out of the house and out on the street. And you know what helped me even more?"
Peter shook his head.
"Seeing the city and remembering being with you. There, at Columbus Circle when you half-jokingly accused me of stealing Louis Thayer's Untitled Number 2, or at the corner of Broadway and Sixty-Third, near the old New York Room. You and me – and this city – we're everywhere together. That's what kept me going."
Peter rubbed his eyes, his fingers wet from the tears. "Neal – "
"Last Friday, when I was so stupidly angry at you, I thought of our relationship in terms of some sick co-dependence. I was wrong. We need each other, but not in some terrible, twisted way."
"We're family, Neal." Was that his voice, so harsh?
"Yes, Peter, we are."
Peter gathered his thoughts. Maybe the time was right; maybe there wouldn't ever be a better moment. "Can I show you something?"
Neal nodded.
Peter retrieved a folder from the dining room table and handed it to Neal. "Tell me what you think."
He watched Neal's expression carefully. He could see the curiosity, the appreciation, and a touch of fear.
"It's gorgeous, Peter. Twelve acres of prime Maryland farmland. There's a barn and a fenced in pasture. You'll be able to keep horses."
"Yeah, but that's not the best part of it." He took the folder and turned it towards a very specific page. "This is."
Again, he watched Neal's face, and this time all he saw was confusion. "A guesthouse?"
"It's got two bedrooms, a gourmet kitchen, a full bathroom and a powder room. There's eastern exposure in the living area and a screened in patio with western exposure. I – no we – El and I – thought it would be perfect for you."
Neal looked at the glossy real estate brochure and was surprised to see it was shaking. No, his hands were shaking. He put the booklet down and curled his hands into fists.
"Neal?"
"For me?"
"If you want it. If you think you'd like living in Maryland, with us. Even part time. It could be your home base, a place to rest and recharge your batteries. If you were going to travel again, you would always be able to stay with us, in your own private space. It has full security – a single entrance and a panic room, too. So does the main house."
Neal stared at the brochure as Peter rambled on, saying how June was wonderful, that he'd always have a place with her, too. But she was getting older and if there came a time when she couldn't keep the house, Neal would always have a place to come to. A place where he'd be safe, where there were people who loved him. A place with his family. Peter stumbled over his words and when Neal finally looked up, he saw the tears pouring down his friend's face.
"Why are you crying?"
"I don't know." Peter did something that endeared him to Neal like nothing else ever had, he wiped his nose with the back of his hand, looked at the mess and wiped it against his shirt.
"Peter Burke, the world's oldest four-year old boy."
Peter laughed, a watery chuckle. "Sorry about that."
"I'm glad I don't have to do your laundry." Neal joked. If he didn't he might just start crying too.
"What do you think?"
"About this?" He touched the brochure describing all the features of a guesthouse that was probably bigger than the entire Burke home here in Brooklyn. "I think you and Elizabeth are truly wonderful, to do this – for me."
"Is it something you'd consider?"
Neal wanted to scream, yes, yes, yes, but something stopped him. It could have been a caution brought on by too much trauma, or his fear of actually having something he'd never dreamed he could really have, or that perverse imp that delighted in messing up every good thing Peter had done for him. So he just said, "I might. I need to think about it."
"Okay." Peter did seem a little disappointed.
Neal had to know, though. "If I say no, if I say that I want to stay in New York, what happens?"
Peter sighed and smiled. "Then I stay in New York. El leaves the National Gallery and comes back, permanently. We've decided we're not really suited for a bi-city marriage. We need each other too much. Especially now."
"I don't like the idea of Elizabeth giving up her dream job for me. It's bad enough – "
Peter held up a hand, holding him off. "El's not giving up her dream job for you. Just as I didn't leave the FBI because of you – well, not completely. There's another bit of news I was going to share with you tonight, along with my retirement. It's not something I wanted to tell you via text or email."
Neal couldn't begin to imagine what other bombshell Peter was about to drop. And what a bombshell it was.
"El's pregnant." There was such joy in Peter's face that it almost hurt to look at him. "We're going to be parents. She's about three and a half months along. Neither of us wants her to be a married single mother – so we're going to be together, either here in New York or in Maryland. But you're part of us, part of our family. Our child is going to need to grow up knowing his or her godparent."
The news about Elizabeth's pregnancy was almost less shocking than their expectations about him. "Godparent? Me?" Neal heard the squeak in his voice.
"Yes, Neal. You. There's no one I would trust more with my child's well-being than you."
He stood up abruptly and wrapped his arms around himself. This was too much, too much. "I need to go. I need to think about everything. Sorry, sorry. Sorry." His heart was racing and he was panting, trying to drag in enough air.
And Peter was beside him, stroking his back, murmuring that it was okay, that nothing bad was going to happen, he – Peter – wouldn't let it.
The words penetrated the fog of panic and his heart started to beat normally, the buzzing stopped, and he was – amazingly, miraculously – okay. Not perfect, but okay – Peter's hands stroking his back, the damp and sweaty tee-shirt under his cheek were comforting him down to his soul. He didn't know how long he clung to Peter, but as long as Peter didn't care, he wasn't going to move.
"Do you want to take a pill?"
"No, I'm good."
"You sure?" Peter seemed skeptical, but he didn't let go of him.
Neal reassured him. "No, I really am." He took a deep breath and everything felt as close to normal as things felt these days and he finally pulled away. "I didn't say it, but congratulations, Peter. This is wonderful. You must be so thrilled, after everything." Neal couldn't help but remember Elizabeth's distress at the state of her marriage last January, and one of the great pleasures he'd had during his months of recuperation had been watching Peter and Elizabeth do their own healing.
There was still worry in Peter's eyes, worry for him, but that joy was back. "We'd tried, back when we were first married, but then decided we really didn't want children. El had her career, I had mine and it didn't seem fair that either of us would have to make the sacrifices necessary. But we're at a point in our lives now when this makes perfect sense."
"And you really want me to be your offspring's godparent?"
"Yes, absolutely. It's a big responsibility; do you think you're up for it?"
Neal was curious, "What are a godparent's duties? I didn't have one, you know – so I haven't the slightest clue what I'm supposed to do."
Peter stroked his chin and Neal thought he saw a spark of mischief there. "Well, you'd need to teach him or her how to pick a lock."
Neal stared at Peter, not certain he heard what he thought he had heard.
"And how to recreate some fine Italian Renaissance bronze medals out of chocolate."
A bubble of laughter escaped his lips. "Peter!"
"Hush, I am serious. Let's see – no forging antique spirits, at least not until he or she's old enough to drink. But since I think that most children are natural con artists, I'm pretty certain you'll have no problem developing your own curriculum."
Neal shook his head. "Stop teasing me."
Peter did, and smiled at him. "Okay. I expect you to teach my son or daughter the things you are best at – loyalty, generosity, creativity. Love. Can you do that?"
"I can try." Neal then remembered the cabbie's words to him. "No, I can do."
"So, you'll think about the place in Maryland?"
"Yes. When do you need to know?"
"The place has been on the market for a few months without any offers, so there's no immediate rush. El's going to be moving back to New York in a few weeks, regardless. Once the morning sickness starts, I don't want her to be alone."
Neal opened his mouth to point out the obvious, but Peter continued. "And her apartment is small and there isn't room for two adults and a dog. Besides, I'm not leaving you behind, so get used to it."
This was getting to be a bit too much. Not that he felt panicky, but simply overwhelmed. "I think I need to think about this, on my own."
"Okay, but I have one more thing for you."
"Seriously, Peter? How much more do you think I can take?"
Peter didn't say anything as he picked up a box on the coffee table and handed it to him. "I got this for you."
Neal made a joke, "My birthday was last month. You already gave me a wonderful present." Peter had given him a pair of dog socks, hot pink ones with poodles on them.
"This isn't a birthday present, but I think you might want it. Or maybe not."
Neal took the box; it was badly wrapped in thick brown paper – quite possibly a recycled bag from Trader Joe's. "Elegant."
"Shut up and open it."
"Nice, Peter. Very nice."
He pulled the paper apart slowly, knowing he was tormenting Peter. And then he stopped, overwhelmed all over again. "Peter…"
"I know that you're not really a watch guy, and gadgets are a means to an end for you, but I couldn't forget what you'd said to me about the tracker. And I know what you've been going through, so I thought…" Peter's voice trailed off.
"You got me a GPS watch."
"Yeah – it's one of those fitness trackers, but it has a GPS locator in it. And I can sync it with an app on my phone and my computer."
"You could pull up a map on my travels when you're having your morning coffee."
"If you want me to."
"You'll always be able to find me."
"As long as you're wearing it."
Neal stared at the device. It was stylish, if you liked the high tech ultramodern look, and it was certainly a lot more attractive that the black plastic anklet he'd hated and resented and longed for. "Have you set it up?"
"Not yet – I didn't know if you wanted it."
Neal strove for control and found it. "More than I wanted hot pink doggie socks with poodles on them. And I really like those socks." He pulled the watch from the box and shoved it at Peter. "Set it up. Please."
Peter pulled out his phone and started the process. "The app's actually better than the one the Marshals have. More accurate."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"I remember that Marshal, Deckard, bragging about the accuracy of the new trackers. Whatever happened to him?"
Peter kept focusing on the app and the watch, but replied, "He's doing twenty to life in a protective custody unit in Allenwood. On lockdown twenty-three hours a day so the other cons can't get to him." Peter finally looked up at him. "We had some good times, didn't we?"
"Yes, we did. We did good, too."
"Yes, we most certainly did." Peter handed the watch back to him. "You're all set. You'll need to charge it, of course. Unlike your tracker, this doesn't have replaceable batteries."
Neal put the watch on. It was light, but it was also an anchor. It would keep him from simply drifting out to sea, lost forever. "I have a lot to think about."
"Yes, you do. El will be home tomorrow morning; can we come over for brunch?"
Neal hated the studied diffidence in Peter's voice, the very fact that he'd even asked if he was allowed to visit. Neal knew he put that there and he needed to take it away. "You don't ever have to ask. You, both of you, are always welcome."
Peter nodded. "Okay, great. Let me get my car keys and I'll take you home."
"No, no need. I can manage."
"It's no big deal."
"It's Friday and it's rush hour. I can get a cab."
Peter gave him a skeptical look.
"I haven't lost my magical superpowers – at least not that one."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I need to do this."
"All right, but call me when you get home, okay?"
Neal grinned. "Of course I will, Dad."
Peter stood and watched as Neal left, every instinct telling him that he should follow; he should wait with Neal until he got into a cab. He should just put him in the car and take him back to June's, regardless of the damn traffic. But he didn't.
What he did do was pull out his phone and call up the tracking app for Neal's new watch. Neal was walking at a steady pace, and then he stopped when he reached the corner. He didn't move for a minute, and then he started to move again, this time a lot more quickly. Neal was in a cab.
Peter felt relieved and very drained. This afternoon had gone well – a lot better than he'd expected – but the whipsaw emotions had taken their toll. He'd shower and call Elizabeth. He needed to hear her voice. He needed her love, her wisdom.
Then maybe, a nap.
Shower accomplished, he called El.
"Sorry, hon. Can't talk – snafu with the caterers for tonight."
"How are you feeling?"
"Tired, but good. Would be better if I got out of here on time. How are you doing?"
"I talked to Neal today."
"How did that go?" Peter could hear the worry and love in her question.
"A lot better than I expected. And I told him everything. He had a minor freak out about the godparent thing."
"Oh, hon – you probably should have held off on that."
"Nah – it's okay. He's happy for us; he just needs to wrap his brain around everything." Peter didn't tell her that Neal had come to the house on his own. That news he'd save for tomorrow.
"That's wonderful." There were voices in the background. "Hon, I've got to go. I'll see you tomorrow morning, without fail."
"Love you, hon."
"Love you, too, hon."
The phone disconnected and Peter felt a little less exhausted. The Yankees were playing at home tonight. He'd make himself a sandwich, turn on the game and enjoy a little downtime while waiting for Neal to call and let him know he was home. Given the time of day, it would probably take close to an hour for Neal to get back to Riverside. Not that Peter couldn't check the tracker, but he wanted to hear from Neal. A blue dot on a map wasn't going to give Peter any sense of how his friend was doing, mentally.
He went downstairs and came to a halt.
Neal was sitting on his couch, petting Satchmo and looking a little wrecked. He jumped up when he saw Peter.
"Neal?" When did he come back?
"I hope you don't mind. I picked your front door lock." Neal held up a pair of lock picks. "They were in my breast pocket. My spares. I remembered I had them just before the cab got to the bridge. So I had him turn back."
"You came back because you were carrying spare lock picks?" That didn't make any sense.
"No. I came back because I realized I wouldn't have to stand outside to wait for you to open the door."
"Oh. Okay." Neal seemed a little fragile, like he'd taken one huge step back from just a half-hour ago. Peter waited for him to continue.
"I forgot to give you something."
Peter had no idea what Neal was talking about until he reached into his jacket pocket and then he was hit by déjà vu so hard it stole his breath.
Neal pulled out a black leather folder. "I think I need to give this back."
Peter didn't take it. "Consider it a well-earned souvenir."
Neal smiled. "Just don't use it?"
"That would be wise."
Neal made no effort to leave. "There's something else. I came back because I had to tell you something. And I couldn't wait." Neal licked his lips.
Peter swallowed hard against the hope rising in his soul. "What, Neal?"
Neal clenched his fists and wouldn't quite meet Peter's eyes.
"Neal?"
Neal finally looked at him, pain and fear and joy and love warring so clearly on his face. "I can't do this without you."
"Do what?" Peter held his breath on Neal's answer.
"Be the man you think I can be. You've always been the one to see the good in me. I can be good, but I can't do it without you."
There was so much pain and hope in those simple, desperate sentences, so much unspoken meaning. So much that didn't need to be said. Peter wrapped his arms around Neal, gently, cautiously. Like that time in Praia, Neal hesitated for a brief moment, and then hugged him back. He held on tight, like a man clinging to a life preserver, and he kept whispering, "I can't do this without you."
Peter held him and whispered back, "You don't have to. You never have to."
Tags:
- character: clinton jones,
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: june ellington,
- character: landon shepherd,
- character: mozzie,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: ofc,
- character: olivia benson,
- character: omc,
- character: peter burke,
- character: theo berrigan,
- crossover: law and order: svu,
- genre: abuse,
- genre: angst,
- genre: emotional trauma,
- genre: friendship,
- genre: future fic,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: violence,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- wc verse: return and rebuild,
- white collar,
- year: 2014
