elrhiarhodan

Title: It Must Be Now - Part Two-B of Seven
Author: elrhiarhodan
Artist: treonb / Art Post
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, David Siegel, Diana Berrigan, Theodore "Mozzie" Winters, Theo Berrigan, Sara Ellis, Clinton Jones, Matthew Keller; Peter/Elizabeth (Past), Peter/Neal (Past), Neal/Keller (Past), Peter/Neal
Word Count: ~60,000 Total
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Major Character Illness
Beta Credit: pooh_collector, sinfulslasher
Summary: In this alternate universe, the story opens as Peter and Elizabeth's marriage ends. Peter tries to move into a new life, but finds himself haunted by his past - a relationship with Neal Caffrey when they were both students at Harvard - and a future that might come to an end far too soon.

Note for Part Two – Because of LJ's entry size limitations, Part Two is in two parts. This is the second of two parts for today's chapter.

__________________



Cambridge, Late May, 1990

The house on Sidney Street was quieter than usual when Peter let himself in. It was a little after two AM on a Monday morning. The semester – his last – was over; the graduation ceremony for the MBA students was taking place in a few days. David had split for Chicago right after his last exam. He said he was annoyed at him and at Neal for finishing their degrees before he finished his, so he wasn't hanging around. Peter didn't blame him.

As much as he was looking forward to starting the next stage of his life, he was also more than a little terrified. There was so much that could go wrong…

Neal's BMW was parked on the street, which meant he was back and probably asleep, given the hour. He'd defended his dissertation earlier in the week and had gone to Atlantic City to celebrate, which meant a high-stakes poker game. Peter had gone with Neal to a few games over the past few years, and the amount of money that had been in play had always made him kind of queasy. He knew that he was probably being stupid about it, considering that he'd planned on joining a Wall Street investment firm and would be risking a hell of a lot more than that. But this was personal – those chips were representing actual dollars, not theoretical assets on a balance sheet.

Which might be one of the reasons why he was changing his plans; the ones he'd made when he was a freshman and realized that as much as he liked the pure theory of numbers, he'd never be good enough to make a living at it.

He needed a drink, but the fridge was empty of everything except a container of milk, a bottle of ketchup and a jar of olives. Peter rummaged through the mostly empty cabinets and found a mostly empty bottle of whiskey. David had probably left it behind because there were just a few ounces left. Too much to toss but not enough to make it worthwhile to haul back home. Peter poured the whiskey into a coffee mug and took a sip. He wasn't a fan of hard liquor and drinking it out of the wrong type of glass made it taste even worse. But he needed the buzz from the alcohol, if just to shut off his brain for a little while.

"Hey there."

Peter looked up. Neal was standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers – his usual sleep attire.

"Thought I heard you come in."

Peter shrugged and took another swallow of whiskey. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay. Wasn't really sleeping anyway. Got in around midnight."

"Good game?"

"Yeah – took home a couple of big pots. Should be enough to keep me in style for a few months."

Peter wasn't sure what he should say about that.

"You okay?"

"I guess."

"What's the matter?"

The kitchen was dark, but Peter could still see Neal's face. His stomach roiled a bit at the concern in his expression. "Just feeling a little weird."

"Endings are always hard."

Peter nodded. Yes, they absolutely were.

"But endings also mean beginnings, too. A couple of weeks of vacation and then you're going to be a big-shot Wall Street broker."

"I guess."

"You guess? You're graduating at the top of your class, you've had a paper published in the Review that's already considered legendary, and you've been hired by one of the most exclusive banks on Wall Street."

"Yeah, I know, I know. Like I said, it all just feels … weird." Anxious to change the subject, Peter said, "I guess you're happy to be done, Doctor Caffrey."

"You know, with us academics, you're never really done. There's the whole post-doc process, publishing, more publishing. Academia is as cutthroat as poker."

"And you enjoy it."

"That I do. I like being the smartest person in the room." Neal paused for beat, then continued, "And the sexiest one, too." He struck a pose, hips cocked, one arm raised, the other toying with his navel. Over the last three years, Neal had filled out; his chest was broad, his abs tight, his butt still like a peach but as firm as marble. Not anyone's image of a weedy academic.

Peter growled. Neal was turning him on, not that that was difficult. But he was also doing his best to destroy the resolutions he'd made.

"So – you get any action this weekend?"

Peter thought about lying, but couldn't. "No. Was busy getting my stuff cleared out. Sold most of my textbooks, got everything packed. How did I manage to accumulate so much shit?" He knew he was babbling.

Neal didn't seem to notice. "Sometimes, it's the nature of the beast. You know you've got a place to stow it, so you just keep acquiring things that you can't bring yourself to get rid of."

"Yeah, I guess. And you're right about stowing it – most of it is going to sit in cartons in my folk's basement for the next few years. What about your stuff?"

Neal shrugged. "I don't have that problem, so other than my clothes and my art supplies, I really don't have a lot of stuff. All my academic work is logged into the university archives."

"Ah. Okay." The moment felt all kinds of awkward and wrong as Peter remembered that Neal didn't have much of a family or a childhood home to return to.

Neal reached out and took the coffee mug from him. "Isn't it a little late for caffeine?"

"That's not coffee."

Neal sniffed the contents and made a face. "You're right. Drinking this shit at two AM is probably worse than coffee."

"True." But Peter took the mug back and swallowed the rest of the whiskey.

"If you're not going to tell me what's the matter, how about fucking me instead?"

Neal's tone was so blasé that Peter wasn’t sure he'd heard right and when the words did finally register, he started to choke.

Neal took the mug away from him and rubbed his back until the spasms subsided. "I'd apologize, but I'm horny and there's no one else around."

Peter almost started choking again. After three years, he should have been accustomed to Neal's matter-of-fact outrageousness.

"So?" Neal stood there, his hands edging up Peter's tee shirt. "Wanna fuck?"

There were a million reasons why he should say no. He could plead exhaustion, that he was too buzzed to get it up, … Except that his dick wasn't listening to his brain and was making its feelings well known.

"Come on." Neal took his hand. "We've got the place to ourselves. If you want to, we can even do it on the kitchen table."

"No thanks. I've actually done it on the kitchen table and it barely survived the encounter."

It must have been the moonlight, because the expression on Neal's face seemed to be one of hurt and Peter couldn't quell the need to explain. "Last year, David brought a pair of girls from BU back, and they were … well, you know David…" Peter's voice trailed off as Neal's dismay changed to humor.

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Neal pulled on him. "If not the kitchen, then we've got our choice of bedrooms. Wanna defile David's?"

"It's not his anymore. He's got his own place for his last year. All his shit's gone and the mattress went to Goodwill."

"Probably should have ended up in a landfill. Or a toxic waste dump."

"True." Peter let Neal drag him back towards his bedroom. They navigated through the boxes and Peter took control, pushing Neal down on his bed, stripping off his shorts, then getting out of his own clothes. He looked at Neal, beautiful and perfect and practically glowing with happiness. He should walk away now, he should tell Neal about his plans and leave. He should break this off before it became impossible to do so.

But he didn't. He kissed Neal and let the world and his worries disappear in a rush of desire and all the emotions he would never, ever dare name.

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

Sunlight hit his face and Peter rolled over in an attempt to avoid it. And found another body next to him. That simple fact chased away any desire to go back to sleep.

He never, ever stayed the night with anyone and no one ever stayed the night with him.

But even as his brain was trying to deny the inevitable, he remembered the early morning encounter with Neal, he remembered Neal dragging him back to his bedroom, he remembered kissing Neal, drowning in his brightness. He remembered making love with Neal, because what they did last night couldn't be compared to the casual fucking he usually did.

And that was a problem. For almost three years, he and Neal had been making love, and that was messing everything up.

He wasn't a liar, he wasn't a cheat, and he knew he couldn't move on with his life if he lived half of it in the shadows.

Peter sat up, hoping that the motion would disturb Neal, would wake him up. But it didn't and the other man just let out a tiny snore and rolled over, burying his face deeper into the pillow. Peter climbed over him, which still did nothing to disturb Neal, and headed into the bathroom.

By the time he'd finished with his morning business, showered, shaved, and dressed, Neal was awake and getting out of bed.

Peter wanted to say something, but couldn't, not as Neal walked towards him, buck naked and beautifully unglamorous from sleep. As he passed, he leaned over and kissed Peter. Thankfully, he didn't say a word.

Peter picked up an envelope from his dresser and headed into the kitchen, which was mostly bare – as last night's foraging revealed. But since the coffee maker came with the house, it was staying, and there was just enough Folger's left for one more pot. As the coffee was brewing, Peter thought about what he needed to do and how he was going to do it. His father had once told him that life comes down to a few moments and Peter knew that this was one of them.

Just as the last of the coffee dripped into the pot, Peter heard the shower turn off. Neal would be out here in a few minutes. He poured two cups of coffee and split the last of the milk between them and right on cue, Neal joined him, casually dressed in shorts and a tee shirt. Peter pushed the mug towards him.

"Thanks." Neal sat down across from him. He took a sip and Peter could see him trying not to make a face.

"Yeah, it's pretty terrible. You were the only one who could make a decent pot from that thing."

"And soon, you'll have a secretary to make fabulous coffee for you."

Peter rubbed the back of his neck, feeling like utter crap. "Um…" But he couldn't get the words out.

"Still feeling weird?" Neal reached out and squeezed his hand. "It's going to be great; you're going to be great."

"Um, Neal – there's something I need to tell you."

"I don't think I like the sound of that."

Peter decided to just spill everything, no sugar-coating, no soft-soaping. "I'm not going to New York in September. I'm not going to work for Goldman Sachs."

"What?"

Peter pushed the envelope he'd taken from his room over to Neal, who picked it up and noted the return address. "This is from the FBI. The Office of Recruitment."

Peter nodded.

Neal took the letter out and read it.

"Dear Mr. Burke -

We are pleased to offer you a seat in the FBI Training Academy at Quantico for the class beginning on August 1, 1990.

Although the FBI generally requires incoming trainees to have at least two years post-college experience, your stellar academics, your performance on the Academy's fitness trials, and your high marks in your interview evaluations, warrant a waiver of this requirement.

Please contact the Recruitment Office at your earliest convenience to let us know if you will be accepting this offer."

Neal carefully folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. "You never told me you were thinking about joining the FBI."

Peter shrugged. "This is something recent."

"Can't be that recent. You've had interviews. You've done the fitness qualifications."

"The FBI was on campus and recruiting a few months ago. I went down to Quantico during Spring Break. You had gone to that academic conference in Switzerland." He squirmed, uncomfortable with the questioning.

Neal stared at him, it wasn't hard to read the hurt in his eyes. "And you didn't say anything because?"

"Because it all seemed very up in the air – I really didn't think they were going to take me."

Neal persisted, "But you didn't even tell me you were interested in law enforcement. As long as I've known you, you wanted to make your fortune on Wall Street. Now you're going to become a government drone with an entry level salary about the equivalent to what you'd have paid in taxes if you'd stuck to your original plan."

"I changed my mind. This is what I want."

"Why?"

Peter refused to answer that question. "Because it's what I want."

"I'm not buying that. You aren't the type of guy who just brakes hard and does a one-eighty with his life."

"Well, apparently I am." Peter crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the chair, hoping that he was making his point clear.

Neal took a deep breath. "You're really doing this. You're really giving up on everything you've worked for."

"I don't call it giving up. It's a change in plans."

"I still think it would have been nice if you told me. We were going to get an apartment together this fall."

"I didn't find out until last week. You were working like a dog to prepare for your dissertation defense. I didn't want to distract you."

"Why do I feel like there's some subtext here that I'm not seeing?"

It kind of shocked Peter that Neal – the professional poker player – was wearing his emotions so blatantly. And then he wasn't. The hurt that was so evident on his face was masked over in a heartbeat and Neal was smiling, his eyes wide and calm, everything smoothed over.

"Well, I guess it can't hurt to have an FBI agent as a friend."

Anxiety roiled in Peter's stomach, sending the bitter coffee back into his throat. It was time for the hard words. "Listen, I really don't think it will be such a good idea to stay in touch."

"Huh?" And the hurt was back.

"We're really not friends." Peter shrugged in feigned nonchalance, pretending to be oblivious to the pain he was causing. "Look, Neal – we were housemates, fuck-buddies, but that's it. I don't think we should keep pretending that we were anything more than that. This is what's best for everyone, Neal. You have your life; I have one of my own." Peter stood up, ending the conversation. There was nothing left to say.

He left Neal sitting in the kitchen, but ten minutes later, from his bedroom window, he watched as Neal carried out his stuff and loaded it into his car. The BMW roared off, tires squealing in the quiet of the morning, as Neal Caffrey exited his life.

Peter told himself that it was for the best.

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

New York, October, 2015

The shrill tones of Peter's cell interrupted his memories. He dropped the photograph and answered his phone, only to find it was a recorded message.

"This message is for Peter Burke, reminding him that his chemotherapy appointment is scheduled for Monday at ten AM. Please confirm by pressing 'one' and the pound sign to continue. To cancel, press 'two' and please wait for an attendant to reschedule."

He confirmed the appointment and the recorded voice continued with the instructions; what to wear, what to eat and not eat, to bring his insurance card and a list of all current medications. He listened, but he really didn't pay attention. He'd been through this before, although not for the chemo. This was his first session for the drugs, but he'd been having radiation therapy for a month and had the whole routine down pat.

Days like today made it hard to understand why he was even bothering.

END PART TWO - GO TO PART THREE