Title: The Magic Between Us - Part One of Two
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Reese Hughes, June Ellington, Byron Ellington, Original Female Character, Neal Caffrey, Ford Tolman, David Siegel; June/Byron, June/Ford, Peter/David, Neal/Unnamed Male Character (past), Neal/Kate (unconsummated past), Peter/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Canon death of canon character (long-term unspecified illness), non-canon deaths of canon characters, internalized homophobia, expressions of homophobia, gunshot wound, references to 9/11, talk of suicidal behavior.
Word Count: ~15,000
Beta Credit: sinfulslasher
Summary: Peter Burke, a young FBI agent, meets June and Byron Ellington during an investigation of a series of mortgage fraud cases. They take him under their wing and become his surrogate family. During his first visit to the Ellington mansion, he sees a magnificent portrait of a young man and becomes captivated. June and Byron invite him to spend Christmas Eve with them, and he begins to notice something wonderful about the portrait. For a little while, it comes to life. For almost twenty-five years, Peter spends Christmas Eve with the Ellingtons, and each year, he grows closer to the man in the portrait.

A/N: Inspired by kanarek13's artwork – or more accurately, the concept that Kanarek told me about, which set my brain whirring. I had the basic idea of this story plotted out before she finished the piece. I'm only sorry it's taken longer than I'd planned to finish it.



__________________



He was always so cold – caught forever between the past and the future. Looking back, but moving forward – or trying to move forward. But he was frozen here, for all eternity. Caught in a choice he couldn't make – one path was towards the danger of happiness, the other led to the safety of conformity. He could live free and be shunned as something other, or accept society's strictures and stay in the shadows.

But whatever choice he made, he knew he'd be cold. There was no warmth in alienation from society, nor in the subversion of his nature.

So he froze, his indecision captured forever on the canvas of his soul.

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

December, 1991

As a newly minted FBI agent, Peter didn't have a lot of actual authority. Or any authority, for that matter. For the next two years, he was a "probie" – a probationary agent whose workload would consist mostly of coffee- and file-fetching, making photocopies and ensuring that the fax machine didn't clog, and if he was lucky, doing paper for case agents too busy to do it themselves.

But every once in a while, he got to do something exciting, like accompany a senior agent on an interview or take the initiative on some research. Of course, he wasn't given any assignments that would put him in any danger. The White Collar division rarely handled any dangerous cases, he just wanted to do something that required him to think like an agent, as opposed to being a research assistant or a gopher with a badge.

Today was one of those days. He was tapped to accompany Agent Hughes on an interview in the Riverside neighborhood, all the way uptown, and for the first time in the six months since he graduated from Quantico, he felt like a real agent. This morning, Hughes had dropped a bombshell. "You'll take the lead on the interview."

Peter felt mostly confident that he could do this. He knew the case – the FBI was investigating a string of claims about fraudulently granted mortgages. At least a half-dozen Manhattan homeowners, mostly African-Americans, were alleging that they were losing their property because of unpaid mortgages they'd never taken out. In two cases, the property had gone into foreclosure and the owners had been evicted.

The brass thought it was a loser of a case, a waste of time and resources, but Agent Hughes had stood his ground. He'd said his gut – which the brass knew was almost infallible – was telling him that something stank and he wanted some latitude to investigate. He told Peter he thought it was a good case to give a smart probie some seasoning.

They weren't interviewing suspects or victims or witnesses, but potential sources of information.

Two years ago, a wealthy African-American couple had been the victims of a mortgage fraud like the ones that Agent Hughes was investigating. But unlike those cases, this family had the resources and the expertise to fight the claim that they'd taken out a mortgage and failed to pay it back. Peter had found the case by pure luck. It had gone to trial and the so-called creditors had appealed. The appellate division had confirmed the original verdict for the homeowners and while the case law wasn't particularly compelling (New York State, as opposed to Federal), the facts seemed very much on-point. A little more research and Peter discovered that the couple was still living in their home on Riverside Drive, and they would be willing to talk to him.

"Nervous, Burke?"

"A little, sir."

"You'll do fine. You've spoken with them on the phone, right?"

"Yes, sir. I spoke with Mr. Ellington twice and Mrs. Ellington once. They were reluctant at first to talk, especially when I identified myself as FBI, but they did warm up. I think they admired my persistence."

"Did you do a background check on them?"

"Yes, sir." Peter refrained from checking his notes. "Mr. Ellington has a felony conviction – running an illegal gaming operation – and spent ten months in Rikers. Mrs. Ellington was a singer of some renown. In 1961, she was invited to perform at the White House and had met President Kennedy."

Agent Hughes sniffed. "They sound like an interesting couple. Where do they get their income?"

"Their last tax returns show a high six-figure income from real estate investments in New York and overseas."

"Even more interesting – they buy and sell property, but were the victims of a property scam."

Peter agreed. "I'm anxious to hear what they have to say. The people behind our cases are too well hidden. I've dug through a dozen different shell corporations but haven't been able to get to a real, responsible party."

"Well, don't get your hopes up, son. The likelihood is that whoever was behind the Ellingtons' problems are not the same people we're facing."

They parked in front of a hydrant on Riverside and Agent Hughes tossed his parking placard on the dash. Despite the brutal December wind, they walked two blocks to 78 Riverside Drive.

They stopped in front of that address and Agent Hughes looked like he'd been hit with a bat. "You've got to be kidding me."

Peter's jaw dropped. They were standing in front of a freaking mansion.

"You're sure you have the right address?"

Peter checked the file and three other documents, including a copy of the Ellington's property title. All of the paperwork said 78 Riverside Drive. "It's correct, sir."

Agent Hughes raised an eyebrow and shook his head. "Come on, then."

Peter followed.

The Ellingtons were utterly gracious and were quick to put Peter at ease during his occasionally awkward questioning. They were also able to provide detailed records of the company that had claimed their property. Byron Ellington explained, "I've got friends – and I'm not going to tell you who those friends are – who are good at digging out information. The people you're looking for aren't your regular scam artists. They're sharks in very good suits. The type of people that have connections downtown."

Peter asked, "Wall Street?"

Mr. Ellington corrected him. "Not that far. More like Mulberry Street." Little Italy. The mob.

Agent Hughes took over the questioning, and for Peter, it was better than any textbook, any classroom simulation. He was kind to the Ellingtons, of course, but he was pretty relentless, digging for sources, for names as it became clear that the people who'd tried to steal the Ellingtons' home were the same people behind the cases that Agent Hughes was investigating. Peter frantically took notes until Mrs. Ellington interrupted them.

"Gentlemen, would you like some refreshment? Some coffee or something stronger?"

Needing a break, Peter hoped that Agent Hughes would agree to coffee.

He did, and he gave Peter a signal that he hoped he interpreted correctly. "May I help?"

Mrs. Ellington gave him a sharp look and then smiled. "Of course, come follow me."

They didn't go far – there was a small area off the dining room that held a silver coffee service and a platter of cookies. "You can carry that, young man."

Peter felt his ears turn bright red. He was twenty-six, not a child. "You have a beautiful home."

"Thank you – it is lovely and we've worked hard to make it so. When Byron and I bought it, it was a wreck – decades of abuse had almost destroyed it. Kind of like the city, itself. It takes a special type of vision to see below the grime and the decay and find a jewel."

Peter nodded.

As they passed through the dining room, Mrs. Ellington gestured to a painting. "See that portrait?"

"It's beautiful." It was of a young man, holding a cane. The artist had captured him in a moment of action, as if he'd paused to say hello to someone he'd met while walking along a snow-covered street.

"Byron bought that for me when we were on our honeymoon in Paris in 1965. We were exploring the hidden and not-so-well travelled parts of the city, ducking in and out of tiny little antique stores. You wouldn't have given it a second glance, it was almost completely black and you could barely make out the figure. But he said it was special and he had to have it. Paid a hundred francs for it and then almost five hundred dollars to have it restored – which was a tremendous amount of money in 1965."

Peter kept staring at the painting. The subject seemed so alive, and Peter thought that if he was patient, he'd see the man take another step, and then another, until he disappeared.

"I bet you think it's an odd thing for us to hang in our dining room."

Peter would have shrugged, but he was carrying a heavy coffee service and he didn't want it to spill. "It doesn't quite fit in with the rest of your artwork, but it does go with the period of the house – late 1800s, Beaux-Arts. It could almost be a Sargent, except he didn't paint his subjects in such informal settings."

Mrs. Ellington smiled in approval. "You do know your art and architectural history."

"Who is the artist?"

"We don't know – it's unsigned. Which is unusual for the period."

"Yes, but it's certainly not the work of an amateur. Everything about the painting says that this was created by someone who had both skill and style." Peter was captivated by the painting.

"You're right."

"Have you had it looked at by an expert? Someone who might recognize the artist?"

"No – Byron and I like the mystery of it."

Mrs. Ellington swept out of the room and Peter followed, stealing one more glance at the artwork before going back to the small front parlor where Agent Hughes and Mr. Ellington were still talking.

Mr. Ellington looked at his wife and Peter was struck by the love and affection in his eyes. "I thought you got lost."

"No, just showing the young man around. He was particularly interested in the portrait in the dining room."

Peter felt a flush burn across his cheeks. Agent Hughes gave him a stern look. "It's a very interesting work and Mrs. Ellington was kind enough to tell me how you found it."

Mr. Ellington smiled. "I have a good eye – for art, for talent, but especially for hidden treasures."

Mrs. Ellington poured the coffee and they all took a few moments to enjoy it. Mr. Ellington kept looking at him and it seemed to Peter that he was trying to discover what made him tick.

Coffee and cookies finished, Agent Hughes wrapped up the interview with a few more questions.

"You've been very helpful, Mr. and Mrs. Ellington." Agent Hughes stood up and Peter followed suit. "If it wouldn't be a problem, I may have Agent Burke follow up with you on some details."

Both Ellingtons gave him a measured look and nodded, and Mr. Ellington said, "That would be fine."

"And if you think of anything else, please call me – or Agent Burke." That was the signal for Peter to give them his card. He felt a small spark of achievement; this was the first time he'd given one out that wasn't to a friend or family member.

Peter spent most of the next two weeks chasing down the leads that the Ellingtons had given them, reaching out to the various Organized Crime task forces for the Five Families, but getting little cooperation from them, simply because he was a probie. Reluctant to go to Agent Hughes and ask him to make the request, Peter thought that maybe the Ellingtons might give him someone to talk to, a name, a contact, a thread of a lead. Anything so he didn't have to appear incompetent in front of his boss.

He called and Mrs. Ellington answered. "Agent Burke, how lovely to hear your voice."

Peter wasn't sure that it was, but he wouldn't be so impolite to say so. "How are you and Mr. Ellington?"

"Oh, just fine. A little sad that neither of our daughters will be bringing the grandchildren over for Christmas, but they are entitled to their own lives, and we did see them for Thanksgiving."

Peter didn't quite know what to say. He was an only child and didn't have much of a relationship with his parents these days.

"But you didn't call to hear about our holiday plans, did you?"

"No, ma'am, I'm sorry."

"A word of advice, Agent Burke, save the apologies for something important."

"Yes, ma'am, I will keep that in mind."

"Now, why are you calling?"

"I – I was wondering if you and Mr. Ellington would have some time today or maybe tomorrow to answer some questions I have about the information you provided when Agent Hughes and I saw you a few weeks ago." Peter was proud of himself – he got all of those words out without stumbling or making an ass out of himself.

Mrs. Ellington didn't answer right away and Peter's heart sank. He so didn't want to have to go to Agent Hughes and ask him to make the guys in Organized Crime play nice.

"What are your plans for Christmas?"

"Ma'am?" Peter was startled by the non sequitur. "Christmas?"

"Are you going home and spending it with your family? Or getting together with friends and loved ones?"

For the last few years, Peter had done his best not to think about the holidays. No family, no significant other, no friends who were willing to open up their house to a lonely-only. So he replied with unthinking honesty, "No real plans. Catch some football, take care of some chores. Enjoy the extra day off."

"Byron and I were talking about you the other day. You intrigue us, Peter Burke. My husband suggested, and I agree, that you should spend Christmas here with us."

"Mrs. Ellington – that's awfully kind of you, but – "

"No buts, and please call me June. Come over Christmas Eve and we'll have a traditional feast and you'll spend the night. We'll have a delicious breakfast and then open presents. How does that sound?"

Peter thought it sounded wonderful, and very strange. He barely knew the Ellingtons. They barely knew him. Why would they want to have him over for the holiday?

"Say yes, Peter."

He did, and wondered just what compelled him to do so.

"Good, come around eight, we'll be home from church services by then. We'll have dinner around ten, so that will give us time to talk."

"Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Ellington."

"You have such lovely manners, and please remember, call me June, and call my husband Byron."

"Thank you and I will."

"Then I shall see you in few days, Peter." Mrs. Ellington – June – hung up before Peter could ask if he should bring anything.

He sat at his desk, bemused and not really sure of what had just happened.

"Burke?" Agent Hughes was standing in front of him. "Is everything all right?"

Peter shook his head. "I don't know. I just called the Ellingtons to follow up on something and, well, they invited me to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with them. Is that all right?"

"Well, they aren't suspects and they aren't really witnesses." Agent Hughes gave him a speculative look. "It's never a bad idea to cultivate people who can help you. And the Ellingtons seem like they could give your career a boost."

Peter suspected that they were both thinking of Byron Ellington's criminal connections.

"But remember that you are a professional. You are law enforcement. That has to come first before any friendship."

"Yes, I understand."

Agent Hughes nodded. "Then enjoy your holiday. You deserve it."

A little before eight on Christmas Eve, Peter arrived at the Ellingtons' elegantly decorated front door, a bottle of Champagne in one hand and a bottle of Scotch in the other. Somehow, he didn't think that bringing food would be suitable. But flowers might have been nice. It was too late and too far from any florist. Peter just rang the doorbell and hoped that his gifts were suitable.

Unlike the last time he was here, Byron – and not the housekeeper – opened the door for him. "Merry Christmas, my boy."

Peter wondered at the friendliness of the greeting. "Thank you for inviting me."

"No one should be alone on Christmas Eve." And it seemed that Byron couldn't resist a small dig. "Not even an FBI agent."

"I'm accustomed to it." Peter put the bottles down and took off his coat, which Byron handed to the housekeeper, who was hovering behind him.

"Come in and relax."

Peter picked up the bottles and followed the man into the same small front parlor where they'd been interviewed. It was now fully decorated for the season and a lively fire was going in the fireplace. A tree dominated one corner and there were stacks of presents beneath it. Peter wondered if he should put his gifts there, too.

"From the shape of those boxes, I'm guessing you've brought us some Christmas cheer?"

Peter blushed. "I wanted to bring something, but I wasn't sure …"

June entered on a cloud of perfume. It smelled expensive. "Stop tormenting the boy." She came over and kissed Peter's cheek. "I think we can open these in the morning." June took the boxes from him and placed them under the tree. "Whatever you brought will be most appreciated."

"Would you like a drink, Peter?" Byron asked as he was pouring something – either for himself or for June. "Whatever you want, we probably have. We used to do some spectacular entertaining back in the day."

Peter wasn't much of a drinker, but he knew he needed to be sociable. "Scotch and soda – if you have." He didn't exactly like scotch, but it seemed like a sophisticated drink and something he could nurse through the evening.

"Of course."

A few minutes later, Byron handed him his drink, a maid came and placed trays of hors d'oeuvres on the buffet, and June gestured for them to partake. "How about we take care of the business first?"

Relieved, Peter nodded. He had worried that this would be a strictly social occasion and he'd either have to introduce the topic awkwardly or leave off his pursuit of information until after the holidays. "Thank you. The information you gave me and Agent Hughes was very helpful and I've been following up with other departments in the Bureau, but it would help if I could go directly to the source."

Byron chuckled. "In other words, you're getting stonewalled at every turn. No one wants to play nice and share."

"Yeah. I'm still a probie – a probationary agent – and they kept telling me to get my boss to make the request. I know it's bullshit – this is a valid case with a concrete lead, but they are being territorial."

"And you don't want to have to go whining to your boss that no one wants to play nice."

Peter nodded. "I want to show him that I can do this on my own. It's not that I don't understand teamwork, but I also need to prove I can work independently."

"Of course." June rested her hand over his and squeezed lightly. "You want to show that you can see a job through without someone clearing the roadblocks."

"Yes. I spend a lot of time doing nothing meaningful – this is my chance to prove I can be trusted with something more than fetching files or getting coffee."

June turned to her husband. "Give the boy what he needs."

Byron went over to the buffet, took a pen and paper out of a drawer, and wrote something on it. He folded it and handed it to Peter. "Don't look at this until you leave. I'll tell the people I know that it's okay to talk to you."

Peter took the paper and put it into his wallet. "Thank you, I really do appreciate this."

"Just be careful, my boy."

"I will." Peter would. He might be committed to proving his worth, but he wasn't reckless.

"Now, let's enjoy the holiday!"

The rest of the evening was one of the most enjoyable he'd spent in a long time. June and Byron were engaging hosts who never let the conversation fall into awkward silence. With dinner, Peter swapped his watered-down scotch for wine, and allowed himself to get into a pleasantly buzzed state.

After the main course dishes were removed, June briefly excused herself. Peter leaned back and looked up at the portrait that had so intrigued him during his first visit. The man was even more stunning than he remembered.

"So, you like him?" Byron asked, but Peter had the feeling that the question was more than an inquiry about his taste in artwork.

"He's – it's – lovely."

"Yes, he is."

There was no mistaking Byron's emphasis on the pronoun, but Peter ignored it. "June said you don't really know anything about the artist."

Byron, though, wasn't willing to let it go. "I think you're more interested in the subject than the artist."

Peter swallowed, remembering too clearly his father's reaction. "Would it bother you if I was?"

"Not in the least. People get too hung up on those things. I've seen and done too much to sit in judgment on anyone, let alone someone I like. And admire."

Peter felt himself blushing. "You admire me? Why?"

"Because you want to do the right thing for the right reasons. When you called the first time, I was going to blow you off. Why the hell does the FBI care about some old fraud case where a Black family almost lost their family home? My experience with your kind hasn't been too good over the years and I didn't see any reason to play nice. But when you started to tell me about the people getting thrown out of their own homes because of someone else's greed, I could hear the passion in your voice – your belief that you needed to help make things right. I knew that you were one of the good ones."

All Peter could say was, "I'm an FBI agent."

"And you have to know that doesn't mean squat to me. I've seen men with gold shields do things that would turn your stomach, just because they could get away with it. You believe in people, Peter – justice isn't some abstract concept. The law isn't a tool to bludgeon others with. You may be fresh out of the Academy, but you're one of the good guys."

Peter swallowed hard. "Thank you." It had been a long time since someone had told him they believed in him.

Byron stood, but gestured for Peter to stay seated. "I'm going to find my wife, and hopefully dessert. You enjoy your wine and the company of our lovely friend up there." He filled Peter's glass and left the room.

Peter took his wine and went over to the painting. It seemed like the man was about to disappear into the swirling snow, and that made him sad. To lose such beauty in an instant.

It was a foolish thing to do, but Peter lifted his glass and said, "Merry Christmas" to the man in the painting.

He blinked and looked at the painting again and thought he was going mad. The snow had cleared and in the background, Peter could see blue skies behind drifting clouds. The young man was now smiling, when his face had been so serious before.

"Peter?" June had come back into the dining room. "Are you okay?"

He turned around, wine glass sloshing a bit. "I may have had a little too much to drink. I thought I saw something …" His voice trailed off – it would be far too embarrassing. Of course, the man in the painting had been smiling before; of course he hadn't been standing in the middle of a blizzard.

"Maybe a little music will sober you up. Come."

He followed June into another room – this one dominated by a gorgeous grand piano. Byron was sitting at the keyboard, playing something light and jazzy and vaguely familiar. "I trust you know the standards and classics."

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This was his real curse – to watch other people's happiness. To see the world change before him and remain imprisoned by his own inability to choose a path.

This man, though – he could have easily chosen this man and been happily labeled an invert. He could have given up everything – his position in society, the wealth promised through marriage, the restoration of his family's name and estate.

This man was strong and moral and had a code that he lived by. Neal could see it in his bearing, in his eyes. He glowed with a strength of character and purpose that he himself would never have.

He probably also had a wife and child. Except if he did, why was he here, celebrating with almost-strangers instead of with his own family? So maybe this man was still a bachelor, but even if he didn't yet have a loving woman by his side, that would come soon. A man like this was made for that kind of happiness.

The snow swirled around him, the cold a too-familiar companion. But for a moment, when the man lifted his glass and wished him a Merry Christmas, he was warmed though – as if by summer sunshine.

Neal smiled and in the silence of his mind, he whispered, "Merry Christmas to you, too."


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December 2001

Peter felt worn, stretched thin, like he'd break into pieces if someone just looked at him the wrong way. It had been that way for months, since the Towers had come down.

He'd seen the planes crash, he'd watched the Towers fall and thought the world was going to end in fire and hate.

But it was Christmas and he didn't want to think about death and destruction and the war that was about to happen, because war was inevitable after such a terrible attack – even if the enemy was some shadowy, nebulous terrorist organization that the U.S. government had once given money and weapons to.

This Christmas, like every Christmas for the past decade, was spent with June and Byron Ellington. Sometimes it was just the three of them, sometimes the Ellington daughters brought their families, and sometimes, old friends of the family stopped by. But those visits were usually reserved for Christmas Day. And Peter never brought a date. Over the years, he had had relationships with some good men, but for some reason, they never lasted through the Christmas season.

And maybe it was for the best. Peter loved the intimacy of Christmas Eve with his friends – with his adoptive family – and this year, more than any other, he needed their warmth and love and unquestioning acceptance.

And he needed to spend just a little while with the young man in the painting.

Peter knew it was strange, and maybe even a little creepy, but for a decade, he'd been fascinated by that portrait. And he'd swear that it was always slightly different. Not each time he saw it, because he was a frequent visitor to the Ellingtons, having dinner with June and Byron once a month, at least. But on Christmas Eve, it seemed that some of the details of the painting changed; one year, the man's coat was open, another year, the horse and carriage was a motor car. Sometimes the sky was clear, sometimes it was heavy with clouds. Sometimes it was an afternoon scene and sometimes the sun had just set.

Peter never mentioned these changes to June and Byron. He didn't want them to think he was crazy. In fact, except for that first Christmas, they'd never really talked about the painting. And for that, Peter was grateful. Because how do you tell your friends that you've fallen in love with a man who never existed. Or if he did, he'd have been dead for a hundred years or more.

Tonight, June and not Byron who greeted him at the door, but nothing else changed. Marta, the Ellingtons' housekeeper, still hovered, waiting to take his coat. This year, in addition to his usual bottles of Christmas cheer, Peter brought an apple pie. One he'd made. Himself. And of course, he felt ridiculous about it.

Last winter, a boyfriend who looked like he might become something serious, had convinced him that they'd have a wonderful time taking a pastry class at the Learning Annex. Peter had thought it was kind of silly, but Adam was cute and eager and promised all sorts of sexual favors if he signed up, too.

Peter had been surprised at how much he enjoyed the class – baking, and particularly pastry making, was like chemistry. You had to follow the rules, do everything in the right order and if you did, you got something delicious.

Like all his other relationships, Adam didn't last and was gone from his life by October. He was too freaked out by 9/11 and when his job as a broker at one of the big firms shifted to New Jersey, he packed up and returned home to Boston.

Peter missed him, in an abstract way, like a lost glove or a pair of shoes that couldn't be re-soled. And he'd always be grateful for what Adam had brought into his life. Peter still enjoyed baking, though – it helped relieve the stress of his work-day life – and he took satisfaction in creating something delicious.

But bringing a homemade pie to an elegant dinner still felt ridiculous, even though June had encouraged him.

Peter handed off the pie and the alcohol to June, took off his coat and after he handed it to Marta, he passed along an envelope with a small gift. The housekeeper smiled and took the envelope with a quiet 'thank you'.

As always, the house was beautifully decorated – touches of Victoriana mingled with more modern and culturally relevant ornaments. The Nativity scene had been a granddaughter's high school art project, and the three wise men were supposed to be Martin Luther King, Malcolm X and Huey Newton.

Peter breathed deeply, and the scents of Christmas filled his lungs and eased the wounds to his soul.

June tucked her arm into his and led him away from the front parlor. Her expression was far too serious.

"Please don't say anything to Byron about how he looks. Nothing good, nothing bad. Just treat him as if everything's normal."

Peter nodded. "I will. Is there anything I can do?"

"No, other than keep him in your prayers. The doctors say that the treatments are working, but they are making him so damn frail."

"Okay. And thanks for warning me – I'd probably have put my foot in my mouth if you hadn't said something."

"I just wanted you to know." June smiled sadly and led him towards the front parlor. Peter hoped he had enough discipline not to betray the shock he felt at the sight of his friend. Byron looked like a mild breeze might knock him down. He'd always been a slight man, but now he looked emaciated. Peter had last seen him in October, and had learned of his illness then. June had begged off from their dinner in November, for obvious reasons.

It was hard not to ask, not to comment. It was hard to pretend everything was normal when it wasn't. But Peter managed, and by the time they sat down to dinner, he'd gotten hold of his emotions. It helped that June and Byron's children and grandchildren were here, they created a buffer and diffused his focus on the possibility that this could be the last Christmas that Byron celebrated.

But as bad as Byron looked, he was still animated, still the raconteur, still very much the patriarch of this diverse and loving family.

The hour grew late and some of the younger children were getting sleepy. June clapped her hands and the group disbursed. The holiday festivities would continue in the front parlor after the little ones had been put to bed. It was also a chance for Peter to spend a few moments with the man of his dreams – because he did dream about the man in the painting.

This year, the changes in the painting were subtle. The sun was peeking out from the clouds and the woman in the background was not carrying an umbrella.

The man, however, was as perfect and as beautiful as always. His smile seemed dimmed, though – as if he was witnessing the sadness in the Ellington household, too.

Peter raised his glass, to toast his idée fixe. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you, too, Peter."

Seven years ago – the first time Peter had gotten a reply to his holiday greeting – he had thought he was going mad. Or was so drunk he was on the verge of alcohol poisoning. Or someone was playing a prank on him. The voice he heard was beautiful and cultured, vowels perfectly rounded. The voice of an Englishman.

But he quickly concluded that he wasn't drunk or mad, and no one was pranking him. Just as he accepted the fact that the painting subtly changed from Christmas to Christmas, Peter believed that the man in the painting was talking to him.

"It's been a rough year."

"I've heard, and I'm sorry for everything you've gone through. Your world is so complicated. I think I'd go mad if I lived in your century."

"No, you wouldn't. You'd shine. Maybe if you were here, the world wouldn't be such a terrible place."

"You put a lot of trust and faith on my shoulders. On the shoulders of a man whose name you don't know."

"I've never wanted to ask."

"Why?"

"I've been afraid."

"Of what?"

"That you don't have a name. That you don't really exist."

"I do. I'm real."

"Yes, in my head you are."

"I was once real outside of this painting."

Peter wished he had a little more time to talk, but he knew that either June or one of the girls would come to fetch him soon. "So, what is your name?"

He didn't get an answer right away and his heart sank. But then he swore the man in the painting grinned at him. "Call me Neal."

Peter's heart raced. "Neal. Merry Christmas."

"And Merry Christmas to you, Peter. Always."

"There you are." June's eldest daughter, Cordelia, came into the dining room. "You doing okay?"

Peter nodded, feeling overwhelmed. "I'll be fine."

Cordelia stood next to him. "That painting – it always creeped me out."

"Why?"

"White guy hanging in our dining room, staring at us all the time. But Mom and Dad love it and I got used to it when I was a kid. But coming back, it's always a little jarring to see him there."

Peter always liked Cordelia. He liked both of the Ellington daughters, but he seemed to have a stronger connection with June and Byron's eldest. Maybe because Cordelia was a lawyer and had spent time in government service, to the slight dismay of her father.

"I like the painting, but I can understand why you'd be bothered by it."

"Feels a little too much of the massah watching the slaves. But he's pretty and I can understand your fascination. Bet you'd like to bone him."

Peter had just taken a sip of his wine and nearly choked. "You kiss your children goodnight with that mouth?"

"Oh, you don't want to know where my mouth has been."

Maybe Peter liked Cordelia for her outrageousness most of all.

"Let's go put on our happy faces and join the family. Dad wants to do a few gifts and then the whole good Christian songbook. He doesn't want to accept that I'm not Christian."

Peter laughed. "If you want some solidarity, does being an atheist count?"

"Sure." Cordelia linked her arm through his and they headed to the front parlor. But Peter glanced back and saw the man in the painting – Neal – lift his hand in a gesture of farewell.

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With each passing year, he became more aware of the world outside of the cold street he existed in. He could hear and understand the people beyond the confines of the frame and what he heard terrified him. Horseless carriages – which had been but a novelty when he was alive – now sped along the streets, spewing noise and bringing death. And worse, creations that soared in the skies – airships that crossed the oceans in hours, not days. Even harder to comprehend were the things that were sent into space – to the moon and the planets. It seemed as if Mr. Wells' predictions had all come true.

But none of that mattered to Neal. He lived, caught in the then and the now. There was someone who conjured him in the dark of night, with thoughts of longing and desire.

Peter.

Although the man who had brought him back into this world, the man who owned this house and fathered the children, the man called Byron, who owned the canvas, the frame, the oils and glazes that defined his physical existence, it was Peter who owned his soul. Peter who called him to life and made him long for the choice he'd been unable to make so many winters past.

And now Peter knew his name.

Go to Part Two