elrhiarhodan

Title: Calling in the Favor - The Secret History of Neal Caffrey, Part Two
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar, Kingsman: The Secret Service
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Merlin (Kingsman), Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke
Word Count: ~2000
Spoilers: White Collar - Series Finale, Spoilers for Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Non-Canon Death of Canon Character
Beta Credit: None
Summary: Neal, once upon a time, had been a Kingsman candidate and earned a favor. Four months after V-Day, he calls it in.

Author's Notes: My apologies to certain tender sensibilities, but this is the only way I see Neal's story moving forward.

__________________



V-Day

Neal doesn't realize that the world had started ending - at least not while it's happening.

Around noon, he had sent Mozzie out for wine and some fresh bread, with the instructions that if Mozzie happens to be near a particular fromageire, perhaps he could stop pretending to be lactose intolerant and pick up another small wheel of the brie he'd finished before Neal had even gotten a taste of it.

No, Neal had been completely oblivious to the ending of the world. Paris and every other major metropolitan area explodes into terrifying violence while Neal is putting the finishing touches on a rather respectable copy of a lovely Mary Cassatt he'd been admiring at the Orsay.

An anniversary present for Peter and Elizabeth, perchance.

It isn't until the light starts to fade from the early summer sky that Neal had realizes that Mozzie had been gone far too long - it doesn't take eight hours to buy a couple of bottles of wine, a loaf of bread, and some cheese. He checks his phone and it's filled with alerts - warnings to stay inside, to stay away from crowds, to avoid other people at all costs.

Neal looks out of his apartment window and sees the carnage, he finally notices the sirens blaring and the sounds of people weeping and crying out. He runs down to the street and his once-lovely neighborhood is a war zone, filled with the dead and injured and the dying.

He does what he can to help, but he can't linger. He needs to find Mozzie, to make sure he's safe and unharmed.

He's not.

Two days later, Neal finds Mozzie in the ruins of a favorite wine shop, beaten to death. It's a terrible irony that the weapon used to kill him was a bottle of Chateau Petrus Pomerol, an '82 Bordeaux that Mozzie had once sworn would be the last and best wine he ever hoped to drink.

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

Two Months after V-Day

"Peter, I can come back to New York." This isn't the first time Neal's made the offer.

"I don't think that will be a good idea, Neal." Peter still sounds like he's aged thirty years.

"Danny Brooks is still alive, there's nothing stopping him from coming back." At their first reunion after the Panthers had been sent to prison, Peter had given him a passport in the name of Neal's WitSec identity, and an open invitation to come home and resume a life in New York.

"Things have changed, Neal."

"I know, but I can help." He's not sure exactly how he can help, but there has to be something he can do.

Peter doesn't answer.

"It wasn't your fault, Peter. You did what you had to do."

"I killed six people, Neal. Two of them were cops, two were fellow agents."

"They'd gone out of control, you were saving other people's lives. You were protecting El and Neal." This is the first time Peter's said anything to Neal about what happened on V-Day. It had been Elizabeth who'd told him, in horrifying detail how Peter had picked up a bat and defended his wife and son during the horror. They'd been at a picnic - a friendly baseball game between the best of the New York City FBI field office and the NYPD.

"My son saw me kill six people, Neal. He saw me murder them in a rage. He screams whenever he sees me. My son thinks I'm a monster. I am a monster."

Neal doesn't know what to say, how to makes this better. But he can't do anything if he's an ocean away.

"I can be there tomorrow." That, thankfully, is something Neal can do, now. It's taken a long time - months - for the world to right itself, for the restoration of basic functions, like air transportation.

"Don't. I don't want you here." Peter's tone is harsh. "You don't belong here anymore."

Neal can't give up. "If you change your mind - "

"I won't." Peter ends the call.

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

Four Months after V-Day

Neal's busier than he's ever been; it's a good time to be in the security business. And being busy is a good thing. It keeps Neal from thinking about everything he's lost. Mozzie's gone - his ashes scattered in the warm Mediterranean breeze. Peter's gone, too. And in a way, that loss is more painful. Since their last conversation, Neal's called him every day without fail, but Peter never picks up the phone. Elizabeth at least answers Neal's texts - her replies are simply terse assurances that everyone is doing okay, for a certain value of that word.

Despite his growing business, Neal keeps thinking about going back to New York, just showing up and inserting himself into the Burke household again. He even goes so far as to start packing up his apartment when Elizabeth sends him a message. She's taking the baby and moving back with her parents - she has to think of her son, first and foremost. There's too much trauma for him seeing his father every day. That seals the deal on Neal's intentions, until he reads the next message - Peter's been seconded to Washington where he'll be reporting directly to the new FBI director.

No, Neal can't go home again. There's nothing left for him in New York.

So he works himself to the bone and starts thinking about all of the precious artwork he's helping to keep safe. About how easy it would be to swap out a precious Monet for a not-so-valuable "Neal Caffrey".

It's foolish, he knows. He doesn't need the money - Moz had barely touched the fortune that they'd siphoned off of the Panthers last score, and Neal has made a respectable living in Paris since dying in New York. He tells himself this is a product of boredom, of loneliness, but the problem is that there is no one - no better angel - to tell him to be the man and not the con.

Or is there?

Words spoken with a faint Scottish burr, a brogue, teases his memory. "It customary to offer the last unsuccessful candidate a favor. A single favor that you can call in at any time."

Neal hasn't thought about his time as a Kingsman trainee in years - in a lifetime. He'd briefly entertained the thought of cashing in that favor when Peter had arrested him in New York, but he'd never planned on getting convicted. Better off holding onto that chip. He could have called it in when the judge gave him a four year prison sentence, but hell - what's four years?

The only other time Neal's come close to redeeming that favor had been when Peter had been arrested for Pratt's murder.

In retrospect, he should have called it in then, it would have saved everyone a lot of heartache. He wouldn't have had to make that devil's bargain with Hagen, he wouldn't have ever met Rachel, he wouldn't have gotten drawn into the hunt for that diamond. No diamond, no kidnapping. No kidnapping, no Pink Panthers. No Panthers, no faked death, no need to leave the people he loves. And Neal Caffrey might have died on V-Day, too.

Wouldn't have have been a pisser of an irony?

It doesn't take much to get the customer service number for Kingsman Tailors, on Savile Row. But it's infinitely more difficult to actually make the call. Once he does this, Neal is committed. Everything he's built here in Paris will disappear. There will be no going back.

But he's done that before, hasn't he?

He makes the call and a lovely, warm English voice answers, "Customer Complaints, how may I help you?"

"Oxfords, not brogues." The phrase trips from his tongue without effort.

"Please hold."

The hold music is very English - a Muzak version of Strawberry Fields - and Neal's sweating. He's jumped from tall buildings and been less nervous.

There's a click and the call is transferred. Another lovely English voice, smooth as cream, asks, "How can Kingsman Tailors assist you today."

Neal swallows against the dryness in his mouth and says, "Neal Caffrey needs to speak to Merlin directly about a favor he is owed."

If Neal's expecting to actually get to speak to Merlin, he's bound for disappointment. The voice on the other end replies, "Your complaint has been duly noted. Someone will be in contact with you soon. We hope we have not lost you as a loyal customer." The line goes dead.

In a way, Neal's relieved that this has gone nowhere. He doesn't even know what he would actually say if he'd actually been transferred to Merlin.

He pockets his phone and heads out. Neal, or rather George Devore, has an appointment with a private client and it wouldn't be professional if he arrives late.

The days blend into each other and Neal manages to forget about the call, about the favor he's trying to redeem. A week goes by and he's spent a long day of penetration testing a proof of concept security system for the private client. It's close to nine PM by the time Neal gets home. He's exhausted.

But not too exhausted to notice that the second deadbolt on his front door isn't engaged. Times like this, Neal wishes he still didn't find guns so distasteful. At least there's a walking stick in the umbrella stand - a lovely, sturdy thing with a solid silver knob heavy enough to crack a skull. Neal hefts it like a bat and goes looking for his intruder. He feels like he's done this before.

He has.

"Lad, put that down." His guest turns on a lamp.

But Neal doesn't need light to recognize the voice.

"Merlin." He says the name is like a prayer, a curse.

"You seem surprised to see me, Caffrey. I thought you wanted to talk to me."

"I expected a phone call, not - " Neal drops the cane onto the couch, "a personal visit."

"Ah. Don't quite trust the phone system these days. Figure' a personal visit was in order."

"Understandable, after everything." Neal sits down and stares at Merlin, trying to catalogue the differences a dozen years make. It's impossible to tell in the shadowed illumination. "Still, showing up unannounced, that's a bit extreme."

"Let's just say I'm curious. It's been a long time since we granted you that favor, thought you would have called it in a long time ago."

Neal shakes his head and smiles. "I figured I'd save it for something big."

"And a prison sentence isn't big?" Merlin says with no small amount of sarcasm.

"Four years in a private cell. Nah." Funny how time and distance can put things into perspective. At the time, he thought it had been rather terrible.

"And another four years chained to the FBI?"

"It was fun, for the most part." Of course Merlin knows where Neal's been.

"And tell me, was dyin' fun, too?"

"No, but necessary." And for some reason, Neal's compelled to admit the truth for the very first time. "At least I thought so at the time."

Annoyed with himself and the unnecessary drama of this meeting, Neal gets up and turns on the overhead light. Except for some dark circles under his eyes, but yet, Merlin - Kingsman's resident wizard - looks exactly the same as he did the last time Neal saw him.

"Want a drink?" Neal heads over to the liquor cabinet. He's lost his taste for wine, but can still appreciate the nuances of a fine scotch. He picks up a bottle, "Craggenmore 29?"

"That'll do."


Neal pours a dram for both of them and hands Merlin the glass. "Cheers."

"Cheers." Merlin sips his scotch and keeps his eyes on Neal.

Neal sits back down and does the same. He can't help but compare Merlin with Peter and Peter's stare of doom. He has to wonder which man would break first if they ever had the pleasure or misfortune to meet.

"What's so amusin, lad?"

"Nothing important." Neal decides that it would be a draw and the two of them would simply generate a black hole with the crushing weight of their gazes.

Merlin finishes his drink and sets down his glass. He leans forward and gets down to business. "What do you want, Neal?"

"I want another shot. I bet you're recruiting right and left these days and I want to be a Kingsman. That's my favor and I'm calling it in."

To Be Continued