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elrhiarhodanTitle: Full Disclosure - Part One of Two
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar, The West Wing
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, Jed Bartlet, Abigail Bartlet, Peter/Elizabeth/Neal, Jed/Abbey
Spoilers: None, other than generally well-known canon deaths for The West Wing and for White Collar
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Non-canon events for The West Wing, possible timeline issues for The West Wing.
Word Count: 8,300 this part, ~12,000 total
Beta and Cheerleading Credit:theatregirl7299, miri_thompson, coffeethyme4me, gnomi
Summary: On the day that Neal’s tracker is removed for the last time, he and his lovers go to The Four Seasons to celebrate. Peter encounters an old acquaintance and a few hijinks (of the mildest kind) ensue.
A/N: See Author’s Notes at the end.
__________________
Now
Neal wasn't nervous, exactly. More like nervy, hyper-alert to every movement, his skin excruciatingly sensitive under the fine cotton and wool of his suit. He had goose pimples on top of goose pimples and there were whole flocks of butterflies trying to work their way out of his stomach. It had been a long time since he felt this sensation – not since when he and Moz had run that rig on Peter and Kramer, getting the Degas out of Elliot Richardson's penthouse. Or maybe it was when he was trying to get the Welsh gold out of the oxygen tank and into Mozzie's hands.
Neither experience was a good reference point for this particular episode of heightened anticipation.
Peter walked out of his office. Today was no different from any other day; Neal knew where Peter was at any given moment. It was as if he was a barometer and Peter’s movements changed the air pressure.
"It's time, Neal." Peter was smiling as he gave him that two-fingered summons. Of course, everyone else in the office looked up when Peter spoke. The clapping started, then the hoots and whistles as Neal climbed to the top of the stairs and lifted the cuff of his left pants leg.
Peter’s smile was intimate, his eyes were sparkling – he knew just what the untethering process did to Neal, even in as public an area as the balcony overlooking the bullpen. He was going to pay for that smile. Rather than balance his foot on the railing, Neal left it firmly in place on the carpet.
Shaking his head as if he knew exactly what Neal was thinking (and he probably did), Peter knelt down, cupped his hand around his calf and held his leg in place while he slowly put the key in. The peanut gallery was cheering as the damn thing gave a final chirruping beep and went silent. Peter pulled the black plastic away and Neal shook his leg so the wool pants fell back over his calf.
Over the years, he’d been off the tracker countless times and for days at a stretch. Hell, he cut it once or twice himself. But he’d never felt quite like this. Because this was permanent.
Peter got up and put a hand on his shoulder. “How does freedom feel?”
“Give me a few, and I’ll let you know.”
There was that smile again. Peter knew exactly how he felt. The tracker was temporary. Love, though, was permanent.
The Harvard crew mobbed him as he went back downstairs. They had plans for celebratory lunch today, but Diana and Clinton had been pulled onto stakeout duty this afternoon and a few of the other team members were needed for other operations. Neal shrugged off their disappointment. “I’ll be in on Monday, we’ll go out then.” The agents drifted off, back to their desks. Neal smiled, knowing that something else would come up on Monday and lunch would get put off indefinitely. It didn't bother him, he wasn't saying goodbye. Besides, he was going to be celebrating tonight with the two people he most wanted to be with.
Back at his desk, he adjusted the bust of Socrates. Someone was always fiddling with it. He pulled a folder from the tray of case files and went back to work. Somehow, Neal didn’t mind the mortgage fraud today.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Now
“Where are we going?”
“Just relax, you’ll find out soon enough.” Peter was very specific when he rented the limo. He wanted a car with completely blacked-out windows. It was early evening in late October and he didn’t want Neal to figure out their destination.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
“Why? Isn’t this cause for celebration?” He tugged at Neal, pulling him into his arms. “After everything, don’t we deserve a chance to commemorate such an auspicious moment?”
“One which you probably thought would never come.”
“Neal …”
“Come on, Peter. Tell me the truth. When you first took my deal, how long did you think it was going to last before I ended up back in prison?”
Peter really didn’t want to answer that question, so he kissed Neal instead. Neal, though, was not going to be diverted.
“Tell me.”
Peter grimaced. “Okay, but don’t get annoyed at me, promise?”
Neal’s look was sharp, but there was a smile hovering at the edge of his lips. “I promise.”
“Hughes said you wouldn’t last a month before you tried to run and put a fifty down on it.”
“What did you say?”
“I thought you’d be gone before I got back from Belize.” Peter winced, hoping that Neal wouldn’t be too outraged. He should have known better than to bet on Neal's failure.
Neal laughed. “I’m not surprised. So Hughes took a fifty off you?”
“Actually it was a hundred – Bancroft had to sign off on the deal and it seemed that he had more faith in you than either of us. He was convinced that you were too smart to run.”
“Remind me to send him a bottle of wine.”
“I can’t believe you’re not upset.”
Neal twisted around to look at him. “You had faith in me when it mattered. You trusted me when it was important. That’s what counts.” Neal settled back into his arms.
Peter sighed and rested his head against Neal's. These last four years had been such a strange journey. If anyone ever told him that his life would be like this back when he was first starting out, he’d tell them that they were crazy.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Then
“Rerum cognoscere causas.” The professor intoned the Latin phrase with a certain magisterial profundity.
Peter was a little nervous. This was his first tutorial at the London School of Economics. He’d already had a few classroom lectures and was comfortable with the experience. The lecturers were smart, the other students were clever, but he was more than able to hold his own. He was, after all, on a full academic scholarship at Harvard. These tutorials, however, were something different. Small and intimate, held in the professor’s office, they were supposed to be the Socratic ideal – the exchange of ideas rather than the delivery of knowledge. He’d had seminars at Harvard, but none were quite like this.
He kept a discreet eye on his fellow classmates in this tutorial, all nine of them. Two were American, three were British, one was Japanese, one was Ghana and one from Saudi Arabia. An interesting mix. None of them were taking notes, though. So Peter followed suit. Not that he needed to. He was more fluent in Latin than French these days.
And of course, the professor translated. “‘Know the cause of things.’ The motto of this great school.”
One of his fellow Americans (or maybe he was Canadian) raised his hand eagerly.
“Yes, Alvin.”
The kid bit his lip and then corrected the professor. “It’s ‘Albert,’ sir.”
“Okay, Albert – what do you have to say?”
“The school’s motto is from Virgil’s Georgics, and was adopted by a committee in 1922. The school mascot is a beaver, who symbolizes foresight, industriousness and constructive behavior.” The kid was nervous and his voice actually broke on the last words.
The professor looked at Albert over the top of his bifocals. “Very good, Alfred. You’ve just proven that you can read and that you have read the school’s advertising pamphlet.”
The rest of the group tittered, but Peter was pissed off. He had an intense dislike of people who found amusement in others’ humiliation. And he hated bullies, in the classroom as much as on the baseball diamond.
The professor turned his gaze onto Peter. “Mr. Burke, you look … annoyed.”
Peter wished he had a better poker face. “You’re being unfair, sir. This class was the only one in the program that didn’t supply a syllabus or a reading list. We didn’t have anything prepared to discuss and he was trying to contribute.” He added, because it didn’t seem right not to, “And his name is Albert. Sir.”
That got him the same derisive stare that Albert received. “So you’re trying to blame your classmate’s inane commentary on my apparent lack of preparedness?”
Peter knew he was heading into deep shit, if he wasn’t there already. “No, sir, I’m not.”
“But you seem to think that the lack of advanced materials is indicative of my preparation to teach this class.”
“No, that is not what I was thinking at all.”
“You’re a liar, Mr. Burke.”
Peter was wondering whether he could get a refund on his fees for the rest of the semester, because it looked like his time here was going to end before it really got started. So he might as well go down in flames. “No, Professor Bartlet, I’m not. When I didn’t receive any information on The Economics of Cooperative Societies, I contacted the school and was told that you routinely don't provide either a syllabus or a reading list prior to the start of the term. I also contacted the economics department at Dartmouth. They said the same thing. I did, however, speak with one of your former teaching assistants and he told me that you generally open your semesters with a detailed discussion of Keynes’ Treatise on Probability. He called it Bartlet’s version of SEAL training.”
The room was dead quiet.
Professor Bartlet took off his glasses and leaned back against his desk. "So, you're not a liar and I'm not a mind reader. I apparently owe you an apology."
"You don't owe me anything." Peter was proud of how even-tempered he sounded.
Bartlet made a harrumphing sound, looked at Albert and gave him a surprisingly gracious apology. Albert stuttered his acceptance and there was an awkward tension in room. The professor put his glasses back on, gave them all a deadeye stare and restarted his lecture.
"John Maynard Keynes was the greatest economic philosopher who ever lived, and note, I call him an economic philosopher and not an economist because he was so much more than a mere proponent of the dismal science …"
Against his will, Peter found himself fascinated. Bartlet knew his subject matter. He not only knew it, he loved it and loved talking about it. He chased himself down his own rabbit holes, branching off into the mechanics of philosophy and mathematics, the dark side of obsessing over the purity of numbers without considering the human cost behind the equations.
Peter was enraptured. This was what he craved - the application of math to real world issues. He forgot his earlier annoyance with the professor and began arguing a very fine point about one of the mainstays of Keynesian probability theory - irreducible uncertainty. They were going back and forth, getting so involved that neither heard the clock chime the hour. And Big Ben was pretty difficult to miss.
It wasn't until the rest of the students began to file out of Bartlet's office, giving him dirty looks, that Peter realized how much he'd monopolized the tutorial. He was more than a little embarrassed.
He got up to leave, wondering where he could get a decent bite to eat that wouldn’t cost him an entire week’s food budget. His folks had helped him out with the airfare and the class fees were minimal, but the housing costs in London were worse than Cambridge and this semester was coming close to bankrupting him.
“Mr. Burke, a moment of your time if you will.”
Professor Bartlet was seated at his desk now, his expression thoughtful. Peter figured he’d take his lumps and move on. The man might be an ass, but he was a brilliant ass.
“Sir?”
“Sit.”
“I’d prefer to stand.”
“And I’d prefer if you sat. You’re too tall and I really don’t feel like straining my neck to have a civil conversation with you.”
Peter dropped into one of the chairs and kept his eyes pinned to a point somewhere above the professor’s left shoulder.
Bartlet let the silence draw out to the point where Peter was ready to leave out of frustration.
“You’re not easily intimidated, are you?”
Peter shifted his gaze to Bartlet’s face. “No, not really.” That was true, though he did get tongue-tied around pretty girls. Peter didn’t think that Bartlet was factoring that into the equation.
“Is it your height? Does the fact that you tower over most people make it easier to be so self-assured?”
Peter shrugged. “I never gave that a thought, sir.”
“Hmm, there are studies about tall people being more successful than not-tall people.”
Peter tried not to smile at the professor’s phrasing. “Are you sensitive about your own non-tall status?”
Bartlet laughed, and there was real humor in that sound. “Good one, Mr. Burke. And the answer is maybe.”
“You’ve managed to achieve a considerable amount, being not-tall, sir. Has anyone correlated the heights of Dartmouth economics professors who became Nobel Prize-winning U.S. Congressmen?”
“You’ve scored again, Mr. Burke.”
“I didn’t realize this was a competition, sir.”
“Life is a competition, Mr. Burke. Survival of the fittest.”
Peter realized what the professor was doing – every time Peter called him “sir,” Bartlet responded with a “Mr. Burke.” This man liked to play games. Good, because Peter did, too. It could also get ridiculous fairly quickly. “Professor, why am I ‘Mr. Burke’ when you wouldn’t use Albert’s first name correctly?”
Bartlet leaned back in his chair, managing to look inscrutable and avuncular at the same time. “I’m not good with names, especially names of people who are just passing through my life. I have better things to remember.” He continued, “Albert – and see, I can remember his name – will be dropping this class. He’ll be leaving the program and on his way back home before the end of the week, mark my words.”
Peter wasn’t sure he agreed. “That seems like an awfully huge assumption.”
“Want to bet?” Bartlet pulled out his wallet and removed what looked like ten-pound note.
He hesitated.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Burke? You’re not a gambling man?”
Deciding that it would be easier to be honest than to go hungry, Peter confessed, “If you’re right – and I’m not saying that you are – I won’t eat for a week if I lose.”
“Hmm. Maybe we can find something that you’d be willing to wager.”
“Not my soul, at least not for Albert.”
Professor Bartlet laughed, the sound echoed around the room. “Oh, son – I am not the Devil, though some of my constituents have called me that.”
Peter had to smile.
“Let’s see – you do know your Keynes. What about Galbraith?”
“I’ve taken his seminars.”
Bartlet picked up a folder and flipped through it. Peter tilted his head and saw his name on the tab. “Ah – you’re a Harvard man. I didn’t go to Harvard, although I could have.” He dropped the folder on his desk.
Two could play at this game. “Notre Dame is an excellent university.”
“You’re damn right it is.” The professor took off his glasses and tossed them on top of the folder. “You intrigue me, Mr. Burke.”
All these “Mr. Burkes” were driving him nuts. “Peter, please.”
Bartlet nodded. “Peter – that’s not a name I’ll have difficulty remembering. Now, what were we talking about?”
“Um, I intrigue you? My knowledge of Galbraith’s theories? A bet about Albert dropping out of the program?”
“Ah, yes! Here’s my proposal – I’m working on a scholarly article about the revival of Keynesian theory in emerging markets. I could use a proofreader and you seem to have something resembling a brain in your head. I’ll pay you the princely sum of fifty pounds a week for your efforts. And if Albert drops out, you give me back five of those pounds.”
Peter considered the offer. “I don’t like betting on someone’s failure. What about if I just work for you for forty-five pounds a week and if Albert doesn’t drop out, you give me an extra five pounds a week?”
“Ha!” Bartlet slaps a hand against his desk. “I like your bargaining style.” He held out that hand and Peter took it.
“There won’t be any problems for me if I work for you, right? I know I’m not supposed to get a job – I’m here on a student visa.”
“Hmm, I don’t think this will be a problem, but I’ll have someone look into it, just to make certain. You’ll start now?”
Peter wasn’t sure if he was ready, and he still had reading for two other tutorials for tomorrow. Then his stomach rumbled, loud and unmistakable in its demand for sustenance.
Bartlet took mercy on him. “Feel like lunch? There’s a great pub around the corner that does amazing things with deviled ham.”
Peter blinked. “I don’t think I’ve ever had deviled ham.”
“Well, you’re in for a treat. And whatever you do, don’t tell Abbey.”
“Abbey?” Now he felt like he’d fallen down the rabbit hole.
“My wife, Doctor Abigail Bartlet. She gets on my case about eating healthier. I sort of promised her that I would while I was here.”
Peter got the impression that the fearsome Abbey was not in London and therefore there was little chance that he’d have the opportunity to tell her what they had for lunch. Succumbing to Professor Bartlet’s abrupt sort of charm, he smiled at his co-conspirator. “How unhealthy could a ham sandwich be?”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Then
Peter steered out of the skid and almost regretted promising Jed he’d visit during Christmas. The drive to Manchester, New Hampshire wasn’t usually this bad. Of course, it didn’t help that his car was twelve years old; the heater stopped working sometime before he graduated college, and the money he’d been saving for new tires went to pay for an alternator and new battery.
But a promise was a promise, and since his folks were on a well-deserved vacation in Florida, there was no reason not to spend Christmas with his friend, the newly elected Governor of New Hampshire.
At least it wasn't snowing - just bitterly cold. The roads were mostly plowed and there wasn't a lot of black ice. He was just unfortunate to keep skidding across every damn patch out there.
An hour, a few more close calls, and a lot of cursing later, Peter pulled up to the Bartlet residence.
There were a few changes since his last visit, most notably the guard booth that had been placed at the gate at the end of the long driveway. Peter pitied the guy who had to stay there through the brutal New Hampshire winter. He pulled up to the box and flashed his badge, adding "Peter Burke, I'm an invited guest."
The guard checked his clipboard. "Yeah - you're on the list. Drive through and park on the right."
Peter liked coming up to Manchester, he liked spending time with Jed and Abbey, even if Abbey still teased him unmercifully about the crush he once had on her. He was such a sucker for smart, leggy brunettes.
Following the guard’s instructions, he parked and pulled his bags out of the trunk. The walkway to the front door was almost as treacherous as the road to Manchester and Peter nearly landed on his ass a few times. He made it to the front door, laden with presents, and just as he was about to ring the bell, the door was flung open.
“Special Agent Peter Burke! Merry Christmas.” It wasn’t Jed that opened the door, but his youngest daughter, Zoey. “Did you bring me anything?”
Peter smiled at the girl – a teenager now. “Of course, munchkin. An ugly, scratchy sweater.” He left his duffle bag in the hallway, under the coatrack.
“Don’t tease me!” Zoey pulled him along. “Almost everyone’s here. Just waiting for Uncle Leo and Aunt Jenny.”
Peter had never met the former Secretary of Labor, but Jed had spoken of him with great affection.
The family room was filled with people, mostly familiar faces. Abbey, of course. Zoey’s older sisters, Liz and Ellie, Liz’s husband and their kids. Mrs. Landingham was there, too. And of course, Jed, in the center of everything. Just how he liked it.
Zoey called out, “Dad, look who I found!”
Peter grinned and stepped into the room, meeting his old friend halfway. “Governor, Merry Christmas.”
“It’s not ‘Governor’ quite yet, and this is a gathering of friends and family – so please, ‘Jed’. When I’m in the Statehouse, you can call me that.”
“Okay, Jed.” He hugged his friend.
“Come in, you know everyone?”
Peter greeted the various members of the Bartlet clan, and suffered a moment’s embarrassment when Abbey kissed his cheek.
“Abigail Ann, stop teasing the boy.”
She smiled at them, gave Peter a coy wink. Even though Abbey Bartlet was old enough to be his mother, she still could tie him in knots. He tried to remember that her grandchildren were in the room.
He made small talk with Liz and her husband, told Zoey about a few of the less gruesome members of the FBI's most wanted list and enjoyed the company. Someone handed him a cup of eggnog. He took a sip and tried not to gag.
“Vile stuff. Put that down and come with me.” Jed clapped him on the shoulder and pulled him out of the family room and into his library.
Peter liked this room, it reminded him of Jed’s office in London.
“Here – a taste of the Irish.”
Peter took the glass of whiskey, waited for Jed to pour is own before toasting, “To your health.”
“And to yours.”
Peter sipped and tried to appreciate what was undoubtedly a very fine drink, but it just didn’t taste good.
“So, tell me, what it’s like being an FBI agent?” Jed was leaning back in his chair, his posture causal but his stare intent. Peter was familiar with the mode.
“It’s hard work.”
Jed made a face. “That’s a stupid answer, Peter. You should, of all people, know how I feel about stupid answers.”
He flushed at the criticism. Jed was correct, of course. He tried to explain himself better. “It’s not running around chasing criminals with your gun drawn. It’s mostly a lot of research and digging through information. A lot of chasing your tail and backtracking through information you've already processed. Trying to put all the pieces together, trying to figure not just what’s there, but what’s not. It’s asking the right questions to the right people at the right moment.”
Jed nodded. "Okay - better."
Peter also had to add, “And it’s a lot of fetching coffee and files and typing up reports that the senior agents dump on your desk.”
Jed chucked, but then turned serious again. “Is it what you expected?”
Peter sighed. “I don’t know. I mean, I went into this with my eyes open. You don’t just apply to the FBI because it might be something to do. It’s not a fallback career. But I like it, I like the challenge, I like being given a task and told to solve the problem without being told how to solve it.”
“But it’s not pitching for the major leagues, is it?”
“No. Nothing is going to be like that. But it’s not my life anymore; it hasn't been for a long time.”
“What about your life outside of the FBI? Do you even have one?”
Peter wasn’t sure why Jed was questioning him like this. “I have a life.” He didn’t elaborate too much, because explaining how he spent his limited free time at the Y playing pick-up games of basketball was just too depressing.
“A girlfriend?”
Peter shrugged. “I date.” That wasn’t really a lie.
“A boyfriend?”
That question, dropped as casually as any other, made his heart skip in panic. “I think it’s been well established that I like girls, sir.”
“It’s funny, Peter – when your back goes up, you retreat into formality.” Jed took a sip of his whiskey. “And while your fascination with my wife is well-documented, you've never seemed particularly interested in any more attainable members of the opposite sex.”
Peter put his glass down, the heavy crystal making an audible thud against the wood desk. He stood up and was about to leave when Jed’s next words stopped him.
“Why are you acting like you’ve been insulted? Is being gay such a terrible thing?”
“I’m not gay.”
“Then, bi-sexual?”
He didn’t lie to Jed Bartlet. He couldn’t – this man could spot an untruth better than any polygraph. “It’s complicated.”
“Because you hate yourself? Your ‘orientation’?”
Peter took a deep breath and sat down again, head in his hands. “I don’t, honestly. Who I love and want to be with doesn’t keep me awake at night. But I don’t want people to know – do you have any idea how difficult my life would be?”
“Yes, I think I can imagine.”
They stared at each other across the space of the desk. Peter was suddenly angry, almost irrationally so. “Why – why ask? Why now? You – ” His voice trailed off; he couldn’t find the words to express himself, his insides were tied in knots.
Jed got up from behind the desk and sat down next to him. “Peter – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just – well – worry about you. You’re someone I care about and I can’t seem to not meddle a bit. I want you to be happy, and I don’t want you to feel like you’re stuck with the FBI because you have no other alternatives. That you have to hide who and what you are.”
“Alternatives?”
“You could come and work for me – you were my best pupil. And I have to say that I’ve had some good ones over the years.”
Peter shook his head. “Jed, has anyone told you that you shouldn’t be so modest and self-effacing?”
“Abbey does, all the time. But seriously, if you ever find the institutional bigotry too much, that you can’t be true to yourself, you’ll always have a place to come to. Regardless of what the future holds for either of us, I will always be proud to call you my friend.”
This was a tremendous gift, to know that there was someone who had faith in him, who would have his back no matter what.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Now
“Are we there yet?” Neal tried to open the limo’s blacked out window but the buttons weren’t working.
“I told the driver to lock them, there’s no point in trying. We’ll be there soon enough.”
Peter’s smugness deserved a takedown and Neal pulled out his smartphone. Before he could launch the maps program, Peter plucked it out of his hand.
“No, you are not spoiling my surprise. I’ll give it back later.”
“Come on – where are we going?” Neal knew he sounded like a four year-old, but he couldn’t help it.
“You really hate surprises, don't you?”
“It’s not surprises, I just don’t like the feeling of helplessness. Not knowing where I’m going.” At the worried look on Peter’s face, Neal had to add, “It’s not that I don’t trust you or that you’re taking me someplace I won’t like. It’s just …”
Now, in addition to looking worried, Peter was clearly disappointed. “Hmmm, okay. We’re going to –”
Neal quickly decided he could put up with the slightly claustrophobic feeling for a little while, since Peter had planned something that he hoped Neal would enjoy. He leaned over and kissed Peter, effectively shutting him up.
Before their kiss could deepen into something more meaningful, the car came to a stop and the driver’s voice sounded on the intercom, “We’ve arrived.”
Neal waited patiently, ever though Peter was clearly expecting him to open the door and discover their destination. He looked at Peter, a smile on his lips and an eyebrow lifted. Peter smiled back, appreciative, as they both waited for the driver to come around and open the door.
It was a perfect October evening, crisp and cool. Even the Midtown air was scented with apples and falling leaves. Neal took a deep breath and stepped out of the limo. He turned to Peter, laughing. “The Four Seasons?”
“Yup – nothing but the best for Neal Caffrey, the FBI’s newest analyst.” Peter draped an arm around him. “Come, El’s waiting inside.”
Neal couldn't stop smiling. That Peter - of all people - would arrange to take him out to dinner in what had to be the icon of fine (and probably all too fussy for his tastes) dining in New York delighted him to no end.
Their relationship was unique in the way it balanced itself. Peter had never asked, but Neal toned down his tastes for the more exquisite things in life. The time he spent with the Burkes was too precious to worry about things like perfectly aged balsamic vinegar and the finest sushi-grade tuna and artisanal mustards (which, in truth, he thought was ridiculous).
Peter, in turn, respected the things that mattered to Neal. He gave him the creative latitude he needed, contributed when he could (posing nude was the usual request), and in a quiet, unspoken way, helped Neal discover the man he wanted to become.
"This wasn't necessary, I wouldn't have minded dinner at home with you and El. A simple meal, then … " Neal wagged his eyebrows.
Peter draped an arm around his shoulders. "I've been looking forward to this day from the start - you deserve something special. And besides, we've booked a room for tonight. Thought you'd appreciate the contrast to your first day out of prison."
Four years on and the memory of that flop house was still indelibly etched in his memory. "Yeah - snake-eyes."
"And the dog." Peter remembered his own encounter with the overly aggressive canine.
"And the prostitute."
"Yeah, she was something special."
"She was a he, and he wasn't such a bad guy. I chatted with him for a few minutes before heading out to the thrift store that day."
Peter chuckled. "Is that a polite way of telling me not to judge a book by its cover?"
"I guess. I wasn't criticizing you – just … yeah. I guess you're right - I was trying to say that."
The conversation came to an end when they both spotted Elizabeth. Neal stood back, letting Peter greet his wife first.
"Hey hon." They kissed, the love and affection all but glowing from them. El then turned to Neal, wrapping her arms around him. "Look at you, a free man!"
He hugged her tight, powerful emotions suddenly welling up inside him, threatening to spill over. "Love you." Not for the first time, Neal was struck by the thought that he would never have made it through the last four years without Elizabeth and her constant, unwavering belief in him.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Now
Peter sat back in his chair and watched the two people he loved most in this world. They were laughing and smiling, their happiness a palpable thing. If he were of a poetic bent, he might even say there was a golden haze around Neal and Elizabeth.
She touched his hand, drawing him back into the conversation. Peter replied, but he was still focused on them, their blue eyes, their dark hair, their beauty and their wits and the miracle of their love. Sometimes when he looked at Neal and Elizabeth together, it was like a punch in the gut. The happiness – their happiness – was still an unlooked for gift. Had he been a tad wiser, a drop more prescient, he would have surrendered to them that first morning. Running down the stairs, panicked, believing that Neal had run – only to find him on the couch, having an all-too-innocent cup of coffee with his wife. Petting his dog.
He should have realized, even then, that there was no point in getting angry. Neal Caffrey was a permanent part of his life.
“Thank you, Peter.” Neal raised his glass in a toast. “Thank you for this.”
Peter shrugged, pretending ignorance. “I’d say it was nothing, but getting reservations at the Four Seasons wasn’t easy.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Neal’s smile was a touch exasperated, a touch sweet.
“He knows what you mean, sweetheart.” El leaned over and kissed Neal, then whispered something in his ear. Neal’s eyes widened, then got impossibly soft.
There were so many words unspoken between them, wrapped up in an abundance of love and gratitude. Peter sipped his champagne, the action masking his emotions.
Neal ducked his head, his own feelings too much on display. “When I think about the road to here, how everything could have gone wrong.”
Peter often had the same thoughts. One step in the other direction would have been all it took to change both their futures. “Just think, if the FBI safe-cracker had stopped when I said “stop”; if the Dutchman’s vault hadn’t exploded, sending those strange fibers everywhere, you wouldn’t have had your bargaining chip. You’d have had no reason to ask for a meeting, no reason to offer that bargain.”
Neal nodded, but Elizabeth disagreed. “Hon, you really would have let Neal languish for another four years? You couldn’t stop obsessing over his file – over him. You two, no – the three of us – we were meant to be.”
Peter wasn’t so sure about that – their road had been way too rocky – but he wasn’t going to gainsay El. If she believed that they were fated, then that was the only thing that mattered.
The waiter came with their desserts – no elaborately decorated cake this time – and they took turns tasting each other’s choices. El fed him a bit of her chocolate and hazelnut torte and Neal laughed has her fork missed his mouth and he ended up with half of it on his cheek. Peter could read Neal’s intentions – that he wanted to lean over and lick the smear off his face – and was almost sorry for the other man’s restraint.
Elizabeth, though, had no such compunction as she kissed him and delicately ran her tongue along the side of his face. Neal’s eyes widened, he leaned back, his face full of awe and wonder and even a touch of fear. Peter couldn’t understand that, it wasn’t as if Neal had never seen him and El kiss, even in public.
But when a familiar voice behind him called “Agent Peter Burke,” he understood Neal’s reaction all too well. Peter casually picked up his napkin, wiped the remainder of the chocolate off his face and stood up to greet the newcomer. El stood up and Neal followed suit.
“Mr. President – ”
“Jed, please.” He held up his hand in that gesture Peter knew all too well.
“Jed – how are you?” Peter held out his hand. For all that his old friend had given him leave to call him by his first name; Peter would never consider reaching out to hug to the former leader of the free world.
Jed, though, seemed long past the formalities of the presidency, and wrapped a surprisingly strong arm around him. “You’re still too tall.”
Someone, maybe Elizabeth, maybe the Secret Service detail that still trailed the former president, signaled for an extra chair. Peter and Elizabeth moved over to make room and sat after Jed did. Neal, however, just stood there, mouth agape, eyes wide, skin flushed. El tugged at his jacket and Neal collapsed back into his seat, but the dumb-struck expression on his face didn’t waver.
“How are you, Peter? It’s been way too long.”
It had. There was never a rift between him and his former mentor (the only one he truly cherished), but once Jed Bartlet became the president, Peter had never felt comfortable calling on those old ties. “I’m very good, and yourself?” It took a force of will not to add “sir” at the end of that sentence.
“Surprisingly, I’m good, too. You’d have thought I’d have been dead or needing someone to mop up my drool by now.”
“I’m sure that Abbey’s grateful that your salivary glands aren’t overworking themselves.”
“That she is. Speaking of my wife, she’ll be here a few minutes. I’ll bet you’re delighted that haven’t missed her.”
Peter couldn’t quite believe it, but more twenty years on, even the thought of Abigail Bartlet still had the power to make him blush. “Seeing Abbey will be the highlight of my evening.”
“You’ve finally developed the fine art of polite bullshitting. There’s hope for you yet, Peter.”
“Good of you to notice, sir. What brings you down from Manchester?” Peter gestured for a waiter to bring an extra glass for Jed and the man responded with alacrity. Peter poured the rest of the champagne into it.
“Oh, Abbey’s speaking at a women’s medical conference – third world neonatal care – this weekend. I was in the mood for a change of scenery.” His old friend grinned and looked at Elizabeth and Neal. “You haven’t introduced me to everyone, Peter.”
“I don’t believe you’ve met my wife, Elizabeth.”
“Good name – my eldest is an Elizabeth. We call her Liz.”
His wife’s eyes were sparkling. She gave Jed a delighted grin. “You could call me El, if you like, Mr. President.”
“I would like that, very much. And you can call me Jed. You know, your husband once took my daughter Liz out on a date.”
Peter cleared his throat. “Actually, that was Ellie I took out.”
“You sure, Peter?”
“Yes, sir. Liz was already married when I was in London and met you. Ellie had come over for a visit and you sort of coerced me into taking her out. We went to see a revival of Pippin.”
“Hmmm, I think you’re right.” There were times that Jed Bartlet reminded him of the classic absent-minded professor, but Peter knew him well enough to know that it was all a façade. Even if Jed was in his seventies and suffering from MS, he was still sharp as the proverbial knife. “And it’s pure coincidence that her nickname is the same as the daughter of mine that you did date?”
“The minute I met El, I had eyes for no other woman.” He caught her gaze, lost for a moment in the truth of that statement.
“Then I guess you weren’t holding a torch for my daughter?”
Peter knew that Jed was giving him the business. This was an old routine between them. “To be honest, it never crossed my mind to do so.”
Jed grinned. “And to be equally honest, I don’t think Ellie would remember you if you sat next to her at Christmas dinner.” He turned his attention to El. “I do remember receiving an invitation to your wedding. I was a little busy at the time. First year in office – had a couple of crises to deal with.”
“If I can be honest, Mr. President, I was terrified you’d accept.”
“Ha! I bet – the Secret Service crawling all over the place, vetting your guest list.”
“It wasn’t just that. I was arrested twice – I might not have been allowed to attend my own wedding if you were there.”
Jed turned to him. “Did you know that your wife has a criminal past?”
“Absolutely. And what she didn’t tell you was that I had her under surveillance for a few weeks before asking her out.”
“You wanted to make sure she wasn’t dating anyone else. Practical, very practical.”
“I think it was more the case that I was too damn scared of being rejected.” He looked at El and winked.
“Hmmm.” Jed’s laser-like gaze went from him to El and then settled on Neal. “Who are you?”
Peter’s stomach dropped. He loved Neal, he admired Neal, he was infinitely proud of Neal, but there was something about the thought of introducing a convicted felon to the former President of the United States that sent his gut into overdrive. “Jed, this is – ”
Before Peter could finish, Neal stood up and cleared his throat. And cleared it again. To his delightful astonishment, he realized that Neal was nervous.
“I’m Neal Caffrey – sir – Mr. President – sir.” He held out his hand, quickly withdrew it, wiped it on his pants and held it out again. “It’s truly an honor, sir.” His eyes were huge and his voice actually squeaked. Jed shook it.
Yes, Neal of the golden tongue was complete and utterly intimidated. It was fascinating. In all the years that he’d known Neal, he’d never seen him awestruck like this – at least for a person rather than a piece of artwork. While Neal had expressed some inappropriate admiration for some of the criminals they’d met along the way, he’d never been quite so obviously reverential for someone on Peter’s side of the law. It was … nice.
He watched as Jed gave Neal a practiced smile, one familiar to legions of Americans. It struck him that the expression was remarkably similar to Neal’s own conman’s smile. Which brought to mind something Neal once said, how politicians were the original con artists.
Jed looked from Neal to Elizabeth and to Peter. “Your brother-in-law?”
Peter wondered if he should let Jed, someone for whom Neal had obvious respect, believe that, rather than have to explain his current and former status. This wouldn’t have been the first time that a stranger mistook Neal for El’s younger brother.
Neal answered, taking the decision away from him. “No, Mr. President, I’m not.”
Jed cocked his head. “You know, the first time I met Peter, I made an assumption. You’d have thought in the thirty-some-odd years since, I would have learned better.”
Neal shrugged. “It’s a common mistake.”
“That doesn’t excuse the sin of assuming. You know what Oscar Wilde said about what happens when you assume. You make …”
“An ass out of you and me.” Peter and Neal both recited the punch line to that old saw.
“And I don’t like being an ass. So, tell me, Mr. Caffrey, if you’re not Peter’s brother-in-law, then why are you having dessert and champagne with him and his wife at the Four Seasons?”
There was a moment – a delay – before Neal answered. Peter could feel the tension radiating off him. “Until three o’clock this afternoon, Peter was my handler and I was his CI. For the past four years, I was serving out the balance of a felony prison sentence. We’re celebrating the successful completion of my work-release program.”
Jed blinked. “Well, that wasn’t an answer I was expecting.”
“I don’t suppose you’re accustomed to sitting down with convicted criminals, Mr. President.” Neal’s tone was flat and affectless.
“As opposed to all of the unindicted criminals I’ve dined with?” Jed’s smile this time was real. “I spent eight years smiling and shaking hands with many people that belonged behind bars; quite a few of them were elected by your fellow citizens. Given what I know about Peter and the inferences – not assumptions, mind you – that I can draw about this celebratory meal, I’d say whatever crimes you committed were of far less magnitude than those perpetrated by my former associates.”
Peter watched, fascinated, as a blush stole across Neal’s cheeks.
“So, tell me, young man, just how did you become Peter Burke’s confidential informant?”
Neal looked at him and Peter nodded, giving him the go-ahead. “It all started with a moment of utter hubris when I handed Agent Burke the lime green sucker that I got from a bank clerk when I cashed a bond I forged …”
Peter sat back and let Neal tell the story – their story. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard Neal tell the tale before, but there was something different about it this time. Neal usually cast them both as equals, a game of cat and mouse where Neal had walked into his arrest with his eyes open. Now, though – Peter was definitely the hero and Neal was constantly downplaying his own smarts. He was tempted to interrupt when Neal got to the point in the story were he made his never-to-be forgotten offer to help him catch the Dutchman, but thought better of it. To this day, Neal never explained how he knew that the stray plastic thread on his suit jacket was the security fiber for the new Canadian hundred dollar bill, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
“So, let me get this straight. You broke out of a maximum security prison to find your girlfriend. Peter caught you within hours because you were sitting on the floor on an empty apartment, too depressed to keep running?”
“Yup, that’s about it.”
“This was the same woman that was in the storage unit where Peter arrested you the first time, right?” Jed was incredulous. “Must be some woman.”
“Yeah, she was … extraordinary.”
“Was?”
“She died.”
“Ah – I’m sorry. What was her name?”
“Kate. Kate Moreau.” Neal didn’t pause, but Peter could see the echo of pain in her memory.
Jed lifted his glass of champagne, “Then, to Kate Moreau.”
He lifted his own glass, as did El and of course, Neal. “To Kate.”
There was a moment of silence, and Peter picked up the story, if just to give Neal a moment to compose himself. He had never really thought of himself as a raconteur, but he had Jed in stitches. It was a careful weaving – and if Neal had kept the focus on Peter and his intelligence, Peter took equal care to make Neal a hero whenever possible and avoided the more problematic times in their shared history.
“And so – this afternoon, after receiving confirmation from the Bureau of Prisons that he had completed the terms of his work-release, the Marshals turned off the electronic monitoring device and Neal Caffrey became a free man.”
This time, Jed raised his glass to toast Neal. “Congratulations, then.”
“Thank you, sir. But the honors really go to Peter. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.” Their eyes met and Peter swallowed against all the emotion in that gaze. “He has had faith in me. Through everything, Peter has never stopped believing that I could be a good man. He gave me the chance I needed, and kept giving them. No matter how many times I fuc – I messed up, he never stopped believing in me.”
Peter pinched the bridge of his nose, overcome. Under the table, El squeezed his leg in sympathy.
Neal continued, making it almost impossible for Peter to keep his composure. “He’s my friend – and one of the finest people in the world. He’s given me more that I deserve, more than I can ever dream of repaying.”
“Faith is a wonderful thing, Mr. Caffrey. It’s a gift that requires nothing more than the acknowledgement that it exists. It never needs to be repaid.”
They all seemed a bit overcome. But Jed Bartlet, the man Peter had known for more than twenty years, was never at a loss for words for long. “Tell me, now that you’ve finished your obligations to the FBI, what does the future hold for you?”
“The same thing that it held for most of the last four years – a desk in the White Collar division’s bullpen. Now though, I’ll have a GS-11 salary, locality-adjusted of course, and business cards that say ‘Neal Caffrey, Technical Analyst, Level IV’.”
“Technical Analyst, you don’t want to be an FBI agent?”
“Felony conviction, remember? Do not pass go, do not collect shiny gold badge.”
“One would think that you’ve got friends – certainly a recommendation from Peter would go a long way in having an exception granted. There are always exceptions granted – something I know quite well.”
Peter didn’t know if he should interrupt – they’d discussed the possibility a few times, but Neal had always demurred that it wasn't the path he wanted to take.
Before he could say anything, Jed shocked him. “Hell, maybe a recommendation from a former president would carry some weight.”
“Sir – that’s quite an honor, but well, you just met me.”
“But I know Peter Burke, and if he’s had so much faith in you, then I would share that faith.”
Neal blinked and ducked his head, so clearly overwhelmed. “Sir, while I would be honored, I don’t think becoming an FBI agent is the right path for me.”
“You’re content as an analyst?”
“Truthfully, yes.”
“Yet, you don’t strike me as a man without ambition.”
Neal looked at Peter before answering and his thoughts were clear. But they didn’t mirror what he told Jed. “It’s really very simple, Mr. President. FBI agents carry guns. I don’t like guns.”
“Ah, I can see where that would be a problem. Carrying a pocket full of rocks instead of a Glock-22 isn’t an effective substitute.”
The conversation fell into an odd dead zone, as a waiter came over with coffee. “Wonder what’s keeping Abbey?” To Peter's surprise, Jed pulled out a smartphone. “Excuse me. The grandkids insisted I get one of these. And no, I’m not on Facebook.” He peered at the phone. “Hmmm, seems that Abbey’s been delayed – I’m to dine without her tonight. Probably should have stayed in Manchester for all that I’ll get to spend time with her this weekend.”
El, who’d been quiet for most of the evening, spoke up. “When are you going home, Jed?”
“Supposedly sometime Sunday evening but I’m thinking that I might go home tomorrow. I’m old and cranky and hanging out by myself really isn’t a lot of fun anymore.”
“Well, Peter and I are having a small get-together on Sunday afternoon – brunch basically. Some of their colleagues from the office, some old friends of Neal’s. A celebration. Would you like to join us?”
Peter couldn’t quite believe it – one didn’t casually invite a former president for Sunday brunch, even if he was an old friend. Or maybe one did, if she was Elizabeth Burke.
“Hmm, what a lovely idea. And you won’t even need to have your guest list vetted. Former presidents don’t have quite the same security issues.”
“So you’ll come?”
“What time?”
“Noonish?”
“Then noonish it is.”
Peter gave El one of his business cards and she wrote out their address on the back. “I’m looking forward to seeing you again.”
The three of them stood as Jed got to his feet. The president gave them a nod and a smile before slowing making his way out of the dining room, not so discreetly trailed by two Secret Service agents.
Part II - Sunday Brunch
On Dreamwidth
Author's Notes: This story has been in my brain almost as long as I’ve been writing White Collar fan fiction. In fact, I made a post, back in March, 2010, Five Things About Peter Burke - things I thought I might want to write about. Number 1 was Kripked in Veiled Threat (and I've written several RPS fics about Tim (and Matt) practicing the tango, Number 2 was Privilege, Number 4 will be written eventually, and Number 5 is the basis for the SPQR ‘verse.
This is Number 3, with some editing - Peter has a degree in economic theory from the London School of Economics, or in this case, Peter studies Economic Theory at LSE during his junior year abroad.
Timeline issues for The West Wing – Jed Bartlet taught at Dartmouth after leaving the London School of Economics, before he was elected to the New Hampshire House of Representatives, and then to Congress. If canon says exactly when his term in Congress actually ended, I don’t remember (and can’t find in The West Wing Wiki), so the purists will have to forgive me if I give Jed a “gap year” between his Congressional tenure and his terms as Governor of New Hampshire. For the purposes of this story, Jed Bartlet is a visiting professor at LSE for a year, which will coincide with Peter’s semester at the school.
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar, The West Wing
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, Jed Bartlet, Abigail Bartlet, Peter/Elizabeth/Neal, Jed/Abbey
Spoilers: None, other than generally well-known canon deaths for The West Wing and for White Collar
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Non-canon events for The West Wing, possible timeline issues for The West Wing.
Word Count: 8,300 this part, ~12,000 total
Beta and Cheerleading Credit:
theatregirl7299, miri_thompson, coffeethyme4me, gnomi Summary: On the day that Neal’s tracker is removed for the last time, he and his lovers go to The Four Seasons to celebrate. Peter encounters an old acquaintance and a few hijinks (of the mildest kind) ensue.
A/N: See Author’s Notes at the end.
Now
Neal wasn't nervous, exactly. More like nervy, hyper-alert to every movement, his skin excruciatingly sensitive under the fine cotton and wool of his suit. He had goose pimples on top of goose pimples and there were whole flocks of butterflies trying to work their way out of his stomach. It had been a long time since he felt this sensation – not since when he and Moz had run that rig on Peter and Kramer, getting the Degas out of Elliot Richardson's penthouse. Or maybe it was when he was trying to get the Welsh gold out of the oxygen tank and into Mozzie's hands.
Neither experience was a good reference point for this particular episode of heightened anticipation.
Peter walked out of his office. Today was no different from any other day; Neal knew where Peter was at any given moment. It was as if he was a barometer and Peter’s movements changed the air pressure.
"It's time, Neal." Peter was smiling as he gave him that two-fingered summons. Of course, everyone else in the office looked up when Peter spoke. The clapping started, then the hoots and whistles as Neal climbed to the top of the stairs and lifted the cuff of his left pants leg.
Peter’s smile was intimate, his eyes were sparkling – he knew just what the untethering process did to Neal, even in as public an area as the balcony overlooking the bullpen. He was going to pay for that smile. Rather than balance his foot on the railing, Neal left it firmly in place on the carpet.
Shaking his head as if he knew exactly what Neal was thinking (and he probably did), Peter knelt down, cupped his hand around his calf and held his leg in place while he slowly put the key in. The peanut gallery was cheering as the damn thing gave a final chirruping beep and went silent. Peter pulled the black plastic away and Neal shook his leg so the wool pants fell back over his calf.
Over the years, he’d been off the tracker countless times and for days at a stretch. Hell, he cut it once or twice himself. But he’d never felt quite like this. Because this was permanent.
Peter got up and put a hand on his shoulder. “How does freedom feel?”
“Give me a few, and I’ll let you know.”
There was that smile again. Peter knew exactly how he felt. The tracker was temporary. Love, though, was permanent.
The Harvard crew mobbed him as he went back downstairs. They had plans for celebratory lunch today, but Diana and Clinton had been pulled onto stakeout duty this afternoon and a few of the other team members were needed for other operations. Neal shrugged off their disappointment. “I’ll be in on Monday, we’ll go out then.” The agents drifted off, back to their desks. Neal smiled, knowing that something else would come up on Monday and lunch would get put off indefinitely. It didn't bother him, he wasn't saying goodbye. Besides, he was going to be celebrating tonight with the two people he most wanted to be with.
Back at his desk, he adjusted the bust of Socrates. Someone was always fiddling with it. He pulled a folder from the tray of case files and went back to work. Somehow, Neal didn’t mind the mortgage fraud today.
Now
“Where are we going?”
“Just relax, you’ll find out soon enough.” Peter was very specific when he rented the limo. He wanted a car with completely blacked-out windows. It was early evening in late October and he didn’t want Neal to figure out their destination.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
“Why? Isn’t this cause for celebration?” He tugged at Neal, pulling him into his arms. “After everything, don’t we deserve a chance to commemorate such an auspicious moment?”
“One which you probably thought would never come.”
“Neal …”
“Come on, Peter. Tell me the truth. When you first took my deal, how long did you think it was going to last before I ended up back in prison?”
Peter really didn’t want to answer that question, so he kissed Neal instead. Neal, though, was not going to be diverted.
“Tell me.”
Peter grimaced. “Okay, but don’t get annoyed at me, promise?”
Neal’s look was sharp, but there was a smile hovering at the edge of his lips. “I promise.”
“Hughes said you wouldn’t last a month before you tried to run and put a fifty down on it.”
“What did you say?”
“I thought you’d be gone before I got back from Belize.” Peter winced, hoping that Neal wouldn’t be too outraged. He should have known better than to bet on Neal's failure.
Neal laughed. “I’m not surprised. So Hughes took a fifty off you?”
“Actually it was a hundred – Bancroft had to sign off on the deal and it seemed that he had more faith in you than either of us. He was convinced that you were too smart to run.”
“Remind me to send him a bottle of wine.”
“I can’t believe you’re not upset.”
Neal twisted around to look at him. “You had faith in me when it mattered. You trusted me when it was important. That’s what counts.” Neal settled back into his arms.
Peter sighed and rested his head against Neal's. These last four years had been such a strange journey. If anyone ever told him that his life would be like this back when he was first starting out, he’d tell them that they were crazy.
Then
“Rerum cognoscere causas.” The professor intoned the Latin phrase with a certain magisterial profundity.
Peter was a little nervous. This was his first tutorial at the London School of Economics. He’d already had a few classroom lectures and was comfortable with the experience. The lecturers were smart, the other students were clever, but he was more than able to hold his own. He was, after all, on a full academic scholarship at Harvard. These tutorials, however, were something different. Small and intimate, held in the professor’s office, they were supposed to be the Socratic ideal – the exchange of ideas rather than the delivery of knowledge. He’d had seminars at Harvard, but none were quite like this.
He kept a discreet eye on his fellow classmates in this tutorial, all nine of them. Two were American, three were British, one was Japanese, one was Ghana and one from Saudi Arabia. An interesting mix. None of them were taking notes, though. So Peter followed suit. Not that he needed to. He was more fluent in Latin than French these days.
And of course, the professor translated. “‘Know the cause of things.’ The motto of this great school.”
One of his fellow Americans (or maybe he was Canadian) raised his hand eagerly.
“Yes, Alvin.”
The kid bit his lip and then corrected the professor. “It’s ‘Albert,’ sir.”
“Okay, Albert – what do you have to say?”
“The school’s motto is from Virgil’s Georgics, and was adopted by a committee in 1922. The school mascot is a beaver, who symbolizes foresight, industriousness and constructive behavior.” The kid was nervous and his voice actually broke on the last words.
The professor looked at Albert over the top of his bifocals. “Very good, Alfred. You’ve just proven that you can read and that you have read the school’s advertising pamphlet.”
The rest of the group tittered, but Peter was pissed off. He had an intense dislike of people who found amusement in others’ humiliation. And he hated bullies, in the classroom as much as on the baseball diamond.
The professor turned his gaze onto Peter. “Mr. Burke, you look … annoyed.”
Peter wished he had a better poker face. “You’re being unfair, sir. This class was the only one in the program that didn’t supply a syllabus or a reading list. We didn’t have anything prepared to discuss and he was trying to contribute.” He added, because it didn’t seem right not to, “And his name is Albert. Sir.”
That got him the same derisive stare that Albert received. “So you’re trying to blame your classmate’s inane commentary on my apparent lack of preparedness?”
Peter knew he was heading into deep shit, if he wasn’t there already. “No, sir, I’m not.”
“But you seem to think that the lack of advanced materials is indicative of my preparation to teach this class.”
“No, that is not what I was thinking at all.”
“You’re a liar, Mr. Burke.”
Peter was wondering whether he could get a refund on his fees for the rest of the semester, because it looked like his time here was going to end before it really got started. So he might as well go down in flames. “No, Professor Bartlet, I’m not. When I didn’t receive any information on The Economics of Cooperative Societies, I contacted the school and was told that you routinely don't provide either a syllabus or a reading list prior to the start of the term. I also contacted the economics department at Dartmouth. They said the same thing. I did, however, speak with one of your former teaching assistants and he told me that you generally open your semesters with a detailed discussion of Keynes’ Treatise on Probability. He called it Bartlet’s version of SEAL training.”
The room was dead quiet.
Professor Bartlet took off his glasses and leaned back against his desk. "So, you're not a liar and I'm not a mind reader. I apparently owe you an apology."
"You don't owe me anything." Peter was proud of how even-tempered he sounded.
Bartlet made a harrumphing sound, looked at Albert and gave him a surprisingly gracious apology. Albert stuttered his acceptance and there was an awkward tension in room. The professor put his glasses back on, gave them all a deadeye stare and restarted his lecture.
"John Maynard Keynes was the greatest economic philosopher who ever lived, and note, I call him an economic philosopher and not an economist because he was so much more than a mere proponent of the dismal science …"
Against his will, Peter found himself fascinated. Bartlet knew his subject matter. He not only knew it, he loved it and loved talking about it. He chased himself down his own rabbit holes, branching off into the mechanics of philosophy and mathematics, the dark side of obsessing over the purity of numbers without considering the human cost behind the equations.
Peter was enraptured. This was what he craved - the application of math to real world issues. He forgot his earlier annoyance with the professor and began arguing a very fine point about one of the mainstays of Keynesian probability theory - irreducible uncertainty. They were going back and forth, getting so involved that neither heard the clock chime the hour. And Big Ben was pretty difficult to miss.
It wasn't until the rest of the students began to file out of Bartlet's office, giving him dirty looks, that Peter realized how much he'd monopolized the tutorial. He was more than a little embarrassed.
He got up to leave, wondering where he could get a decent bite to eat that wouldn’t cost him an entire week’s food budget. His folks had helped him out with the airfare and the class fees were minimal, but the housing costs in London were worse than Cambridge and this semester was coming close to bankrupting him.
“Mr. Burke, a moment of your time if you will.”
Professor Bartlet was seated at his desk now, his expression thoughtful. Peter figured he’d take his lumps and move on. The man might be an ass, but he was a brilliant ass.
“Sir?”
“Sit.”
“I’d prefer to stand.”
“And I’d prefer if you sat. You’re too tall and I really don’t feel like straining my neck to have a civil conversation with you.”
Peter dropped into one of the chairs and kept his eyes pinned to a point somewhere above the professor’s left shoulder.
Bartlet let the silence draw out to the point where Peter was ready to leave out of frustration.
“You’re not easily intimidated, are you?”
Peter shifted his gaze to Bartlet’s face. “No, not really.” That was true, though he did get tongue-tied around pretty girls. Peter didn’t think that Bartlet was factoring that into the equation.
“Is it your height? Does the fact that you tower over most people make it easier to be so self-assured?”
Peter shrugged. “I never gave that a thought, sir.”
“Hmm, there are studies about tall people being more successful than not-tall people.”
Peter tried not to smile at the professor’s phrasing. “Are you sensitive about your own non-tall status?”
Bartlet laughed, and there was real humor in that sound. “Good one, Mr. Burke. And the answer is maybe.”
“You’ve managed to achieve a considerable amount, being not-tall, sir. Has anyone correlated the heights of Dartmouth economics professors who became Nobel Prize-winning U.S. Congressmen?”
“You’ve scored again, Mr. Burke.”
“I didn’t realize this was a competition, sir.”
“Life is a competition, Mr. Burke. Survival of the fittest.”
Peter realized what the professor was doing – every time Peter called him “sir,” Bartlet responded with a “Mr. Burke.” This man liked to play games. Good, because Peter did, too. It could also get ridiculous fairly quickly. “Professor, why am I ‘Mr. Burke’ when you wouldn’t use Albert’s first name correctly?”
Bartlet leaned back in his chair, managing to look inscrutable and avuncular at the same time. “I’m not good with names, especially names of people who are just passing through my life. I have better things to remember.” He continued, “Albert – and see, I can remember his name – will be dropping this class. He’ll be leaving the program and on his way back home before the end of the week, mark my words.”
Peter wasn’t sure he agreed. “That seems like an awfully huge assumption.”
“Want to bet?” Bartlet pulled out his wallet and removed what looked like ten-pound note.
He hesitated.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Burke? You’re not a gambling man?”
Deciding that it would be easier to be honest than to go hungry, Peter confessed, “If you’re right – and I’m not saying that you are – I won’t eat for a week if I lose.”
“Hmm. Maybe we can find something that you’d be willing to wager.”
“Not my soul, at least not for Albert.”
Professor Bartlet laughed, the sound echoed around the room. “Oh, son – I am not the Devil, though some of my constituents have called me that.”
Peter had to smile.
“Let’s see – you do know your Keynes. What about Galbraith?”
“I’ve taken his seminars.”
Bartlet picked up a folder and flipped through it. Peter tilted his head and saw his name on the tab. “Ah – you’re a Harvard man. I didn’t go to Harvard, although I could have.” He dropped the folder on his desk.
Two could play at this game. “Notre Dame is an excellent university.”
“You’re damn right it is.” The professor took off his glasses and tossed them on top of the folder. “You intrigue me, Mr. Burke.”
All these “Mr. Burkes” were driving him nuts. “Peter, please.”
Bartlet nodded. “Peter – that’s not a name I’ll have difficulty remembering. Now, what were we talking about?”
“Um, I intrigue you? My knowledge of Galbraith’s theories? A bet about Albert dropping out of the program?”
“Ah, yes! Here’s my proposal – I’m working on a scholarly article about the revival of Keynesian theory in emerging markets. I could use a proofreader and you seem to have something resembling a brain in your head. I’ll pay you the princely sum of fifty pounds a week for your efforts. And if Albert drops out, you give me back five of those pounds.”
Peter considered the offer. “I don’t like betting on someone’s failure. What about if I just work for you for forty-five pounds a week and if Albert doesn’t drop out, you give me an extra five pounds a week?”
“Ha!” Bartlet slaps a hand against his desk. “I like your bargaining style.” He held out that hand and Peter took it.
“There won’t be any problems for me if I work for you, right? I know I’m not supposed to get a job – I’m here on a student visa.”
“Hmm, I don’t think this will be a problem, but I’ll have someone look into it, just to make certain. You’ll start now?”
Peter wasn’t sure if he was ready, and he still had reading for two other tutorials for tomorrow. Then his stomach rumbled, loud and unmistakable in its demand for sustenance.
Bartlet took mercy on him. “Feel like lunch? There’s a great pub around the corner that does amazing things with deviled ham.”
Peter blinked. “I don’t think I’ve ever had deviled ham.”
“Well, you’re in for a treat. And whatever you do, don’t tell Abbey.”
“Abbey?” Now he felt like he’d fallen down the rabbit hole.
“My wife, Doctor Abigail Bartlet. She gets on my case about eating healthier. I sort of promised her that I would while I was here.”
Peter got the impression that the fearsome Abbey was not in London and therefore there was little chance that he’d have the opportunity to tell her what they had for lunch. Succumbing to Professor Bartlet’s abrupt sort of charm, he smiled at his co-conspirator. “How unhealthy could a ham sandwich be?”
Then
Peter steered out of the skid and almost regretted promising Jed he’d visit during Christmas. The drive to Manchester, New Hampshire wasn’t usually this bad. Of course, it didn’t help that his car was twelve years old; the heater stopped working sometime before he graduated college, and the money he’d been saving for new tires went to pay for an alternator and new battery.
But a promise was a promise, and since his folks were on a well-deserved vacation in Florida, there was no reason not to spend Christmas with his friend, the newly elected Governor of New Hampshire.
At least it wasn't snowing - just bitterly cold. The roads were mostly plowed and there wasn't a lot of black ice. He was just unfortunate to keep skidding across every damn patch out there.
An hour, a few more close calls, and a lot of cursing later, Peter pulled up to the Bartlet residence.
There were a few changes since his last visit, most notably the guard booth that had been placed at the gate at the end of the long driveway. Peter pitied the guy who had to stay there through the brutal New Hampshire winter. He pulled up to the box and flashed his badge, adding "Peter Burke, I'm an invited guest."
The guard checked his clipboard. "Yeah - you're on the list. Drive through and park on the right."
Peter liked coming up to Manchester, he liked spending time with Jed and Abbey, even if Abbey still teased him unmercifully about the crush he once had on her. He was such a sucker for smart, leggy brunettes.
Following the guard’s instructions, he parked and pulled his bags out of the trunk. The walkway to the front door was almost as treacherous as the road to Manchester and Peter nearly landed on his ass a few times. He made it to the front door, laden with presents, and just as he was about to ring the bell, the door was flung open.
“Special Agent Peter Burke! Merry Christmas.” It wasn’t Jed that opened the door, but his youngest daughter, Zoey. “Did you bring me anything?”
Peter smiled at the girl – a teenager now. “Of course, munchkin. An ugly, scratchy sweater.” He left his duffle bag in the hallway, under the coatrack.
“Don’t tease me!” Zoey pulled him along. “Almost everyone’s here. Just waiting for Uncle Leo and Aunt Jenny.”
Peter had never met the former Secretary of Labor, but Jed had spoken of him with great affection.
The family room was filled with people, mostly familiar faces. Abbey, of course. Zoey’s older sisters, Liz and Ellie, Liz’s husband and their kids. Mrs. Landingham was there, too. And of course, Jed, in the center of everything. Just how he liked it.
Zoey called out, “Dad, look who I found!”
Peter grinned and stepped into the room, meeting his old friend halfway. “Governor, Merry Christmas.”
“It’s not ‘Governor’ quite yet, and this is a gathering of friends and family – so please, ‘Jed’. When I’m in the Statehouse, you can call me that.”
“Okay, Jed.” He hugged his friend.
“Come in, you know everyone?”
Peter greeted the various members of the Bartlet clan, and suffered a moment’s embarrassment when Abbey kissed his cheek.
“Abigail Ann, stop teasing the boy.”
She smiled at them, gave Peter a coy wink. Even though Abbey Bartlet was old enough to be his mother, she still could tie him in knots. He tried to remember that her grandchildren were in the room.
He made small talk with Liz and her husband, told Zoey about a few of the less gruesome members of the FBI's most wanted list and enjoyed the company. Someone handed him a cup of eggnog. He took a sip and tried not to gag.
“Vile stuff. Put that down and come with me.” Jed clapped him on the shoulder and pulled him out of the family room and into his library.
Peter liked this room, it reminded him of Jed’s office in London.
“Here – a taste of the Irish.”
Peter took the glass of whiskey, waited for Jed to pour is own before toasting, “To your health.”
“And to yours.”
Peter sipped and tried to appreciate what was undoubtedly a very fine drink, but it just didn’t taste good.
“So, tell me, what it’s like being an FBI agent?” Jed was leaning back in his chair, his posture causal but his stare intent. Peter was familiar with the mode.
“It’s hard work.”
Jed made a face. “That’s a stupid answer, Peter. You should, of all people, know how I feel about stupid answers.”
He flushed at the criticism. Jed was correct, of course. He tried to explain himself better. “It’s not running around chasing criminals with your gun drawn. It’s mostly a lot of research and digging through information. A lot of chasing your tail and backtracking through information you've already processed. Trying to put all the pieces together, trying to figure not just what’s there, but what’s not. It’s asking the right questions to the right people at the right moment.”
Jed nodded. "Okay - better."
Peter also had to add, “And it’s a lot of fetching coffee and files and typing up reports that the senior agents dump on your desk.”
Jed chucked, but then turned serious again. “Is it what you expected?”
Peter sighed. “I don’t know. I mean, I went into this with my eyes open. You don’t just apply to the FBI because it might be something to do. It’s not a fallback career. But I like it, I like the challenge, I like being given a task and told to solve the problem without being told how to solve it.”
“But it’s not pitching for the major leagues, is it?”
“No. Nothing is going to be like that. But it’s not my life anymore; it hasn't been for a long time.”
“What about your life outside of the FBI? Do you even have one?”
Peter wasn’t sure why Jed was questioning him like this. “I have a life.” He didn’t elaborate too much, because explaining how he spent his limited free time at the Y playing pick-up games of basketball was just too depressing.
“A girlfriend?”
Peter shrugged. “I date.” That wasn’t really a lie.
“A boyfriend?”
That question, dropped as casually as any other, made his heart skip in panic. “I think it’s been well established that I like girls, sir.”
“It’s funny, Peter – when your back goes up, you retreat into formality.” Jed took a sip of his whiskey. “And while your fascination with my wife is well-documented, you've never seemed particularly interested in any more attainable members of the opposite sex.”
Peter put his glass down, the heavy crystal making an audible thud against the wood desk. He stood up and was about to leave when Jed’s next words stopped him.
“Why are you acting like you’ve been insulted? Is being gay such a terrible thing?”
“I’m not gay.”
“Then, bi-sexual?”
He didn’t lie to Jed Bartlet. He couldn’t – this man could spot an untruth better than any polygraph. “It’s complicated.”
“Because you hate yourself? Your ‘orientation’?”
Peter took a deep breath and sat down again, head in his hands. “I don’t, honestly. Who I love and want to be with doesn’t keep me awake at night. But I don’t want people to know – do you have any idea how difficult my life would be?”
“Yes, I think I can imagine.”
They stared at each other across the space of the desk. Peter was suddenly angry, almost irrationally so. “Why – why ask? Why now? You – ” His voice trailed off; he couldn’t find the words to express himself, his insides were tied in knots.
Jed got up from behind the desk and sat down next to him. “Peter – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just – well – worry about you. You’re someone I care about and I can’t seem to not meddle a bit. I want you to be happy, and I don’t want you to feel like you’re stuck with the FBI because you have no other alternatives. That you have to hide who and what you are.”
“Alternatives?”
“You could come and work for me – you were my best pupil. And I have to say that I’ve had some good ones over the years.”
Peter shook his head. “Jed, has anyone told you that you shouldn’t be so modest and self-effacing?”
“Abbey does, all the time. But seriously, if you ever find the institutional bigotry too much, that you can’t be true to yourself, you’ll always have a place to come to. Regardless of what the future holds for either of us, I will always be proud to call you my friend.”
This was a tremendous gift, to know that there was someone who had faith in him, who would have his back no matter what.
Now
“Are we there yet?” Neal tried to open the limo’s blacked out window but the buttons weren’t working.
“I told the driver to lock them, there’s no point in trying. We’ll be there soon enough.”
Peter’s smugness deserved a takedown and Neal pulled out his smartphone. Before he could launch the maps program, Peter plucked it out of his hand.
“No, you are not spoiling my surprise. I’ll give it back later.”
“Come on – where are we going?” Neal knew he sounded like a four year-old, but he couldn’t help it.
“You really hate surprises, don't you?”
“It’s not surprises, I just don’t like the feeling of helplessness. Not knowing where I’m going.” At the worried look on Peter’s face, Neal had to add, “It’s not that I don’t trust you or that you’re taking me someplace I won’t like. It’s just …”
Now, in addition to looking worried, Peter was clearly disappointed. “Hmmm, okay. We’re going to –”
Neal quickly decided he could put up with the slightly claustrophobic feeling for a little while, since Peter had planned something that he hoped Neal would enjoy. He leaned over and kissed Peter, effectively shutting him up.
Before their kiss could deepen into something more meaningful, the car came to a stop and the driver’s voice sounded on the intercom, “We’ve arrived.”
Neal waited patiently, ever though Peter was clearly expecting him to open the door and discover their destination. He looked at Peter, a smile on his lips and an eyebrow lifted. Peter smiled back, appreciative, as they both waited for the driver to come around and open the door.
It was a perfect October evening, crisp and cool. Even the Midtown air was scented with apples and falling leaves. Neal took a deep breath and stepped out of the limo. He turned to Peter, laughing. “The Four Seasons?”
“Yup – nothing but the best for Neal Caffrey, the FBI’s newest analyst.” Peter draped an arm around him. “Come, El’s waiting inside.”
Neal couldn't stop smiling. That Peter - of all people - would arrange to take him out to dinner in what had to be the icon of fine (and probably all too fussy for his tastes) dining in New York delighted him to no end.
Their relationship was unique in the way it balanced itself. Peter had never asked, but Neal toned down his tastes for the more exquisite things in life. The time he spent with the Burkes was too precious to worry about things like perfectly aged balsamic vinegar and the finest sushi-grade tuna and artisanal mustards (which, in truth, he thought was ridiculous).
Peter, in turn, respected the things that mattered to Neal. He gave him the creative latitude he needed, contributed when he could (posing nude was the usual request), and in a quiet, unspoken way, helped Neal discover the man he wanted to become.
"This wasn't necessary, I wouldn't have minded dinner at home with you and El. A simple meal, then … " Neal wagged his eyebrows.
Peter draped an arm around his shoulders. "I've been looking forward to this day from the start - you deserve something special. And besides, we've booked a room for tonight. Thought you'd appreciate the contrast to your first day out of prison."
Four years on and the memory of that flop house was still indelibly etched in his memory. "Yeah - snake-eyes."
"And the dog." Peter remembered his own encounter with the overly aggressive canine.
"And the prostitute."
"Yeah, she was something special."
"She was a he, and he wasn't such a bad guy. I chatted with him for a few minutes before heading out to the thrift store that day."
Peter chuckled. "Is that a polite way of telling me not to judge a book by its cover?"
"I guess. I wasn't criticizing you – just … yeah. I guess you're right - I was trying to say that."
The conversation came to an end when they both spotted Elizabeth. Neal stood back, letting Peter greet his wife first.
"Hey hon." They kissed, the love and affection all but glowing from them. El then turned to Neal, wrapping her arms around him. "Look at you, a free man!"
He hugged her tight, powerful emotions suddenly welling up inside him, threatening to spill over. "Love you." Not for the first time, Neal was struck by the thought that he would never have made it through the last four years without Elizabeth and her constant, unwavering belief in him.
Now
Peter sat back in his chair and watched the two people he loved most in this world. They were laughing and smiling, their happiness a palpable thing. If he were of a poetic bent, he might even say there was a golden haze around Neal and Elizabeth.
She touched his hand, drawing him back into the conversation. Peter replied, but he was still focused on them, their blue eyes, their dark hair, their beauty and their wits and the miracle of their love. Sometimes when he looked at Neal and Elizabeth together, it was like a punch in the gut. The happiness – their happiness – was still an unlooked for gift. Had he been a tad wiser, a drop more prescient, he would have surrendered to them that first morning. Running down the stairs, panicked, believing that Neal had run – only to find him on the couch, having an all-too-innocent cup of coffee with his wife. Petting his dog.
He should have realized, even then, that there was no point in getting angry. Neal Caffrey was a permanent part of his life.
“Thank you, Peter.” Neal raised his glass in a toast. “Thank you for this.”
Peter shrugged, pretending ignorance. “I’d say it was nothing, but getting reservations at the Four Seasons wasn’t easy.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Neal’s smile was a touch exasperated, a touch sweet.
“He knows what you mean, sweetheart.” El leaned over and kissed Neal, then whispered something in his ear. Neal’s eyes widened, then got impossibly soft.
There were so many words unspoken between them, wrapped up in an abundance of love and gratitude. Peter sipped his champagne, the action masking his emotions.
Neal ducked his head, his own feelings too much on display. “When I think about the road to here, how everything could have gone wrong.”
Peter often had the same thoughts. One step in the other direction would have been all it took to change both their futures. “Just think, if the FBI safe-cracker had stopped when I said “stop”; if the Dutchman’s vault hadn’t exploded, sending those strange fibers everywhere, you wouldn’t have had your bargaining chip. You’d have had no reason to ask for a meeting, no reason to offer that bargain.”
Neal nodded, but Elizabeth disagreed. “Hon, you really would have let Neal languish for another four years? You couldn’t stop obsessing over his file – over him. You two, no – the three of us – we were meant to be.”
Peter wasn’t so sure about that – their road had been way too rocky – but he wasn’t going to gainsay El. If she believed that they were fated, then that was the only thing that mattered.
The waiter came with their desserts – no elaborately decorated cake this time – and they took turns tasting each other’s choices. El fed him a bit of her chocolate and hazelnut torte and Neal laughed has her fork missed his mouth and he ended up with half of it on his cheek. Peter could read Neal’s intentions – that he wanted to lean over and lick the smear off his face – and was almost sorry for the other man’s restraint.
Elizabeth, though, had no such compunction as she kissed him and delicately ran her tongue along the side of his face. Neal’s eyes widened, he leaned back, his face full of awe and wonder and even a touch of fear. Peter couldn’t understand that, it wasn’t as if Neal had never seen him and El kiss, even in public.
But when a familiar voice behind him called “Agent Peter Burke,” he understood Neal’s reaction all too well. Peter casually picked up his napkin, wiped the remainder of the chocolate off his face and stood up to greet the newcomer. El stood up and Neal followed suit.
“Mr. President – ”
“Jed, please.” He held up his hand in that gesture Peter knew all too well.
“Jed – how are you?” Peter held out his hand. For all that his old friend had given him leave to call him by his first name; Peter would never consider reaching out to hug to the former leader of the free world.
Jed, though, seemed long past the formalities of the presidency, and wrapped a surprisingly strong arm around him. “You’re still too tall.”
Someone, maybe Elizabeth, maybe the Secret Service detail that still trailed the former president, signaled for an extra chair. Peter and Elizabeth moved over to make room and sat after Jed did. Neal, however, just stood there, mouth agape, eyes wide, skin flushed. El tugged at his jacket and Neal collapsed back into his seat, but the dumb-struck expression on his face didn’t waver.
“How are you, Peter? It’s been way too long.”
It had. There was never a rift between him and his former mentor (the only one he truly cherished), but once Jed Bartlet became the president, Peter had never felt comfortable calling on those old ties. “I’m very good, and yourself?” It took a force of will not to add “sir” at the end of that sentence.
“Surprisingly, I’m good, too. You’d have thought I’d have been dead or needing someone to mop up my drool by now.”
“I’m sure that Abbey’s grateful that your salivary glands aren’t overworking themselves.”
“That she is. Speaking of my wife, she’ll be here a few minutes. I’ll bet you’re delighted that haven’t missed her.”
Peter couldn’t quite believe it, but more twenty years on, even the thought of Abigail Bartlet still had the power to make him blush. “Seeing Abbey will be the highlight of my evening.”
“You’ve finally developed the fine art of polite bullshitting. There’s hope for you yet, Peter.”
“Good of you to notice, sir. What brings you down from Manchester?” Peter gestured for a waiter to bring an extra glass for Jed and the man responded with alacrity. Peter poured the rest of the champagne into it.
“Oh, Abbey’s speaking at a women’s medical conference – third world neonatal care – this weekend. I was in the mood for a change of scenery.” His old friend grinned and looked at Elizabeth and Neal. “You haven’t introduced me to everyone, Peter.”
“I don’t believe you’ve met my wife, Elizabeth.”
“Good name – my eldest is an Elizabeth. We call her Liz.”
His wife’s eyes were sparkling. She gave Jed a delighted grin. “You could call me El, if you like, Mr. President.”
“I would like that, very much. And you can call me Jed. You know, your husband once took my daughter Liz out on a date.”
Peter cleared his throat. “Actually, that was Ellie I took out.”
“You sure, Peter?”
“Yes, sir. Liz was already married when I was in London and met you. Ellie had come over for a visit and you sort of coerced me into taking her out. We went to see a revival of Pippin.”
“Hmmm, I think you’re right.” There were times that Jed Bartlet reminded him of the classic absent-minded professor, but Peter knew him well enough to know that it was all a façade. Even if Jed was in his seventies and suffering from MS, he was still sharp as the proverbial knife. “And it’s pure coincidence that her nickname is the same as the daughter of mine that you did date?”
“The minute I met El, I had eyes for no other woman.” He caught her gaze, lost for a moment in the truth of that statement.
“Then I guess you weren’t holding a torch for my daughter?”
Peter knew that Jed was giving him the business. This was an old routine between them. “To be honest, it never crossed my mind to do so.”
Jed grinned. “And to be equally honest, I don’t think Ellie would remember you if you sat next to her at Christmas dinner.” He turned his attention to El. “I do remember receiving an invitation to your wedding. I was a little busy at the time. First year in office – had a couple of crises to deal with.”
“If I can be honest, Mr. President, I was terrified you’d accept.”
“Ha! I bet – the Secret Service crawling all over the place, vetting your guest list.”
“It wasn’t just that. I was arrested twice – I might not have been allowed to attend my own wedding if you were there.”
Jed turned to him. “Did you know that your wife has a criminal past?”
“Absolutely. And what she didn’t tell you was that I had her under surveillance for a few weeks before asking her out.”
“You wanted to make sure she wasn’t dating anyone else. Practical, very practical.”
“I think it was more the case that I was too damn scared of being rejected.” He looked at El and winked.
“Hmmm.” Jed’s laser-like gaze went from him to El and then settled on Neal. “Who are you?”
Peter’s stomach dropped. He loved Neal, he admired Neal, he was infinitely proud of Neal, but there was something about the thought of introducing a convicted felon to the former President of the United States that sent his gut into overdrive. “Jed, this is – ”
Before Peter could finish, Neal stood up and cleared his throat. And cleared it again. To his delightful astonishment, he realized that Neal was nervous.
“I’m Neal Caffrey – sir – Mr. President – sir.” He held out his hand, quickly withdrew it, wiped it on his pants and held it out again. “It’s truly an honor, sir.” His eyes were huge and his voice actually squeaked. Jed shook it.
Yes, Neal of the golden tongue was complete and utterly intimidated. It was fascinating. In all the years that he’d known Neal, he’d never seen him awestruck like this – at least for a person rather than a piece of artwork. While Neal had expressed some inappropriate admiration for some of the criminals they’d met along the way, he’d never been quite so obviously reverential for someone on Peter’s side of the law. It was … nice.
He watched as Jed gave Neal a practiced smile, one familiar to legions of Americans. It struck him that the expression was remarkably similar to Neal’s own conman’s smile. Which brought to mind something Neal once said, how politicians were the original con artists.
Jed looked from Neal to Elizabeth and to Peter. “Your brother-in-law?”
Peter wondered if he should let Jed, someone for whom Neal had obvious respect, believe that, rather than have to explain his current and former status. This wouldn’t have been the first time that a stranger mistook Neal for El’s younger brother.
Neal answered, taking the decision away from him. “No, Mr. President, I’m not.”
Jed cocked his head. “You know, the first time I met Peter, I made an assumption. You’d have thought in the thirty-some-odd years since, I would have learned better.”
Neal shrugged. “It’s a common mistake.”
“That doesn’t excuse the sin of assuming. You know what Oscar Wilde said about what happens when you assume. You make …”
“An ass out of you and me.” Peter and Neal both recited the punch line to that old saw.
“And I don’t like being an ass. So, tell me, Mr. Caffrey, if you’re not Peter’s brother-in-law, then why are you having dessert and champagne with him and his wife at the Four Seasons?”
There was a moment – a delay – before Neal answered. Peter could feel the tension radiating off him. “Until three o’clock this afternoon, Peter was my handler and I was his CI. For the past four years, I was serving out the balance of a felony prison sentence. We’re celebrating the successful completion of my work-release program.”
Jed blinked. “Well, that wasn’t an answer I was expecting.”
“I don’t suppose you’re accustomed to sitting down with convicted criminals, Mr. President.” Neal’s tone was flat and affectless.
“As opposed to all of the unindicted criminals I’ve dined with?” Jed’s smile this time was real. “I spent eight years smiling and shaking hands with many people that belonged behind bars; quite a few of them were elected by your fellow citizens. Given what I know about Peter and the inferences – not assumptions, mind you – that I can draw about this celebratory meal, I’d say whatever crimes you committed were of far less magnitude than those perpetrated by my former associates.”
Peter watched, fascinated, as a blush stole across Neal’s cheeks.
“So, tell me, young man, just how did you become Peter Burke’s confidential informant?”
Neal looked at him and Peter nodded, giving him the go-ahead. “It all started with a moment of utter hubris when I handed Agent Burke the lime green sucker that I got from a bank clerk when I cashed a bond I forged …”
Peter sat back and let Neal tell the story – their story. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard Neal tell the tale before, but there was something different about it this time. Neal usually cast them both as equals, a game of cat and mouse where Neal had walked into his arrest with his eyes open. Now, though – Peter was definitely the hero and Neal was constantly downplaying his own smarts. He was tempted to interrupt when Neal got to the point in the story were he made his never-to-be forgotten offer to help him catch the Dutchman, but thought better of it. To this day, Neal never explained how he knew that the stray plastic thread on his suit jacket was the security fiber for the new Canadian hundred dollar bill, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
“So, let me get this straight. You broke out of a maximum security prison to find your girlfriend. Peter caught you within hours because you were sitting on the floor on an empty apartment, too depressed to keep running?”
“Yup, that’s about it.”
“This was the same woman that was in the storage unit where Peter arrested you the first time, right?” Jed was incredulous. “Must be some woman.”
“Yeah, she was … extraordinary.”
“Was?”
“She died.”
“Ah – I’m sorry. What was her name?”
“Kate. Kate Moreau.” Neal didn’t pause, but Peter could see the echo of pain in her memory.
Jed lifted his glass of champagne, “Then, to Kate Moreau.”
He lifted his own glass, as did El and of course, Neal. “To Kate.”
There was a moment of silence, and Peter picked up the story, if just to give Neal a moment to compose himself. He had never really thought of himself as a raconteur, but he had Jed in stitches. It was a careful weaving – and if Neal had kept the focus on Peter and his intelligence, Peter took equal care to make Neal a hero whenever possible and avoided the more problematic times in their shared history.
“And so – this afternoon, after receiving confirmation from the Bureau of Prisons that he had completed the terms of his work-release, the Marshals turned off the electronic monitoring device and Neal Caffrey became a free man.”
This time, Jed raised his glass to toast Neal. “Congratulations, then.”
“Thank you, sir. But the honors really go to Peter. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.” Their eyes met and Peter swallowed against all the emotion in that gaze. “He has had faith in me. Through everything, Peter has never stopped believing that I could be a good man. He gave me the chance I needed, and kept giving them. No matter how many times I fuc – I messed up, he never stopped believing in me.”
Peter pinched the bridge of his nose, overcome. Under the table, El squeezed his leg in sympathy.
Neal continued, making it almost impossible for Peter to keep his composure. “He’s my friend – and one of the finest people in the world. He’s given me more that I deserve, more than I can ever dream of repaying.”
“Faith is a wonderful thing, Mr. Caffrey. It’s a gift that requires nothing more than the acknowledgement that it exists. It never needs to be repaid.”
They all seemed a bit overcome. But Jed Bartlet, the man Peter had known for more than twenty years, was never at a loss for words for long. “Tell me, now that you’ve finished your obligations to the FBI, what does the future hold for you?”
“The same thing that it held for most of the last four years – a desk in the White Collar division’s bullpen. Now though, I’ll have a GS-11 salary, locality-adjusted of course, and business cards that say ‘Neal Caffrey, Technical Analyst, Level IV’.”
“Technical Analyst, you don’t want to be an FBI agent?”
“Felony conviction, remember? Do not pass go, do not collect shiny gold badge.”
“One would think that you’ve got friends – certainly a recommendation from Peter would go a long way in having an exception granted. There are always exceptions granted – something I know quite well.”
Peter didn’t know if he should interrupt – they’d discussed the possibility a few times, but Neal had always demurred that it wasn't the path he wanted to take.
Before he could say anything, Jed shocked him. “Hell, maybe a recommendation from a former president would carry some weight.”
“Sir – that’s quite an honor, but well, you just met me.”
“But I know Peter Burke, and if he’s had so much faith in you, then I would share that faith.”
Neal blinked and ducked his head, so clearly overwhelmed. “Sir, while I would be honored, I don’t think becoming an FBI agent is the right path for me.”
“You’re content as an analyst?”
“Truthfully, yes.”
“Yet, you don’t strike me as a man without ambition.”
Neal looked at Peter before answering and his thoughts were clear. But they didn’t mirror what he told Jed. “It’s really very simple, Mr. President. FBI agents carry guns. I don’t like guns.”
“Ah, I can see where that would be a problem. Carrying a pocket full of rocks instead of a Glock-22 isn’t an effective substitute.”
The conversation fell into an odd dead zone, as a waiter came over with coffee. “Wonder what’s keeping Abbey?” To Peter's surprise, Jed pulled out a smartphone. “Excuse me. The grandkids insisted I get one of these. And no, I’m not on Facebook.” He peered at the phone. “Hmmm, seems that Abbey’s been delayed – I’m to dine without her tonight. Probably should have stayed in Manchester for all that I’ll get to spend time with her this weekend.”
El, who’d been quiet for most of the evening, spoke up. “When are you going home, Jed?”
“Supposedly sometime Sunday evening but I’m thinking that I might go home tomorrow. I’m old and cranky and hanging out by myself really isn’t a lot of fun anymore.”
“Well, Peter and I are having a small get-together on Sunday afternoon – brunch basically. Some of their colleagues from the office, some old friends of Neal’s. A celebration. Would you like to join us?”
Peter couldn’t quite believe it – one didn’t casually invite a former president for Sunday brunch, even if he was an old friend. Or maybe one did, if she was Elizabeth Burke.
“Hmm, what a lovely idea. And you won’t even need to have your guest list vetted. Former presidents don’t have quite the same security issues.”
“So you’ll come?”
“What time?”
“Noonish?”
“Then noonish it is.”
Peter gave El one of his business cards and she wrote out their address on the back. “I’m looking forward to seeing you again.”
The three of them stood as Jed got to his feet. The president gave them a nod and a smile before slowing making his way out of the dining room, not so discreetly trailed by two Secret Service agents.
On Dreamwidth
Author's Notes: This story has been in my brain almost as long as I’ve been writing White Collar fan fiction. In fact, I made a post, back in March, 2010, Five Things About Peter Burke - things I thought I might want to write about. Number 1 was Kripked in Veiled Threat (and I've written several RPS fics about Tim (and Matt) practicing the tango, Number 2 was Privilege, Number 4 will be written eventually, and Number 5 is the basis for the SPQR ‘verse.
This is Number 3, with some editing - Peter has a degree in economic theory from the London School of Economics, or in this case, Peter studies Economic Theory at LSE during his junior year abroad.
Timeline issues for The West Wing – Jed Bartlet taught at Dartmouth after leaving the London School of Economics, before he was elected to the New Hampshire House of Representatives, and then to Congress. If canon says exactly when his term in Congress actually ended, I don’t remember (and can’t find in The West Wing Wiki), so the purists will have to forgive me if I give Jed a “gap year” between his Congressional tenure and his terms as Governor of New Hampshire. For the purposes of this story, Jed Bartlet is a visiting professor at LSE for a year, which will coincide with Peter’s semester at the school.
Tags:
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: jed bartlet,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: peter burke,
- crossover: the west wing/white collar,
- genre: backstory,
- genre: crossover,
- genre: friendship,
- genre: humor,
- genre: ot3,
- genre: post-anklet,
- genre: pre-series,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- white collar,
- year: 2013
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no subject
Date: 2013-11-13 07:32 pm (UTC)I adore the idea of Jed as Peter's friend and (true) mentor, and Neal meeting Jed and telling him his story has to be one of my favorite scenes ever. There is just so much happiness there, with Neal finally free, his future bright ♥ And a great dose of humor (because yeah, having a chance to see Neal speechless and blushing all in one go is truly a memorable event :D :D :D)
Yay, so excited about tomorrow \o/
*hugs* :D
no subject
Date: 2013-11-13 07:37 pm (UTC)That's right, you haven't yet read what's up for tomorrow! I promise that you'll enjoy it.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-13 08:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-13 08:32 pm (UTC)I finally got a hook on how to end it...which will be posted tomorrow.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-13 11:48 pm (UTC)It's the WC/West Wing crossover I never knew I wanted and now cant' live without.
I love the backstory you created here with Peter in London being so smart with Prof. Bartlet. And, I love poor Neal all flummoxed in the presence of the former Pres. And, I'm so glad this is an OT3. It adds a lovely dimension to the story.
And, oh my OT3, they are so beautiful together in this story. Just the way I want them.
Can't wait for part 2.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-13 11:49 pm (UTC)That's the thing with crossovers - until you read them, you have no idea that that's JUST the story you wanted.
Hope you enjoy Part 2 just as much!
no subject
Date: 2013-11-14 02:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-14 02:14 pm (UTC)I am so glad I was able to accurately capture Bartlet's voice - he's very distinctive, and very different. Had the terrible chore of watching and rewatching many episodes of TWW to get it down.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-14 03:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-14 02:15 pm (UTC)The first few seasons of The West Wing are awesome, and I highly recommend watching (they are on Netflix).
And of course Neal would lose his composure like that!
no subject
Date: 2013-11-14 03:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-14 02:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-14 04:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-14 05:53 pm (UTC)I've always thought these two fandoms were a natural fit.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-14 08:37 pm (UTC)TWW is my favorite show...I think I know it by heart.
This is just...AWESOME.
Thank you thank you!
no subject
Date: 2013-11-14 09:05 pm (UTC)I love and still miss The West Wing. I think that the first Thanksgiving Episode is one of my all-time favorites.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-14 09:36 pm (UTC)OMG.
Well, thanks again for this lovely TWW/WC moment
no subject
Date: 2013-11-14 09:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-15 07:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-15 07:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-11-20 03:55 am (UTC)