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elrhiarhodanTitle: Do You Know Where You’re Going To?
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters:Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey
Spoilers/Episode References: Pilot (quotation)
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~ 2700
Summary: The anklet’s about to come off and our heroes are suddenly quite troubled.
__________________
“So, Neal – I guess you’ve been planning what you’re going to do when that thing comes off?” Jones nods at Neal’s tracker on his left ankle. “Or is that an exceedingly stupid question?”
Neal chuckles. He’d been getting this question for weeks now, and with about two months left to go on his parole, it seems like everyone wants to know what his plans are. Most people are subtle, but some take the direct approach - like Clinton. In fact, the only one who hadn’t asked him about his post-parole plans is Peter. He doesn’t even get a suggestion of a question.
That hurt. Badly.
But Jones is looking for an answer, and Neal doesn’t want to give it to him, so he misdirects. “What do you mean, an exceedingly stupid question?”
“Well, I’ve got to figure that Neal Caffrey’s going to be spreading his wings, heading out for parts unknown once that thing comes off your leg.”
Neal tilted his head and considered his reply. “Yeah - that’s a plan. Fly away like a bird.”
“Soar like an eagle.”
“Coasting on the warm updrafts of freedom.”
They banter back a forth, playing up the metaphor until it become ludicrous. Yet he gives nothing away. Neal doesn’t notice Peter standing at the balcony, overhearing the conversation.
Truth is, he has no plans. Every time he sits down and thinks about where he wants to go and what he wants to do with the rest of his life, he comes up empty. He has his stash - most of it cash, but there’s a fortune in art and jewelry tucked into warehouses and storage units across the country. He is strangely reluctant to access that wealth.
It is the remnants of another life - a life that doesn’t fit him anymore.
Mozzie, too, pesters him a bit (okay, a lot). He isn’t leaving New York, but he had a vested interest in knowing where Neal is heading off to. They’ve spent too many years looking after each other for Moz to just let Neal fly away without a word. Yet Neal keeps putting his friend off - teasing him whenever they’d pass a newsstand. Neal would pick up copies of high end travel magazines and talk about all the places he is thinking of going to. Maybe catch a poker or backgammon tournament in Macao or Monaco or the Maldives. For the longest time, he just plays it vague, gives nothing away. It is kind of fun to torment Mozzie like this.
He doesn’t think he can go anywhere, anyway. At least anywhere outside of the Five Boroughs, not that he really wants to go to The Bronx, Queens or Staten Island.
It is stranger than strange. After four years of being tethered to Peter’s side, hooded and jessed like a hunter’s falcon, he found he couldn’t bear to leave.
When he finally tells Mozzie that he’s staying in New York, after he stops laughing hysterically, the man says that he has Stockholm Syndrome, and the only cure is to get some distance. But distance is the last thing Neal wants anymore.
So Mozzie brings by a portfolio and they start reviewing some options.
No, Neal isn’t going anywhere anytime soon – except for a vacation.
Maybe.
It doesn’t matter that Peter isn’t interested in what his plans are. It doesn’t matter that in a few short weeks he’ll have nothing to do with himself (at least, nothing middle class, worthy and important). Unless he accepts one of the offers that have come his way – for middle class and worthy and important work.
Work that doesn’t require wings thankfully, because his are broken.
Beyond repair.
The months and weeks and days are slipping away, an inexorable countdown. He won’t ask - he can’t bring himself to ask, because he knows. And it feels like something’s breaking inside of him. He listens, an unobtrusive observer, as his team occasionally peppers Neal with the same question in a variety of formats.
The first discussion he happened to overhear was about two months ago. Clinton and Neal chatting about his travel plans - Neal jokes about flying away, becoming lighter than air.
Diana’s more subtle than that. She mentions an upcoming exhibit by one of Neal’s favorite artists. It’s opening about two weeks after his parole ends, and is he going to go? Neal gives a typical Neal answer - vague and full of misdirection. He may be there, he may not.
Hughes is much less subtle; he wants to know whether he plans to accept the offer that Stuart Gless has made - chief of internal security. Neal is polite; he thanks him for his interest and the reference, but merely says he is considering it.
Of course Elizabeth asks too, and she isn’t subtle at all. During dinner on Sunday, she keeps pestering him with the versions of same damn question until Peter wants to shout at her to just stop. But he didn’t and the evening is one of the worst he had in recent memory.
Peter wants to cry. It is like he is losing his best friend. Hell - he is losing his best friend. There is no one (that is, no one who isn’t Elizabeth) with whom he is closer - with whom he shares more, for whom he cares more for, than Neal.
The future stretches out before him - cold and empty. He shouldn’t feel this way. He loves his job - it’s more than a career to him. He loves and adores and can’t imagine a life without Elizabeth. But Neal - Neal - he is his good right hand. Sundance to his Butch, Doc Holiday to his Wyatt Earp. He wants to slam his door shut and howl at the unfairness of everything.
It’s unbearable, but he smiles and jokes and gets his work done, closes cases and makes it through the days. And each day ticks down until they fill less than a single row on a calendar. The paperwork arrives from the DOJ and the Marshals’ Service – it doesn’t even require his signature. 4:30 on Friday afternoon, Neal’s anklet goes dark. That’s it.
And he still refuses to ask Neal anything about his plans.
Until the truth (or what he thinks is the truth) is staring him in the face and the only thing he can do is ask.
It’s late and the team is finally wrapping up the plans on an undercover operation that start next week. They will try to take down a worldwide identity theft ring. Neal sits - he actually sits - in a corner of the conference room, giving some pointers on the op, but is barely paying attention – after all, he’s not going to be there for it. He’s flipping through a travel magazine - something luxe and as far out of his own paygrade as the Hope Diamond.
Everyone notices but no one comments. They finish and leave. Neal doesn’t look up, he’s still perusing the damn magazine, until he finally realizes that the room’s emptied and Peter’s standing over him.
Peter can’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth. “So, where are you going to go, Phileas Fogg?”
Neal blinks. “Excuse me?”
Peter points to the magazine, which is opened to a photo spread of Venice at night.
“Venice? Is that where you’re headed to when you leave next week? I would have thought that you had enough of La Serenissima after the last time.”
Neal looks at the picture of the Rialto and the Grand Canal. “Ummm, well - I haven’t made up my mind yet about the first place I want to go.” There’s something in Neal’s eyes – not so much that he’s trying to misdirect him, but something.
Peter swallows against the sour taste in his mouth. “You’ve got the whole wide world...just do me a favor and wait a few months before you run your first con, okay?”
Neal looks at him and Peter is shocked at the hurt in his eyes. Neal gets up and tosses the magazine on the conference room table.
“You really think that little of me? After everything?”
Peter’s frozen and Neal takes his silence for assent.
“You know what, Peter - until this moment, I hadn’t made up my mind where I am going to go, what I am going to do...but now I have. I’m going to go to Perth, because that’s the furthest place on this planet away from you.” His voice is quiet, but he may as well have been shouting.
He brushes past Peter and is out of the conference room and down the steps before Peter unfreezes.
“Neal, wait.” He bounds down the stairs after him, but Neal’s quick, grabbing his hat and his jacket and into an elevator that just arrived.
Neal’s banging on the ‘close doors’ button, but Peter’s quick enough to catch him. The doors slide shut and the elevator descends.
Neal’s eyes focus everywhere but on him, and Peter doesn’t know quite what to do.
“Neal - I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No - don’t apologize. You just were saying what is on your mind. Nothing more that what’s probably been on your mind for months, I’m sure.” Neal taps his toes, waiting for the elevator to reach the ground floor. In Peter’s mind, the car seems to be moving at twice the normal speed.
The doors open; he grabs Neal’s arm. “Please, Neal – don’t run off like this. Can we just…talk?”
“Now? You want to talk now?” Neal looks at him like he is an insect, and Peter supposes he deserves that.
There’s a small boutique hotel a few blocks from the office; they’ve been there enough to be considered regulars. The bar is small, intimate and at this time of day, mostly empty. Neal slides into a booth and orders a glass of Merlot, Peter gets a beer - his usual.
“Neal - I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that - before. I didn’t… I’m sorry.” Peter chokes on the words, trying to apologize. This felt all too familiar – open mouth, insert foot. He can’t help but recall one of the first real conversations they ever had: My wife didn’t change her identity and flee the country to get away from me…. What is it with him? He’s never been one to be so casually cruel – only with Neal, it seems – and it’s been that way forever.
“Peter - look just forget about it, okay. In less than a week, it will all be over...like a waking up from a bad dream.”
Peter looks up from his beer bottle, startled by the sharpness of Neal’s tone.
“I never felt it was a bad dream - ever. I’ve regretted nothing about the past four years. Nothing.”
Neal takes a sip of his wine and makes a moue of distaste. Peter isn’t sure that the grimace is for his words or for the quality of the vintage.
He just hangs there – helpless, his heart aching, wishing he could take back everything.
“Why haven’t you asked me?” Neal puts down his glass and idly draws a finger through a bit of dampness on the table.
Peter knows what Neal is asking, but he doesn’t think he can answer - not without leaving himself opened to a universe of hurt.
But Neal doesn’t it let it go. And maybe he shouldn’t - it’s almost midnight on the clock. A handful of days, less than a hundred hours.
“Why, Peter? Aren’t you the least bit interested? After everything?”
He takes a deep breath and slowly exhales. “I haven’t asked because I keep telling myself that if I don’t - you won’t be leaving. Monday morning, you’ll be at your desk like usual - and everything will be the same. When it comes to you - I’m a goddamned ostrich. If I can’t see the danger - it’s not happening.”
Neal sits up - blinking. “What are you saying?”
“Neal - I’ve been wracking my brains, trying to find a way to convince a judge that you shouldn’t be let out of your anklet, okay?” Peter doesn’t want to look at Neal, to see the expression of horror on his face.
“Peter…” Neal practically whispers his name.
He ignores the plea contained in Neal’s voice. “Yeah – how crazy is that. I’m thinking of all the ways I can fuck up your life, just to keep you here.”
He waits for Neal to get up – to storm away again. He doesn’t blame him…this is so … fucked up. He sips his beer and tries really hard not look at Neal.
“Peter – you’d really do that?”
Neal doesn’t sound angry – or hurt – or shocked. More like amazed.
“I’m not dealing too well with the idea that you’re leaving. I don’t want to hear you say goodbye. How foolish is that?”
The label on the bottle is peeling off, and he works a fingernail underneath it. The way the paper tears is quite fascinating.
“What if I said I isn’t planning on leaving? At least, not permanently.” Neal’s voice is carefully neutral. Peter looks up, finally, and his face is as neutral as his voice.
“What would you think if I said I is going to stay in New York?”
He meets Neal’s eyes – there were moments in their relationship – very rare moments when the trust is perfect and absolute – on both sides. This is one of them.
“I’d say that I would be extremely happy if you did.”
“But what if I didn’t want to stay with the Bureau? That I wanted to be something more than a CI?”
Peter leans back and tries to keep the sudden rush of happiness under control. “I’ve never thought of you just as a CI – you know that. We’ve been partners since the beginning.”
“In practice yes – but in reality – no. I’m a fungible asset, and that’s not the life I want now.”
I can understand that. But there could be a role for you – as an analyst, maybe? I don’t think Hughes or Bancroft would have a problem hiring you.” This is something he’s given a lot of thought to, even having gone as far as sounding out the idea to the bosses.
“No, Peter – if I stay, it’s not going to be full time with the Bureau.”
Peter’s disappointed, but Neal instantly gives him something to hope for
“At least not right away – I can’t see myself transitioning from a criminal informant to a full-fledged employee of the FBI. It just wouldn’t work out. I need to get out there – establish myself legitimately. ”
Peter understands. “So you’re going to accept Stuart Gless’ offer?”
Neal nods. “Yeah - it’s a good one, gives me a chance to travel a little, but to put down some roots too. About time I did that.”
“Plant your own white picket fence?”
“You could say that. Probably more like a loft in Vinegar Hill. I’m closing on a place next week. Mozzie found it for me. Ten thousand square feet of cleared out factory space – great light, a rooftop terrace with a view of lower Manhattan and the bridges. It’s going to need some work, though.”
Neal’s moving to Brooklyn. NEAL’S MOVING TO BROOKLYN. NEAL’S MOVING TO BROOKLYN. The words galloped through his head. The little shit never intended to leave.
“I could help – I know a bit about construction.” Peter almost hated how diffident his sounded …but hell – he did know construction. He worked enough summers with his father, framing and building houses. Hell, he is still paying for the storage unit for his dad’s tools.
Neal smiled and accepted Peter’s peace offering. “I think I’d like that.”
Both men are silent for a minute or two.
“So, you’re staying in New York.” The satisfaction in his voice is undisguised.
“Yeah…I guess am.” Neal seems happy too. “Moz thinks I have Stockholm Syndrome.”
Peter shakes his head. “Nah – you just know that it’s better to be where your friends are.”
“Yeah. Friends.” Neal shakes his head and laughs, as if it’s a completely alien concept. He lifts his glass to make a toast. “To friends – they keep you grounded.”
Peter gets the double meaning there. He tips his beer bottle against Neal’s glass, and adds his own. “To being grounded.”
FIN
Significantly cleaned up from the two ficlets written for prompt fromdamietta, Broken Wings, Any Character and from doctor_fangeek left in a comment to the first ficlet: Peter doesn’t want to ask Neal about his plans, because he doesn’t want to hear Neal tell him he’s leaving. This is part of the Vinegar Hill series, set before A New Understanding and foreshadows Men At Work (and at play).
Author:
elrhiarhodan Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters:Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey
Spoilers/Episode References: Pilot (quotation)
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~ 2700
Summary: The anklet’s about to come off and our heroes are suddenly quite troubled.
“So, Neal – I guess you’ve been planning what you’re going to do when that thing comes off?” Jones nods at Neal’s tracker on his left ankle. “Or is that an exceedingly stupid question?”
Neal chuckles. He’d been getting this question for weeks now, and with about two months left to go on his parole, it seems like everyone wants to know what his plans are. Most people are subtle, but some take the direct approach - like Clinton. In fact, the only one who hadn’t asked him about his post-parole plans is Peter. He doesn’t even get a suggestion of a question.
That hurt. Badly.
But Jones is looking for an answer, and Neal doesn’t want to give it to him, so he misdirects. “What do you mean, an exceedingly stupid question?”
“Well, I’ve got to figure that Neal Caffrey’s going to be spreading his wings, heading out for parts unknown once that thing comes off your leg.”
Neal tilted his head and considered his reply. “Yeah - that’s a plan. Fly away like a bird.”
“Soar like an eagle.”
“Coasting on the warm updrafts of freedom.”
They banter back a forth, playing up the metaphor until it become ludicrous. Yet he gives nothing away. Neal doesn’t notice Peter standing at the balcony, overhearing the conversation.
Truth is, he has no plans. Every time he sits down and thinks about where he wants to go and what he wants to do with the rest of his life, he comes up empty. He has his stash - most of it cash, but there’s a fortune in art and jewelry tucked into warehouses and storage units across the country. He is strangely reluctant to access that wealth.
It is the remnants of another life - a life that doesn’t fit him anymore.
Mozzie, too, pesters him a bit (okay, a lot). He isn’t leaving New York, but he had a vested interest in knowing where Neal is heading off to. They’ve spent too many years looking after each other for Moz to just let Neal fly away without a word. Yet Neal keeps putting his friend off - teasing him whenever they’d pass a newsstand. Neal would pick up copies of high end travel magazines and talk about all the places he is thinking of going to. Maybe catch a poker or backgammon tournament in Macao or Monaco or the Maldives. For the longest time, he just plays it vague, gives nothing away. It is kind of fun to torment Mozzie like this.
He doesn’t think he can go anywhere, anyway. At least anywhere outside of the Five Boroughs, not that he really wants to go to The Bronx, Queens or Staten Island.
It is stranger than strange. After four years of being tethered to Peter’s side, hooded and jessed like a hunter’s falcon, he found he couldn’t bear to leave.
When he finally tells Mozzie that he’s staying in New York, after he stops laughing hysterically, the man says that he has Stockholm Syndrome, and the only cure is to get some distance. But distance is the last thing Neal wants anymore.
So Mozzie brings by a portfolio and they start reviewing some options.
No, Neal isn’t going anywhere anytime soon – except for a vacation.
Maybe.
It doesn’t matter that Peter isn’t interested in what his plans are. It doesn’t matter that in a few short weeks he’ll have nothing to do with himself (at least, nothing middle class, worthy and important). Unless he accepts one of the offers that have come his way – for middle class and worthy and important work.
Work that doesn’t require wings thankfully, because his are broken.
Beyond repair.
The months and weeks and days are slipping away, an inexorable countdown. He won’t ask - he can’t bring himself to ask, because he knows. And it feels like something’s breaking inside of him. He listens, an unobtrusive observer, as his team occasionally peppers Neal with the same question in a variety of formats.
The first discussion he happened to overhear was about two months ago. Clinton and Neal chatting about his travel plans - Neal jokes about flying away, becoming lighter than air.
Diana’s more subtle than that. She mentions an upcoming exhibit by one of Neal’s favorite artists. It’s opening about two weeks after his parole ends, and is he going to go? Neal gives a typical Neal answer - vague and full of misdirection. He may be there, he may not.
Hughes is much less subtle; he wants to know whether he plans to accept the offer that Stuart Gless has made - chief of internal security. Neal is polite; he thanks him for his interest and the reference, but merely says he is considering it.
Of course Elizabeth asks too, and she isn’t subtle at all. During dinner on Sunday, she keeps pestering him with the versions of same damn question until Peter wants to shout at her to just stop. But he didn’t and the evening is one of the worst he had in recent memory.
Peter wants to cry. It is like he is losing his best friend. Hell - he is losing his best friend. There is no one (that is, no one who isn’t Elizabeth) with whom he is closer - with whom he shares more, for whom he cares more for, than Neal.
The future stretches out before him - cold and empty. He shouldn’t feel this way. He loves his job - it’s more than a career to him. He loves and adores and can’t imagine a life without Elizabeth. But Neal - Neal - he is his good right hand. Sundance to his Butch, Doc Holiday to his Wyatt Earp. He wants to slam his door shut and howl at the unfairness of everything.
It’s unbearable, but he smiles and jokes and gets his work done, closes cases and makes it through the days. And each day ticks down until they fill less than a single row on a calendar. The paperwork arrives from the DOJ and the Marshals’ Service – it doesn’t even require his signature. 4:30 on Friday afternoon, Neal’s anklet goes dark. That’s it.
And he still refuses to ask Neal anything about his plans.
Until the truth (or what he thinks is the truth) is staring him in the face and the only thing he can do is ask.
It’s late and the team is finally wrapping up the plans on an undercover operation that start next week. They will try to take down a worldwide identity theft ring. Neal sits - he actually sits - in a corner of the conference room, giving some pointers on the op, but is barely paying attention – after all, he’s not going to be there for it. He’s flipping through a travel magazine - something luxe and as far out of his own paygrade as the Hope Diamond.
Everyone notices but no one comments. They finish and leave. Neal doesn’t look up, he’s still perusing the damn magazine, until he finally realizes that the room’s emptied and Peter’s standing over him.
Peter can’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth. “So, where are you going to go, Phileas Fogg?”
Neal blinks. “Excuse me?”
Peter points to the magazine, which is opened to a photo spread of Venice at night.
“Venice? Is that where you’re headed to when you leave next week? I would have thought that you had enough of La Serenissima after the last time.”
Neal looks at the picture of the Rialto and the Grand Canal. “Ummm, well - I haven’t made up my mind yet about the first place I want to go.” There’s something in Neal’s eyes – not so much that he’s trying to misdirect him, but something.
Peter swallows against the sour taste in his mouth. “You’ve got the whole wide world...just do me a favor and wait a few months before you run your first con, okay?”
Neal looks at him and Peter is shocked at the hurt in his eyes. Neal gets up and tosses the magazine on the conference room table.
“You really think that little of me? After everything?”
Peter’s frozen and Neal takes his silence for assent.
“You know what, Peter - until this moment, I hadn’t made up my mind where I am going to go, what I am going to do...but now I have. I’m going to go to Perth, because that’s the furthest place on this planet away from you.” His voice is quiet, but he may as well have been shouting.
He brushes past Peter and is out of the conference room and down the steps before Peter unfreezes.
“Neal, wait.” He bounds down the stairs after him, but Neal’s quick, grabbing his hat and his jacket and into an elevator that just arrived.
Neal’s banging on the ‘close doors’ button, but Peter’s quick enough to catch him. The doors slide shut and the elevator descends.
Neal’s eyes focus everywhere but on him, and Peter doesn’t know quite what to do.
“Neal - I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No - don’t apologize. You just were saying what is on your mind. Nothing more that what’s probably been on your mind for months, I’m sure.” Neal taps his toes, waiting for the elevator to reach the ground floor. In Peter’s mind, the car seems to be moving at twice the normal speed.
The doors open; he grabs Neal’s arm. “Please, Neal – don’t run off like this. Can we just…talk?”
“Now? You want to talk now?” Neal looks at him like he is an insect, and Peter supposes he deserves that.
There’s a small boutique hotel a few blocks from the office; they’ve been there enough to be considered regulars. The bar is small, intimate and at this time of day, mostly empty. Neal slides into a booth and orders a glass of Merlot, Peter gets a beer - his usual.
“Neal - I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that - before. I didn’t… I’m sorry.” Peter chokes on the words, trying to apologize. This felt all too familiar – open mouth, insert foot. He can’t help but recall one of the first real conversations they ever had: My wife didn’t change her identity and flee the country to get away from me…. What is it with him? He’s never been one to be so casually cruel – only with Neal, it seems – and it’s been that way forever.
“Peter - look just forget about it, okay. In less than a week, it will all be over...like a waking up from a bad dream.”
Peter looks up from his beer bottle, startled by the sharpness of Neal’s tone.
“I never felt it was a bad dream - ever. I’ve regretted nothing about the past four years. Nothing.”
Neal takes a sip of his wine and makes a moue of distaste. Peter isn’t sure that the grimace is for his words or for the quality of the vintage.
He just hangs there – helpless, his heart aching, wishing he could take back everything.
“Why haven’t you asked me?” Neal puts down his glass and idly draws a finger through a bit of dampness on the table.
Peter knows what Neal is asking, but he doesn’t think he can answer - not without leaving himself opened to a universe of hurt.
But Neal doesn’t it let it go. And maybe he shouldn’t - it’s almost midnight on the clock. A handful of days, less than a hundred hours.
“Why, Peter? Aren’t you the least bit interested? After everything?”
He takes a deep breath and slowly exhales. “I haven’t asked because I keep telling myself that if I don’t - you won’t be leaving. Monday morning, you’ll be at your desk like usual - and everything will be the same. When it comes to you - I’m a goddamned ostrich. If I can’t see the danger - it’s not happening.”
Neal sits up - blinking. “What are you saying?”
“Neal - I’ve been wracking my brains, trying to find a way to convince a judge that you shouldn’t be let out of your anklet, okay?” Peter doesn’t want to look at Neal, to see the expression of horror on his face.
“Peter…” Neal practically whispers his name.
He ignores the plea contained in Neal’s voice. “Yeah – how crazy is that. I’m thinking of all the ways I can fuck up your life, just to keep you here.”
He waits for Neal to get up – to storm away again. He doesn’t blame him…this is so … fucked up. He sips his beer and tries really hard not look at Neal.
“Peter – you’d really do that?”
Neal doesn’t sound angry – or hurt – or shocked. More like amazed.
“I’m not dealing too well with the idea that you’re leaving. I don’t want to hear you say goodbye. How foolish is that?”
The label on the bottle is peeling off, and he works a fingernail underneath it. The way the paper tears is quite fascinating.
“What if I said I isn’t planning on leaving? At least, not permanently.” Neal’s voice is carefully neutral. Peter looks up, finally, and his face is as neutral as his voice.
“What would you think if I said I is going to stay in New York?”
He meets Neal’s eyes – there were moments in their relationship – very rare moments when the trust is perfect and absolute – on both sides. This is one of them.
“I’d say that I would be extremely happy if you did.”
“But what if I didn’t want to stay with the Bureau? That I wanted to be something more than a CI?”
Peter leans back and tries to keep the sudden rush of happiness under control. “I’ve never thought of you just as a CI – you know that. We’ve been partners since the beginning.”
“In practice yes – but in reality – no. I’m a fungible asset, and that’s not the life I want now.”
I can understand that. But there could be a role for you – as an analyst, maybe? I don’t think Hughes or Bancroft would have a problem hiring you.” This is something he’s given a lot of thought to, even having gone as far as sounding out the idea to the bosses.
“No, Peter – if I stay, it’s not going to be full time with the Bureau.”
Peter’s disappointed, but Neal instantly gives him something to hope for
“At least not right away – I can’t see myself transitioning from a criminal informant to a full-fledged employee of the FBI. It just wouldn’t work out. I need to get out there – establish myself legitimately. ”
Peter understands. “So you’re going to accept Stuart Gless’ offer?”
Neal nods. “Yeah - it’s a good one, gives me a chance to travel a little, but to put down some roots too. About time I did that.”
“Plant your own white picket fence?”
“You could say that. Probably more like a loft in Vinegar Hill. I’m closing on a place next week. Mozzie found it for me. Ten thousand square feet of cleared out factory space – great light, a rooftop terrace with a view of lower Manhattan and the bridges. It’s going to need some work, though.”
Neal’s moving to Brooklyn. NEAL’S MOVING TO BROOKLYN. NEAL’S MOVING TO BROOKLYN. The words galloped through his head. The little shit never intended to leave.
“I could help – I know a bit about construction.” Peter almost hated how diffident his sounded …but hell – he did know construction. He worked enough summers with his father, framing and building houses. Hell, he is still paying for the storage unit for his dad’s tools.
Neal smiled and accepted Peter’s peace offering. “I think I’d like that.”
Both men are silent for a minute or two.
“So, you’re staying in New York.” The satisfaction in his voice is undisguised.
“Yeah…I guess am.” Neal seems happy too. “Moz thinks I have Stockholm Syndrome.”
Peter shakes his head. “Nah – you just know that it’s better to be where your friends are.”
“Yeah. Friends.” Neal shakes his head and laughs, as if it’s a completely alien concept. He lifts his glass to make a toast. “To friends – they keep you grounded.”
Peter gets the double meaning there. He tips his beer bottle against Neal’s glass, and adds his own. “To being grounded.”
Significantly cleaned up from the two ficlets written for prompt from
damietta, Broken Wings, Any Character and from doctor_fangeek left in a comment to the first ficlet: Peter doesn’t want to ask Neal about his plans, because he doesn’t want to hear Neal tell him he’s leaving. This is part of the Vinegar Hill series, set before A New Understanding and foreshadows Men At Work (and at play).
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Date: 2011-01-25 08:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-25 11:51 pm (UTC)And thank you. More Vinegar Hill on the way...one of the winners of my QFR auction wants a Vinegar Hill story.
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Date: 2011-01-25 09:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-25 11:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-25 10:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-25 11:51 pm (UTC)But for the record, if he did...there's be no fic!
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Date: 2011-01-25 11:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-25 11:21 pm (UTC)I love the simple honesty in this, the child-like sense of escalating excitement: "Neal’s moving to Brooklyn. NEAL’S MOVING TO BROOKLYN. NEAL’S MOVING TO BROOKLYN."
Love!
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Date: 2011-01-25 11:52 pm (UTC)I'm thinking about the next story in this series...I think it's time for a little smut.
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Date: 2011-01-25 11:58 pm (UTC)*parties*
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Date: 2011-01-26 12:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-26 01:10 am (UTC)It actually helped that it's not yet at the point where Peter realizes what his feelings are...and I don't want to give the story away. You need to read, if you haven't - Peter - A New Understanding. Having this already written, and the story well-placed in the Vinegar Hill series really helped to tighten the focus.
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Date: 2011-01-26 01:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-26 01:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-26 01:11 am (UTC)I am glad you enjoyed this, and I hope you like the others in this series.
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Date: 2011-01-26 02:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-26 03:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-26 03:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-26 03:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-26 09:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-26 11:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-26 04:27 pm (UTC)But as a bit of concrit, at one point you wrote "What if I said I <
But as a bit of concrit, at one point you wrote "What if I said I <<isn't>> planning on leaving? At least, not permanently.” Neal’s voice is carefully neutral. Peter looks up, finally, and his face is as neutral as his voice.
“What would you think if I said I <<is>> going to stay in New York?”
And it should be "I wasn't planning" and "I was going". I'm totally sure that's just an honest mistake, I make them all the time when I go back and reword something and those mistakes are hard to fix because after reading something enough it all starts to blur together...
But I just thought I'd point it out because it kinda threw me out of the fic a little, and this is so amazing otherwise that I knew it wasn't on purpose. :)
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Date: 2011-02-06 02:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-20 09:04 am (UTC)Just a little thing;
“What if I said I isn’t planning on leaving? At least, not permanently.” Neal’s voice is carefully neutral. Peter looks up, finally, and his face is as neutral as his voice.
“What would you think if I said I is going to stay in New York?”
I is? ;)
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Date: 2011-09-20 12:33 pm (UTC)It's weird - I thought I had fixed that typo ages ago...toddles off to try to fix it again!
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Date: 2013-01-24 03:55 am (UTC)