elrhiarhodan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elrhiarhodan) wrote2011-05-13 02:44 pm
elrhiarhodan) wrote2011-05-13 02:44 pm
Entry tags:
- character: clinton jones,
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: mozzie,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: peter burke,
- character: sara ellis,
- charity: queensland,
- genre: angst,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: ust,
- type: fan fiction,
- wc verse: someone you might have been,
- white collar
White Collar Fic - Someone You Might Have Been - Part III (Conclusion)
Title: Someone Your Might Have Been – Part III
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Mozzie, Elizabeth Burke, Diana Berrigan, Sara Ellis
Spoilers/Episode References: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Angst, Hurt/Comfort (pre-slash)
Word Count: ~24,000 (Three Parts). Part I was published on Wednesday, 5/11/11 and Part II was published on Thursday, 5/12/11.
Summary: The anklet comes off, and all of Neal’s plans, all of Peter’s plans, fall apart after an ill-timed confession. The world is sometimes too big and yet not big enough.
This story was written for the wonderfully generoususakeh, who won a Queensland Relief story. She asked me to write the fic for hoosierbitch, who has been hard at work in grad school.
Many, many thanks to my “Flying Buttresses” - my support community:coffeethyme4me, jrosemary and rabidchild67. Their wisdom, collective and individual, has made this story so much better that it was.
Go to Part I | Part II
__________________
Clinton Jones came home to New York every six weeks, like clockwork. Saturday dinner with his folks, church and brunch with his grandma, a brief stop to see his little cousins, and then back on a train to Washington. That was the agreement he had reached with his family when he told them he wanted to take the promotion in D.C.
Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter were also mandatory. The Fourth of July got a pass because he lived in Washington and the family came to see him on the nation’s birthday. Or more precisely, they took over his apartment in Alexandria and let him escort them to the big celebration on the Mall.
But something was going on. During this visit, his mother looked at him and bit her lip – as if she was about to cry. His father didn’t look too good - pale was never a good color for an African-American.
Saturday night, instead of watching the ball game, his father handed him a beer and told him they had to talk. That rarely meant anything good.
“Leukemia?” Clinton could barely get the word out.
“Yeah. Found out about four weeks ago.”
“How long have you got?” He put the bottle down on the table, carefully adjusting it on the coaster. His father wasn’t the sentimental type, and wouldn’t appreciate it if his son got all emotional.
“Prognosis is good. About a 75% survival rate over five years. I’ll need chemo though.”
Clinton nodded. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Son?”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“There’s something I’d like to ask you. Ask of you.”
“Anything.” Clinton let out a small laugh. “Whatever you want.”
His father gave him a weak smile. “Don’t make promises like that.”
Clinton grinned back. “What do you want?” This was family, he’d do anything.
His father’s face fell into serious lines. “I’d like you to come home. For good. Come back to New York.”
“Dad…”
“Wait, Clinton – listen to me. I know D.C. was a big opportunity for you – and I’ll understand if you can’t. But the chemo’s going to knock the shit out me. Just knowing you’re nearby will be a big help. I don’t expect you to move back here…” His father gestured – indicating the family home. “But it would, well … be a good thing to have you nearby.” To Clinton’s shock, his father - the strong steady presence in his life - started to cry
Clinton was torn for just a moment. There was an opportunity for him in the Justice Department – but he’d been dithering over it. The thought of becoming a government lawyer had its appeal. But it meant being chained to a desk, which wouldn’t be such a change from what he was doing now, if he were honest with himself. Lately, the memories of the hours spent in the surveillance van were taking on a rosy glow.
“You’re awfully quiet, son.” His father wiped his eyes, probably a little embarrassed at the show of emotion.
“I’ve got a lot to think about.” Not really.
“Any chance your old boss would take you back?”
“That’s what I’m thinking about.” Clinton smiled. The thought of working for Peter again was enticing. “When’s your next appointment?”
“Monday morning, at Sloane Kettering. They are going to put in the port.”
“Port?”
His father patted the right side of his chest. “It’s where the chemo is delivered. Takes about an hour to put in.”
“I’ll be there with you.” He didn’t think about the caseload on his desk, or the grand jury testimony he needed to prepare for. Nothing was more important than this.
_______
Neal settled back into the fourth floor apartment with remarkable and almost frightening ease. Thomas Wolfe was wrong, apparently. You can go home again.
Even Byron’s collection of suits was still hanging in the closet, and June had left him a note saying, among other things, that they were still his, if he wanted them.
They’d all be too big on him now. The hats, though…
As Julian Drummond, he never let himself wear a hat. It had been important to cleanly and clearly distinguish that person from Neal. Julian had been an unremarkable nonentity – the opposite of Neal Caffrey and any of his other peacock personas. But he’d missed those hats in a way he didn’t allow himself to miss anything, anyone, else.
He pulled down a hat box and found the gray straw trilby. Perfect for a late afternoon in early May.
He shrugged into a jacket that was too big and probably too heavy for the weather, dropped the hat on his head and went for a walk.
Without conscious effort, his feet took him to the subway station - he was on the Downtown platform before he realized it. The train was filled with late Saturday afternoon revelers heading for the bars and clubs. It was funny, but Neal actually thought he recognized a few of the faces. Not likely, but they were the familiar, comfortable New Yorkers, disdainful, isolated, uncaring about the passenger sitting next to him – but still strangely compassionate. Neal watched as a middle-aged construction worker tossed his beer away and helped a tiny old woman who was struggling to get her grocery cart out of the subway car.
Neal fought against sleep as the subway’s once-again familiar rhythms soothed him. Despite the odd moments of beneficent connection between the strong and the weak, this was still New York and sleeping on the subway was a sure way to get hurt.
He changed trains at Penn Station, another familiar routine, for the subway to Brooklyn. He tried not to think about where he was going, or what he was going to say when he got there. Was he really ready for this confrontation?
It turned out that there was nothing to say. He rang the doorbell, heard Satchmo bark but no one answered the door. Neal waited another minute, but no one came. Intensely relieved and immensely disappointed, he turned around and went back to the subway. He was home and shivering under a blanket on the couch within the hour.
_______
Peter was out in the back yard, finishing off the post-winter clean up. It was something he should have done a few weeks ago, but it had rained almost every free weekend he had. He heard Satch barking. He was wrapped up in pulling down the creeper vines that had taken over the back fence last year and it took a minute or two to get free.
By the time he got to the front door, Satchmo had settled down again, gnawing at a rawhide bone - so whatever had disturbed him was gone. It could have been the mailman, though. He opened the inside door, expecting to see a pile of mail on the floor of the vestibule, but there was nothing there.
His gut told him something was going on - something wasn’t right. Peter opened the front door and looked up and down the street. There was no one outside his house. In fact, the only person he saw was an old man in hat and a too-heavy, too-big coat slowly walking up the block. There was something familiar about the man’s gait, something nudged at the back of his brain. He almost had it…
“Hon - who was at the door?” El poked her head out of their bathroom, her hair wrapped in a towel. “I was just getting out of the shower when I heard the bell ring.”
“Don’t think it was anyone important. They didn’t hang around.”
Peter looked up the block again, but the old man was gone - probably into the subway.
He closed the door and went back to the yard work.
_______
“You don’t have to come with me.”
Moz watched Neal fuss a little with his appearance.
“It would be my pleasure to drive you to the doctor.” It would. There was always something exciting about driving through Manhattan during a weekday.
“Moz...” Neal turned around to face his him. “When you were in the hospital, you went through bottles of antibacterial gel.”
“More than twenty percent of all surgical patients get post-operative, hospital-caused infection. I was just taking appropriate precautions.”
Neal laughed. “You bathed in the stuff, Moz.”
“Neal – this is important. You shouldn’t be alone.”
Moz tried not to flinch when Neal dropped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re germaphobic.”
He adopted an exaggerated version of an upper-class matron. “I can overcome my fears for the sake of friendship. And cancer’s not contagious.”
Neal’s gratitude was almost unbearable. “Thank you, Moz.”
He wiped his glasses. “The Jag or the Bentley?”
“How about a car service? Easier than trying to park in midtown.”
Moz swallowed his disappointment. Neal was right.
The outpatient facility where Neal had his appointment was pleasant, the waiting room comfortable, if a little crowded. But he got the fidgets about three minutes after they arrived.
“Mozzie.”
He was scratching his neck, certain that he was getting a bad case of hives. Or something worse.
“Moz.”
Now his legs were tingling. And his scar was beginning to ache.
“Moz!”
He finally turned to Neal, balling his hands into fists to keep from rubbing, picking or scratching at any of the imaginary ailments.
“What?” His right eyelid was twitching. Maybe he was having a stroke.
“Go, Moz. Please. You’re making both of us crazy.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry, man. I really am.”
Neal brushed his fingers against the back of his hand, gently caressing the rings. “It’s all right. I understand.”
“I’ll meet you outside, okay?”
“There’s a coffee shop on the corner – how about there?”
“Neal… You sure it’s okay?”
“Moz, really – I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t stop twitching until he got out of the elevator and spotted a very familiar face going into the other car. Then a completely different sort of twitching started.
_______
Neal finally relaxed when Moz left. He had known that his friend wouldn’t be able to go the distance, and he couldn’t hold that against him. It was the same as when he was in prison. Everyone had his limitations.
The waiting room door opened and an African-American couple came in. The man, tall and well past middle-aged, sat down next to him while the woman went to the receptionist’s window. Neal smiled at him, recognizing a fellow cancer patient.
“How are you doing?” The man had a deep, pleasant voice.
Neal shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”
“First visit?”
“Yeah – yours?”
“No – here for a small procedure, before the chemo starts.”
“Procedure?”
“Yeah – a port.” He gestured at his chest, below his collar bone. “For the chemo.”
“Oh.” Neal had read about those.
They were quiet for a few moments. “How long have you known?”
Neal didn’t mind the man’s questions. There was always comfort to be taken from fellow travelers. “About four weeks. I was in Europe when I got sick. You?”
“Just about the same. Went in for a routine physical, had some blood work and next thing I knew...”
“Marcus – you’re not bothering this young man are you?”
Neal turned to see a woman smiling down at them. The man, Marcus apparently, grinned back. This was probably an old routine. “Felicity – my wife, this is...?”
He stood up. Ingrained manners were too hard to break. “Neal, Neal Caffrey. And surely, Felicity is your daughter, not your wife?” A little harmless flirtation.
The three of them laughed, and as Felicity sat down on the other side of her husband, Neal’s phone buzzed with an incoming text. He ignored it.
They chatted for a bit, and Felicity made a comment about her missing son. “He was getting a parking space – but I think he must have had to go back to D.C. to find one.”
“D.C.?”
“Our son works for the F.B.I. in their headquarters. He said that following in the old man’s footsteps was too boring.”
F.B.I.? Neal swallowed. “What do you do, Marcus?”
“I was a lawyer – then a judge – now, I teach at Fordham.”
“A judge? State or Federal?”
“New York State.”
“Appellate Division?”
“I wish.” Marcus chuckled. “I served on the State Supreme Court bench for twenty years. But you ask with such interest. Are you a lawyer, Mr. Caffrey?”
“Neal – please. No, not a lawyer.”
Marcus looked at him sharply, and then grinned. “You’re not a cop – that I can see, so that means you must have another reason for being quite so interested.”
Neal grinned back. “I did, at one time, take a very professional interest in the opinions of the judiciary.”
“He most certainly did.”
Neal instantly recognized the voice behind him.
“Neal Caffrey – I don’t believe it.”
“Clinton, you know this man?” Felicity asked.
Neal stood up – he was sort of helpless at this point. Seeing Clinton, who he had never stopped thinking of as a friend, wrecked him a little.
“Dad, Mom – this is Neal Caffrey - the Neal Caffrey.”
“Oh my goodness – you’re that young man Clinton used to talk about all the time. The con artist - the one who was such a big help in the Bureau.”
Neal blinked, hoping he wouldn’t embarrass himself with tears.
“What are you doing here, Neal?” There was a slightly hostile note in Jones’ voice.
Marcus intervened. “Don’t be rude, son. I think it would be obvious to a man of your deductive talents.”
The sudden comprehension in Clinton’s eyes was painful to see. “You’re sick?”
Neal nodded. “Yeah. Leukemia.” It still hurt to say it.
“Man – I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize – it’s not your fault.”
“Yeah – but ...”
The moment descended into awkwardness.
“You look like shit, man.” He gestured to his head – obviously pointing out Neal’s shock of grey hair under his hat.
“Clinton!” Both of Jones’ parents were outraged.
Neal smiled. “It’s okay – I find it hard to take in, too.” His face turned serious. “How have you been? How is everyone at the office?” How is Peter? Have you all forgotten me?
“I guess you’ve really been out of touch. I took a promotion to D.C. headquarters about two years ago.”
“But he’s coming back to New York.” Clinton’s mother placed a warning hand on her son’s arm.
“I’m working on that, Mom.”
A nurse came out and called for the next patient. “Neal Caffrey?” He was never so grateful to have to go see a doctor.
Neal turned to Clinton’s parents. “Good luck to you.” He looked at his erstwhile colleague. “Good to see you.” Neal summoned a smile. It was good to see him. He didn’t allow himself to think about what Clinton was going to do with this information.
“Yeah, good to see you too, Neal.” His smile was tinged with a small amount of irony, but there was nothing ironic about his handshake.
Sitting in the examination room, his phone buzzed again, reminding him about the unread message. It was a text from Mozzie. “One of the Suits is on his way up. You may want to duck.” Too late.
Perhaps the most difficult moment with the doctor was explaining why his medical records were for Julian Drummond.
“I was traveling under an assumed name.”
The doctor pressed for an explanation.
“I really can’t say. If you know what I mean.” He winked. Never let it be said that Neal Caffrey had lost his social engineering skills.
“Ah...okay. You tell, then you’d have to kill me. Right?” The doctor gave a short, nervous laugh.
Neal gave him the full Caffrey. “Something like that.”
They went over his records, his symptoms, the blood work. Neal had to get another set done – he was beginning to feel like a vampire’s victim. The doctor was frank about his prognosis.
“CLL isn’t curable. But the odds are in your favor for a five-year survival rate. If the chemo works, you could very well live for ten, fifteen years – maybe longer.”
Neal was cold – chilled to the bone. “And if the chemo doesn’t work?”
“We’ll need to explore other options. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
He shook his head. “No, I was an only child.”
The doctor frowned. “Hmmm, then we’d have to go to the database for a match.”
“A match?”
“A bone marrow match – but don’t worry about that now. The cancer you have is generally very responsive to chemotherapy. We won’t cross that bridge until we have to.”
Neal bit his lip – he didn’t like the idea of going in without a backup plan.
The doctor started talking about nutrition and dental care and hair loss.
“I’m going to...?” He brushed a hand through his locks.
“Yes – that is the most common side effect. The goal of the chemo is to kill off fast growing cells, which includes your body hair, your facial hair and the hair on your head. But once your chemo’s done – it will grow back quickly. Probably thicker than ever. I’ve seen patients who started chemo almost completely bald end up re-growing a full head of hair.”
Neal nodded. He really didn’t have much choice.
They talked a bit more, and like Clinton’s father, he was going to have to have a port installed.
The doctor gave him scripts for the blood work and a full body CAT scan, and recommended nutritional counseling.
“Rest and good nutrition are very important, Mr. Caffrey. A glass of red wine every once in a while wouldn’t hurt, either.”
Neal laughed bitterly to himself. That would never be a problem. “Thank you, doctor.”
As promised, Mozzie was waiting for him in the corner coffee shop.
“You got my message?”
“Not until it was too late. But it doesn’t matter.”
“No? I thought you’d be keeping a low profile.”
Neal dropped a small bombshell. “I went to see Peter on Saturday.”
Mozzie gave him the turtle look. “And?”
“And … nothing. There was no one home. Somehow, just letting myself in and waiting seemed, well, a little wrong.”
Mozzie grimaced. “I can’t believe it. You really want to see him, after everything?”
“I had to, Moz.”
“Have your feelings changed?”
Neal shook his head and took an inordinate interest in the advertising on the paper placemat.
“You’re letting yourself in for a world of pain, Neal. Dare I tell you – that’s not something you need in your life right now?”
“I know, Moz. I know.”
“There is no remedy for love but to love more.”
“You’re reduced to quoting Mencken, now?”
“Would you prefer ‘For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation’ ?”
“Rilke? That’s just pretentious.”
“Then what do you want from me? My blessing?”
“No, Moz. Just your friendship.”
“That, mon frère, you’ll always have.”
_______
His father’s procedure took a little more than an hour. But waiting with his mother, it felt like an eternity. At least she had something to focus on other that his possible relocation back to New York and his father’s health.
“I thought you said that Neal Caffrey was a young man.”
“He was – he is. The last time I saw him, he was a good twenty pounds heavier and his hair was dark brown.” Clinton was still shocked by the changes in Neal. “He was as fit as anyone – he could run me into the ground.”
His mother squeezed his hand. “He must be very sick.”
“Yeah.”
They didn’t say anything more. His mom flipped through a magazine and he obsessively kept checking his Blackberry.
A nurse finally came out and told them they could go see his father, who was awake and getting dressed.
“Dad, I’m going to go get the car. Take your time and meet me downstairs, okay?”
Clinton dropped his parents off and drove back into Manhattan, this time heading downtown, to Federal Plaza.
It felt like coming home – like he belonged here. Even the parking attendant recognized him.
His stomach was filled with butterflies going up to the twenty-first floor, and he couldn’t understand why he was so nervous.
The office was a little different. A lot of people he didn’t recognize. He expected that when he heard about Peter’s promotion. And Diana’s.
“Can I help you?” The guard stationed at the door was polite, but did his job. Clinton flashed his badge.
“I’m here to see Agent Burke, is he in?”
Peter must have noticed him, because he called out his name and came bounding down the stairs, “What are you doing here?” Diana was a step behind him.
Clinton found himself wrapped in a manly hug, and his nervousness just evaporated.
Diana hugged him too. “What brings you to this humble backwater? Bored with D.C.?” That had been a joke between them when he accepted the transfer.
“Hmm – can we talk in your office?”
Peter nodded. “Sure. Is everything all right?”
Clinton gestured with his head. Most of the agents were doing their best not to be obvious about their eavesdropping.
Once inside Peter’s office, he flopped down on a chair.
Diana, perched on the edge of Peter’s desk, started the interrogation. “What gives?”
He decided not to dance around the matter. “Do you have a slot opened on your team?”
Peter gave him a puzzled look. “I thought you’d take the DOJ position.”
“You know about that?”
“Of course – they called me as part of the background check.”
“Me, too.” Diana chimed in. “I told them what an ass you are.”
He scrubbed at his face. It had been a long morning. “I’ve been on the fence about that – but I really need to move back to New York - quickly. My father is sick.”
“Clinton – I’m so sorry.”
“It’s cancer – and he asked me to come home. I thought I’d see if you’d take me back before I put in for a transfer to any department in the city that had an opening.” He tried not to look at either Peter or Diana - he didn’t want them to see how desperate he was, then ruined it by saying “I’ll even take surveillance van duty.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary.” Peter handed him a file. He was grinning.
It was an approved staffing requisition for a senior agent to lead a new task force on corruption in the banking industry. “My favorite word has always been serendipity.”
“You can’t have my office, though.” Diana kicked him with the pointed toe of her boot. They always had a terrific working relationship, and it was something he missed.
“Don’t care about that – I’d take a desk in the storage room if it gets me back here.” Clinton grinned, and then felt a little ashamed of his happiness and good fortune, coming on the back of his father’s illness.
“That won’t be necessary – we’ll make arrangements for you.”
That was another thing he missed – Peter’s utter confidence.
Diana took off – she had a staff meeting to run. He chatted with Peter about the relocation and finally decided to tell him. About Neal.
Maybe this was why he was so nervous. He never understood why Caffrey had taken off the way he had, and he knew how badly Peter was hurt, but he never pried.
“I saw Neal today.” There – a simple declarative statement. No embellishments.
Peter’s face lost all of it’s color.
“Where?”
“At the doctor’s office. The oncologist.”
Peter picked up his coffee mug and Clinton could see that his hands were shaking. “He’s sick?”
“Yeah. He looks old, worn out. His hair’s gone gray, he’s lost a lot of weight. If it wasn’t for that hat - the gray one he used to wear, I may not have recognized him.”
“Did he see you?”
“He was chatting with my parents when I came in. We talked for a little bit, before he was called in to see the doctor. He was still the same, though. Charming, disarming – had my mom and dad eating out of his hand.” Clinton smiled at the memory.
“They called him in as ‘Neal Caffrey’?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I’m just surprised.”
Clinton got up – he was anxious to get home and tell his parents that he had a place back in the White Collar division. “I’ve got to go – can we talk tomorrow?”
“Yeah, sure.” Peter was distracted. “I’ll contact the Administrator’s office and start the request for your transfer.”
“Peter – thank you.”
“No – thank you.”
_______
Peter watched Jones leave. It was going to be good having him back. He had been thinking about reaching out and asking if he’d like to come back to New York, but then the DOJ request had come in. Peter had figured that Clinton would take that job like a shot.
But the moment that he was out of view, Clinton Jones was out of Peter’s mind. There was nothing else he could think about now except Neal.
In New York.
Sick.
Cancer.
His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
He pushed away from his desk and stood up. Being still was unbearable.
He paced the length of his office. Back and forth, like some caged beast.
Peter was seized with the need to be someplace, any place else. Any place else where Neal Caffrey wasn’t sick, wasn’t dying. Any place where the reality of Neal Caffrey, cancer victim, was somehow less real than Julian Drummond, professional gambler and world traveler.
No that wasn’t right. He had to find Neal – he had to find him now.
Diana’s staff meeting was breaking up and he caught her before she went back to her office.
“I’m heading out. I’ve got to go.”
“Everything all right?”
“Yes - no. Nothing I can talk about now. I’ll call you later, okay?” Peter knew he should have told Diana that Clinton saw Neal - but he just couldn’t talk about it now.
“Okay - just take it easy.”
“Yeah - yeah.” He was down the stairs and out the door before his words stopped echoing.
Peter pulled out of the parking garage and didn’t really think about where he was going. But the problem with driving in New York City was that it was hard to just drive aimlessly. He didn’t want to head home. El was meeting with a client in Saratoga, and wouldn’t be home until late tonight.
He didn’t want to call her and tell her the news, just as he didn’t want to say anything to Diana. Saying the words would make it all too real.
Neal, cancer.
But he did - he had to. She was as much a part of him as his skin.
When he told her, he heard the stunned catch in her breath - the momentary loss of equilibrium. “Find him, honey. Bring him home. Please.”
Not knowing where to go Peter just drove, and eventually, merged onto a once-familiar route. It had been a long time since he’d taken the West Side Highway north during rush hour.
And then he realized that it had been three years and nine months since he’d done this.
His question to the prison warden and the director of the U.S. Marshals Service came back to haunt him. Why would Neal run with three months left on a four year sentence? . How ironic. Neal comes back into his life three months shy of the fourth anniversary of his disappearance.
The traffic began to annoy him and he pulled off at 52nd Street. He needed someplace quiet to think and headed for the rooftop parking at the cruise ship terminals, flashing his badge at the parking attendant.
Peter pulled into a spot at the far end of the roof. He got out and looked out over the Hudson, at the boats and ships and barges making their way up and down the waterway, as if nothing had changed.
He couldn’t believe that Neal was sick, deathly sick. That wasn’t possible. Neal Caffrey - his Neal - the man who dodged bullets, fearlessly climbed up the sides of buildings and swung through windows on banners of silk couldn’t possibly be dying. The Neal he knew, the Neal he reluctantly admitted that he loved, was immortal, perfect. Peter closed his eyes and called up image after forbidden image. Neal wearing nothing more than a sweaty beater and a pair of tight black pants, Neal in an immaculately tailored tuxedo, Neal in a vintage suit and hat walking down the stairs, grinning at him as if he were a waiting prom date.
Peter thought of all the times that he told himself that there was no attraction there, all the times he repressed those fleeting thoughts of Neal that had nothing to do with work or his crazy stunts or all the times that he had thought Neal had betrayed him, them - their work, their friendship. The bond that had formed so instantaneously. How could he have denied that? He cursed the waste of time, the waste of opportunity, the utter futility of doing just what’s right, instead to taking care of his soul.
The day had turned overcast, and he could see a front moving in from the west. A stiff breeze was creating whitecaps on the river.
Then things started to fall into place. The old man in the hat walking away from the house. What did Jones say? “He looks old, worn out. His hair’s gone gray; he’s lost a lot of weight. If it wasn’t for that hat - the gray one he used to wear, I may not have recognized him.”
The hat.
“He took nothing with him.” June’s comment when he had first discovered Neal had left. “Everything I had given him is still here...
Everything - she had pulled him into that vast closet and shown him that Neal hadn’t even taken a hat.
He knew where Neal was.
He wrestled with the rush hour traffic, urgently needed to get to his destination. Completely ignoring the other drivers on the road, he cut across three lanes and got off at the 79th Street exit. The front moving in had darkened the late afternoon sky and as he pulled up to June’s Riverside Drive mansion, Peter could see that the lights were on in the fourth floor apartment.
He parked, but sat there for a few minutes. Something in him eased. Peter could relax for the first time in years. Neal was home.
Sitting there, watching the silhouettes moving in the brightly lit apartment, Peter was struck by another thought. Neal had come to him, Neal wanted to see him. That had to mean something. Maybe he wouldn’t slam the door shut in his face.
_______
Neal added more cream and another few pats of butter, ignoring Mozzie’s look of disgust.
“That’s just gross.”
“What?”
“What you’re doing to that oatmeal.”
He tasted the mixture and added a little salt. “I like my oatmeal savory.”
“No, what you are enjoying is a conveyance for milk …”
“Cream.”
“Cream, which is even worse, and butter. The oatmeal is almost irrelevant.”
“No – it’s not. It’s good – it makes me happy. And the doctor was emphatic about gaining weight.”
Mozzie hmmm’d – agreeing but still disapproving. “Would you like me to recommend a wine to go with your gruel?”
“I actually think a white Zin would go nicely. But I’d prefer hot chocolate – there’s still a canister of Ghiradelli in the cabinet.”
Moz got up without Neal’s prompting and started making it for him.
Neal enjoyed Mozzie’s grumbling a little too much. “Use the whole milk, please – not the soy that you insist on.”
“So, you don’t care if I get violently ill preparing delights from your childhood gastronomic memories?”
“You’re not drinking the stuff, Moz, and even if you drip it on yourself, you’re not going to get ill.”
Despite his annoyance, Mozzie carefully placed a steaming cup of hot chocolate on the dining table. “Be careful – don’t burn your mouth.”
“Thanks, Moz.”
The cocoa was good. So was the oatmeal. He was surprised that he had this much of an appetite.
The sounds of a pipe organ, high trilling notes, were playing softly from the stereo and Neal tapped the remote, turning up the volume.
In paradisum … deducant te angeli, … in tuo adventu … suscipiant te martyres, …et perducant te in civitatem sanctam … Jerusalem … Jerusalem … Jerusalem.
Neal closed his eyes and smiled. Moz interrupted his rapture.
“Don’t you think it’s a little premature for this particular tune?”
“Hmmm, what?” Neal was still distracted by the sweetness of the choir.
“A requiem mass, my friend? You’re not dead yet, you know.”
“Oh…I hadn’t even realized. I’m looking for something that would catch the essence of the Northern Lights. I think this is the closest I’m going to get.”
Moz tilted his head to the once familiar easel. “I could get you a canvas and a set of paints, if you want. You could paint them.”
He was on the fence about that. One of the other things he had to discard, as Julian Drummond, was art. But unlike the hats – he wasn’t quite ready to take up a brush and pallet yet. The inspiration that struck him in Tromsø was now out of reach. But maybe…
“I don’t think I’m up to oils. Maybe a watercolors?”
“Fine – but only if you turn this music off. It’s making me depressed.”
Neal pressed the pause button – he had forgotten how tetchy Moz got around sacred music.
“Thanks.”
Neal finished his oatmeal and cocoa – and he had to agree that his gustatory pleasures were reverting to childhood. He wouldn’t be surprised if he started craving grilled cheese and tomato soup. He was about to take the plate and cup to the sink when Moz grabbed them out of his hand.
“You don’t have to wait on me hand and foot. I’m just a little worn down – I can do a few dishes without collapsing.”
“Neal – please. Just let me.”
Frankly, he didn’t have the energy to argue.
As Moz finished washing up, there was a knock on the door.
Moz looked at him. “Expecting anyone?”
Neal thought for a moment, and his face turned grim. “Yeah. Peter.”
_______
No matter how much things had changed, they still remained the same. June’s housekeeper still answered the door with a funny look on her face.
Peter took a deep breath. “Is Neal here?”
Marta actually grinned at him. “Mr. Neal and Mr. Mozzie are home. Go right up.”
The three flights felt almost like he was climbing a mountain. The familiar door was shut but at the sound of those very familiar voices, his stomach lurched.
He knocked. And waited. And waited. The voices inside were a bit louder, but the words still indistinct. Just as he was about to knock again, the door opened.
“Well, hello Suit. Trust you to turn up like a bad penny.”
Peter gave him a small tight smile. “You would know all about bad pennies, wouldn’t you?”
And from the depths of the room. “Moz…please.”
“He wants to see you – against advice of counsel.” Moz stepped aside, letting him into the apartment.
Neal was standing by the terrace doors.
“Neal?” Peter said. Moz stood behind him, as if he was about to bodily throw him out of the apartment.
“Moz – go. I’ll call if I need you.”
He heard the door shut, but Peter couldn’t tear his eyes away from Neal. Dressed in a blue cashmere turtleneck sweater and black dress pants, he looked very elegant and very ill. Peter swallowed – his mouth dry. He couldn’t think of anything to say.
“That was quick – I guess Clinton stopped by the office and told you he saw me.”
Peter would have thought that Neal was completely unaffected by this reunion – except that he was toying with something on the table – a spoon, and was having difficulty meeting his eyes.
“Funny how you and his father share a doctor.”
“Hmmm, yeah. Small world.” Neal finally looked up. “Did you call the doctors’ office and threaten them with a warrant to give up my address? Or did you try June’s just on a hunch? Your gut tell you I was here?”
Peter wanted to smile. “Why do you persist on underestimating me? I caught you … how many times?”
Neal shrugged. “I lost track.”
“That many. I figured it out all by myself.”
Neal didn’t reply and Peter still couldn’t figure out what to say.
But he had to say something. “Neal…”
“Peter – if you say I look like crap, I will …”
He didn’t think that at all. “No, Neal - never.”
Neal smiled – but it was sour, twisted. “Yeah, I do.” He stopped playing with the spoon. “So.”
“So.”
“Here we are.”
“Why do I feel like I’m in the middle of a Harold Pinter play?” Neal looked at him and Peter was stunned at the intensity of his gaze. The words he couldn’t find suddenly began to tumble onto his tongue. “Why did you run away? Couldn’t you have waited – waited for me to -- ”
Neal exploded. “To what, Peter? To apologize? To say, ‘Yes Neal – I love you too?’ ” Neal shook his head violently. “No, Peter – that was never going to happen. I screwed up. I thought I saw something in you that clearly wasn’t there.” Neal grabbed a heavy jacket off the back of a chair and went out onto the terrace.
Peter followed, relentless in his sudden fury. “Don’t you run away from me again. Don’t you dare. Do you have any idea what I went through? The years of worrying about you? The years of telling myself to forget? That you tell me you love me and then you disappear like you never were? Were your feeling so shallow? How dare you throw this back at me? How dare you, Neal!”
Neal looked at him like he was some sort of insect, or maybe something that he’d scrape off the bottom of his shoe.
“You’ve got some nerve, Peter.” Neal’s tone was quiet, but deadly serious. “And a very convenient memory. You all but threw me out of your home – I kissed Elizabeth. I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have. But after what you said to me…how could you think I could stay? How could I look you in the eye and call you friend when you certainly didn’t respect me, didn’t think of me as anything more than a dirty criminal, out to steal something I would never be able to have honestly. That you thought – after everything, I was scamming you. That everything I had just said, everything we had worked for was just another lie.” Neal sank down onto one of the loungers and buried his face in his hands.
Peter was lost. Utterly, completely lost. The anger that drove his earlier words was lost in the gaping hole of his memory.
“What – nothing to say, Agent Burke?” Neal shivered in the cool , damp breeze.
“Neal – come inside. It’s about to rain.”
“Why do you care.” The bitterness in Neal’s voice was shocking.
“Because you’re my friend. Because … because, I love you.” It was surprisingly easy to say.
But apparently not to hear. Neal started laughing – a harsh, angry cackle that dissolved into a deep, hacking cough. Peter went to him, to help him up and bring him inside. Neal waved him off violently. “Don’t touch me, you bastard.”
To his relief, Neal went back inside. Still shivering, he left his jacket on and huddled on the couch. Peter picked up a blanket and draped it around him.
“Neal, you probably won’t believe me – but I don’t remember what I said to you. I blocked it out almost before you walked away.”
“You’re right, Peter. I don’t believe you. You have a very nasty habit of accusing me of terrible things without reason. This was just the last straw. I may make all the wrong choices, I may have no impulse control, and I am clearly a fool for love. But I’m not a masochist.”
“I don’t remember, Neal. I don’t remember.” Peter sat down across from him. “You have to believe me, please.” He begged again.
“No, Peter. I don’t.”
“But you wanted to see me. Why - if you’re still so angry.”
Neal stared at him. “Why do you say that?”
“You came to the house on Saturday. I saw you walk away. I didn’t realize it was you, though. I would have come after you if I did.”
“You’re imagining things, Peter.”
“No, I’m not. You were wearing this jacket and the gray hat. That’s how I figured out where you were. Jones said that he recognized you because you were wearing that hat. When you left, June said you took nothing with you. She even showed me that you had left all of the hats behind. The only way …”
“I could have gotten the hat was if I came back here. Very clever, Peter. You’re still the smartest man in the room.”
Peter didn’t like Neal’s sarcastic tone, but he deserved it. “Tell me what I said to you Neal – please.” Peter had the feeling it was going to be bad. He had a vicious tongue when he was off-balance. He’d learn to curb it over the years, but sometimes he lost control. “I can’t make it right if I don’t know what I did.”
Neal didn’t say anything, and Peter thought that this was truly the end. That he’d just have to get up and leave and never be welcomed back.
“I don’t think you can make this right, Peter - but I’d like to see you try.” He grimaced against the bitterness of the memory. “You thought I was playing you. That I was after something - you said… you said … ” Neal swallowed and looked away, like he couldn’t bear to say the words. “You said ‘El is MY wife - you don't get to bootstrap your dreams of a white picket fence onto the back of MY life. I don’t know what angle you’re playing, and you are playing at something - but don’t you EVER think that this is something you can steal from me.’ How - after everything - could you think that I’d be playing you?”
Peter wanted to deny those words, but hearing them flung back at him raised the specter of memory - of his own voice, of El chiding him for being so cruel. And he couldn’t help but hear the shadow of tears, of the agony of a friendship devastated by his own thoughtlessness. Of a heart given and then broken. “I understand now - I do. I would have left, too. That was unforgivable of me.”
Peter got up - he didn’t want Neal to be any unhappier than he already was. “I’ll go. You don’t have to worry - I won’t trouble you anymore.” He didn’t think he could ever be more ashamed of himself than he was right now.
“What are you doing, Peter?”
“Going - you don’t want me here.”
“I don’t?”
“I think you just made your case pretty clearly.” Peter opened the door and turned back to Neal - one last time. “If you need anything - call me, send Mozzie. Just don’t …” He breathed in a small, painful shudder. “Just don’t disappear again, please.”
He closed the door behind him.
_______
Neal was angry, furiously angry - but not at Peter. At himself. He spent nearly four years running and hiding and hating himself … for what? For something spoken in the heat of the moment, then forgotten.
And yet, he didn’t have the strength to hold onto that anger, that self-hatred any longer. Because something stood out from all the drama of the last few moments - Peter said he loved him.
Hearing the door softly shut jarred him out of his epiphany. He opened it and called down to Peter.
“Did you mean it? What you said before.” He had to know.
Peter turned and looked up at him. “That I thought you were playing an angle? No - I was … I don’t know - shocked - jealous - shocked.”
“No - not that before. Now - just before. You said that you loved me.” The words echoed against the walls and Neal hated the neediness in his voice. He hated how desperate he sounded. But he had to know.
Peter came back up the stairs. “Yeah - I did. I do. I think I always have.”
“Oh.” It sort of hurt to breathe - but in a good way. He smiled, and the tightness in his chest eased.
As he let Peter back into the apartment, a thought occurred to him. “You’re not saying that because I’m sick?”
Peter shook his head. “No - never. It took me a few days - that weekend - to work my head around it. Sometimes I’m a little slow on the uptake.”
Neal stood there, facing Peter - his nemesis, his idée fixe and he didn’t quite know what to do.
“Have your feelings changed?”
Neal shook his head. “No - though I wanted them to. There were times I almost wished I never made that bargain with you - that I did the rest of my time and walked out of prison a free man.”
“I’ve had those same feeling too.”
Neal bit his lip. “I’m sorry. Forgive me?” This all seemed a little too easy. But maybe it should be.
“For what?”
“Running away - for not throwing your words back in your face, for being such a self-hating coward.” He wrapped his arms around himself, shaking a little.
“If you’ll forgive me, too.”
Neal nodded, and tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He started to cough and couldn’t stop. He suddenly doubled over, hacking and trying to catch his breath. He felt Peter’s hands on him, steering him to the couch. There was a warm, hard hand rubbing him through the heavy jacket he was still wearing.
He stopped coughing long enough to ask for water, which materialized at his lips almost before he finished asking. It took a couple of sips before he could speak.
“Thank you.” He finished the glass and shrugged off the jacket - the bout of coughing made him too warm.
Peter looked at him gravely. “How sick are you?”
“Very.” He kept it simple.
“Jones said you told his father you have leukemia.” Peter picked up one of his hands - rubbing his thumb against the knuckles. Neal wondered if Peter realized what he was doing.
Neal nodded. “That appointment this morning feels like a year ago.”
“Are you going to die?” Neal hated the grief he already could hear in Peter’s voice.
“We all are - eventually.”
“Stop with the deflecting, Neal.” And there was the exasperation. Better.
“With treatment, my odds are good.”
“How good?”
“You haven’t lost your interrogations skills, Agent Burke.” Peter was still holding his hand, still caressing his fingers. Neal thought that Peter didn’t have to ask him a single question - he’d give him his soul if he just kept that up.
“Neal…” And that exasperation was ratcheted up a notch.
“Better than fifty-fifty for a five-year survival rate.”
“You’re only expected to live for five years?” Neal wanted to lie if just to erase the anguish on Peter’s face. But he couldn’t.
“No - no. Cancer survival is measured in five year increments. I’ve been told that there is a seventy-five percent chance that I’ll survive for at least five years.” Neal sighed. “This was not what I expected from my life.” He pulled his hand from Peter’s grasp and walked to the terrace doors - the rain had started to fall in sheets, and a brisk wind blew it against the glass. Peter followed and stood behind him.
The warm palms against his shoulders startled him, but he didn’t turn around.
“Do you know what my biggest fear was?” Peter whispered to him.
Neal shook his head.
“That you were dead, and I’d never know.” Peter rested a cheek against his head. “That you were gone beyond my reach, beyond any reconciliation - that I’d spend the rest of my life looking for your face in a crowd, but I’d never find you. I’d never see you again, that we’d never be able to make this right.”
Neal wanted to cry. “I looked for you too - you were everywhere and nowhere. I’d see someone - it could have been you, and it wasn’t and I’d stand there, bereft. Sometimes I’d dream up these wonderful, elaborate schemes - maybe steal the Mona Lisa or one of Monet’s Water Lilies, just to set you on the chase. But I couldn't, when you’d catch me … you’d have such a look of disappointment. You wouldn’t even be able to look at me - you’d turn to someone and say ‘Once a thief, always a thief.’ I couldn’t bear that.”
Peter’s hands slid off his shoulders and wrapped around him. Neal reveled in the warmth of another body, of the touch of someone who loved him. And he cursed his failing body - it was going to be a long time before he and Peter … Neal didn’t let himself think that they’d never come together, that they’d never make love.
“I never thought you went back to the life.” Peter rested his cheek on his head. “No, never - not even for a minute.”
“You didn’t?” He twisted his head around, trying to gauge Peter’s honesty. Even in the half-darkened room, it wasn’t difficult to see that Peter was telling the truth.
“You’ll have to ask Diana if you want verification. She was the one who insisted on regular checks of the Interpol databases for any of your signature crimes. The world’s been surprisingly free of major art thefts in the past few years.”
All of the lingering pain and fear and doubt evaporated. Peter’s faith in him was like the sun against the mist on a hot summer morning. “Truthfully, neither Neal Caffrey nor Julian Drummond was ever tempted.”
“Ahh, the cryptic Mr. Drummond.” There was a surprising touch of bitterness in Peter’s voice.
Neal turned in Peter’s arms. “What about him?” It was odd - after nearly four years of being Julian, to talk about him in the third person.
Peter put him at arms length. “You said you were done with running - remember? But you must have had Drummond set up for years.” There was a wealth of hurt in that statement.
Neal thought about letting Peter believe that Julian was a pocket ace he had since before his prison days. But some old habits should be broken. “I did mean that - and I hadn’t intended to run, but I needed a backup plan. If just to keep me from running. Like an ex-smoker keeps a pack of cigarettes for twenty years after he stops.”
“Makes sense - in a very Neal Caffrey sort of way.” Peter brushed a hand through his hair, and Neal wanted to arch into him like a cat.
When Peter did that again, Neal didn’t even try to stifle a moan of pleasure. “It’s been so long.”
Peter just kept up the stroking. “What’s been so long?”
“Since anyone’s touched me in affection.” Neal bit his lip, a little embarrassed at what he revealed.
Peter tilted up his chin, and they met eye to eye. “You mean...”
Neal gave him a small, self-deprecating smile. “Yeah - I didn’t want to settle.” He tucked his head against Peter’s shoulder. He hadn’t felt this warm, this safe, in half a lifetime.
And as good as it was, he needed to separate himself – he needed to know, and maybe even test both their wills.
“What’s the matter?” Peter reached for him, but Neal stepped back, out of reach.
“I’ve changed, Peter. And not for the better.” Neal swallowed, mouth dry, nervous.
“Neal – what do you mean?”
He tilted his chin up, he wanted to defy the moment, defy the truth. “I’m … ugly – and I’m going to get a lot uglier.”
“Neal, don’t be foolish.”
He dodged Peter’s hand and move away from the rain-streaked windows. Neal went into the bedroom and turned on a light. He pulled off the turtleneck and the t-shirt. “Look at me, Peter. And tell me if you like what you see.”
_______
He tried not to wince as the lamplight illuminated the emaciated hollows of Neal’s torso. The body that once rivaled the Greek ideal was only a memory now; his muscles were wasted, his ribs sticking out.
Something must have showed on his face. Neal turned away and flicked off the light, perhaps to hide in the storm-darkened room. Peter stopped him.
“No – you misunderstand.” He held Neal’s forearms, so thin, so frail. “It was never about how you looked – you have to know that.” Neal wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You do know that, right?”
“Peter – come on. Let’s be honest.”
“I am, Neal. What you looked like never was what mattered to me.” Peter smiled gently. “Of course it’s a nice bonus that Neal Caffrey comes wrapped in a pretty package – but what counts has always been you: the quick fire intelligence, the eagerness, the unfailing confidence, the passion. The loyalty. The sheer, ‘damn the torpedoes’ heart of you.”
He placed his hand over that organ, hard palm meeting warm flesh. It beat, strong for now. “Can you understand that this is always what I have loved, will love, will always love?”
Neal hissed, but didn’t pull away. He said something that Peter couldn’t quite make out. “What’s the matter?”
He whispered it again.
“Neal?”
Neal looked at him, all the facades finally stripped away. “Peter - I’m afraid.”
He didn’t have to ask why. “I know, I am too.” He wrapped his arms around Neal, taking care not to bruise that fragile thinness. He felt Neal shake and begin to shudder.
“I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die. Please, Peter - I don’t want to die.” Neal scrabbled at his shoulders, his thin fingers and blunt nails clinging to him painfully. “I am so scared. I don’t want to die.”
Peter ran a soothing hand up and down Neal’s back, feeling every vertebrae and rib. Once upon a time, he’d have backed off and told Neal to cowboy up, because he was too disconcerted by strong emotions. But now there was nothing that could ever keep him from comforting him. He eased him over to the bed and sat them down.
He let Neal cry, he let himself cry. For the wasted past, for the uncertainty of the future. As a counterpoint, a comfort to Neal, to his own anguish, Peter whispered back, “I am not going to let you die, I won’t let that happen.”
The storm moved off and the bright evening sun broke through the dark clouds, illuminating the apartment through the skylights.
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Mozzie, Elizabeth Burke, Diana Berrigan, Sara Ellis
Spoilers/Episode References: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Angst, Hurt/Comfort (pre-slash)
Word Count: ~24,000 (Three Parts). Part I was published on Wednesday, 5/11/11 and Part II was published on Thursday, 5/12/11.
Summary: The anklet comes off, and all of Neal’s plans, all of Peter’s plans, fall apart after an ill-timed confession. The world is sometimes too big and yet not big enough.
This story was written for the wonderfully generous
usakeh, who won a Queensland Relief story. She asked me to write the fic for hoosierbitch, who has been hard at work in grad school.Many, many thanks to my “Flying Buttresses” - my support community:
coffeethyme4me, jrosemary and rabidchild67. Their wisdom, collective and individual, has made this story so much better that it was.Go to Part I | Part II
Clinton Jones came home to New York every six weeks, like clockwork. Saturday dinner with his folks, church and brunch with his grandma, a brief stop to see his little cousins, and then back on a train to Washington. That was the agreement he had reached with his family when he told them he wanted to take the promotion in D.C.
Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter were also mandatory. The Fourth of July got a pass because he lived in Washington and the family came to see him on the nation’s birthday. Or more precisely, they took over his apartment in Alexandria and let him escort them to the big celebration on the Mall.
But something was going on. During this visit, his mother looked at him and bit her lip – as if she was about to cry. His father didn’t look too good - pale was never a good color for an African-American.
Saturday night, instead of watching the ball game, his father handed him a beer and told him they had to talk. That rarely meant anything good.
“Leukemia?” Clinton could barely get the word out.
“Yeah. Found out about four weeks ago.”
“How long have you got?” He put the bottle down on the table, carefully adjusting it on the coaster. His father wasn’t the sentimental type, and wouldn’t appreciate it if his son got all emotional.
“Prognosis is good. About a 75% survival rate over five years. I’ll need chemo though.”
Clinton nodded. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Son?”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“There’s something I’d like to ask you. Ask of you.”
“Anything.” Clinton let out a small laugh. “Whatever you want.”
His father gave him a weak smile. “Don’t make promises like that.”
Clinton grinned back. “What do you want?” This was family, he’d do anything.
His father’s face fell into serious lines. “I’d like you to come home. For good. Come back to New York.”
“Dad…”
“Wait, Clinton – listen to me. I know D.C. was a big opportunity for you – and I’ll understand if you can’t. But the chemo’s going to knock the shit out me. Just knowing you’re nearby will be a big help. I don’t expect you to move back here…” His father gestured – indicating the family home. “But it would, well … be a good thing to have you nearby.” To Clinton’s shock, his father - the strong steady presence in his life - started to cry
Clinton was torn for just a moment. There was an opportunity for him in the Justice Department – but he’d been dithering over it. The thought of becoming a government lawyer had its appeal. But it meant being chained to a desk, which wouldn’t be such a change from what he was doing now, if he were honest with himself. Lately, the memories of the hours spent in the surveillance van were taking on a rosy glow.
“You’re awfully quiet, son.” His father wiped his eyes, probably a little embarrassed at the show of emotion.
“I’ve got a lot to think about.” Not really.
“Any chance your old boss would take you back?”
“That’s what I’m thinking about.” Clinton smiled. The thought of working for Peter again was enticing. “When’s your next appointment?”
“Monday morning, at Sloane Kettering. They are going to put in the port.”
“Port?”
His father patted the right side of his chest. “It’s where the chemo is delivered. Takes about an hour to put in.”
“I’ll be there with you.” He didn’t think about the caseload on his desk, or the grand jury testimony he needed to prepare for. Nothing was more important than this.
Neal settled back into the fourth floor apartment with remarkable and almost frightening ease. Thomas Wolfe was wrong, apparently. You can go home again.
Even Byron’s collection of suits was still hanging in the closet, and June had left him a note saying, among other things, that they were still his, if he wanted them.
They’d all be too big on him now. The hats, though…
As Julian Drummond, he never let himself wear a hat. It had been important to cleanly and clearly distinguish that person from Neal. Julian had been an unremarkable nonentity – the opposite of Neal Caffrey and any of his other peacock personas. But he’d missed those hats in a way he didn’t allow himself to miss anything, anyone, else.
He pulled down a hat box and found the gray straw trilby. Perfect for a late afternoon in early May.
He shrugged into a jacket that was too big and probably too heavy for the weather, dropped the hat on his head and went for a walk.
Without conscious effort, his feet took him to the subway station - he was on the Downtown platform before he realized it. The train was filled with late Saturday afternoon revelers heading for the bars and clubs. It was funny, but Neal actually thought he recognized a few of the faces. Not likely, but they were the familiar, comfortable New Yorkers, disdainful, isolated, uncaring about the passenger sitting next to him – but still strangely compassionate. Neal watched as a middle-aged construction worker tossed his beer away and helped a tiny old woman who was struggling to get her grocery cart out of the subway car.
Neal fought against sleep as the subway’s once-again familiar rhythms soothed him. Despite the odd moments of beneficent connection between the strong and the weak, this was still New York and sleeping on the subway was a sure way to get hurt.
He changed trains at Penn Station, another familiar routine, for the subway to Brooklyn. He tried not to think about where he was going, or what he was going to say when he got there. Was he really ready for this confrontation?
It turned out that there was nothing to say. He rang the doorbell, heard Satchmo bark but no one answered the door. Neal waited another minute, but no one came. Intensely relieved and immensely disappointed, he turned around and went back to the subway. He was home and shivering under a blanket on the couch within the hour.
Peter was out in the back yard, finishing off the post-winter clean up. It was something he should have done a few weeks ago, but it had rained almost every free weekend he had. He heard Satch barking. He was wrapped up in pulling down the creeper vines that had taken over the back fence last year and it took a minute or two to get free.
By the time he got to the front door, Satchmo had settled down again, gnawing at a rawhide bone - so whatever had disturbed him was gone. It could have been the mailman, though. He opened the inside door, expecting to see a pile of mail on the floor of the vestibule, but there was nothing there.
His gut told him something was going on - something wasn’t right. Peter opened the front door and looked up and down the street. There was no one outside his house. In fact, the only person he saw was an old man in hat and a too-heavy, too-big coat slowly walking up the block. There was something familiar about the man’s gait, something nudged at the back of his brain. He almost had it…
“Hon - who was at the door?” El poked her head out of their bathroom, her hair wrapped in a towel. “I was just getting out of the shower when I heard the bell ring.”
“Don’t think it was anyone important. They didn’t hang around.”
Peter looked up the block again, but the old man was gone - probably into the subway.
He closed the door and went back to the yard work.
“You don’t have to come with me.”
Moz watched Neal fuss a little with his appearance.
“It would be my pleasure to drive you to the doctor.” It would. There was always something exciting about driving through Manhattan during a weekday.
“Moz...” Neal turned around to face his him. “When you were in the hospital, you went through bottles of antibacterial gel.”
“More than twenty percent of all surgical patients get post-operative, hospital-caused infection. I was just taking appropriate precautions.”
Neal laughed. “You bathed in the stuff, Moz.”
“Neal – this is important. You shouldn’t be alone.”
Moz tried not to flinch when Neal dropped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re germaphobic.”
He adopted an exaggerated version of an upper-class matron. “I can overcome my fears for the sake of friendship. And cancer’s not contagious.”
Neal’s gratitude was almost unbearable. “Thank you, Moz.”
He wiped his glasses. “The Jag or the Bentley?”
“How about a car service? Easier than trying to park in midtown.”
Moz swallowed his disappointment. Neal was right.
The outpatient facility where Neal had his appointment was pleasant, the waiting room comfortable, if a little crowded. But he got the fidgets about three minutes after they arrived.
“Mozzie.”
He was scratching his neck, certain that he was getting a bad case of hives. Or something worse.
“Moz.”
Now his legs were tingling. And his scar was beginning to ache.
“Moz!”
He finally turned to Neal, balling his hands into fists to keep from rubbing, picking or scratching at any of the imaginary ailments.
“What?” His right eyelid was twitching. Maybe he was having a stroke.
“Go, Moz. Please. You’re making both of us crazy.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry, man. I really am.”
Neal brushed his fingers against the back of his hand, gently caressing the rings. “It’s all right. I understand.”
“I’ll meet you outside, okay?”
“There’s a coffee shop on the corner – how about there?”
“Neal… You sure it’s okay?”
“Moz, really – I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t stop twitching until he got out of the elevator and spotted a very familiar face going into the other car. Then a completely different sort of twitching started.
Neal finally relaxed when Moz left. He had known that his friend wouldn’t be able to go the distance, and he couldn’t hold that against him. It was the same as when he was in prison. Everyone had his limitations.
The waiting room door opened and an African-American couple came in. The man, tall and well past middle-aged, sat down next to him while the woman went to the receptionist’s window. Neal smiled at him, recognizing a fellow cancer patient.
“How are you doing?” The man had a deep, pleasant voice.
Neal shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”
“First visit?”
“Yeah – yours?”
“No – here for a small procedure, before the chemo starts.”
“Procedure?”
“Yeah – a port.” He gestured at his chest, below his collar bone. “For the chemo.”
“Oh.” Neal had read about those.
They were quiet for a few moments. “How long have you known?”
Neal didn’t mind the man’s questions. There was always comfort to be taken from fellow travelers. “About four weeks. I was in Europe when I got sick. You?”
“Just about the same. Went in for a routine physical, had some blood work and next thing I knew...”
“Marcus – you’re not bothering this young man are you?”
Neal turned to see a woman smiling down at them. The man, Marcus apparently, grinned back. This was probably an old routine. “Felicity – my wife, this is...?”
He stood up. Ingrained manners were too hard to break. “Neal, Neal Caffrey. And surely, Felicity is your daughter, not your wife?” A little harmless flirtation.
The three of them laughed, and as Felicity sat down on the other side of her husband, Neal’s phone buzzed with an incoming text. He ignored it.
They chatted for a bit, and Felicity made a comment about her missing son. “He was getting a parking space – but I think he must have had to go back to D.C. to find one.”
“D.C.?”
“Our son works for the F.B.I. in their headquarters. He said that following in the old man’s footsteps was too boring.”
F.B.I.? Neal swallowed. “What do you do, Marcus?”
“I was a lawyer – then a judge – now, I teach at Fordham.”
“A judge? State or Federal?”
“New York State.”
“Appellate Division?”
“I wish.” Marcus chuckled. “I served on the State Supreme Court bench for twenty years. But you ask with such interest. Are you a lawyer, Mr. Caffrey?”
“Neal – please. No, not a lawyer.”
Marcus looked at him sharply, and then grinned. “You’re not a cop – that I can see, so that means you must have another reason for being quite so interested.”
Neal grinned back. “I did, at one time, take a very professional interest in the opinions of the judiciary.”
“He most certainly did.”
Neal instantly recognized the voice behind him.
“Neal Caffrey – I don’t believe it.”
“Clinton, you know this man?” Felicity asked.
Neal stood up – he was sort of helpless at this point. Seeing Clinton, who he had never stopped thinking of as a friend, wrecked him a little.
“Dad, Mom – this is Neal Caffrey - the Neal Caffrey.”
“Oh my goodness – you’re that young man Clinton used to talk about all the time. The con artist - the one who was such a big help in the Bureau.”
Neal blinked, hoping he wouldn’t embarrass himself with tears.
“What are you doing here, Neal?” There was a slightly hostile note in Jones’ voice.
Marcus intervened. “Don’t be rude, son. I think it would be obvious to a man of your deductive talents.”
The sudden comprehension in Clinton’s eyes was painful to see. “You’re sick?”
Neal nodded. “Yeah. Leukemia.” It still hurt to say it.
“Man – I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize – it’s not your fault.”
“Yeah – but ...”
The moment descended into awkwardness.
“You look like shit, man.” He gestured to his head – obviously pointing out Neal’s shock of grey hair under his hat.
“Clinton!” Both of Jones’ parents were outraged.
Neal smiled. “It’s okay – I find it hard to take in, too.” His face turned serious. “How have you been? How is everyone at the office?” How is Peter? Have you all forgotten me?
“I guess you’ve really been out of touch. I took a promotion to D.C. headquarters about two years ago.”
“But he’s coming back to New York.” Clinton’s mother placed a warning hand on her son’s arm.
“I’m working on that, Mom.”
A nurse came out and called for the next patient. “Neal Caffrey?” He was never so grateful to have to go see a doctor.
Neal turned to Clinton’s parents. “Good luck to you.” He looked at his erstwhile colleague. “Good to see you.” Neal summoned a smile. It was good to see him. He didn’t allow himself to think about what Clinton was going to do with this information.
“Yeah, good to see you too, Neal.” His smile was tinged with a small amount of irony, but there was nothing ironic about his handshake.
Sitting in the examination room, his phone buzzed again, reminding him about the unread message. It was a text from Mozzie. “One of the Suits is on his way up. You may want to duck.” Too late.
Perhaps the most difficult moment with the doctor was explaining why his medical records were for Julian Drummond.
“I was traveling under an assumed name.”
The doctor pressed for an explanation.
“I really can’t say. If you know what I mean.” He winked. Never let it be said that Neal Caffrey had lost his social engineering skills.
“Ah...okay. You tell, then you’d have to kill me. Right?” The doctor gave a short, nervous laugh.
Neal gave him the full Caffrey. “Something like that.”
They went over his records, his symptoms, the blood work. Neal had to get another set done – he was beginning to feel like a vampire’s victim. The doctor was frank about his prognosis.
“CLL isn’t curable. But the odds are in your favor for a five-year survival rate. If the chemo works, you could very well live for ten, fifteen years – maybe longer.”
Neal was cold – chilled to the bone. “And if the chemo doesn’t work?”
“We’ll need to explore other options. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
He shook his head. “No, I was an only child.”
The doctor frowned. “Hmmm, then we’d have to go to the database for a match.”
“A match?”
“A bone marrow match – but don’t worry about that now. The cancer you have is generally very responsive to chemotherapy. We won’t cross that bridge until we have to.”
Neal bit his lip – he didn’t like the idea of going in without a backup plan.
The doctor started talking about nutrition and dental care and hair loss.
“I’m going to...?” He brushed a hand through his locks.
“Yes – that is the most common side effect. The goal of the chemo is to kill off fast growing cells, which includes your body hair, your facial hair and the hair on your head. But once your chemo’s done – it will grow back quickly. Probably thicker than ever. I’ve seen patients who started chemo almost completely bald end up re-growing a full head of hair.”
Neal nodded. He really didn’t have much choice.
They talked a bit more, and like Clinton’s father, he was going to have to have a port installed.
The doctor gave him scripts for the blood work and a full body CAT scan, and recommended nutritional counseling.
“Rest and good nutrition are very important, Mr. Caffrey. A glass of red wine every once in a while wouldn’t hurt, either.”
Neal laughed bitterly to himself. That would never be a problem. “Thank you, doctor.”
As promised, Mozzie was waiting for him in the corner coffee shop.
“You got my message?”
“Not until it was too late. But it doesn’t matter.”
“No? I thought you’d be keeping a low profile.”
Neal dropped a small bombshell. “I went to see Peter on Saturday.”
Mozzie gave him the turtle look. “And?”
“And … nothing. There was no one home. Somehow, just letting myself in and waiting seemed, well, a little wrong.”
Mozzie grimaced. “I can’t believe it. You really want to see him, after everything?”
“I had to, Moz.”
“Have your feelings changed?”
Neal shook his head and took an inordinate interest in the advertising on the paper placemat.
“You’re letting yourself in for a world of pain, Neal. Dare I tell you – that’s not something you need in your life right now?”
“I know, Moz. I know.”
“There is no remedy for love but to love more.”
“You’re reduced to quoting Mencken, now?”
“Would you prefer ‘For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation’ ?”
“Rilke? That’s just pretentious.”
“Then what do you want from me? My blessing?”
“No, Moz. Just your friendship.”
“That, mon frère, you’ll always have.”
His father’s procedure took a little more than an hour. But waiting with his mother, it felt like an eternity. At least she had something to focus on other that his possible relocation back to New York and his father’s health.
“I thought you said that Neal Caffrey was a young man.”
“He was – he is. The last time I saw him, he was a good twenty pounds heavier and his hair was dark brown.” Clinton was still shocked by the changes in Neal. “He was as fit as anyone – he could run me into the ground.”
His mother squeezed his hand. “He must be very sick.”
“Yeah.”
They didn’t say anything more. His mom flipped through a magazine and he obsessively kept checking his Blackberry.
A nurse finally came out and told them they could go see his father, who was awake and getting dressed.
“Dad, I’m going to go get the car. Take your time and meet me downstairs, okay?”
Clinton dropped his parents off and drove back into Manhattan, this time heading downtown, to Federal Plaza.
It felt like coming home – like he belonged here. Even the parking attendant recognized him.
His stomach was filled with butterflies going up to the twenty-first floor, and he couldn’t understand why he was so nervous.
The office was a little different. A lot of people he didn’t recognize. He expected that when he heard about Peter’s promotion. And Diana’s.
“Can I help you?” The guard stationed at the door was polite, but did his job. Clinton flashed his badge.
“I’m here to see Agent Burke, is he in?”
Peter must have noticed him, because he called out his name and came bounding down the stairs, “What are you doing here?” Diana was a step behind him.
Clinton found himself wrapped in a manly hug, and his nervousness just evaporated.
Diana hugged him too. “What brings you to this humble backwater? Bored with D.C.?” That had been a joke between them when he accepted the transfer.
“Hmm – can we talk in your office?”
Peter nodded. “Sure. Is everything all right?”
Clinton gestured with his head. Most of the agents were doing their best not to be obvious about their eavesdropping.
Once inside Peter’s office, he flopped down on a chair.
Diana, perched on the edge of Peter’s desk, started the interrogation. “What gives?”
He decided not to dance around the matter. “Do you have a slot opened on your team?”
Peter gave him a puzzled look. “I thought you’d take the DOJ position.”
“You know about that?”
“Of course – they called me as part of the background check.”
“Me, too.” Diana chimed in. “I told them what an ass you are.”
He scrubbed at his face. It had been a long morning. “I’ve been on the fence about that – but I really need to move back to New York - quickly. My father is sick.”
“Clinton – I’m so sorry.”
“It’s cancer – and he asked me to come home. I thought I’d see if you’d take me back before I put in for a transfer to any department in the city that had an opening.” He tried not to look at either Peter or Diana - he didn’t want them to see how desperate he was, then ruined it by saying “I’ll even take surveillance van duty.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary.” Peter handed him a file. He was grinning.
It was an approved staffing requisition for a senior agent to lead a new task force on corruption in the banking industry. “My favorite word has always been serendipity.”
“You can’t have my office, though.” Diana kicked him with the pointed toe of her boot. They always had a terrific working relationship, and it was something he missed.
“Don’t care about that – I’d take a desk in the storage room if it gets me back here.” Clinton grinned, and then felt a little ashamed of his happiness and good fortune, coming on the back of his father’s illness.
“That won’t be necessary – we’ll make arrangements for you.”
That was another thing he missed – Peter’s utter confidence.
Diana took off – she had a staff meeting to run. He chatted with Peter about the relocation and finally decided to tell him. About Neal.
Maybe this was why he was so nervous. He never understood why Caffrey had taken off the way he had, and he knew how badly Peter was hurt, but he never pried.
“I saw Neal today.” There – a simple declarative statement. No embellishments.
Peter’s face lost all of it’s color.
“Where?”
“At the doctor’s office. The oncologist.”
Peter picked up his coffee mug and Clinton could see that his hands were shaking. “He’s sick?”
“Yeah. He looks old, worn out. His hair’s gone gray, he’s lost a lot of weight. If it wasn’t for that hat - the gray one he used to wear, I may not have recognized him.”
“Did he see you?”
“He was chatting with my parents when I came in. We talked for a little bit, before he was called in to see the doctor. He was still the same, though. Charming, disarming – had my mom and dad eating out of his hand.” Clinton smiled at the memory.
“They called him in as ‘Neal Caffrey’?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I’m just surprised.”
Clinton got up – he was anxious to get home and tell his parents that he had a place back in the White Collar division. “I’ve got to go – can we talk tomorrow?”
“Yeah, sure.” Peter was distracted. “I’ll contact the Administrator’s office and start the request for your transfer.”
“Peter – thank you.”
“No – thank you.”
Peter watched Jones leave. It was going to be good having him back. He had been thinking about reaching out and asking if he’d like to come back to New York, but then the DOJ request had come in. Peter had figured that Clinton would take that job like a shot.
But the moment that he was out of view, Clinton Jones was out of Peter’s mind. There was nothing else he could think about now except Neal.
In New York.
Sick.
Cancer.
His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
He pushed away from his desk and stood up. Being still was unbearable.
He paced the length of his office. Back and forth, like some caged beast.
Peter was seized with the need to be someplace, any place else. Any place else where Neal Caffrey wasn’t sick, wasn’t dying. Any place where the reality of Neal Caffrey, cancer victim, was somehow less real than Julian Drummond, professional gambler and world traveler.
No that wasn’t right. He had to find Neal – he had to find him now.
Diana’s staff meeting was breaking up and he caught her before she went back to her office.
“I’m heading out. I’ve got to go.”
“Everything all right?”
“Yes - no. Nothing I can talk about now. I’ll call you later, okay?” Peter knew he should have told Diana that Clinton saw Neal - but he just couldn’t talk about it now.
“Okay - just take it easy.”
“Yeah - yeah.” He was down the stairs and out the door before his words stopped echoing.
Peter pulled out of the parking garage and didn’t really think about where he was going. But the problem with driving in New York City was that it was hard to just drive aimlessly. He didn’t want to head home. El was meeting with a client in Saratoga, and wouldn’t be home until late tonight.
He didn’t want to call her and tell her the news, just as he didn’t want to say anything to Diana. Saying the words would make it all too real.
Neal, cancer.
But he did - he had to. She was as much a part of him as his skin.
When he told her, he heard the stunned catch in her breath - the momentary loss of equilibrium. “Find him, honey. Bring him home. Please.”
Not knowing where to go Peter just drove, and eventually, merged onto a once-familiar route. It had been a long time since he’d taken the West Side Highway north during rush hour.
And then he realized that it had been three years and nine months since he’d done this.
His question to the prison warden and the director of the U.S. Marshals Service came back to haunt him. Why would Neal run with three months left on a four year sentence? . How ironic. Neal comes back into his life three months shy of the fourth anniversary of his disappearance.
The traffic began to annoy him and he pulled off at 52nd Street. He needed someplace quiet to think and headed for the rooftop parking at the cruise ship terminals, flashing his badge at the parking attendant.
Peter pulled into a spot at the far end of the roof. He got out and looked out over the Hudson, at the boats and ships and barges making their way up and down the waterway, as if nothing had changed.
He couldn’t believe that Neal was sick, deathly sick. That wasn’t possible. Neal Caffrey - his Neal - the man who dodged bullets, fearlessly climbed up the sides of buildings and swung through windows on banners of silk couldn’t possibly be dying. The Neal he knew, the Neal he reluctantly admitted that he loved, was immortal, perfect. Peter closed his eyes and called up image after forbidden image. Neal wearing nothing more than a sweaty beater and a pair of tight black pants, Neal in an immaculately tailored tuxedo, Neal in a vintage suit and hat walking down the stairs, grinning at him as if he were a waiting prom date.
Peter thought of all the times that he told himself that there was no attraction there, all the times he repressed those fleeting thoughts of Neal that had nothing to do with work or his crazy stunts or all the times that he had thought Neal had betrayed him, them - their work, their friendship. The bond that had formed so instantaneously. How could he have denied that? He cursed the waste of time, the waste of opportunity, the utter futility of doing just what’s right, instead to taking care of his soul.
The day had turned overcast, and he could see a front moving in from the west. A stiff breeze was creating whitecaps on the river.
Then things started to fall into place. The old man in the hat walking away from the house. What did Jones say? “He looks old, worn out. His hair’s gone gray; he’s lost a lot of weight. If it wasn’t for that hat - the gray one he used to wear, I may not have recognized him.”
The hat.
“He took nothing with him.” June’s comment when he had first discovered Neal had left. “Everything I had given him is still here...
Everything - she had pulled him into that vast closet and shown him that Neal hadn’t even taken a hat.
He knew where Neal was.
He wrestled with the rush hour traffic, urgently needed to get to his destination. Completely ignoring the other drivers on the road, he cut across three lanes and got off at the 79th Street exit. The front moving in had darkened the late afternoon sky and as he pulled up to June’s Riverside Drive mansion, Peter could see that the lights were on in the fourth floor apartment.
He parked, but sat there for a few minutes. Something in him eased. Peter could relax for the first time in years. Neal was home.
Sitting there, watching the silhouettes moving in the brightly lit apartment, Peter was struck by another thought. Neal had come to him, Neal wanted to see him. That had to mean something. Maybe he wouldn’t slam the door shut in his face.
Neal added more cream and another few pats of butter, ignoring Mozzie’s look of disgust.
“That’s just gross.”
“What?”
“What you’re doing to that oatmeal.”
He tasted the mixture and added a little salt. “I like my oatmeal savory.”
“No, what you are enjoying is a conveyance for milk …”
“Cream.”
“Cream, which is even worse, and butter. The oatmeal is almost irrelevant.”
“No – it’s not. It’s good – it makes me happy. And the doctor was emphatic about gaining weight.”
Mozzie hmmm’d – agreeing but still disapproving. “Would you like me to recommend a wine to go with your gruel?”
“I actually think a white Zin would go nicely. But I’d prefer hot chocolate – there’s still a canister of Ghiradelli in the cabinet.”
Moz got up without Neal’s prompting and started making it for him.
Neal enjoyed Mozzie’s grumbling a little too much. “Use the whole milk, please – not the soy that you insist on.”
“So, you don’t care if I get violently ill preparing delights from your childhood gastronomic memories?”
“You’re not drinking the stuff, Moz, and even if you drip it on yourself, you’re not going to get ill.”
Despite his annoyance, Mozzie carefully placed a steaming cup of hot chocolate on the dining table. “Be careful – don’t burn your mouth.”
“Thanks, Moz.”
The cocoa was good. So was the oatmeal. He was surprised that he had this much of an appetite.
The sounds of a pipe organ, high trilling notes, were playing softly from the stereo and Neal tapped the remote, turning up the volume.
In paradisum … deducant te angeli, … in tuo adventu … suscipiant te martyres, …et perducant te in civitatem sanctam … Jerusalem … Jerusalem … Jerusalem.
Neal closed his eyes and smiled. Moz interrupted his rapture.
“Don’t you think it’s a little premature for this particular tune?”
“Hmmm, what?” Neal was still distracted by the sweetness of the choir.
“A requiem mass, my friend? You’re not dead yet, you know.”
“Oh…I hadn’t even realized. I’m looking for something that would catch the essence of the Northern Lights. I think this is the closest I’m going to get.”
Moz tilted his head to the once familiar easel. “I could get you a canvas and a set of paints, if you want. You could paint them.”
He was on the fence about that. One of the other things he had to discard, as Julian Drummond, was art. But unlike the hats – he wasn’t quite ready to take up a brush and pallet yet. The inspiration that struck him in Tromsø was now out of reach. But maybe…
“I don’t think I’m up to oils. Maybe a watercolors?”
“Fine – but only if you turn this music off. It’s making me depressed.”
Neal pressed the pause button – he had forgotten how tetchy Moz got around sacred music.
“Thanks.”
Neal finished his oatmeal and cocoa – and he had to agree that his gustatory pleasures were reverting to childhood. He wouldn’t be surprised if he started craving grilled cheese and tomato soup. He was about to take the plate and cup to the sink when Moz grabbed them out of his hand.
“You don’t have to wait on me hand and foot. I’m just a little worn down – I can do a few dishes without collapsing.”
“Neal – please. Just let me.”
Frankly, he didn’t have the energy to argue.
As Moz finished washing up, there was a knock on the door.
Moz looked at him. “Expecting anyone?”
Neal thought for a moment, and his face turned grim. “Yeah. Peter.”
No matter how much things had changed, they still remained the same. June’s housekeeper still answered the door with a funny look on her face.
Peter took a deep breath. “Is Neal here?”
Marta actually grinned at him. “Mr. Neal and Mr. Mozzie are home. Go right up.”
The three flights felt almost like he was climbing a mountain. The familiar door was shut but at the sound of those very familiar voices, his stomach lurched.
He knocked. And waited. And waited. The voices inside were a bit louder, but the words still indistinct. Just as he was about to knock again, the door opened.
“Well, hello Suit. Trust you to turn up like a bad penny.”
Peter gave him a small tight smile. “You would know all about bad pennies, wouldn’t you?”
And from the depths of the room. “Moz…please.”
“He wants to see you – against advice of counsel.” Moz stepped aside, letting him into the apartment.
Neal was standing by the terrace doors.
“Neal?” Peter said. Moz stood behind him, as if he was about to bodily throw him out of the apartment.
“Moz – go. I’ll call if I need you.”
He heard the door shut, but Peter couldn’t tear his eyes away from Neal. Dressed in a blue cashmere turtleneck sweater and black dress pants, he looked very elegant and very ill. Peter swallowed – his mouth dry. He couldn’t think of anything to say.
“That was quick – I guess Clinton stopped by the office and told you he saw me.”
Peter would have thought that Neal was completely unaffected by this reunion – except that he was toying with something on the table – a spoon, and was having difficulty meeting his eyes.
“Funny how you and his father share a doctor.”
“Hmmm, yeah. Small world.” Neal finally looked up. “Did you call the doctors’ office and threaten them with a warrant to give up my address? Or did you try June’s just on a hunch? Your gut tell you I was here?”
Peter wanted to smile. “Why do you persist on underestimating me? I caught you … how many times?”
Neal shrugged. “I lost track.”
“That many. I figured it out all by myself.”
Neal didn’t reply and Peter still couldn’t figure out what to say.
But he had to say something. “Neal…”
“Peter – if you say I look like crap, I will …”
He didn’t think that at all. “No, Neal - never.”
Neal smiled – but it was sour, twisted. “Yeah, I do.” He stopped playing with the spoon. “So.”
“So.”
“Here we are.”
“Why do I feel like I’m in the middle of a Harold Pinter play?” Neal looked at him and Peter was stunned at the intensity of his gaze. The words he couldn’t find suddenly began to tumble onto his tongue. “Why did you run away? Couldn’t you have waited – waited for me to -- ”
Neal exploded. “To what, Peter? To apologize? To say, ‘Yes Neal – I love you too?’ ” Neal shook his head violently. “No, Peter – that was never going to happen. I screwed up. I thought I saw something in you that clearly wasn’t there.” Neal grabbed a heavy jacket off the back of a chair and went out onto the terrace.
Peter followed, relentless in his sudden fury. “Don’t you run away from me again. Don’t you dare. Do you have any idea what I went through? The years of worrying about you? The years of telling myself to forget? That you tell me you love me and then you disappear like you never were? Were your feeling so shallow? How dare you throw this back at me? How dare you, Neal!”
Neal looked at him like he was some sort of insect, or maybe something that he’d scrape off the bottom of his shoe.
“You’ve got some nerve, Peter.” Neal’s tone was quiet, but deadly serious. “And a very convenient memory. You all but threw me out of your home – I kissed Elizabeth. I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have. But after what you said to me…how could you think I could stay? How could I look you in the eye and call you friend when you certainly didn’t respect me, didn’t think of me as anything more than a dirty criminal, out to steal something I would never be able to have honestly. That you thought – after everything, I was scamming you. That everything I had just said, everything we had worked for was just another lie.” Neal sank down onto one of the loungers and buried his face in his hands.
Peter was lost. Utterly, completely lost. The anger that drove his earlier words was lost in the gaping hole of his memory.
“What – nothing to say, Agent Burke?” Neal shivered in the cool , damp breeze.
“Neal – come inside. It’s about to rain.”
“Why do you care.” The bitterness in Neal’s voice was shocking.
“Because you’re my friend. Because … because, I love you.” It was surprisingly easy to say.
But apparently not to hear. Neal started laughing – a harsh, angry cackle that dissolved into a deep, hacking cough. Peter went to him, to help him up and bring him inside. Neal waved him off violently. “Don’t touch me, you bastard.”
To his relief, Neal went back inside. Still shivering, he left his jacket on and huddled on the couch. Peter picked up a blanket and draped it around him.
“Neal, you probably won’t believe me – but I don’t remember what I said to you. I blocked it out almost before you walked away.”
“You’re right, Peter. I don’t believe you. You have a very nasty habit of accusing me of terrible things without reason. This was just the last straw. I may make all the wrong choices, I may have no impulse control, and I am clearly a fool for love. But I’m not a masochist.”
“I don’t remember, Neal. I don’t remember.” Peter sat down across from him. “You have to believe me, please.” He begged again.
“No, Peter. I don’t.”
“But you wanted to see me. Why - if you’re still so angry.”
Neal stared at him. “Why do you say that?”
“You came to the house on Saturday. I saw you walk away. I didn’t realize it was you, though. I would have come after you if I did.”
“You’re imagining things, Peter.”
“No, I’m not. You were wearing this jacket and the gray hat. That’s how I figured out where you were. Jones said that he recognized you because you were wearing that hat. When you left, June said you took nothing with you. She even showed me that you had left all of the hats behind. The only way …”
“I could have gotten the hat was if I came back here. Very clever, Peter. You’re still the smartest man in the room.”
Peter didn’t like Neal’s sarcastic tone, but he deserved it. “Tell me what I said to you Neal – please.” Peter had the feeling it was going to be bad. He had a vicious tongue when he was off-balance. He’d learn to curb it over the years, but sometimes he lost control. “I can’t make it right if I don’t know what I did.”
Neal didn’t say anything, and Peter thought that this was truly the end. That he’d just have to get up and leave and never be welcomed back.
“I don’t think you can make this right, Peter - but I’d like to see you try.” He grimaced against the bitterness of the memory. “You thought I was playing you. That I was after something - you said… you said … ” Neal swallowed and looked away, like he couldn’t bear to say the words. “You said ‘El is MY wife - you don't get to bootstrap your dreams of a white picket fence onto the back of MY life. I don’t know what angle you’re playing, and you are playing at something - but don’t you EVER think that this is something you can steal from me.’ How - after everything - could you think that I’d be playing you?”
Peter wanted to deny those words, but hearing them flung back at him raised the specter of memory - of his own voice, of El chiding him for being so cruel. And he couldn’t help but hear the shadow of tears, of the agony of a friendship devastated by his own thoughtlessness. Of a heart given and then broken. “I understand now - I do. I would have left, too. That was unforgivable of me.”
Peter got up - he didn’t want Neal to be any unhappier than he already was. “I’ll go. You don’t have to worry - I won’t trouble you anymore.” He didn’t think he could ever be more ashamed of himself than he was right now.
“What are you doing, Peter?”
“Going - you don’t want me here.”
“I don’t?”
“I think you just made your case pretty clearly.” Peter opened the door and turned back to Neal - one last time. “If you need anything - call me, send Mozzie. Just don’t …” He breathed in a small, painful shudder. “Just don’t disappear again, please.”
He closed the door behind him.
Neal was angry, furiously angry - but not at Peter. At himself. He spent nearly four years running and hiding and hating himself … for what? For something spoken in the heat of the moment, then forgotten.
And yet, he didn’t have the strength to hold onto that anger, that self-hatred any longer. Because something stood out from all the drama of the last few moments - Peter said he loved him.
Hearing the door softly shut jarred him out of his epiphany. He opened it and called down to Peter.
“Did you mean it? What you said before.” He had to know.
Peter turned and looked up at him. “That I thought you were playing an angle? No - I was … I don’t know - shocked - jealous - shocked.”
“No - not that before. Now - just before. You said that you loved me.” The words echoed against the walls and Neal hated the neediness in his voice. He hated how desperate he sounded. But he had to know.
Peter came back up the stairs. “Yeah - I did. I do. I think I always have.”
“Oh.” It sort of hurt to breathe - but in a good way. He smiled, and the tightness in his chest eased.
As he let Peter back into the apartment, a thought occurred to him. “You’re not saying that because I’m sick?”
Peter shook his head. “No - never. It took me a few days - that weekend - to work my head around it. Sometimes I’m a little slow on the uptake.”
Neal stood there, facing Peter - his nemesis, his idée fixe and he didn’t quite know what to do.
“Have your feelings changed?”
Neal shook his head. “No - though I wanted them to. There were times I almost wished I never made that bargain with you - that I did the rest of my time and walked out of prison a free man.”
“I’ve had those same feeling too.”
Neal bit his lip. “I’m sorry. Forgive me?” This all seemed a little too easy. But maybe it should be.
“For what?”
“Running away - for not throwing your words back in your face, for being such a self-hating coward.” He wrapped his arms around himself, shaking a little.
“If you’ll forgive me, too.”
Neal nodded, and tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He started to cough and couldn’t stop. He suddenly doubled over, hacking and trying to catch his breath. He felt Peter’s hands on him, steering him to the couch. There was a warm, hard hand rubbing him through the heavy jacket he was still wearing.
He stopped coughing long enough to ask for water, which materialized at his lips almost before he finished asking. It took a couple of sips before he could speak.
“Thank you.” He finished the glass and shrugged off the jacket - the bout of coughing made him too warm.
Peter looked at him gravely. “How sick are you?”
“Very.” He kept it simple.
“Jones said you told his father you have leukemia.” Peter picked up one of his hands - rubbing his thumb against the knuckles. Neal wondered if Peter realized what he was doing.
Neal nodded. “That appointment this morning feels like a year ago.”
“Are you going to die?” Neal hated the grief he already could hear in Peter’s voice.
“We all are - eventually.”
“Stop with the deflecting, Neal.” And there was the exasperation. Better.
“With treatment, my odds are good.”
“How good?”
“You haven’t lost your interrogations skills, Agent Burke.” Peter was still holding his hand, still caressing his fingers. Neal thought that Peter didn’t have to ask him a single question - he’d give him his soul if he just kept that up.
“Neal…” And that exasperation was ratcheted up a notch.
“Better than fifty-fifty for a five-year survival rate.”
“You’re only expected to live for five years?” Neal wanted to lie if just to erase the anguish on Peter’s face. But he couldn’t.
“No - no. Cancer survival is measured in five year increments. I’ve been told that there is a seventy-five percent chance that I’ll survive for at least five years.” Neal sighed. “This was not what I expected from my life.” He pulled his hand from Peter’s grasp and walked to the terrace doors - the rain had started to fall in sheets, and a brisk wind blew it against the glass. Peter followed and stood behind him.
The warm palms against his shoulders startled him, but he didn’t turn around.
“Do you know what my biggest fear was?” Peter whispered to him.
Neal shook his head.
“That you were dead, and I’d never know.” Peter rested a cheek against his head. “That you were gone beyond my reach, beyond any reconciliation - that I’d spend the rest of my life looking for your face in a crowd, but I’d never find you. I’d never see you again, that we’d never be able to make this right.”
Neal wanted to cry. “I looked for you too - you were everywhere and nowhere. I’d see someone - it could have been you, and it wasn’t and I’d stand there, bereft. Sometimes I’d dream up these wonderful, elaborate schemes - maybe steal the Mona Lisa or one of Monet’s Water Lilies, just to set you on the chase. But I couldn't, when you’d catch me … you’d have such a look of disappointment. You wouldn’t even be able to look at me - you’d turn to someone and say ‘Once a thief, always a thief.’ I couldn’t bear that.”
Peter’s hands slid off his shoulders and wrapped around him. Neal reveled in the warmth of another body, of the touch of someone who loved him. And he cursed his failing body - it was going to be a long time before he and Peter … Neal didn’t let himself think that they’d never come together, that they’d never make love.
“I never thought you went back to the life.” Peter rested his cheek on his head. “No, never - not even for a minute.”
“You didn’t?” He twisted his head around, trying to gauge Peter’s honesty. Even in the half-darkened room, it wasn’t difficult to see that Peter was telling the truth.
“You’ll have to ask Diana if you want verification. She was the one who insisted on regular checks of the Interpol databases for any of your signature crimes. The world’s been surprisingly free of major art thefts in the past few years.”
All of the lingering pain and fear and doubt evaporated. Peter’s faith in him was like the sun against the mist on a hot summer morning. “Truthfully, neither Neal Caffrey nor Julian Drummond was ever tempted.”
“Ahh, the cryptic Mr. Drummond.” There was a surprising touch of bitterness in Peter’s voice.
Neal turned in Peter’s arms. “What about him?” It was odd - after nearly four years of being Julian, to talk about him in the third person.
Peter put him at arms length. “You said you were done with running - remember? But you must have had Drummond set up for years.” There was a wealth of hurt in that statement.
Neal thought about letting Peter believe that Julian was a pocket ace he had since before his prison days. But some old habits should be broken. “I did mean that - and I hadn’t intended to run, but I needed a backup plan. If just to keep me from running. Like an ex-smoker keeps a pack of cigarettes for twenty years after he stops.”
“Makes sense - in a very Neal Caffrey sort of way.” Peter brushed a hand through his hair, and Neal wanted to arch into him like a cat.
When Peter did that again, Neal didn’t even try to stifle a moan of pleasure. “It’s been so long.”
Peter just kept up the stroking. “What’s been so long?”
“Since anyone’s touched me in affection.” Neal bit his lip, a little embarrassed at what he revealed.
Peter tilted up his chin, and they met eye to eye. “You mean...”
Neal gave him a small, self-deprecating smile. “Yeah - I didn’t want to settle.” He tucked his head against Peter’s shoulder. He hadn’t felt this warm, this safe, in half a lifetime.
And as good as it was, he needed to separate himself – he needed to know, and maybe even test both their wills.
“What’s the matter?” Peter reached for him, but Neal stepped back, out of reach.
“I’ve changed, Peter. And not for the better.” Neal swallowed, mouth dry, nervous.
“Neal – what do you mean?”
He tilted his chin up, he wanted to defy the moment, defy the truth. “I’m … ugly – and I’m going to get a lot uglier.”
“Neal, don’t be foolish.”
He dodged Peter’s hand and move away from the rain-streaked windows. Neal went into the bedroom and turned on a light. He pulled off the turtleneck and the t-shirt. “Look at me, Peter. And tell me if you like what you see.”
He tried not to wince as the lamplight illuminated the emaciated hollows of Neal’s torso. The body that once rivaled the Greek ideal was only a memory now; his muscles were wasted, his ribs sticking out.
Something must have showed on his face. Neal turned away and flicked off the light, perhaps to hide in the storm-darkened room. Peter stopped him.
“No – you misunderstand.” He held Neal’s forearms, so thin, so frail. “It was never about how you looked – you have to know that.” Neal wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You do know that, right?”
“Peter – come on. Let’s be honest.”
“I am, Neal. What you looked like never was what mattered to me.” Peter smiled gently. “Of course it’s a nice bonus that Neal Caffrey comes wrapped in a pretty package – but what counts has always been you: the quick fire intelligence, the eagerness, the unfailing confidence, the passion. The loyalty. The sheer, ‘damn the torpedoes’ heart of you.”
He placed his hand over that organ, hard palm meeting warm flesh. It beat, strong for now. “Can you understand that this is always what I have loved, will love, will always love?”
Neal hissed, but didn’t pull away. He said something that Peter couldn’t quite make out. “What’s the matter?”
He whispered it again.
“Neal?”
Neal looked at him, all the facades finally stripped away. “Peter - I’m afraid.”
He didn’t have to ask why. “I know, I am too.” He wrapped his arms around Neal, taking care not to bruise that fragile thinness. He felt Neal shake and begin to shudder.
“I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die. Please, Peter - I don’t want to die.” Neal scrabbled at his shoulders, his thin fingers and blunt nails clinging to him painfully. “I am so scared. I don’t want to die.”
Peter ran a soothing hand up and down Neal’s back, feeling every vertebrae and rib. Once upon a time, he’d have backed off and told Neal to cowboy up, because he was too disconcerted by strong emotions. But now there was nothing that could ever keep him from comforting him. He eased him over to the bed and sat them down.
He let Neal cry, he let himself cry. For the wasted past, for the uncertainty of the future. As a counterpoint, a comfort to Neal, to his own anguish, Peter whispered back, “I am not going to let you die, I won’t let that happen.”
The storm moved off and the bright evening sun broke through the dark clouds, illuminating the apartment through the skylights.
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