White Collar Fic - The Door is Always Open
Jul. 5th, 2011 02:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: The Door is Always Open
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey
Spoilers/Episode References: S1.14 – Out of the Box, S2.16 – Under the Radar through 3.04 – The Dentist of Detroit
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~ 5000
Summary: Peter wonders if he’s taken the wrong approach with Neal, Neal wonders if he’s going to make the biggest mistake of his life.
Beta credit:rabidchild67
A/N: Written as a birthday fic forjrosemary. She gave me the prompt, “Peter realizes that he’s gone about the theft of the art in the wrong way. He wonders what would happen if he just asked Neal to stay.” This story is actually the third in a series of tags to the Season Three mythology, a series I hadn’t deliberately planned on writing. The first was We Begin (as we mean to go on), which I wrote in reaction to Under the Radar. The second, Caught Off Guard was written for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wcpairings. I wonder if I’ll keep writing these tags until The Show gets it right.
Also fits the “Loss of Identity” square in my Hurt/Comfort Bingo card.
__________________
It was nearly 11 o’clock at night and everyone was long gone. Peter sat in his office, the light from his monitor was the only break in the darkness. Neal’s tracking data was on display. He’d been in his apartment since 6:38 this evening, and hadn’t moved in the last ten minutes - at least not far enough that the GPS would report a change. Peter had a very good mental map of the place and he was pretty sure that Neal was sitting at his dining table.
He probably had a bottle of wine opened next to him - something fancy. Maybe an Amarone or Barolo - a single bottle that cost more than ten cases of Peter’s favorite beer.
Peter wondered what Neal was doing tonight - whether he’s reading or sketching or working on a set of forged identification documents. He knew just how Neal worked. He’d never forge a passport, but he would forge the documentation needed to get one. A birth certificate and a current driver’s license would get him the social security number, and then it’s simply a matter of patience.
He figured that he had about a month before Neal took off for good. A month to get to the treasure, or at least to find the pieces of it that have already been sold. Peter turned away from the monitor and opened the file with the results of the polygraph he forced on Neal the night after he shot Adler. That was a mistake. He was too angry, too out of control to think it through. But not so angry or out of control to avoid asking the question that would have damned Neal all the way back to prison for life.
The data on the monitor refreshed, and he saw that Neal had moved about ten feet - possibly to his front door, maybe to let someone in. He called up a different program - a traffic camera at the corner of Riverside and 78th. The angle is focused mostly on the street, but there’s a portion of the image that shows the foot traffic approaching June’s mansion. Peter rolled the footage back for the last half-hour, and he was relieved that there was no sign of Mozzie.
Peter liked Moz. The man was smart, resourceful and had a strong sense of purpose - qualities that Peter appreciated, even when they were directed towards highly questionable activities.
But he hated him too, and that hatred increased as each day passed. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Moz was the mastermind behind the theft of the art and that he’s the one pushing Neal back into the life. Didn’t he realize that there were no happy endings for guys like him? He was either going to end up dead or in prison. And worse - he was going to take Neal with him. The selfish little fucker - yeah - selfish was the best description he could come up with. Since Moz couldn’t have the life he wanted, he had to make certain that no one (or at least his friend) could either.
Peter scanned through at the other documentation he collected - the report from the Diarmitt Gallery’s testing lab, the copy of the U-boat manifest and Diana’s translation, his own very private case notes - and he had a pang of regret. He never should have reached out to Art Crimes in D.C., he should have never involved Diana or Clinton, or even El. But then, his biggest mistake was accusing Neal of engineering everything in the first place.
It’s an epiphany - realizing that he’s handled this wrong from the very start. Maybe if he’d kept his mouth shut, maybe if he’d been a better friend, maybe, maybe Neal would have come to him. He could have worked something out.
Peter walked out of the empty office, hoping that it wasn’t too late. Too late for forgiveness, too late to convince Neal that running was wrong.
Too late to ask him to stay.
______________
Neal sat at his dining table and stared at the unchanging image on the laptop. It was late and Moz had gone home for the night - wherever home happened to be today. He was looking at the loot - billions of dollars worth of temptation - just waiting to be transferred and sold to the right parties, ones with very deep pockets and who preferred to display their art to no one but themselves.
Neal couldn’t help but remember what he once told Peter. It wasn’t about the money - it was about the score. That it was about being smarter, better, quicker than anyone else, and proving it. That was not quite a lie - since having money made life a lot better - but the money was never the raison d’etre for doing what he did.
He wished, almost, that Moz had turned out the light in the storage unit so that the web cameras wouldn’t be able to show him the loot, but it’s not like Neal could ask him to do that. Moz would wonder why Neal didn’t want to see their art whenever he could, and if he didn’t want to see it, all he had to do was not go to the webpage. Simple as that.
But Moz wouldn’t understand that as long as the temptation was out there, Neal was going to be tempted. And yet, as he looked at the inartistic arrangement of crates and boxes that held the artwork, Neal wondered if Moz had pulled a double-switch on him. It surprised him how little he cared.
But there was a sour taste in his mouth. It was the nausea that has been a constant companion for weeks now. Part guilt and fear and shame. But shame most of all.
He wasn’t worried about prison - well, not really. Once he ran, he knew that he was going to bring a world of hurt down on Peter. He’d be lucky if the FBI would let him do internal bank fraud, much less chase after him. Once he ran, Neal will have stolen not only billions of dollars in art, he’ll have robbed a man of his life, his career, his self-respect. Moz might say that all Peter sees in him is a tool, something useful to keep his closure rate up and the brass happy. But Neal knew that there was so much more to their relationship than that. There was friendship and respect and maybe a lot more.
In a moment of self-disgust, Neal turned the computer off.
It seemed to be a night for introspection. He’s felt himself - or the person that bore the name and record of Neal Caffrey (and a dozen other names and identities) slip for a while now. The con men, the movers and shakers in the financial and art world underground, they’ve become hard and harder to maintain. Neal Caffrey, whoever he might be, was fading away and he doesn’t know who was taking his place.
Moz would like to blame this on his exposure to the poisonous world of law and order, the two-mile radius, and the dictates of The Man. But Neal knew better – what was happening to him had nothing to do with the FBI and everything to do with Peter.
He could almost hate Peter and the rules he lived by. Not the rules set out in the FBI field manual, but the moral code he made for himself. The one that told him to take a chance on an escaped felon, the one that stole a security tape to keep that felon from going back to prison for life, the one that relentlessly tried to get that felon to do the right thing for the right reasons. The one that said that doing the right thing meant that you don’t leave your enemies to die and your friends to burn.
Neal has known from the very beginning how easy it would have been to play Peter - to assert some control over his impulsiveness and stay on the straight and narrow just long enough to make that break, and make it good. But Peter being Peter, he gave him just enough rope to play and just enough to hang himself. And Neal felt as if there was a trapdoor underneath his feet waiting to swing open.
He stowed the laptop in one of the hidden cupboards Byron had built and went to wash up. Maybe some cold water would help him achieve some clarity. But probably not.
He missed Peter - he missed the closeness they had, the closeness that they’d lost since … since everything. Moz was a good friend, but he could never share things with him the way he could with Peter. Which is ironic in the most tragic of ways - the con man opening up to the law man. The con man trusting the law man because he knows better than to trust another con man.
It was a pity that Peter hadn’t given him the same level of trust. He wondered, and not for the first time, if Peter hadn’t accused him of stealing the art that day, if he’d have turned it in. The more he thought about it, the more he was certain he would have.
Neal knew himself, he knew that beneath the masks and the smiles and the attitude, at heart he was a people-pleaser. He always wanted to make others happy - if not always for the best of reasons. Moz has known this for years, and never failed to use it as a weapon. He was subtle, but ruthless.
Peter, on the other hand, avoided exploiting this weakness. And that’s what kills Neal - he fully comprehends that Peter could ruin him with little more than a single sentence. Even now, after everything, with all their plans made and ready to roll, Peter could keep him here with just a single word.
______________
Peter parked a block away from June’s house and watched the nighttime traffic flow by, the few pedestrians strolling up and down Riverside Drive. He’s been here so many times before, but never with quite this level of urgency. Yet he sat there and thought about what he was going to say to Neal, what he could say that would keep Neal from leaving.
He knew he couldn’t just toss his badge on the table and give him immunity. There was a world of difference between the night they talked about Vincent Adler and the crime at hand.
Peter didn’t want to interrogate Neal - they’ve been there, done that. That was not why he was here.
He finally got out of the car and went to the house. June’s housekeeper let him in.
“Hello, Peter.” He turned around - June was sitting in her parlor, in the dark.
“June, is everything all right?”
“Hmmm. I might ask you the same question. It’s awfully late for you to be paying a visit.” She joined him in the foyer, a glass of whiskey in one hand, her pug cradled in the other. “It’s been months since you’ve just casually stopped by at this hour.”
It took all of Peter’s self-control not to rub at the back of his neck. “Something’s come up - I need to see Neal.”
June smiled, tight and a little bitter. “You know the way.” She gestured with the hand holding the glass and Peter wondered if she was drunk.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll see you at breakfast, Peter.”
He shook his head, wondering what June was implying. Peter decided he didn’t care.
June disappeared back into her darkened parlor, the scent of Chanel and single malt whiskey the only clue that she was really there and not an apparition.
Walking up the four flights to Neal’s apartment felt like the time he climbed to the top of the Washington Monument. But his time, he heart wasn’t racing because he was short of breath. As Peter stood in front of Neal’s door, he thought about knocking, he thought about just barging in. Didn’t Neal tell him that his door was always open?
But this close to midnight?
He knocked - a pair of raps of his knuckles against the wood, the beats far more confident than he felt. There was no sound from inside the apartment. He knocked again, a little softer, a little afraid. There was still no answer and Peter turned to leave. The moment was lost.
Or maybe not. He was halfway down the stairs when he heard the door open behind him.
“Peter?”
Neal was on the landing, dressed only in an undershirt and pair of chinos. His hair was mussed and, standing in the halo of light behind him, Peter didn’t think he’d ever seen Neal looking more worn out.
He gave Neal what he hoped was a non-threatening smile. “Hope I wasn’t interrupting you.”
Neal gave him a twisted smile. “No, not tonight. Not anymore.”
He followed Neal into the apartment. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing - nothing.” There was such a wealth of bitterness in those words.
Peter wondered if Neal had been thinking of Sara - he knew that they’d hit a rocky patch - but he didn’t know why. He also didn’t think her departure was to blame for Neal’s haggardness.
“What brings you here at this hour, Peter?”
He shrugged.
Neal looked at him. “It’s ten minutes to midnight, you haven’t been home yet. What’s the matter?”
“I wanted to see you.” That was a start.
Neal reared back, as if he were surprised. “A social call? Or are you checking up on me?”
Peter wasn’t surprised at the no-so-veiled hostility.
“Both - but mostly I just wanted to see you.”
Neal’s lips and nose twitched at his reply and Peter was reminded of something completely inappropriate. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.
Neal must have noticed. “What?”
He hesitated - it would be hard to explain without insulting Neal.
“Come on Peter, what gives?”
Peter wondered, for the briefest moment, if he could bluff his way through this. But he was no Neal Caffrey. “The expression on your face - you looked …” He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t say it. He bit his lip, hard.
“Peter, come on.”
“Okay, okay.” The harder he tried to contain himself, the worse it became. “When you twitched your lip and nose - you looked like - just for a moment - like…”
Maybe he was just too tired, maybe it was the stress of the last few weeks.
“Peter - damn it!”
He scrubbed at his face; he was making it worse that it was. He took a deep breath. “You looked like Bugs Bunny.”
Neal just stood there and blinked. The silence was so profound that Peter thought he could hear Neal’s eyelashes brush against his cheeks. And then he grinned, a chuckle escaped and he started laughing. Peter couldn’t contain himself anymore, he let out a snort, inhaled and the guffaws erupted.
By the time they both regained control of themselves, Peter’s face was wet with tears and Neal was gasping for air.
Peter went to the fridge for a cold drink and was stunned to find a six-pack of his favorite beer there. It was such a small thing - but in a way, monumental. He didn’t comment as he took out two bottles, twisting the cap off of one and handing it to Neal. He opened his own and took a slug.
“Bugs Bunny, eh? Well - you’ve said I looked like a cartoon.”
“That was for the hats - and I’m sorry.” The apology slipped out - but it wasn’t just for the insult.
Neal gave him a sharp look and sat down. “If you didn’t come here to make fun of me, why are you here? Couldn’t it have waited until tomorrow, at the office?”
Peter looked at his beer bottle and flicked at the edge of the peeling label with his thumbnail. He swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat. “No, it couldn’t.”
The silence between them reverberated, a low, uncomfortable note that made it hard to breathe. Peter took his beer and went out to the terrace - looking out over that impossible view. He heard Neal follow him.
“Peter?” Neal’s voice was soft, tentative. “What’s the matter? Is something wrong at home?”
He didn’t turn around when Neal rested a hand on his arm. “No - everything is fine.”
“Then what?”
Peter sighed. This was the moment he’d been dreading. The one that was going to make everything right or break it all to pieces.
He continued to stare out at the skyline, the stars washed away by the bright city lights. The words crowded in his mouth, but he refused to let himself be driven by impulse now. Peter took another sip and tried to organize his thoughts.
Neal stayed at his side, and Peter could feel his barely concealed impatience.
“I know Mozzie took the art.” He still didn’t look at Neal. He didn’t want to see the masks fall into place. “I know that you’re planning on running with it.”
“No, Peter --” Neal’s response was a breathless denial.
He tilted his head back, to keep the tears from running down his face. Not tears of laughter this time. “Don’t lie to me, Neal. You don’t have to, not anymore.”
The silence between them was painful.
Neal broke it. “How did you find out?”
Peter finally turned to look at Neal. He could have said “gotcha” and slapped the cuffs on Neal - that admission was good enough for an indictment.
“I’ve always known, even when test results should have convinced me otherwise.”
“Test results?” There was no expression on Neal’s face - that was as good as a tell.
“Involving June’s granddaughter wasn’t nice.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Can it, Neal. I know what you and Moz and Cindy did at the Diarmitt Gallery. The security guard identified Moz and gave a description of a stunning young woman with green eyes that could only be June’s granddaughter. You somehow figured out that I had a scrap of the Chrysler Building painting and recreated it. I’m figuring that you used a piece of extra canvas from one of the looted paintings and you scraped off enough color to fool the IR spectroscopic analysis.”
Neal didn’t say anything.
“You’re good, Neal. I always said you’re the smartest man I know. I just wished …” He pursed his lips in frustration.
“What do you want me to say?”
The same corrosive rage he felt when that piece of Neal’s painting fluttered to his feet boiled up. This time, he kept himself under control - the whole point was to keep Neal from running. “I don’t know, Neal. Because anything you say now is going to damn you to a life in prison. Or is that what you want?”
“No, Peter.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neal - I can’t make this decision for you.”
“I know, I know.” Neal scrubbed at his face.
“I understand about divided loyalties.”
“Moz is like family - the only one I have.”
And then he did explode. “Really, Neal? The only family?” Peter didn’t try to keep the hurt out of his voice. “What about El? Diana and Clinton? Everyone else who looks at you and sees you as part of their team, someone they’d take a bullet for? Someone who could look to you for the same?”
“Peter …”
“And what about me, Neal? What about me? Am I nothing to you? Just a means to an end? Someone to keep you out of prison? Someone to use? I thought there was more to us than that.”
______________
This was his worst nightmare come to life - it was like that scene at the airport all over again. Peter demanding answers he couldn’t give.
Of course Peter was his friend – and maybe more.
“You once said you were done with running - that you have a life here. Was that a lie? Were you trying to make me feel better? Or was it just another con, Neal?”
“No – no, Peter. It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t a con. I meant it.” At the time - I meant it. Maybe I still do.
Peter’s tone was corrosive. “You’re good, Neal. You’ve played me like a maestro.” He put the bottle down on a table and started to leave.
“No - Peter, I haven’t been playing you.” Neal reached out, grabbing Peter’s arm. That was the truth, but Peter would never believe him – not after this.
“You can lie to me, Neal - but don’t lie to yourself. It’s all been one grand scheme after another - find Kate, find Kate’s killer. Hell, I took care of that for you, didn’t I?”
“Peter --”
But he didn’t stop. “I killed a man for you - you couldn’t have arranged that better, could you?”
“I didn’t - you know that.”
Peter relented. “Yeah, yeah.” He shook his head. “Look, I didn’t come here to rehash everything. I just thought we could talk - maybe I could change your mind about running.”
“It’s not that simple, Peter.”
“Yes it is. You’ve made your loyalties very clear.”
Neal hated the bitterness in Peter’s voice. “Moz took a bullet for me.”
“And for that, you’ll risk spending the rest of your life in prison?”
“Please, Peter.”
“Or were you counting on taking me out of the game for good?”
Neal threw up his hands in frustration. “You’re not making this easy for me.”
“Good - betrayal shouldn’t be.”
“Betrayal?”
“Yeah. That’s what you call leaving a friend to take the heat while you ride off into the sunset.”
“So this is about protecting your career?” Neal knew he was being deliberately obtuse.
“No, Neal. This is about trying to salvage what I thought was our friendship. About trying to keep you out of jail. But you’ve made your choice, haven’t you?”
Neal knew he was stuck – no way forward and no way back. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to make the right choice, Neal.”
Typical, typical, fucking typical Peter. Everything has to be a damned life lesson. “Not good enough. Tell me what you want. Pretend that you can order the universe with a single command.”
Peter looked at him, confused.
“Peter, please. For once, just tell me what to do.” He was almost in tears. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Peter stilled, and the expression on his face broke Neal in so many ways. “I want you to stay, Neal. I want you to do the right thing, to be the man and not the con.” Peter sighed. “If you want to know what would make me happy, if you want me to be selfish, then all I can say is: I want you here. You’re my friend - whatever you think of me, you are my friend. And because of that - I want you to stay. I don’t want you to leave - I never have, and I never will.”
Neal didn’t say anything; he was shocked to see that Peter was crying.
Peter filled the silence. “You’ve become too damned important to me.” He didn’t bother to disguise his tears “And the crazy thing is I want to matter as much to you as you matter to me. Is that what you want to hear?”
Neal was crying too. “Yes, that’s what I wanted. I wanted to know that I mattered to you. So we’re both crazy. In a sick, co-dependent sort of way, I guess.” He wiped the tears away.
Peter gave a short gurgle of laughter. “No, Neal – it’s not like that at all. We’re friends. We’re partners. We stick by each other.”
Neal looked at Peter, his friend, his partner. “I won’t run, Peter.” Before Peter could say anything, Neal continued. “But I won’t betray Moz either. I can’t do that. I won’t go with him - but I can’t lead you to the treasure either.”
______________
Peter supposed that a glass half full was better than one completely empty, and he really didn’t think that Neal would simply point him to the art. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”
“No?”
“Neal, I asked you not to betray me – how could I ask you to betray Moz?”
“Thank you.” Neal’s relief was heartfelt.
“But talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place. I think you need to convince him to turn the art in.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. Moz - surrendering a billion dollars in art? The score of a lifetime? You’d sooner get him to sign up for the FBI Community Outreach Program. Or have his fingerprints taken.”
Peter knew this was going to be a hard sell. “Neal – that art is drenched in the blood of millions. I’d think Moz wouldn’t want to have anything to do with that.”
“It’s from museums – the same museums that now have their own collections of art originally looted by the Nazis.”
“Just because it wasn’t looted from Western European Jews doesn’t mean it’s not tainted. And it’s not just from museums. The art was taken from the palaces in Leningrad, including Catherine the Great’s, Tsarskoe Selo.”
“The same place that the Amber Music Box came from.”
“You know what happened there.” Peter was surprised at Neal’s cavalier attitude. “The rape of the palaces and museums by the Third Reich was crime enough – but it was just a small part of the most brutal, the deadliest siege in recorded history.”
Neal grimaced. “I know my history, Peter.”
“Then you know that a million and a half civilians were killed through bombardment, disease and starvation. The art that was in that sub is as tainted as anything stolen from private citizens.” Peter hoped his impassioned lecture would get through to Neal.
“I can’t make any promises, Peter. You know Moz.”
“Yes, I do. But you also might want to tell him that Russia is going to aggressively pursue the reacquisition of its missing art, and being on the wrong side of the full might of the Russian government will make any interactions he’s had with the FBI seem like a kindergarten playground fight.”
Neal held up a hand in surrender. “Okay - okay. I’ll talk to him. But you have to give me time.”
Peter didn’t hold out much hope that Neal would be able to get through to Moz, but it was worth a shot. “Neal, as long as you’re not running, you can have as much time as you need.”
“And if I can’t convince him?”
“I don’t know, Neal. I can’t make any promises.” He hoped Neal wouldn’t see the great big hole in that argument. He hoped in vain.
“If you go after Moz, you’re not going to be able to keep me out of it.” Neal’s tone was casual.
“I know, which is why you need to get him to turn it in. I’ll do what I can for him – and I’ll protect you with everything I’ve got.”
“I know. But if push comes to shove, you’re still an FBI agent and I’m still a criminal.” The matter of fact tone of that last statement broke Peter’s heart.
“Neal, you’ve got your whole life in front of you, you don’t have to be a criminal. You don’t have to live your life according to some con man’s rule book.”
“But I should live my life according to yours?”
Peter picked up the long forgotten bottle of beer and took a swallow. “I’m not saying that. You’re good – you’re smart. Hell, didn’t I just say you’re the smartest man I know. You’ve made a life here. You make a difference.” He took another sip, grimacing at the flatness. Or at something else all together. “We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we?”
Neal took a swig of his own beer. “Yeah, almost word for word, and look how that one ended.”
Peter looked at him sharply. “Do you blame me? If I hadn’t come after you, Adler wouldn’t have blown up the plane. Is this what this has been about all along?”
“God, no – no. Never. Adler was always going to blow up the plane – he had no intention of letting us get away. It never even occurred to me to blame you.”
Something he didn’t realize was knotted up in him relaxed. “Neal – I know there hasn’t been a lot of trust between us lately. And I know it’s going to take us a long time to get that back. But we will.”
“Do you trust me when I say that I’m not going to run?”
Peter looked at Neal, the lights from the cityscape carving deep hollows in that sculpted face. There didn’t seem to be any masks there. The agent in him said that Neal was too good a player to let anything show. The friend said that this was a man at the edge of his resources, and he wasn’t lying.
Peter chose to believe the friend.
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodan Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey
Spoilers/Episode References: S1.14 – Out of the Box, S2.16 – Under the Radar through 3.04 – The Dentist of Detroit
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~ 5000
Summary: Peter wonders if he’s taken the wrong approach with Neal, Neal wonders if he’s going to make the biggest mistake of his life.
Beta credit:
rabidchild67 A/N: Written as a birthday fic for
jrosemary. She gave me the prompt, “Peter realizes that he’s gone about the theft of the art in the wrong way. He wonders what would happen if he just asked Neal to stay.” This story is actually the third in a series of tags to the Season Three mythology, a series I hadn’t deliberately planned on writing. The first was We Begin (as we mean to go on), which I wrote in reaction to Under the Radar. The second, Caught Off Guard was written for the wcpairings. I wonder if I’ll keep writing these tags until The Show gets it right. Also fits the “Loss of Identity” square in my Hurt/Comfort Bingo card.
It was nearly 11 o’clock at night and everyone was long gone. Peter sat in his office, the light from his monitor was the only break in the darkness. Neal’s tracking data was on display. He’d been in his apartment since 6:38 this evening, and hadn’t moved in the last ten minutes - at least not far enough that the GPS would report a change. Peter had a very good mental map of the place and he was pretty sure that Neal was sitting at his dining table.
He probably had a bottle of wine opened next to him - something fancy. Maybe an Amarone or Barolo - a single bottle that cost more than ten cases of Peter’s favorite beer.
Peter wondered what Neal was doing tonight - whether he’s reading or sketching or working on a set of forged identification documents. He knew just how Neal worked. He’d never forge a passport, but he would forge the documentation needed to get one. A birth certificate and a current driver’s license would get him the social security number, and then it’s simply a matter of patience.
He figured that he had about a month before Neal took off for good. A month to get to the treasure, or at least to find the pieces of it that have already been sold. Peter turned away from the monitor and opened the file with the results of the polygraph he forced on Neal the night after he shot Adler. That was a mistake. He was too angry, too out of control to think it through. But not so angry or out of control to avoid asking the question that would have damned Neal all the way back to prison for life.
The data on the monitor refreshed, and he saw that Neal had moved about ten feet - possibly to his front door, maybe to let someone in. He called up a different program - a traffic camera at the corner of Riverside and 78th. The angle is focused mostly on the street, but there’s a portion of the image that shows the foot traffic approaching June’s mansion. Peter rolled the footage back for the last half-hour, and he was relieved that there was no sign of Mozzie.
Peter liked Moz. The man was smart, resourceful and had a strong sense of purpose - qualities that Peter appreciated, even when they were directed towards highly questionable activities.
But he hated him too, and that hatred increased as each day passed. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Moz was the mastermind behind the theft of the art and that he’s the one pushing Neal back into the life. Didn’t he realize that there were no happy endings for guys like him? He was either going to end up dead or in prison. And worse - he was going to take Neal with him. The selfish little fucker - yeah - selfish was the best description he could come up with. Since Moz couldn’t have the life he wanted, he had to make certain that no one (or at least his friend) could either.
Peter scanned through at the other documentation he collected - the report from the Diarmitt Gallery’s testing lab, the copy of the U-boat manifest and Diana’s translation, his own very private case notes - and he had a pang of regret. He never should have reached out to Art Crimes in D.C., he should have never involved Diana or Clinton, or even El. But then, his biggest mistake was accusing Neal of engineering everything in the first place.
It’s an epiphany - realizing that he’s handled this wrong from the very start. Maybe if he’d kept his mouth shut, maybe if he’d been a better friend, maybe, maybe Neal would have come to him. He could have worked something out.
Peter walked out of the empty office, hoping that it wasn’t too late. Too late for forgiveness, too late to convince Neal that running was wrong.
Too late to ask him to stay.
Neal sat at his dining table and stared at the unchanging image on the laptop. It was late and Moz had gone home for the night - wherever home happened to be today. He was looking at the loot - billions of dollars worth of temptation - just waiting to be transferred and sold to the right parties, ones with very deep pockets and who preferred to display their art to no one but themselves.
Neal couldn’t help but remember what he once told Peter. It wasn’t about the money - it was about the score. That it was about being smarter, better, quicker than anyone else, and proving it. That was not quite a lie - since having money made life a lot better - but the money was never the raison d’etre for doing what he did.
He wished, almost, that Moz had turned out the light in the storage unit so that the web cameras wouldn’t be able to show him the loot, but it’s not like Neal could ask him to do that. Moz would wonder why Neal didn’t want to see their art whenever he could, and if he didn’t want to see it, all he had to do was not go to the webpage. Simple as that.
But Moz wouldn’t understand that as long as the temptation was out there, Neal was going to be tempted. And yet, as he looked at the inartistic arrangement of crates and boxes that held the artwork, Neal wondered if Moz had pulled a double-switch on him. It surprised him how little he cared.
But there was a sour taste in his mouth. It was the nausea that has been a constant companion for weeks now. Part guilt and fear and shame. But shame most of all.
He wasn’t worried about prison - well, not really. Once he ran, he knew that he was going to bring a world of hurt down on Peter. He’d be lucky if the FBI would let him do internal bank fraud, much less chase after him. Once he ran, Neal will have stolen not only billions of dollars in art, he’ll have robbed a man of his life, his career, his self-respect. Moz might say that all Peter sees in him is a tool, something useful to keep his closure rate up and the brass happy. But Neal knew that there was so much more to their relationship than that. There was friendship and respect and maybe a lot more.
In a moment of self-disgust, Neal turned the computer off.
It seemed to be a night for introspection. He’s felt himself - or the person that bore the name and record of Neal Caffrey (and a dozen other names and identities) slip for a while now. The con men, the movers and shakers in the financial and art world underground, they’ve become hard and harder to maintain. Neal Caffrey, whoever he might be, was fading away and he doesn’t know who was taking his place.
Moz would like to blame this on his exposure to the poisonous world of law and order, the two-mile radius, and the dictates of The Man. But Neal knew better – what was happening to him had nothing to do with the FBI and everything to do with Peter.
He could almost hate Peter and the rules he lived by. Not the rules set out in the FBI field manual, but the moral code he made for himself. The one that told him to take a chance on an escaped felon, the one that stole a security tape to keep that felon from going back to prison for life, the one that relentlessly tried to get that felon to do the right thing for the right reasons. The one that said that doing the right thing meant that you don’t leave your enemies to die and your friends to burn.
Neal has known from the very beginning how easy it would have been to play Peter - to assert some control over his impulsiveness and stay on the straight and narrow just long enough to make that break, and make it good. But Peter being Peter, he gave him just enough rope to play and just enough to hang himself. And Neal felt as if there was a trapdoor underneath his feet waiting to swing open.
He stowed the laptop in one of the hidden cupboards Byron had built and went to wash up. Maybe some cold water would help him achieve some clarity. But probably not.
He missed Peter - he missed the closeness they had, the closeness that they’d lost since … since everything. Moz was a good friend, but he could never share things with him the way he could with Peter. Which is ironic in the most tragic of ways - the con man opening up to the law man. The con man trusting the law man because he knows better than to trust another con man.
It was a pity that Peter hadn’t given him the same level of trust. He wondered, and not for the first time, if Peter hadn’t accused him of stealing the art that day, if he’d have turned it in. The more he thought about it, the more he was certain he would have.
Neal knew himself, he knew that beneath the masks and the smiles and the attitude, at heart he was a people-pleaser. He always wanted to make others happy - if not always for the best of reasons. Moz has known this for years, and never failed to use it as a weapon. He was subtle, but ruthless.
Peter, on the other hand, avoided exploiting this weakness. And that’s what kills Neal - he fully comprehends that Peter could ruin him with little more than a single sentence. Even now, after everything, with all their plans made and ready to roll, Peter could keep him here with just a single word.
Peter parked a block away from June’s house and watched the nighttime traffic flow by, the few pedestrians strolling up and down Riverside Drive. He’s been here so many times before, but never with quite this level of urgency. Yet he sat there and thought about what he was going to say to Neal, what he could say that would keep Neal from leaving.
He knew he couldn’t just toss his badge on the table and give him immunity. There was a world of difference between the night they talked about Vincent Adler and the crime at hand.
Peter didn’t want to interrogate Neal - they’ve been there, done that. That was not why he was here.
He finally got out of the car and went to the house. June’s housekeeper let him in.
“Hello, Peter.” He turned around - June was sitting in her parlor, in the dark.
“June, is everything all right?”
“Hmmm. I might ask you the same question. It’s awfully late for you to be paying a visit.” She joined him in the foyer, a glass of whiskey in one hand, her pug cradled in the other. “It’s been months since you’ve just casually stopped by at this hour.”
It took all of Peter’s self-control not to rub at the back of his neck. “Something’s come up - I need to see Neal.”
June smiled, tight and a little bitter. “You know the way.” She gestured with the hand holding the glass and Peter wondered if she was drunk.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll see you at breakfast, Peter.”
He shook his head, wondering what June was implying. Peter decided he didn’t care.
June disappeared back into her darkened parlor, the scent of Chanel and single malt whiskey the only clue that she was really there and not an apparition.
Walking up the four flights to Neal’s apartment felt like the time he climbed to the top of the Washington Monument. But his time, he heart wasn’t racing because he was short of breath. As Peter stood in front of Neal’s door, he thought about knocking, he thought about just barging in. Didn’t Neal tell him that his door was always open?
But this close to midnight?
He knocked - a pair of raps of his knuckles against the wood, the beats far more confident than he felt. There was no sound from inside the apartment. He knocked again, a little softer, a little afraid. There was still no answer and Peter turned to leave. The moment was lost.
Or maybe not. He was halfway down the stairs when he heard the door open behind him.
“Peter?”
Neal was on the landing, dressed only in an undershirt and pair of chinos. His hair was mussed and, standing in the halo of light behind him, Peter didn’t think he’d ever seen Neal looking more worn out.
He gave Neal what he hoped was a non-threatening smile. “Hope I wasn’t interrupting you.”
Neal gave him a twisted smile. “No, not tonight. Not anymore.”
He followed Neal into the apartment. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing - nothing.” There was such a wealth of bitterness in those words.
Peter wondered if Neal had been thinking of Sara - he knew that they’d hit a rocky patch - but he didn’t know why. He also didn’t think her departure was to blame for Neal’s haggardness.
“What brings you here at this hour, Peter?”
He shrugged.
Neal looked at him. “It’s ten minutes to midnight, you haven’t been home yet. What’s the matter?”
“I wanted to see you.” That was a start.
Neal reared back, as if he were surprised. “A social call? Or are you checking up on me?”
Peter wasn’t surprised at the no-so-veiled hostility.
“Both - but mostly I just wanted to see you.”
Neal’s lips and nose twitched at his reply and Peter was reminded of something completely inappropriate. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.
Neal must have noticed. “What?”
He hesitated - it would be hard to explain without insulting Neal.
“Come on Peter, what gives?”
Peter wondered, for the briefest moment, if he could bluff his way through this. But he was no Neal Caffrey. “The expression on your face - you looked …” He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t say it. He bit his lip, hard.
“Peter, come on.”
“Okay, okay.” The harder he tried to contain himself, the worse it became. “When you twitched your lip and nose - you looked like - just for a moment - like…”
Maybe he was just too tired, maybe it was the stress of the last few weeks.
“Peter - damn it!”
He scrubbed at his face; he was making it worse that it was. He took a deep breath. “You looked like Bugs Bunny.”
Neal just stood there and blinked. The silence was so profound that Peter thought he could hear Neal’s eyelashes brush against his cheeks. And then he grinned, a chuckle escaped and he started laughing. Peter couldn’t contain himself anymore, he let out a snort, inhaled and the guffaws erupted.
By the time they both regained control of themselves, Peter’s face was wet with tears and Neal was gasping for air.
Peter went to the fridge for a cold drink and was stunned to find a six-pack of his favorite beer there. It was such a small thing - but in a way, monumental. He didn’t comment as he took out two bottles, twisting the cap off of one and handing it to Neal. He opened his own and took a slug.
“Bugs Bunny, eh? Well - you’ve said I looked like a cartoon.”
“That was for the hats - and I’m sorry.” The apology slipped out - but it wasn’t just for the insult.
Neal gave him a sharp look and sat down. “If you didn’t come here to make fun of me, why are you here? Couldn’t it have waited until tomorrow, at the office?”
Peter looked at his beer bottle and flicked at the edge of the peeling label with his thumbnail. He swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat. “No, it couldn’t.”
The silence between them reverberated, a low, uncomfortable note that made it hard to breathe. Peter took his beer and went out to the terrace - looking out over that impossible view. He heard Neal follow him.
“Peter?” Neal’s voice was soft, tentative. “What’s the matter? Is something wrong at home?”
He didn’t turn around when Neal rested a hand on his arm. “No - everything is fine.”
“Then what?”
Peter sighed. This was the moment he’d been dreading. The one that was going to make everything right or break it all to pieces.
He continued to stare out at the skyline, the stars washed away by the bright city lights. The words crowded in his mouth, but he refused to let himself be driven by impulse now. Peter took another sip and tried to organize his thoughts.
Neal stayed at his side, and Peter could feel his barely concealed impatience.
“I know Mozzie took the art.” He still didn’t look at Neal. He didn’t want to see the masks fall into place. “I know that you’re planning on running with it.”
“No, Peter --” Neal’s response was a breathless denial.
He tilted his head back, to keep the tears from running down his face. Not tears of laughter this time. “Don’t lie to me, Neal. You don’t have to, not anymore.”
The silence between them was painful.
Neal broke it. “How did you find out?”
Peter finally turned to look at Neal. He could have said “gotcha” and slapped the cuffs on Neal - that admission was good enough for an indictment.
“I’ve always known, even when test results should have convinced me otherwise.”
“Test results?” There was no expression on Neal’s face - that was as good as a tell.
“Involving June’s granddaughter wasn’t nice.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Can it, Neal. I know what you and Moz and Cindy did at the Diarmitt Gallery. The security guard identified Moz and gave a description of a stunning young woman with green eyes that could only be June’s granddaughter. You somehow figured out that I had a scrap of the Chrysler Building painting and recreated it. I’m figuring that you used a piece of extra canvas from one of the looted paintings and you scraped off enough color to fool the IR spectroscopic analysis.”
Neal didn’t say anything.
“You’re good, Neal. I always said you’re the smartest man I know. I just wished …” He pursed his lips in frustration.
“What do you want me to say?”
The same corrosive rage he felt when that piece of Neal’s painting fluttered to his feet boiled up. This time, he kept himself under control - the whole point was to keep Neal from running. “I don’t know, Neal. Because anything you say now is going to damn you to a life in prison. Or is that what you want?”
“No, Peter.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neal - I can’t make this decision for you.”
“I know, I know.” Neal scrubbed at his face.
“I understand about divided loyalties.”
“Moz is like family - the only one I have.”
And then he did explode. “Really, Neal? The only family?” Peter didn’t try to keep the hurt out of his voice. “What about El? Diana and Clinton? Everyone else who looks at you and sees you as part of their team, someone they’d take a bullet for? Someone who could look to you for the same?”
“Peter …”
“And what about me, Neal? What about me? Am I nothing to you? Just a means to an end? Someone to keep you out of prison? Someone to use? I thought there was more to us than that.”
This was his worst nightmare come to life - it was like that scene at the airport all over again. Peter demanding answers he couldn’t give.
Of course Peter was his friend – and maybe more.
“You once said you were done with running - that you have a life here. Was that a lie? Were you trying to make me feel better? Or was it just another con, Neal?”
“No – no, Peter. It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t a con. I meant it.” At the time - I meant it. Maybe I still do.
Peter’s tone was corrosive. “You’re good, Neal. You’ve played me like a maestro.” He put the bottle down on a table and started to leave.
“No - Peter, I haven’t been playing you.” Neal reached out, grabbing Peter’s arm. That was the truth, but Peter would never believe him – not after this.
“You can lie to me, Neal - but don’t lie to yourself. It’s all been one grand scheme after another - find Kate, find Kate’s killer. Hell, I took care of that for you, didn’t I?”
“Peter --”
But he didn’t stop. “I killed a man for you - you couldn’t have arranged that better, could you?”
“I didn’t - you know that.”
Peter relented. “Yeah, yeah.” He shook his head. “Look, I didn’t come here to rehash everything. I just thought we could talk - maybe I could change your mind about running.”
“It’s not that simple, Peter.”
“Yes it is. You’ve made your loyalties very clear.”
Neal hated the bitterness in Peter’s voice. “Moz took a bullet for me.”
“And for that, you’ll risk spending the rest of your life in prison?”
“Please, Peter.”
“Or were you counting on taking me out of the game for good?”
Neal threw up his hands in frustration. “You’re not making this easy for me.”
“Good - betrayal shouldn’t be.”
“Betrayal?”
“Yeah. That’s what you call leaving a friend to take the heat while you ride off into the sunset.”
“So this is about protecting your career?” Neal knew he was being deliberately obtuse.
“No, Neal. This is about trying to salvage what I thought was our friendship. About trying to keep you out of jail. But you’ve made your choice, haven’t you?”
Neal knew he was stuck – no way forward and no way back. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to make the right choice, Neal.”
Typical, typical, fucking typical Peter. Everything has to be a damned life lesson. “Not good enough. Tell me what you want. Pretend that you can order the universe with a single command.”
Peter looked at him, confused.
“Peter, please. For once, just tell me what to do.” He was almost in tears. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Peter stilled, and the expression on his face broke Neal in so many ways. “I want you to stay, Neal. I want you to do the right thing, to be the man and not the con.” Peter sighed. “If you want to know what would make me happy, if you want me to be selfish, then all I can say is: I want you here. You’re my friend - whatever you think of me, you are my friend. And because of that - I want you to stay. I don’t want you to leave - I never have, and I never will.”
Neal didn’t say anything; he was shocked to see that Peter was crying.
Peter filled the silence. “You’ve become too damned important to me.” He didn’t bother to disguise his tears “And the crazy thing is I want to matter as much to you as you matter to me. Is that what you want to hear?”
Neal was crying too. “Yes, that’s what I wanted. I wanted to know that I mattered to you. So we’re both crazy. In a sick, co-dependent sort of way, I guess.” He wiped the tears away.
Peter gave a short gurgle of laughter. “No, Neal – it’s not like that at all. We’re friends. We’re partners. We stick by each other.”
Neal looked at Peter, his friend, his partner. “I won’t run, Peter.” Before Peter could say anything, Neal continued. “But I won’t betray Moz either. I can’t do that. I won’t go with him - but I can’t lead you to the treasure either.”
Peter supposed that a glass half full was better than one completely empty, and he really didn’t think that Neal would simply point him to the art. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”
“No?”
“Neal, I asked you not to betray me – how could I ask you to betray Moz?”
“Thank you.” Neal’s relief was heartfelt.
“But talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place. I think you need to convince him to turn the art in.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. Moz - surrendering a billion dollars in art? The score of a lifetime? You’d sooner get him to sign up for the FBI Community Outreach Program. Or have his fingerprints taken.”
Peter knew this was going to be a hard sell. “Neal – that art is drenched in the blood of millions. I’d think Moz wouldn’t want to have anything to do with that.”
“It’s from museums – the same museums that now have their own collections of art originally looted by the Nazis.”
“Just because it wasn’t looted from Western European Jews doesn’t mean it’s not tainted. And it’s not just from museums. The art was taken from the palaces in Leningrad, including Catherine the Great’s, Tsarskoe Selo.”
“The same place that the Amber Music Box came from.”
“You know what happened there.” Peter was surprised at Neal’s cavalier attitude. “The rape of the palaces and museums by the Third Reich was crime enough – but it was just a small part of the most brutal, the deadliest siege in recorded history.”
Neal grimaced. “I know my history, Peter.”
“Then you know that a million and a half civilians were killed through bombardment, disease and starvation. The art that was in that sub is as tainted as anything stolen from private citizens.” Peter hoped his impassioned lecture would get through to Neal.
“I can’t make any promises, Peter. You know Moz.”
“Yes, I do. But you also might want to tell him that Russia is going to aggressively pursue the reacquisition of its missing art, and being on the wrong side of the full might of the Russian government will make any interactions he’s had with the FBI seem like a kindergarten playground fight.”
Neal held up a hand in surrender. “Okay - okay. I’ll talk to him. But you have to give me time.”
Peter didn’t hold out much hope that Neal would be able to get through to Moz, but it was worth a shot. “Neal, as long as you’re not running, you can have as much time as you need.”
“And if I can’t convince him?”
“I don’t know, Neal. I can’t make any promises.” He hoped Neal wouldn’t see the great big hole in that argument. He hoped in vain.
“If you go after Moz, you’re not going to be able to keep me out of it.” Neal’s tone was casual.
“I know, which is why you need to get him to turn it in. I’ll do what I can for him – and I’ll protect you with everything I’ve got.”
“I know. But if push comes to shove, you’re still an FBI agent and I’m still a criminal.” The matter of fact tone of that last statement broke Peter’s heart.
“Neal, you’ve got your whole life in front of you, you don’t have to be a criminal. You don’t have to live your life according to some con man’s rule book.”
“But I should live my life according to yours?”
Peter picked up the long forgotten bottle of beer and took a swallow. “I’m not saying that. You’re good – you’re smart. Hell, didn’t I just say you’re the smartest man I know. You’ve made a life here. You make a difference.” He took another sip, grimacing at the flatness. Or at something else all together. “We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we?”
Neal took a swig of his own beer. “Yeah, almost word for word, and look how that one ended.”
Peter looked at him sharply. “Do you blame me? If I hadn’t come after you, Adler wouldn’t have blown up the plane. Is this what this has been about all along?”
“God, no – no. Never. Adler was always going to blow up the plane – he had no intention of letting us get away. It never even occurred to me to blame you.”
Something he didn’t realize was knotted up in him relaxed. “Neal – I know there hasn’t been a lot of trust between us lately. And I know it’s going to take us a long time to get that back. But we will.”
“Do you trust me when I say that I’m not going to run?”
Peter looked at Neal, the lights from the cityscape carving deep hollows in that sculpted face. There didn’t seem to be any masks there. The agent in him said that Neal was too good a player to let anything show. The friend said that this was a man at the edge of his resources, and he wasn’t lying.
Peter chose to believe the friend.
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Date: 2011-07-07 11:30 am (UTC)I don't normally write Fix Canon fic - but this whole story line aggravates me so that I really can't help myself.
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Date: 2011-07-07 11:45 am (UTC)