![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: Stepping Out Into Oblivion
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey
Pairings:
Spoilers: All of Season 3, to date
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Death of major canon characters, suicide.
Word Count: ~1200
Summary: Neal is in prison for the rest of his life. Peter comes and pays one final visit.
A/N: I have my suspicions about the cliffhanger for the end of this part of Season 3, that it’s neither pretty, nor happy. In fact, it is downright depressing. A fill for my Hurt Comfort Bingo – Suicide Attempt. Beta’d by the incomparablerabidchild67 . All mistakes are mine and mine alone.
__________________
Neal looked out the small window. The wall was thick and he could barely see the sky. He got a sense of light, and nothing more. Maybe it was better not to look at all.
His cell was five wide, eight long and eight feet high, barely larger than a grave. And he was going to be here for the rest of his life.
He could have blamed Mozzie for this. After all, it was his friend who stole the Nazi treasure in the first place. It was Mozzie who substituted his canvasses for the real paintings. It was Moz who pushed and poked and prodded to sell the treasure and leave. Moz was the one who sold the Degas to buy a hit on Matthew Keller. Moz was the one who took it all and ran when Neal said he wanted to stay.
It wasn’t all Mozzie’s fault. Moz was just playing the end-game that Neal had started all of those years ago.
But Neal thought he had just a small right to be bitter. Moz was relaxing on a private island somewhere – in the Caribbean, or maybe the Indian Ocean. Sipping Chateau Petrus and Screaming Eagle and Stags Leap and not having a care in the world. While he was here, in solitary confinement, for the rest of his natural life. No possibility of parole. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.
He wasn’t in solitary for discipline. He was here because living in Gen Pop would earn him a shiv between his ribs after a beat-down or gang rape. Or maybe both. After all, Neal Caffrey was a famous snitch who once had his very own desk at the FBI.
A guard rapped on the bars of his cell. “You have a visitor.” Neal knew the rules all too well. He turned and put his palms flat against the wall, legs spread as wide as his shoulders before the guards opened his cell door. They shackled him, hands at his waist and his ankles no more than two feet apart.
The trip from his cell to the visitors’ room exhausted him. It was the farthest he’d walked in nearly six months. His hips hurt, his thighs and calves ached. He just wanted to sit down and not move for a while. But they didn’t take him to the general visitors’ room – the one with the two-inch Lexan dividers. Instead, he was brought to the room reserved for attorneys and law enforcement interviews.
Peter was waiting for him at the far end. His badge was prominently displayed on his belt. They hadn’t taken that from him after all.
Neal gave him a small smile. “Hey there.”
Peter didn’t respond, he just stood and stared at him. Neal met his eyes for just a moment – there was so much bitterness and anger there that he had to look away.
The silence deepened, unnerving Neal. He wanted to crack wise, to break the tension, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. A minute passed, then two. The clock on the wall, behind a rusty cage, ticked away.
Finally, Peter spoke.
“Moz is dead. His body washed up onto one of the Maldives. It looks like he got caught in a rip current. Or maybe he just walked into the sea and forgot to swim.”
Ahh – so he did go to the Indian Ocean. “Thank you for letting me know.” Neal wouldn’t grieve for Moz. Not now.
“We’ve recovered most of the treasure, too.”
“That’s good.” Neal didn’t allow himself to consider what that would mean for him. But Peter told him anyway.
“That doesn’t change anything. You’re here for life, where you deserve to be. You’re an accessory after the fact; you interfered with multiple Federal investigations. You used your position within the Bureau to avoid discovery. You impersonated an Interpol agent. You broke into my home, you looked me in the eye and lied about everything. You may not have escaped with the treasure, but your crimes are legion.”
Neal swallowed. He deserved this. “Peter, I’m sorry.”
“You know what? I don’t care. You’re sorry now – you’re always sorry when things don’t go as you’ve planned.”
He was right.
“You’re okay?” He had to ask.
“No, I’m not. They are letting me keep this…” Peter touched the badge at his waist “… for another two months, so I can get my full pension. But I’ve been stripped of all active responsibilities. My career is over. Thanks to you.”
“Peter, I’m sorry.”
“You may want to tender your so-sincere apologies to Diana, too. She’s been terminated.”
Neal shook his head. “You’re the one who brought her into this. You can’t lay that on me.”
“You’re wrong. I can. If you hadn’t …” Peter stopped himself. “You know what – it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over. It’s done.”
Neal tried to bury his face in his hand, but the shackles wouldn’t let him. At least he didn’t cry.
“I won’t be back. Ever.”
Neal closed his eyes and swallowed. “I understand.”
He sat there, docile, waiting for Peter to leave. He didn’t.
“It was all a con, wasn’t it?” The rage in Peter’s voice was devastating.
“What?” The question was reflexive; Neal knew exactly what Peter meant.
“Everything – from the beginning.”
“No, Peter. Of course it wasn’t.”
“I’m not talking about Kate and the music box. I’m talking about us.”
“I know. It wasn’t, Peter.” Maybe if he kept saying Peter’s name, this would all feel more real.
“You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t believe you.” A harsh bark of laughter accompanied that statement. “Forgive – perfect. Just perfect.”
Neal knew there was nothing he could say that would make Peter believe him. He had betrayed him, in word and thought and deed. “I understand. What I did … friends don’t do that to each other.”
“No, Caffrey, they don’t.”
The “Caffrey” hurt. Peter, who always used his first name like a talisman, hadn’t said it once.
Neal looked up at Peter, to memorize the face of the man who had put everything on the line for him, who tried to make him something more than he was. His friend. His only true friend.
“Goodbye, Peter.”
Peter didn’t look at him as he walked out.
The guards escorted Neal back to his cell. They removed the shackles and the door closed behind him. In the interval between then and now, the sun moved and the small block of light was mostly gone.
Neal sat down, reached for a pad and pen and started writing. The words flowed like they should have a year ago. Not a confession, but an apology. An explanation. A plea for forgiveness.
He set those pages aside, and began making a list. Items and locations, accounts, amounts. Origins and intentions. Everything was in code, but Peter would understand it.
By the time he’d finished, the lights on the cellblock tier were shutting down. Perfect.
In the dimness, Neal knotted his bed sheet and tossed it over the pipe running along the ceiling. He put the chair under the makeshift rope and stepped up. The noose was secure around his neck, tight under his chin, already choking him. Good.
Neal whispered a prayer for understanding, but no one heard the words: I wanted to stay. He kicked the back of the chair away and stepped out into oblivion.
FIN
Peter's story continues in End of My Heart's Endeavor
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey
Pairings:
Spoilers: All of Season 3, to date
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Death of major canon characters, suicide.
Word Count: ~1200
Summary: Neal is in prison for the rest of his life. Peter comes and pays one final visit.
A/N: I have my suspicions about the cliffhanger for the end of this part of Season 3, that it’s neither pretty, nor happy. In fact, it is downright depressing. A fill for my Hurt Comfort Bingo – Suicide Attempt. Beta’d by the incomparable
rabidchild67 . All mistakes are mine and mine alone.Neal looked out the small window. The wall was thick and he could barely see the sky. He got a sense of light, and nothing more. Maybe it was better not to look at all.
His cell was five wide, eight long and eight feet high, barely larger than a grave. And he was going to be here for the rest of his life.
He could have blamed Mozzie for this. After all, it was his friend who stole the Nazi treasure in the first place. It was Mozzie who substituted his canvasses for the real paintings. It was Moz who pushed and poked and prodded to sell the treasure and leave. Moz was the one who sold the Degas to buy a hit on Matthew Keller. Moz was the one who took it all and ran when Neal said he wanted to stay.
It wasn’t all Mozzie’s fault. Moz was just playing the end-game that Neal had started all of those years ago.
But Neal thought he had just a small right to be bitter. Moz was relaxing on a private island somewhere – in the Caribbean, or maybe the Indian Ocean. Sipping Chateau Petrus and Screaming Eagle and Stags Leap and not having a care in the world. While he was here, in solitary confinement, for the rest of his natural life. No possibility of parole. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.
He wasn’t in solitary for discipline. He was here because living in Gen Pop would earn him a shiv between his ribs after a beat-down or gang rape. Or maybe both. After all, Neal Caffrey was a famous snitch who once had his very own desk at the FBI.
A guard rapped on the bars of his cell. “You have a visitor.” Neal knew the rules all too well. He turned and put his palms flat against the wall, legs spread as wide as his shoulders before the guards opened his cell door. They shackled him, hands at his waist and his ankles no more than two feet apart.
The trip from his cell to the visitors’ room exhausted him. It was the farthest he’d walked in nearly six months. His hips hurt, his thighs and calves ached. He just wanted to sit down and not move for a while. But they didn’t take him to the general visitors’ room – the one with the two-inch Lexan dividers. Instead, he was brought to the room reserved for attorneys and law enforcement interviews.
Peter was waiting for him at the far end. His badge was prominently displayed on his belt. They hadn’t taken that from him after all.
Neal gave him a small smile. “Hey there.”
Peter didn’t respond, he just stood and stared at him. Neal met his eyes for just a moment – there was so much bitterness and anger there that he had to look away.
The silence deepened, unnerving Neal. He wanted to crack wise, to break the tension, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. A minute passed, then two. The clock on the wall, behind a rusty cage, ticked away.
Finally, Peter spoke.
“Moz is dead. His body washed up onto one of the Maldives. It looks like he got caught in a rip current. Or maybe he just walked into the sea and forgot to swim.”
Ahh – so he did go to the Indian Ocean. “Thank you for letting me know.” Neal wouldn’t grieve for Moz. Not now.
“We’ve recovered most of the treasure, too.”
“That’s good.” Neal didn’t allow himself to consider what that would mean for him. But Peter told him anyway.
“That doesn’t change anything. You’re here for life, where you deserve to be. You’re an accessory after the fact; you interfered with multiple Federal investigations. You used your position within the Bureau to avoid discovery. You impersonated an Interpol agent. You broke into my home, you looked me in the eye and lied about everything. You may not have escaped with the treasure, but your crimes are legion.”
Neal swallowed. He deserved this. “Peter, I’m sorry.”
“You know what? I don’t care. You’re sorry now – you’re always sorry when things don’t go as you’ve planned.”
He was right.
“You’re okay?” He had to ask.
“No, I’m not. They are letting me keep this…” Peter touched the badge at his waist “… for another two months, so I can get my full pension. But I’ve been stripped of all active responsibilities. My career is over. Thanks to you.”
“Peter, I’m sorry.”
“You may want to tender your so-sincere apologies to Diana, too. She’s been terminated.”
Neal shook his head. “You’re the one who brought her into this. You can’t lay that on me.”
“You’re wrong. I can. If you hadn’t …” Peter stopped himself. “You know what – it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over. It’s done.”
Neal tried to bury his face in his hand, but the shackles wouldn’t let him. At least he didn’t cry.
“I won’t be back. Ever.”
Neal closed his eyes and swallowed. “I understand.”
He sat there, docile, waiting for Peter to leave. He didn’t.
“It was all a con, wasn’t it?” The rage in Peter’s voice was devastating.
“What?” The question was reflexive; Neal knew exactly what Peter meant.
“Everything – from the beginning.”
“No, Peter. Of course it wasn’t.”
“I’m not talking about Kate and the music box. I’m talking about us.”
“I know. It wasn’t, Peter.” Maybe if he kept saying Peter’s name, this would all feel more real.
“You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t believe you.” A harsh bark of laughter accompanied that statement. “Forgive – perfect. Just perfect.”
Neal knew there was nothing he could say that would make Peter believe him. He had betrayed him, in word and thought and deed. “I understand. What I did … friends don’t do that to each other.”
“No, Caffrey, they don’t.”
The “Caffrey” hurt. Peter, who always used his first name like a talisman, hadn’t said it once.
Neal looked up at Peter, to memorize the face of the man who had put everything on the line for him, who tried to make him something more than he was. His friend. His only true friend.
“Goodbye, Peter.”
Peter didn’t look at him as he walked out.
The guards escorted Neal back to his cell. They removed the shackles and the door closed behind him. In the interval between then and now, the sun moved and the small block of light was mostly gone.
Neal sat down, reached for a pad and pen and started writing. The words flowed like they should have a year ago. Not a confession, but an apology. An explanation. A plea for forgiveness.
He set those pages aside, and began making a list. Items and locations, accounts, amounts. Origins and intentions. Everything was in code, but Peter would understand it.
By the time he’d finished, the lights on the cellblock tier were shutting down. Perfect.
In the dimness, Neal knotted his bed sheet and tossed it over the pipe running along the ceiling. He put the chair under the makeshift rope and stepped up. The noose was secure around his neck, tight under his chin, already choking him. Good.
Neal whispered a prayer for understanding, but no one heard the words: I wanted to stay. He kicked the back of the chair away and stepped out into oblivion.
Peter's story continues in End of My Heart's Endeavor
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-08-05 01:40 am (UTC)Good job.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-05 02:26 pm (UTC)Thank you so much.