White Collar Fic - Another Country

[elrhiarhodan]

Title: Another Country
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Mozzie, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, June Ellington, Sara Ellis. P/E/N, Peter/Neal
Spoilers: 2.14 – Payback, 3.16 – Judgment Day
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~9200
Summary: Despite the address, Paris is not his home. But it could be with the right people.

A/N: Thank you to rabidchild67 for the idea to set this in Paris, and to give me a connection back to June. Thank you to elainasaunt for the information about the 7th arrondissement in Paris.

Cheerleading and Beta credit: coffeethyme4me. Words really cannot express my gratitude to this lovely woman – I was stalled so many times I didn’t think I could finish it. She held my hand, encouraged me and made this story what it was. Thank you, dearest.

One final note. There have been quite a few excellent fix-it and episode tags for Judgment Day, including this one - The Mended Heart, by my pal rabidchild67. There are a few similarities between her fic and mine. Other than RC’s original suggestion about setting this in Paris, we didn’t collab or confer at all. There’s a reason why RC is my braintwin.

__________________



Prologue

Neal stretched in well-pleasured satiation and encountered a hard, muscled leg. Not surprising in a bedroom filled with the scent of sex and clean sheets. But it was time to leave. He tossed back the covers and got up.

“Where are you going, Caffrey?” The owner of that leg muttered, grabbed him by the waist and tried to pull back into bed.

“I should go.” He didn’t want to, but there would be too many problems if he stayed.

"No you don't. Stay."

Elizabeth sat up, probably woken by their conversation, and turned on the light. “What’s the matter?”

“I need to leave.”

“Neal was just coming back to bed.”

Neal and Peter spoke over each other. El gave them both exasperated looks.

“Neal – it’s okay for tonight. We want you to stay.” Peter ran a reassuring hand down his arm. “Tonight – you stay.”

Neal had to smile at the command. “If you’re sure?” This time, he let Peter pull him back into his arms.

“Yes – for tonight.”

Neal relaxed against that beloved body, relishing the heat. Elizabeth leaned over Peter and kissed him. The room fell back into darkness, but Neal couldn’t sleep. This night was a moment out of time, a perfect counterpoint to a day that could have ended in tragedy. Neal tightened his hold on Peter and met Elizabeth’s fingers, her touch a benediction.

Neal has never expected to be here – not in this bed – despite his dreams. This afternoon, watching the reunion of husband and wife, his body still been warm from Peter’s spontaneous embrace, he considered the possibility that could ever be part of that magic circle very dim.

Neal timed his departure with Burkes as the left the office after Peter’s debrief. He joined them in the elevator, not knowing exactly what he wanted. What he ended up with was an invitation to dinner. He demurred; didn’t they want to celebrate Peter’s safe recovery without a fifth wheel?

But El was insistent. They ate Chinese food and drank plenty of terrible wine. Neal told stories of his alleged exploits in the South of France and kept everyone laughing. After the table was cleaned, the last of the wine poured and the dog let out, Neal got up to go. Peter stood up, too, blocking his path. There was an unreadable expression on his face, it frightened him a little.

Neither man moved.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Kiss him already.” El instructed with a laugh.

Years later, Neal and Peter would probably argue about who El was talking to, but in truth, it didn’t matter. That first kiss was hot and brutal, so much pent up longing wasn’t going to be satisfied in the contact of lips and tongues. But it was a start.

There were hands everywhere, clothes everywhere and Neal had no coherent memory of how the three of them made it upstairs and into bed. Hours passed in an orgy of delight, but in the back of Neal’s mind was the knowledge that this wasn’t the start of something.

This was a gift from all of them to each other. This bed, this room, was another country where the three of them were not bound by laws and obligations and rules. It would be a long time, if ever, before they could all come back.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Now

Neal tossed the book onto the table with a little too much force. It slid across the polished wood and landed on the floor with a definite thunk.

Moz looked up from the copy of Paris-Match he was perusing, irritation warring with concern. “Neal – why can’t you just relax and be happy?”

“I thought we weren’t going to use the old names anymore, Bob.”

“In public, yeah – but I’m sorry. You’re never going to be ‘Victor’ to me.”

Neal tried to be happy, but he was failing miserably. In the six months since they fled New York, he and Moz had tried to make a go of life on Fiji. That lasted for less than a month; there was only so much sun and surf and sand they could take. Neal was bored in a week, it took Moz another ten days to join him in that state. Santorini was a little better, but not much. Capri was simply awful.

One day, they looked at each other and laughed. It was time to give up on a life of sun and surf and sand. They were city dwellers, urban sophisticates to the core. Tropical paradise was good for a while, but not forever - at least for them. Moz made a call, to the only person back in New York who he trusted. Three days later, they relocated to Paris, quite possibly for the rest of their lives. And it was a life to be lived in urban splendor: the entire top floor of a Lavirotte building in the 7th arrondissement, courtesy of J&B Ellington Properties.

He had thought that living under the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, in an apartment building straight out of the fin de siècle, would have really been paradise. Surrounded by fine wine, food, culture, art with plenty of money to enjoy the good life – free of his shackle and responsibilities – should have been heaven. But it wasn’t.

Freedom wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Especially since this freedom wasn’t really freedom. It was a half-life of lies and fear – just what he had always worried that a life on the run would be like. It wasn’t fun, not the way it had been before Peter caught him, and then caught him again. Those days were long gone and he didn’t want them back. Moz might have espoused a “don’t worry, be happy” philosophy, but Neal couldn’t shake off the sick panic whenever he heard sirens approach, or as he walked past a uniformed police officer.

And worse than the fear was the grief for everything he left behind.

The loneliness and all the minutiae of living an anonymous life were almost unbearable. Forever rolling over and finding the bed empty. No one to touch him in casual intimacy. No one to fight and fence with, to love and be loved in all the ways he had learned, in all the ways he’d been taught.

He hadn’t lied to Peter; New York was his home and he had the life he always wanted. If his past had made the old, cherished dream of a career in law enforcement impossible, his work with Peter and the Bureau had made a part of that dream reachable. Now it was gone. In the blink of an eye, the slightest nod of Peter’s head, the stiff, angry posture as he faced down his old mentor, he read Peter’s signal. Run. Go now and don’t look back.

It was ironic that Peter’s unspoken message was their last moment of intimacy.

“You’re moping.” Moz sat down next to him.

“Sorry – don’t mean to drag you down with me. It’s just …” Neal swallowed, he didn’t want to say any more.

“You miss the Suit.” The pause was telling, or maybe Neal was projecting. “And Mrs. Suit. Even the Demi-Suits.”

Neal looked at his hands and whispered, “Yeah.” Moz didn’t need to know just how much he missed Peter and Elizabeth.

“He told you to run.”

“I know – but maybe I should have stayed, waited for the parole board’s decision. If they commuted my parole, Kramer would have had a hard time holding me.”

“Were you prepared for that legal battle? To deal with the consequences when Kramer fought dirty?”

All of those consequences were like millstones around his neck. “No.”

“Peter knew that. Why do you think he called and told me what had happened? He wanted you safe.”

Neal had no answer. He got up and wandered through the apartment, out onto the terrace. This apartment, overlooking some of the grandest rooftops in Paris, had much in common with his place in New York. It was elegant and comfortable; for all that it was three times the size. Part of him felt right at home; maybe it was knowing that June was his landlady here, too. She owned this floor, and the apartment that took up the entire floor below. According to Moz, she and Byron had owned the two floors since the early 1970s – though it was unclear if Byron had won the properties in a high stakes poker game, or bought them as an investment. Regardless, Neal was just grateful for her largesse.

But he just couldn’t help but wish that he could trade the view of the Eiffel Tower for one of the Chrysler Building.

Moz joined him, wine glass in hand. “I know it’s difficult. You didn’t want to run, you didn’t want to leave, but you had no choice. I get that – I’ve been there, you know.”

Neal wanted to apologize; he hadn’t forgotten his friend’s sad childhood – so much worse than his own. “It’s just – I was so close. It was like a dream come true.” He laughed, the truth was as bitter as gall. “Isn’t that the story of my life? Always this close. What was it that you once told me? ‘Happily ever after isn’t for guys like us’?”

“Neal – I’m sorry. I wish things could have worked out differently. I do – but it’s the past. You can’t change what happened, you can only move forward.”

“No pithy quote for me?”

Moz gave him a sad smile. “No, my friend. Not this time.”

They watched the sun set. April in Paris was such a cliché, but there was something to be said for the light. Maybe he’d start painting for real – it would be better than doing nothing all day.

“You sure you don’t want a cut of the action on that little job I told you about?”

Neal turned to Moz – it wasn’t fair what he did to his friend. In a semi-ironic commentary on his longing for the oft-denied tropical paradise, Moz had grown a scruffy beard and taken to wearing Hawaiian shirts. At least it was a full beard, and not the goatee he had sported when they first met. The shirts were simply hideous.

“I don’t think so.”

“Gordon asked for you specifically.”

“No, Moz. It’s better if I don’t.”

Moz ducked his head. “Okay – but let me know if you change your mind.”

Neal didn’t respond, and the silence lengthened.

“I heard from June this morning.” Moz threw out the conversational gambit.

“Oh – how is she?”

“Good. She misses me.” At Neal’s slight laugh, he added. “She misses you too. Or so she implied.” Neal laughed. “She asked for a favor, though.”

“Whatever she wants,” Neal promised absently. The last light of the day was a blazing corona behind the copper mansard roofs that defined the neighborhood.

“New tenants are moving into the apartment downstairs. She’d like one of us to do the meet and greet.”

“We’re the Welcome Wagon?”

“Apparently. Bring them some wine, a few pastries, say hello.”

“Bon jour, Moz. It’s Paris.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved a hand at Neal’s correction. “June said that they’re American, newly minted ex pats. First time living abroad.”

“We have to hold their hands? Take them out for absinthe and show them all the dissolute nightspots?”

“No, no – just be friendly. Sociable. You’d like doing that, being such a people person. Besides, they probably have money if they can afford to live here.”

“So do we, now.”

Moz shrugged. “Old habits.” The silence grew as the last light disappeared. “They’re moving in next week. I suggest a bottle of 2007 Cristal. Champagne is always good.” When Neal didn’t answer, he made an alternate suggestion, “Or maybe a Cabernet Sauvignon – perhaps the 2008 Screaming Eagle?”

That did catch Neal’s attention. “Don’t you think a two thousand dollar bottle of wine is a little much? We don’t need to ingratiate ourselves with the new neighbors that well. Cristal will be fine.”

“Just one thing – I’m going to be out of town. Will be away for the next few days. That thing with Gordon in the Antibes.”

“Ah, okay. I’ll take care of it.” Neal went back inside. He didn’t need to admire this skyline anymore. Another day was over, another day survived.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Six Months Ago

Peter sat on the park bench outside the office building on Greene Street, watching the Marshals scramble. He was numb, but unfortunately that numbness wouldn’t last. He’d go home tonight, hold on to El and try not to cry at the loss of his dreams.

He’d fail miserably.

It didn’t take a psychic to see the future. He’d endure hours of interrogation by the Marshals, by OPR, by the Justice Department. Where’s Neal Caffrey, why did he run? What do you know? You have to tell us.

Peter had no qualms about putting the blame for Neal’s disappearance on Kramer, and it was quite possible that he had enough friends in the Justice Department to shut Kramer and his little vendetta down. But that wouldn’t bring Neal back. He panicked and he sent Neal away to keep him safe.

At least he had Moz with him. As crazy as the little guy was, Moz was the only person he trusted to make sure that Neal didn’t come back. Yet. Ever.

“Petey, what did you do?”

He never wanted to hear that voice again - that breathy, semi-whisper made his skin crawl. “Don’t call me that – you aren’t my friend.”

“You’d risk your career over this felon? No – not the Archeologist. Not the brightest agent I ever worked with. I did this for you – you were violating everything we stand for by covering for him. ”

Disgusted by Kramer’s rationalizations, Peter stood up and turned to walk away, but turned back. “No – what you did was for yourself, your own twisted satisfaction. And you know something? I don’t have to explain myself to you. I don’t have to talk to you. And god willing, I won’t ever have to see you again.”

“You’re risking a full OPR investigation – this could mean your badge, your job. Doesn’t that matter to you?”

Peter understood the threat. He walked away, that should be answer enough for the old vulture.


Five Months Ago

“It is the decision of this Board of Inquiry that Peter Burke be cleared of all charges.” The agent in charge pushed the envelope containing his badge and gun across the table and smiled. “Welcome back, Agent Burke.”

Kramer had thrown a lot of mud at him, tried to convince anyone who’d listen that Peter was complicit in covering dozens of crimes committed by Neal Caffrey, and worse. He told OPR that Peter had aided him in his flight and he knew where he was; that he was continuing to conceal Neal’s whereabouts.

The very expensive lawyer he hired did a good job making sure none of the mud stuck and the OPR investigation went nowhere. Peter coasted through three days of questioning; he answered honestly and truthfully and found he couldn’t care about the outcome. Nothing was ever going to be right again.

Peter took the envelope, thanked the Board and left.

El, Diana and Clinton were waiting for him, all sporting similar nervous expressions. He smiled and they relaxed. He swept El up in a hug and she whispered in his ear, “You okay?”

He whispered back, “No, but that’s all right.”

Diana tugged at him. “Come on, boss. Time enough for the marital shenanigans. We want to take you to lunch.”

Peter looked at her and Clinton. Both of them had weathered the storm with all the grace and professionalism he expected. It also didn’t hurt that they subtly stonewalled the Marshals’ office each time they came sniffing around. He was grateful enough – and showing anything less than complete happiness at the restoration of his career wouldn’t be fair.

Lunch was pleasant; he kissed El and went back to work for the first time in a month. For the first time since the last day. Since he lost everything that mattered.

He stepped into the office and just before the staff mobbed him, he saw Neal’s desk. But it wasn’t Neal’s anymore. There was a probie sitting there, so bright and shining and new that it hurt to look at her. So he didn’t. Peter spent a few minutes with each member of his team, and retreated to his office. There was a pile of mail on his desk and small file box on his chair. The box was oddly weighted, both heavy and light. He opened it – it was Neal’s stuff: the marble bust of Socrates, his collection of ties, a sketchpad and boxes of drawing supplies. Peter swallowed hard, put the lid back on and slid the box under his desk.

Time to get back to work.


Four Months Ago

“Sara – you’re looking good.” She did, except when you looked closely. There was a touch of sadness there, a hurt that still hadn’t faded. He knew the feeling all too well.

“Thank you, Peter. And thanks for coming by.”

“What’s up?”

Sara didn’t answer right away; instead she toyed with some papers on her desk. The light dawned. “You’ve heard from him, haven’t you?” Neal

Sara looked up, startled. “Oh, no. No, I haven’t. Why would you think that?”

“Hmmm – the urgent request for a meeting, your fidgeting…” He waved a hand at her desk.

Sara sighed, a tight smile twisting her lips. “Sorry – I wish I had. But if I did, we wouldn’t meet here.”

You never know who’s listening. Peter leaned back in the chair, he really wasn’t in a hurry to get back to the office. “So, why am I here?”

“You remember my boss, Winston Bosch?”

“Yeah – of course I do.” The man had saved Neal from a lifelong stay in hell. Well, not saved him – just delayed the inevitable.

“He hasn’t stopped talking about you. Always asking about you. Curious if I’ve seen you, wants to know how you’re doing. You really impressed him.”

Peter was a little shocked. He’d spent about fifteen minutes in the man’s company. “I didn’t realize I made such an impression on him.”

Sara grinned. “You saved him and the company a lot of money, Peter. A lot more than you realize.”

“How?”

“The Raphael.”

He blinked, not following.

“You know the company donated the painting to the Smithsonian, right?”

Peter vaguely recalled the news. It wasn’t something he wanted to think about too much.

“It was officially appraised for more than $150 million dollars.”

Now it made sense. “That’s quite a tax write off.”

“Yeah.” Sara nodded, a big grin on her face. “He’s taken to calling the revised five-year forecast ‘The FBI’s Most Wanted’.” She laughed. “It’s silly – but this is insurance, and you take your chuckles when you can.”

Peter smiled. The muscles felt tight and awkward, unused. “So – what does this have to do with me?”

“Winston wants to meet with you. Today, if you have the time.”

Peter shrugged. “Sure, why not?” It wasn’t as if he was eager to get back to the Bureau. He followed Sara through the elegant, hushed hallways into a large, impressively decorated reception area. An older woman with a kind smile greeted them. “He’s in his office, waiting for you.”

Sara breezed through the doors; she was obviously no stranger to this particular executive suite.

Winston Bosch was just as he remembered, grey haired, doughy around the middle, but eyes as sharp as lasers. Not a man to cross or toy with. They sat, made small talk until the coffee arrived. It was French roast, not Italian. Maybe someday he’d regain his taste for that.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I asked Sara to bring you here.”

“I am curious, naturally.”

“Yes, naturally. An FBI agent would be naturally curious about a lot of things.”

“Does Sterling Bosch have a problem?”

The man seemed startled. “Oh, no. Not in the least – not that I’m aware of. I let my general counsel’s office take care of problems that would require the Bureau’s attention.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Direct – I like that about you.”

Peter flicked a glance over at Sara. Her hair had fallen across her face, and he couldn’t read anything from her posture.

Winston sat back, reminding Peter of a very satisfied predator. “What would you say if I offered you a job?”

Peter was about to give his standard reply. This wasn’t the first or second or third time he’d been offered a civilian job, and he wasn’t counting the times that the offer came from the targets of criminal investigations. But something stopped him.

“You’re intrigued, Agent Burke?”

“I think, under the circumstances, you should call me Peter.”

Bosch gave him a rather shark-like grin. Peter couldn’t help but return it with one of his own. “I’m listening.”

“We have an opening – or we will have one – in the C-suite of our European headquarters. I think you’d be a good fit for the position.”

Peter sipped his coffee, trying to cover his surprise. “You don’t want to promote from within?”

“I’d like to set a cat among those fat, French pigeons. Most of the management in the European branch is residue from an acquisition and a shake-up is in order.” Bosch muttered something unflattering about the French business mentality.

Peter didn’t comment.

“I see that you’re not rejecting the offer out of hand. Sara thought you might.”

He considered his reply. “The offer is intriguing.” That was the truth.

“Hmmm, a nice, carefully neutral answer.”

Peter just smiled.

Bosch handed Peter a leather-bound folder. “This may help you make up your mind.”

He opened it, and schooled his expression. The offer was impressive. “I will need to think about this, discuss it with my wife.”

“Take your time, Peter. Talk with your wife, talk to Sara – she’ll tell you all about what it’s like to work for Sterling Bosch. How we operate.” He got up, signaling the end to the meeting. Sara walked with him to the elevators.

“I’m surprised, Peter.”

“That I didn’t turn down the offer?”

“Yeah – I always thought you’d be one of those agents who’d be with the Bureau until they had to cart you away, feet first.”

He shook his head. “Not anymore.”

Three Months Ago

There was a lightness about him, a feeling like he was about to float away. No badge and gun to weigh him down anymore. There was sadness, too - this was the end of a long chapter in his life. But it wasn’t a tragic feeling. He had resigned on his own terms, with his reputation intact. He was surprised, given his previous level of apathy, how much that really did matter to him.

But none of that made Peter regret this decision. It was time to go, especially since staying was killing him by inches. He picked up the last box - the one that had been tucked under his desk for the last three months. He looked at it, closed his eyes and just took the lid off. Quickly, so he didn’t have to see what else was inside, he added his mug, the picture of him and El, and the glass apple that had graced his workspace for most of the last twenty years.

That was it.

“I can’t believe you’re really going, boss.”

Diana stood in the doorway; she looked like she was going to bar him from leaving.

“Not ‘boss’ anymore, Di.”

“Don’t say that - you’ll always be my boss.”

Peter hefted the box. “I will always be your friend.”

“My friend, who’s going to be three thousand miles away from here.” Diana didn’t bother to mask her distress.

“They have telephones in Paris. Cell phones and the Internet, too. And I’m not leaving New York for another couple of months anyway.”

“It won’t be the same.”

“No, Di - it won’t. But things change. They have to.”

“How many times did you have to tell yourself that before you believed it?” She folded her arms across her chest, blocking the way out.

Peter didn’t try to push past her, and she finally stepped aside. He looked out over the bullpen. These were the finest men and women he had ever worked with and leaving them was wrenching in ways that leaving the Bureau was not. Someone must have noticed him standing on the balcony, because everyone suddenly stood up and started clapping. Peter closed his eyes, trying and failing to stop the sudden rush of tears.

Diana gently eased the box out of his hands. Peter didn’t bother to wipe away the moisture on his cheeks. He went downstairs to say goodbye. The staff was lined up like a gauntlet.

Or an honor guard.

Two Months Ago

There was something to be said for the endless flow of tiny cups of incredible coffee. Like how all that concentrated caffeine kept him wired and hyper-alert through the near-endless series of boring meetings. Okay, not all of the meetings were boring and despite the fact that this was insurance, his days weren’t dull or routine.

It was just different, and he had to get used to it. Like when he went from being a highly regarded minor league prospect to a Harvard undergraduate, from spending his days on the playing field to spending days in the classroom. Peter didn’t want to think about such transition being easier when you’re eighteen years old. Just because he was forty-eight didn’t mean he couldn’t learn new tricks.

He checked his watch, it was close to one and Sara was on the books for lunch. He’d been here for three weeks and this was the first time they were meeting. She was out of town on his first day, and honestly, he didn’t think it would be good office politics to spend too much time with her. But yesterday, she had asked his assistant to put her on his calendar and he couldn’t think of any reason to say no.

It was surprising that she asked to meet him at Madison Square Park, especially in the middle of February, but there were plenty of good restaurants in the neighborhood. The brisk walk took ten minutes. Sara was waiting for him near the southern fountain, her flame-red hair unmistakable even at a distance.

“Peter –” She held out her hands in greeting. “How are you?”

“Good - and cold.” He kept his hands deep in his pockets, his body stiff against the icy wind.

“Sorry about this. But I didn’t want to talk with you in the office.”

His heart sank and soared at the same time. “You’ve heard from him.” That wasn’t a question.

She nodded.

“You can’t tell me this, Sara.”

“You’re not a lawman anymore, Peter. And before you ask, I don’t know where he is. He popped up on my Skype two nights ago. I cleared my internet history and did a DOD-level wipe of the free space.”

He closed his eyes, torn. He had to ask. “How is he?”

“Hard to tell - he looked tired, sad. Not ill, but not well.”

Peter nodded, digesting this information. “What did he say?” Did he ask about me?

“He didn’t say much - just that he wanted to let me know that he was okay.” She paused, twisting her gloved hands. “He asked me how you were doing. I didn’t know what to say - so I just said that you were fine, as far as I knew.”

Peter didn’t know what to feel. “Thanks, Sara. You did the right thing.”

“He also asked me to give you a message if I could.”

He was afraid to ask, but he couldn’t stop himself. “What – what was the message?”

Sara looked like she was going to cry. “ ‘Thank you.’ He asked me to tell you that.”

One Month Ago

The house was in a state of never-ending chaos, boxes everywhere. They were renting it out to a nice family from London, and all of their personal stuff had to be put in storage. Poor Satchmo had taken to hiding in the bathroom, it was the only place where he could lay claim to undisturbed space.

It didn’t help matters that the apartment provided by Sterling-Bosch – the one in the 8th arrondissement within walking distance to the offices – was mysteriously unavailable. The department responsible for his transfer had leased a replacement – rather inexplicably in La Défense, the business district several miles from the heart of Paris. But the problem wasn’t the distance, but the quality. It wasn’t so much an apartment as a prison cell with locks on the inside of the door.

Winston, of course, was all apologies and promised that heads would roll, but that didn’t solve the problem. He didn’t have time to apartment hunt, and El was tied up with winding up the transfer of management of Burke Premier Events to Yvonne and overseeing the packing.

It was close to eight when the company limo dropped him off (something he’d come to enjoy very quickly). He was surprised to find a familiar Bentley Continental parked on the street. June was an unexpected, but welcome guest. El was sitting with her at the island, surrounded by dozens of boxes. He greeted his wife with a kiss and gave June a hug. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

She gave him an enigmatic smile. “Oh, I was in the neighborhood, visiting old friends. I thought I’d stop by.”

Peter wanted to take her words at face value, but June was a queen among con artists and rarely without an agenda. And still…

“I was just telling June about the debacle with our housing in Paris.” El interrupted his train of thought.

Peter shrugged. “It won’t be so bad. The company’s putting us up at the Concorde-La Fayette until we can find an apartment.”

“The company’s putting you up, Peter. I’m not going until we have settled the housing problem. I’m not putting Satchmo through that.”

This had been the one sticking point. Elizabeth wasn’t leaving their dog behind, but she demanded that the transition be as easy for him as possible. They hadn’t really argued about that, although Peter had half-heartedly suggested that maybe they should leave Satch with her sister in Westchester or his parents in Syracuse. El dismissed the suggestions almost before the words were out his mouth. So the plan was for Peter to find them an apartment, and El would follow with Satchmo once everything was settled.

“Maybe I could help.” June interrupted.

Peter wondered about the smile she was trying to hide. “How?”

“I was just about to tell Elizabeth. I have some property in Paris – including a vacant apartment near the Eiffel Tower.”

He shook his head. “Why am I not surprised?”

She raised an elegant eyebrow at him. “That I have property in Paris?”

“No, that you are still in the fairy-godmother business.”

The tilt of the head and a sparkle in her eyes told him that something was up, but this was June. And something was always up.

“Anyway – the apartment is yours if you want it.”

El asked, because Peter couldn’t. “Is it as nice as – ” She stumbled over the name. “As nice as Neal’s?”

“Even nicer.” She turned to Peter. “Have your office contact me; we’ll get everything squared away.”

Peter agreed, as thoroughly bemused as he was the first time he had met her. And that memory reminded him of other first meetings, other losses.

June got up, and hugged them both. “We’ll have dinner before you go – right?” It wasn’t so much an invitation as a command.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Now

It was Saturday (not that that made any difference) and Neal would have slept through the day, if it wasn’t for Mozzie’s persistent text messaging. The man had changed the settings on his phone, adding an alert sound so obnoxious that it couldn’t be ignored. Neal wouldn’t put the phone on mute, though. Mozzie was only other person in the world who had this number, and he was so starved for contact that the thought of missing even one message was unbearable.

Don’t forget to go greet the new neighbors. No excuses.

The reminder came every few hours. Moz was looking out for him, giving him something to do other than mope. He showered and dressed. And on the theory that he’d feel better if he looked good, Neal went for the full Caffrey and donned one of his favorite suits. The black Devore – not the one he had worn on that last day – but one of the suits that June had shipped to Paris via Los Angeles, Hong Kong and Stockholm after they had settled in. It was a pity that he had left his favorite ties in the office.

That thought caused a sharp pang in his heart. Neal stood there and tried his damnedest not to think about what Peter was doing right now, wondering how he had managed with the inevitable OPR investigation, the Board of Inquiry. How Jones and Diana were doing. He missed them, he missed that life like he’d miss an amputated limb.

Neal put on a tie selected at random, grabbed his trilby and left the apartment for the first time since Moz took off for the job with Gordon. At least he had something to do today: buy a bottle of Champagne, some flowers, a few pastries, and welcome the new neighbors. Maybe he’d take them out to dinner, if only to avoid spending another night alone.

Neal had a game he liked to play. He didn’t indulge himself too often; otherwise the pleasure might grow stale. He called it “My Day With Peter and Elizabeth.” The first time he played, they were in Fiji. Moz was body surfing and Neal was relaxing on the beach, fruity cocktail at his right hand, book at his left. But in his head, it was Peter and El on either side of him. Or maybe El was in the middle at they were both applying sun block to her fair skin. Moz broke the fantasy when he came stumbling up the beach and dripped water all over him.

Today, though, was a perfect day to play. His lovers were by his side as he walked the streets of Paris. It was so easy to indulge himself and let the fantasy grow deeper and deeper as he made his way through the markets. He forgot he was pretending as he bought the makings of a meal fit for royalty – or his lovers. It wasn’t until he left the pastry shop with boxes of petit fours, macaroons and a small chocolate gateau that Neal came to his senses.

The food wouldn’t go to waste. Moz would be home in a day or two and would appreciate the effort. He wouldn’t even ask why Neal had gone to such extravagance.

He stored the food, took the pastries and the wine and went down to greet the new neighbors.

Neal knocked and waited - but no one answered. He could hear someone moving around, so he knocked again and called out a greeting. There was definitely someone there.

The door flew open and Neal forgot how to breathe.

It was Peter.

He blinked and it was still Peter.

There was the tiniest moment of fear, but it was snuffed by the overwhelming wave of joy. Neal didn’t know who moved first. Did he drop the stupid flowers and Champagne and cake and reach for Peter or did Peter pull him into his arms, sending everything flying. It didn’t matter.

Peter was here, in Paris and nothing would ever be wrong with the world again.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

June wasn’t kidding when she said this place was nice.

Peter wasn’t often impressed by things. In his twenty years with the Bureau, he’d seen too many multimillion dollar homes that were facades for crooks, liars and thieves. But this was very nice. And it was his. His and Elizabeth’s and Satchmo’s for the foreseeable future. There were silk sheets and eider down pillows. The furnishings were beautiful without being intimidating. It was all surprisingly comfortable and elegant, much like June’s home in New York.

He had arrived early yesterday evening, his fourth trip to Paris since he had started with Sterling Bosch. It was going to be the last transatlantic flight for a while; he was taking over the European operations on Monday. El was still in New York – there was a hold-up on her visa and the delay meant that Satchmo’s paperwork from the vet would have to be redone. Peter had been assured that the problem would be resolved by next week, but he couldn’t reschedule his start here in Paris. Ironically, El and Satch were staying with June until they could come, although not in the top floor apartment. That would be too much for El, too many memories.

He’d survive without them for a little while. Peter told himself that it was really no different from when El had been working on the West Coast for weeks on end.

Peter wandered around the apartment, making mental lists of things to do in the few days he had before starting work. Maybe he’d play tourist, checking out the best places before El arrived. He looked out the floor-to-ceiling window. The view was spectacular and distracting and he couldn’t stop the thought - Neal would love this place.

He sighed. It seemed that Neal’s ghost was going to haunt him wherever he was.

There was a knock on the door, and Peter couldn’t imagine who would be calling. The part of him that would always be an FBI agent wished he had his gun, and the reasonable man that he was wanted to give himself a swift kick in the pants for being so paranoid.

Whoever it was knocked again and actually called out a greeting. “Hello, new neighbors! Welcome to Paris.”

No. No. The familiar voice was not familiar. Could not be familiar. Should not be familiar. He was hearing things, he had to be. Peter checked the peephole and stepped back from the door, heart racing. Shocked.

He looked through the peephole again. It was Neal, carrying an armful of flowers, a wine bottle and a collection of pastry boxes. Peter now understood June’s smile.

He opened the door and Neal looked up, that practiced smile fragmenting into startled fear. They stood on either side of the portal, separated by mere inches. Peter waited - he was filled with the need to pull Neal into his arms and never let him go. And it was worth the wait - second by second, the fear was replaced with joy. Neal dropped everything and flung himself into his arms, chanting his name like a prayer.

They clung to each other, cheek pressing against cheek. Peter closed his eyes, letting the scent and sound and feel of Neal Caffrey take him over. He cupped Neal’s head in his hands, threading fingers through those curls and held him close. “I’ve missed you. You have no idea how much I have missed you, Neal. Nothing has been the same since you left.”

Neal was shaking and Peter stepped back to look at him. He was crying, great and terrible sobs. Peter held him close, murmuring sounds of comfort and reassurance. “Shhh, shhh, it’s all right, it’s all right now.” Peter felt his own tears rise with the joy of having Neal in his arms. As long as you’re here, it will never be wrong again.

The storm passed as quickly as it rose, and Neal took a shuddering breath. Their eyes met and Peter could see the fear return.

“How long have I got?” Neal licked his lips, clearly nervous. “How long before you need to put the cuffs on and take me back?”

Peter smiled, he couldn’t help himself. “No cuffs. You have all the time in the world.”

“I don’t – don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“I’m not here to arrest you, Neal.” Peter shivered; the statement was an unconscious echo of Neal’s words to him so long ago.

“I still don’t understand.”

“I’m a civilian now.”

Neal’s expression changed from confusion to one of anger and contrition as he misconstrued Peter’s words. And Peter let him, for the moment. “I’m so sorry that they took away your badge. I never wanted that to happen. You shouldn’t have had to suffer for my mistakes.” Neal reached up at touched Peter’s cheek, still damp with tears.

“I didn’t lose my job. There was a Board of Inquiry, and Kramer –” Both men stiffened at the mention of that name. “He tried to do his best to have me fired. But the Board cleared me. I waited a month and resigned.”

“Why?” Neal asked in a shocked whisper. “You are Special Agent Peter Burke - you love your job.”

They moved into the living room and Peter pulled Neal down onto the couch with him. “I loved it, yes. But not anymore.” He swallowed. “Walking into the office everyday and knowing that you’d never be there, that we’d never have that again. I knew exactly what I was doing when I signaled you to run, and I’ll never regret it. But I couldn’t face an eternity working in that office without you.”

There was a grave expression on Neal’s face. “I am sorry - if I had known this would have happened, I never would have run. We could have fought Kramer, especially if they granted my commutation. I panicked - we both did. I should have stayed and fought.”

“No - I don’t think so. Philip Kramer is a wily son of a bitch, and possession is nine-tenths of the law. I don’t think I could have ever pried you loose from his clutches.” Peter held him close, resting his cheek on Neal’s head.

“But still - you lost everything to save me.”

“And you were worth it. You still are. There hasn’t been a day that’s gone by that I haven’t thought about you, that I haven’t missed you.” Peter licked his lips. “In every way.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal was shocked.

He didn’t think it was possible to be stunned more than he already was. That Peter was here, in Paris was unbelievable enough. He figured that June must have told him and conspired with Moz, which explained Moz’s insistence that he greet the new neighbors.

But for Peter to bring to even allude to that single, wonderful, unforgettable night, the most perfect night in his life, shattered him and filled him with more joy than he thought he could bear. He twisted in Peter’s arms and took a leap – more dangerous that any one he’d ever taken before. Tram cars and windows and awnings be damned. This was the rest of his life at stake.

He kissed Peter, something that he hadn’t dared to do outside of the sacred confines of the Burkes’ bedroom one hot summer night.

Into this kiss, Neal poured over a year’s worth of longing, nearly a decade’s worth of love, and all of the aching, terrible loneliness he had felt since the day he left New York. Peter tasted better than his dreams, better than his memory.

There was a brief moment, when Peter didn’t move, didn’t respond. Neal’s heart sank, but the moment passed and Peter – being Peter – took control. Their tongues met, touched and retreated and reengaged. It wasn’t a battle or a dance – there really were no metaphors for this coming together of bodies and souls.

Peter murmured, “I’ve needed you so very much.” The words filled all of the empty places in his soul, the cracks and fissures widened by loss and regret.

His reply was to deepen their kiss, to try to imprint himself on Peter’s soul, to glut himself on the taste and scent and feel of this man, who he had loved for so very long. There were no promises for the future, and whatever fates had brought Peter to him now would likely sweep him away too soon.

Arousal was fierce, swift and all-consuming, especially as Peter stripped him of his jacket and pulled at his vest and shirt. Buttons went flying and the sound of ripping fabric was startlingly loud.

“Sorry - sorry.” Peter’s apology was unnecessary; Neal would have rent everything he owned to shreds if it meant having those hands on his skin.

They grappled with clothing between kisses. Peter bit his lower lip - not too hard, but hard enough to make him gasp in pleasure. His reaction didn’t go unnoticed.

“You liked that?”

“I want … I want …” Neal couldn’t get the words out.

“What do you want, Neal? Tell me.” The question was implacable, a command that had to be obeyed at all costs.

“I want –” Neal paused, he had to look at Peter, he had to see those eyes, the honesty of Peter’s reaction. “I want to wear your mark.” He froze, uncertain of how his wish would be received.

Peter gasped, eyes dilating with desire. “Jesus, Neal.” Peter’s erection jolted against his belly, and his own cock throbbed in response.

“Please.” Now that he said it, he had to have it, he would beg and beg and never regret it. The expressions flew across Peter’s face - lust and desire, even a touch of greedy satisfaction. But underneath everything, there was compassion, comprehension and love.

In a moment of utter trust and willing submission, Neal lifted his head, bearing his throat to Peter. Peter lowered his head, burying his face in his neck. The sensation of Peter breathing in the scent of his skin was intensely arousing, and Neal couldn’t stop the shiver that started at the soles of his feet and ended at the crown of his head. Peter pressed a small kiss at that spot where his shoulder met his throat – muscles and tendons pulled taut. Neal whimpered, impatient and anxious.

Peter bit him, hard. Neal screamed and came in a blinding rush, and Peter held on, hands bruising his hips, teeth claiming him, his own orgasm scalding both of them. It hurt, but for the first time in a very long time, the pain had a purpose.

He must have passed out from the joy. A hand was cupping his face and Neal opened his eyes. Believably, unbelievably, it was Peter. Neal reached up and touched him, he smiled and the worry that clouded that beloved face was chased away.

“Are you okay?”

“Never better.” Neal sat up and had to laugh. He was a total wreck; shirt ripped and hanging from his arms by the cuffs, vest torn open. His tie was probably road kill on the floor. And his pants... Well, wasn’t Paris the City of Love? He looked at Peter, with his own jizz-stained jeans and concern in his eyes, and happiness flooded through him again.

He stood up, or tried to. Peter steadied him.

“Would you like a shower?” What an ordinary question.

“Yes - if you’ll share it with me.” A smile broke out across Peter’s face, like the sunrise.

Peter bathed him, worshipping his skin from head to toe, taking special care with the beautiful bruise forming on his neck. But try as he might, he couldn’t get Peter to touch him where he really wanted, slapping his hand away each time he tried to direct it to his cock. Finally, Neal realized that Peter was teasing him, toying with him like a predator with his prey.

Peter turned him into a whimpering, begging thing before he finally put his hand on his cock and let him ride out his aching desire in that steady hand. Neal wanted to take Peter into his mouth and give him back some of the pleasure, but Peter hustled him out of the shower, into a soft terry robe and then to bed. He gave a single command, rest, and it was as if a spell was cast as he fell inexorably asleep. The last thing he felt was the gentle kiss on his forehead.


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Wrapped in his own robe, Peter sat and watched Neal sleep. He was still in a state of shock that Neal was here. He could call June for the details, but she’d laugh at him and tell him nothing like all the best fairy godmothers. He couldn’t help but wonder if the position with Sterling Bosch was a set up, but he dismissed the idea as soon as it formed. June may have fingers in a lot of different pies, but not that one. Her offer was pure serendipity, and he’d need substantial evidence to be convinced otherwise.

Neal shifted, bringing his attention back to the issue at hand. He felt himself smiling, the muscles in his face aching a little at the unfamiliar use. The sensation in the pit of his belly wasn’t the sourness of loss that dogged him for the last half a year, but the incandescent joy at their reunion.

The feelings were more complex that that. He couldn’t help but worry about what Neal had been up to since he disappeared. Mozzie was certainly in the vicinity, and if Mozzie was around, he was undoubtedly trying to rope Neal into some scheme or con. Peter wanted to trust that Neal was smart enough not to do anything stupid.

He was going to trust Neal. He had to.

Peter got up, more because sitting and watching Neal sleep made him want to wake Neal, to see those blue eyes fill with happiness. He hadn’t been so far gone that he didn’t see the signs of wear and tear on Neal’s face – he was too familiar with them. He’d seen them in the mirror, he saw them on Elizabeth. Loss had a way of doing that.

Wandering into the living room, Peter stopped and let his happiness take flight. How was he going to tell El about this new development? They both suspected that their cell phones were monitored, their home phone certainly was. Mail was checked, too and Peter didn’t want to risk a Skype session.

He’d talk about it with Neal, but if the immigration paperwork was finalized this week, he might just surprise her. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea.

Peter picked up the flowers that Neal had brought – a rather stunning collection of peonies and roses. The pastry boxes, tied with together with string, thankfully landed right side up, and a bottle of good Champagne had rolled under the table. Peter couldn’t stop the grin – trust Neal to go all out for strangers.

Peter’s stomach rumbled, reminding him of other appetites. The Champagne was still chilled and he opened the boxes. The fancy French pastries didn’t appeal, but he had a weakness for chocolate and the aroma was making his mouth water.

He heard the footsteps coming up from behind him and sighed as a pair of arms wrapped themselves around his waist.

“I wanted you to sleep. You looked like you needed to rest.”

“Hmmm, all I’ve been doing is resting since New York. Bored out of my mind with resting.”

Peter swallowed hard. That was his answer, no need to ask any further.

“Besides, I don’t want to waste a moment’s time with you.”

Peter turned to face Neal. “What do you mean?”

“You are going to be going back to New York soon.” Neal sighed. “I wish you could have brought El.” He looked up at Peter. “Why didn’t you bring Elizabeth? Is everything all right? Didn’t she want to see me? Is she angry at me for what happened? Didn’t she want to come to Paris?” The questions popped out of Neal in a panicked rush.

“Slow down, slow down. El’s fine – but you seem to be operating under a misunderstanding. I’m not in Paris on a vacation.”

“What?”

“Neal, why do you think I’m here?”

“Didn’t June tell you where I was? She’s the only one in New York who knows.” Neal’s lips curved in a sad smile. “She’s the only one.”

Peter ached for Neal and everything he lost that last terrible day. But he could give him this. “June has nothing to do with why I’m in Paris. I’m here permanently.”

“Peter?”

“I didn’t resign without a fallback position. Winston Bosch – ”

“Sara’s boss?”

“Yes – Sara’s boss – offered me a job as COO for their European branch. El and Satchmo should be here by the end of the week or early next, at the very latest.”

Neal stared at him, mouth opened. Peter couldn’t help himself and kissed him. Neal barely reacted. “What’s the matter?”

He licked his lips. “Every time I’ve come close to happiness, it’s been yanked away.”

Peter understood. He put his hands on Neal’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “I won’t let that happen. Trust me. You can do that, right?”

Neal nodded and smiled. “It’s just – after everything. To think that it was all gone – all my dreams gone – and to discover that they will be living just one floor down. It’s kind of hard to take in.”

Peter smiled and steered Neal towards the kitchen table. “We never got a chance to have cake.”

Neal laughed. “Yeah. But I did have plenty of rum for a while.” When Peter kissed him, he responded in a way that left them both panting.

They sat there, passing the bottle of Champagne back and forth, and eating the cake right from the box. Neal paused and had a curious look on his face.

“What?”

“You’re a bigwig at Sterling Bosch, right?”

“Hmmm – yeah. I guess I am.” Neal’s eyes started to sparkle and the smile that Peter privately classified as a lethal weapon curved his lips. The clamor of the all-too-familiar alarm bells went off. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

“Come on, don’t you want to hear my idea?” Neal was like a little boy, practically bouncing in his seat.

Peter knew he was going to regret this, but not in any truly meaningful way. “Okay – what’s your idea?”

“I’ll come work for you. Just like before, only without the tracking anklet and with a real salary.”

There were so many things wrong with Neal’s idea – first and foremost that Neal was an escaped felon who was hiding from a fugitive warrant. But there were so many things right with it, too. And he didn’t have the heart to say no, not here, not now.

“Let me think about it – ” Neal started to interrupt him, but Peter cut him off. “I’m not saying ‘no’ – okay?”

Neal nodded. “All right. There’s probably a million hoops you’d have to jump through anyway. Besides, when El gets here, we’re going to have too much fun to have time for work.”

If ever there was a thought to strike mortal terror in Peter’s heart, it was that of Neal and his wife on the loose in Paris. And nothing could make him happier.

FIN