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elrhiarhodanTitle: What Doesn’t Bend, Breaks – Part 2/2
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Peter/Neal, Reese Hughes, Mozzie, Elizabeth (Moz/El)
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Gunshot Wound, Heartbreak, Nightmares
Word Count: ~16,000 – Both Parts
Beta Credit: Many thanks tojrosemary, rabidchild67 for their quick and thorough betas.
Summary: It’s 1996, and things aren’t going so well for Peter and Neal in the White Collar unit. Neal’s been offered an assignment that will take him away from Peter for a long, long time, an assignment that could make his career or shatter their relationship.
Written for my entry for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
whitecollarhc community’s Whump-a-Palooza. Title is from Ani DiFranco’s Buildings and Bridges. This is Part 2 of 2. Part 1 was published yesterday, June 27, 2012
__________________
This darkness was terrifying, it was cold and empty, except for the pain. He wanted the sun, he wanted warmth and happiness and everything that gave his life meaning. He wanted Neal, but Neal wasn’t here, he wouldn’t be here. Peter, in a moment of rank stupidity, had once again chased him away.
Peter shivered, he was so cold, in so much pain. But pain meant he was alive. Neal – where was Neal?
He didn’t know whether to rage or cry. This was his own fault – his own stupid pride. He could admit it now, he was jealous. His career was plodding along, a slow, steady pace. Yes, the higher ups had their eye on him, but at the end of the day, Neal was the one who got the plum assignments. He never thought he’d be that guy – the careerist who was diminished by his own partner’s successes.
This morning, he should have told Neal not to go – not because he didn’t think Neal couldn’t withstand the rigors of deep cover, but that he couldn’t bear to be apart for so long. Neal had the courage last night to tell him that, and he brushed him off. He dismissed the one true, the one important thing in his life because he was so fucking petty.
Now, Neal was gone. He would be for months and he had no way to contact him.
And then the nightmares started.
There was a squeezing pressure on his legs, his upper body was immobilized and the pain came in waves. Someone was calling his name. “Peter, Peter – we need you to open your eyes.”
He didn’t want to. He preferred the dark, it didn’t hurt so much. He could pretend that Neal was with him in the dark, that he wasn’t alone because of his own stupidity.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal was antsy. There was something wrong and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He spent most of yesterday playing at being a hedge fund manager, going to non-existent meetings, working in his “office”, pretending to be something he wasn’t. Nothing unusual about that. Except that he found himself dialing Peter’s office phone on three separate occasions, stopping just before pressing that last button.
But this morning, he woke up in a cold sweat, anxious for no reason. Neal couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something was wrong. Today, Kuroda’s tail was laughably incompetent. He was tempted to turn around and formally introduce himself. But he knew that Kuroda would be offended – such aggressive behavior wouldn’t sit well. No, it wasn’t the tail that was bothering him. The feeling was nebulous, an inchoate worry.
The dread dogged him through their golf outing. The third time he hooked his shot, Kuroda asked him what was wrong.
“Sorry, Isamu-san – just one of those days.”
“Maybe you are working too hard, my friend.”
“Maybe. But money doesn’t grow on trees, and even if it did – I would still need to nurture it.”
Kuroda gave a noncommittal grunt. “A tree that grows too quickly can lack strength; can have fatal weaknesses that remain unseen until it collapses. The slow growing tree is strong, resistant to disease.”
Neal looked at Kuroda, who was watching his guests tee off. If he wasn’t mistaken, there was a spark of humor in his normally serious demeanor. “Tell me, did you find that in a fortune cookie?”
Kuroda laughed. “Yes, actually I did. Ridiculous, isn’t it? But seriously, my friend – what is bothering you?”
“It’s nothing more than an off day. Burning the candle at both ends for too many nights.”
“Kept you out too late, I see.”
“Hmm, yeah.”
“And stopping for coffee before going home wasn’t such a bright idea.”
Neal couldn’t believe that Kuroda was acknowledging that he was having Neal followed. But he played it cool. “I had the stupid idea that I should just stay up for the rest of the night. The coffee at The Lantern is terrible, but it feels like it’s extra-caffeinated. I had a few very early meetings.”
“And it worked?”
“It seemed to, I was speaking Dutch and my clients didn’t hang up in outrage.”
“You are a man of many talents, Halden-san.” Kuroda gave him a brief, but significant bow.
Neal bowed back. This was the first time Kuroda added the honorific to his name.
Kuroda gave him a wry grin, pulled his driver out and teed off.
Although his game improved, the sense of dread never quite faded. By the time they finished up at the clubhouse and downed a few drinks, the feeling of doom was like a second, stronger heartbeat.
The ride back to Manhattan was interminable. Neal wanted to tune out the conversation, except that the conversation was about business – Kuroda’s business. Listening to the three men discuss how to move their money, Neal realized that he finally had his in. “I may be able to assist.”
They looked at him. It was show time. He described his theoretical hedge fund, how it invested, rates of return. “But that might not be the best situation for your … situation. My personal investment portfolio is based in Aruba. The banking laws there are – how shall I put it – most favorable.”
“Hence your conversation in Dutch today.” Kuroda commented.
Neal just smiled.
“We may be interested.” Yakuza 1 turned to Yakuza 2 and had a quick, furious dialogue. Neal caught about half of it – mostly how investing with a Westerner was against their code.
Neal pasted a smile on his lips and looked out the window, seemingly unconcerned. But by the time the car pulled up in front of his apartment building, he was confident that he had them hooked. Not just Kuroda, but the overseas organization, too.
The thoughts of operational success distracted him from the dread in his gut, but the sight of Hughes and the brass from Organized Crime waiting for him in the lobby was enough to bring it back, doubled. He didn’t acknowledge anyone, even as they joined him in the elevator. The door to his apartment on the 23rd floor opened. Mitch Ross was there, sweeper/scanner in hand.
“Place is clean, now.” There were a half-dozen listening devices in a container generating white noise.
“I’ll have to put them back after we’ve finished.” Neal had found the bugs that Kuroda’s men had planted a few days into the start of their association. Since he never did anything of interest in this place, he let them be.
Ross nodded.
“Caffrey – if we could get started.” Deborah Itani took control of the meeting. Ross, Bancroft, Hughes and a fourth man, who no one bothered to introduce to him, sat down.
The questions flew at him – about the op, about Kuroda, his associates, his business practices. Neal answered every question with ease. He knew he was doing good work, and when he was asked about the progress of the operation, he was able to tell them about the results of this morning’s golf game. Kuroda was about to sign on, and so were his associates.
“How do you know that these men were Yakuza?” That question came from the unidentified man relaxing in his favorite armchair. The tone was slightly contemptuous.
Neal was no one’s performing circus pony – and he wasn’t going to be disrespected. “I don’t know who you are or why you’re here.” The man was mid-fifties, regulation haircut, non-descript navy blue suit – probably Brooks Brothers, equally uninspiring tie with an old food stain on it. He wasn’t FBI, Neal was sure about that. Justice Department, maybe? Neal turned away, dismissing him
Bancroft stepped in. “Neal, please – just answer the question.”
“Both men were sporting nagasode on both arms.” At the blank looks from everyone but Itani and Ross, Neal explained. “Full body tattooing is a common practice in the Yakuza, and you would rarely see a complete sleeve, let alone two, on someone who was not a member of the organization. That both men had nagasode is conclusive.”
The relentless questioning continued for another two hours, and by the time they were finished, Neal felt like he just ran the Yellow Brick Road again, alone. But the brass seemed very satisfied.
“We’re going to sign off on this op for another five months.”
Neal groaned inside, another five months. “I think I can close this in a week.”
“Hmm, don’t rush it, young man.” For once, Bancroft’s avuncular tones irritated him. Or maybe it was the dread he was still feeling, dread that had nothing to do with this meeting.
“Can you hold on for another five months?” That was from Ross. As his handler, he was concerned about Neal’s ability to maintain his cover.
Neal shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “I don’t think it’s necessary but I’ll do what I have to. If this op does drag on, would it be possible to get a short break? See my family?”
“We’ll arrange something.”
Neal didn’t like the vagueness of Itani’s promise. He was going to finish this as soon as possible, have everything wrapped up in a big red bow for the higher ups. Then he was going to go home and spend the rest of his life with Peter. Even if that meant resigning from the FBI.
Everyone but Hughes left, which didn’t surprise him. Ross might have been his handler, the operation run out of Organized Crime, but Hughes was still his boss. He went to the fridge and got them both beers.
Except that Hughes pushed his away. “I don’t think you’ll want to have that.”
The dread intensified. “Sir?”
Hughes didn’t look at him, finding his hands far too interesting.
“What’s the matter?”
“Peter Burke was shot yesterday.”
Neal froze. He didn’t hear that correctly. “Excuse me?”
“Peter was shot while serving a warrant.”
He wanted to scream a denial, but habit – or fear – kept him outwardly calm. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Neal watched his hands shake and he placed them palms down on the table. His world cracked open and he wanted to fall into the abyss. Peter was dead. Gone and lost to him forever. He didn’t even get a chance to make things right, to tell him that he loved him, that nothing else mattered. There was nothing left for him now. He wanted Hughes to go, to leave him alone in his pain. He wanted to howl like an animal and burn the world down. He couldn’t look at Hughes a moment longer and stalked to the floor-to-ceiling window. Tears blurred the view as grief overwhelmed him.
“When is the funeral?” His voice sounded wooden, affectless, a stranger’s voice. But he would be there, even if it completely scuttled the operation.
“Funeral? Peter’s not dead – did you think … ?” Hughes ran his hand through his hair.
“He isn’t?” Neal spun around.
“Oh, god no. He was shot in the chest, and it was touch and go – but the doctors are cautiously optimistic that he’s going to be fine.” Hughes told him, in broad strokes, what happened.
The relief was like another body blow, and Neal had no idea how he managed to stay upright. How he managed not to break into a million pieces of joy.
“Son, you don’t have to keep pretending.” Hughes reached into breast pocket, pulling out a small square of paper. He looked at it for a moment then slid it across the table to Neal. “This was in Peter’s ID folder.”
Neal picked it up very carefully, trying not to see the flecks of rust brown on the edges. He remembered the day that photograph was taken. They were in Vero Beach for spring break, and Mozzie had taken snapshots of everyone. He had a similar picture of Peter, smiling and sunburned, in his own ID folder. He turned it over. Peter had written the opening lines of the sonnet, their sonnet, on the back. “There’s nothing more to say, is there?”
“Neal, you have no idea how sorry I am.”
He was surprised at Hughes’ compassion. “Sorry for what? That you discovered the truth?”
“No, that you and Peter have been forced to live a double life.”
Neal always knew that this double life could cost him everything, but as long as he had Peter, he’d survive. “Can I finish this op before I have to resign?”
“Resign?” Hughes was definitely puzzled.
“I’m gay – you know it. Don’t ask, don’t tell – right? This isn’t the military, but the FBI’s not too keen on having faggots in their ranks.” The words were a bitter acknowledgment.
“You’re right, Neal. This isn’t the military. And my policy, the only one that counts, is ‘don’t ask, don’t care.’ You and Peter are the best agents on my team, and I’ll be damned if I lose either of you.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter floated in a universe defined by pain. He struggled against it, but his struggles were noticed and the pain went away for a bit. He wasn’t sure that he liked when that happened. Pain meant life, and when it went away, he was left in dark numbness.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Hughes left Neal, only after extracting promises from him that he wouldn’t try to see Peter until the proper safeguards were in place. He also gave Neal a cell phone – not one of those enormous bricks, but a palm-sized piece of sleek black plastic. This wasn’t something the Bureau supplied to its agents. He had bought this for Neal.
“I’ll call you as soon as we get things set up. You’ll have to shake Kuroda’s tail.”
Neal smiled, bright and shark-like. Hughes thought for a moment that Caffrey would have made a very successful con man if he wasn’t so committed to law and justice.
“Thank you, sir. And thank you for coming to tell me about Peter.” The slick persona vanished as if it never was, and the man before him was scared, vulnerable and far too young to be shouldering all of this burden.
“Peter will be fine – I promise you that.”
Neal nodded. “Could you do me another favor for me? Could you tell Peter’s parents that I’ll be there as soon as I can?”
That was definitely something he could do. “His father was quite upset that you weren’t there.” Hughes thought there was a story behind that. “And I take it that his parents know about your … relationship.”
“Yes, since we were in college. They knew before we told them.”
There definitely was a story there, but Hughes didn’t figure that he’d ever hear the whole thing. Just as well. He cautioned Neal again about not doing anything rash and left. He should have gone back to the office. There was probably a foot-high stack of reports that needed to be filled out and filed. But wasn’t that what probies were for? Hughes went up to the hospital instead.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Joe had sent Cathy back to the hotel where the FBI was putting them up. She put up a fight, but in the end he had been able to convince her that she wouldn’t do their son any good if she ended up in a hospital bed herself.
Peter had made it through surgery, and everyone was optimistic that he’d make a full recovery – everyone being the surgeons. They had explained that because he needed to be on a ventilator until his lung was stable, he needed to remain in deep sedation. Watching his son, he couldn’t help but feel that life was so fragile, that it could end without warning.
Peter seemed restless, and Joe wondered how deep that sedation was. He watched his son’s face, and even with the plastic tube down his throat and tape covering his mouth, he could still tell that he was in distress. The nurse said that Peter could be dreaming, and somehow that seemed to make it worse. His son was trapped in a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.
He wished that Neal was here. It was so wrong, so awfully wrong that he wasn’t. Peter’s boss said that Neal was “on assignment,” and Joe knew that Neal had been away for a while. For the first time in a dozen years, Neal hadn’t come home with Peter for the holidays. Peter said that nothing was wrong; Neal was doing something for work.
Joe wasn’t sure if he believed his son – not that he was lying that Neal was away on assignment, but that there was nothing wrong between them. Something was definitely wrong. Cathy chalked it up to Neal’s absence, but Joe thought there was something more. And this assignment had dragged on for months. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago that Peter let it slip that Neal wasn’t living in their apartment right now. He hadn’t meant to say anything, and refused to answer any of their questions except to say that it was important work.
Cathy had wanted to press Peter for details and he did, too. But they were both smart enough to realize whatever Neal was doing, they didn’t need the details. But the strain of that separation was written on their son’s face – the lines bracketing his mouth, the flecks of gray at his temples, the weight loss.
Joe had felt helpless then, but more helpless now. He couldn’t stand the idea that Neal was going about his business – make that the FBI’s business – in complete ignorance. That’s what happened to his brother’s partner, Robbie, so long ago. Joe never forgot the horror of that feeling – that Robbie had come home to an empty apartment, spent the better part of a week calling hospitals and fighting with the police about a missing person’s report, only to discover that James has been buried in an unmarked grave in Potter’s Field because the thugs that bashed his head in had stolen his wallet.
He sat next to his son, talking. The docs said that talking would be good for Peter. He told him how proud he was. How Peter was the finest son any man could hope for, and how much he loved him. He talked about inconsequential things too – the prospects for the Yankees and their phenomenal new shortstop, the trip he and Cathy had planned for their fiftieth anniversary, how the house needed a new roof. He talked about things from their past – the long-gone Satchmo, how much he missed coaching Little League, the time Peter had crashed his bike into their brand new car. He talked until all the words were gone.
A nurse came in and shooed him out of the room. Joe was surprised to see Peter’s boss standing in the hallway. If possible, the man looked even older.
“How is he?”
“The same. They are going to run some tests tomorrow to see if they can take the breathing tube out.”
Agent Hughes nodded. “That’s excellent.” He started to say something else, then thought better of it, gesturing instead to a small waiting room. “Can we talk privately?”
He followed him into the room and was a little surprised when Hughes locked the door. “What’s the matter?”
“I know about Peter and Neal Caffrey.”
Later on, Joe would appreciate the man’s plain speaking, but right now he was simply shocked. But not so shocked that he couldn’t, wouldn’t defend his son and his son’s partner. “They’ve done nothing wrong.”
“No, they haven’t. And I’m damn sorry that they have had to pretend that they barely know each other at work.” Hughes sighed. “I’ve talked to Neal – he knows what’s happened.”
Joe’s relief was profound. “When can he come see Peter?”
“We’re working on that. Neal could jeopardize his own safety, and maybe even Peter’s, if he came to visit without the proper safeguards in place.”
He wasn’t happy that Neal couldn’t come see Peter, couldn’t be with Peter through his recovery, but at least Neal wasn’t living in ignorance. “Thank you for this – for everything.”
“Peter’s a good agent, a good man. We’ll sort out what needs sorting out. Don’t worry about that.”
Joe knew just what Hughes was saying. Peter’s career – and Neal’s – was safe.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal wasn’t sure he could be patient; the need to get to Peter was all consuming. But he had one very profound barrier. Not Hughes’ instructions, not Kuroda’s tail, not even the fear that he’d somehow put Peter’s life in jeopardy by visiting.
No, Neal didn’t know what hospital Peter was in.
But he knew someone who could find Peter, and with the sleek piece of technology in his hand, he was just a phone call away. It sort of shocked him that he hadn’t thought of getting a cell phone before – it wasn’t like he couldn’t afford it. But that was a concern for another day.
Neal dialed the number, praying that someone would pick up. And someone did.
“Hello?” The voice was feminine, familiar.
“Hi, Elizabeth.”
“Neal? Neal? Is that you?” She all but squealed.
“Yeah, it’s me. Look, it’s pretty urgent. Is Mozzie around?” By his calculations, El was in her eighth month, and he probably should have asked her how she was feeling – but he didn’t have the time.
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s Peter.” He didn’t want to say anything more. “I really, really need to talk to Moz. Please, tell me that he’s around.”
El said she’d get him, and he waited impatiently for Moz to pick up.
“What’s got your panties in a knot, mon frère?”
Neal kept it brief. “Peter’s hurt – he’s in a hospital, but they didn’t tell me which one. Can you find out for me?”
“Give me an hour or so. And what number are you calling from? You’re still in Manhattan, right? But my caller ID says you’re on a 516 number.”
Hughes lived on Long Island; probably that’s where he got it. “It’s a cell phone – can you just call me back on this number?”
Moz promised to call him as soon as he had the information. His friend might be a professor at MIT, but he still had serious street cred in the hacker community. If he couldn’t get into hospital computer systems, he’d find someone who could.
Still, Neal was a bundle of nerves. He paced the length of his apartment, planning his next moves. There was no way – not now – that he was going to be able to stay under cover for another five months. He wasn’t going to make it another week, not with Peter so badly injured.
He paused in front of the container with Kuroda’s bugs. It was unlikely that the man had the listening station monitored, and Neal was pretty sure that he knew where it was. The tech was good, and it had a decent range. Probably the apartment three doors down. He had seen a familiar face, one of Kuroda’s tails, leaving it a few days ago. He lifted the lid and pulled one of the bugs out. The cell phone in his pocket gave a high pitched whine and he nearly dropped the damn thing.
Neal smiled as he put the bug back into the containment unit. Once Moz called him back, Neal knew just what he was going to do.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter was plugging away at yet another sweepstakes fraud case. It was either that or telemarketing scams. All the light, all the joy had been gone from his life these last few months and it showed. Instead of volunteering for the high profile cases, he let his desk become the dumping ground for anything that other agents didn’t want to handle.
Despite the pedestrian work, his close rate was still the best in the office, and he knew that Hughes and the higher-ups were puzzled by his sudden lack of initiative. There were rumors that one of the team would be tapped to head up a task force on stock market boiler room scams or something equally juicy. Five months ago, he would have been ready to sell his soul for that assignment. Now he couldn’t care less.
He was bone tired. The file in front of him made as much sense as one of the CDs Neal used to teach himself conversational Swahili. Peter tossed it back on the desk and looked at his watch. It was close to four and he wondered if anyone would notice or care if he packed it in early. Not that he had any plans. He just didn’t think he could sit here for another hour and see Neal’s empty desk.
Five months without a word. He knew that being undercover meant being cut off from everything, but still … Peter shook his head, trying to dispel the hurt; Neal was doing his job, plain and simple. He just wished that his last words hadn’t been so cruel, so thoughtless.
He was shutting down his computer and stowing the files when Hughes came out of his office and called for him. Grainger and Sullivan were out on surveillance duty, so no one was there to make a snide remark. Hughes didn’t give him the double finger point, which could mean … what? Something good? Something bad?
Peter went up to his boss’ office, his feet strangely heavy. Hughes gestured for him to take a seat. There was definitely a feeling of dread growing in his gut.
“What’s the matter, sir?”
“You and Neal Caffrey – you were friends, right?”
Peter swallowed hard; he didn’t like that ‘were’. “We’ve known each other since elementary school.”
Hughes nodded. “I think Caffrey said you roomed together when you were in grad school at Harvard.”
“That’s right.”
“You don’t seem very close now, though.”
Where was this going? Did someone out them? “We thought it best not to bring our friendship into the office.”
Hughes nodded and frowned. “That was probably for the best.” The frown got deeper. “You do know that Caffrey has been on assignment – deep cover, right?”
“Yes.” His throat was dry and his voice broke on a whisper. He swallowed again and repeated himself. “Yes. Neal had asked my opinion of it the weekend before he left.” Hughes didn’t say and Peter’s gut roiled. “Sir?”
Hughes gave him a sad, sympathetic look. “I have some bad news, son.”
Peter knew just what that bad news was. “How …?” There were a wealth of questions in that one word. How bad? How did it happen?
“Neal was having dinner last night with the target of the investigation and two of his ‘associates.’ There was – apparently – a falling out amongst the thieves. They killed him and Neal. They had no clue that Neal was a Federal agent.”
“When?” It was impossible to believe that he had been going about his day and Neal was dead. He had always thought he’d know if something happened to Neal, they were that close. But he guessed not.
“Last night – Neal had been wearing a transmitter, the surveillance team heard it happen, but he was dead before they were able to get to him.”
Peter felt himself shaking. He balled his hands into fists to keep them still. “Has his aunt been told?”
“No. Given the sensitivity of the case, nothing has been released, not to his family. We have the suspects in custody, but one of them has claimed diplomatic immunity and the other refuses to speak English or even acknowledge the translator.”
“But you’re telling me?”
“You’re a Federal agent – we know you won’t say anything. And Neal had you listed as his primary contact in case his was –” Hughes swallowed, clearly affected by Neal’s death, “Killed in the line of duty.” He handed Peter an envelope. “Caffrey left this for you.”
Peter took it and stuffed it in his jacket pocket – he couldn’t read it now. “Thank you.” That was all he could say.
“Burke, I’m sorry. It’s a hard thing to lose a friend like this.”
Peter got up and left. There was nothing left to do. He didn’t pause at his desk, he just kept going. Down the elevator, out the door. He passed someone he knew, but he ignored the greeting. The subway was crowded, but Peter was numb to the jostling. He was numb to everything.
The doorman said hello as he did every night. Peter just kept going. Upstairs, to their apartment – no, not *theirs* anymore. He let himself in. It was quiet, still. Dead. Last night, Peter could still feel the echoes of Neal, the expectation that he’d be home soon – that they’d be able to pick up their lives again.
Since Neal had left for Japan, Peter had constantly thought about how to make things better at the office. First and foremost, he was going to acknowledge his history with Neal. They were going to be friends and he’d be damned if he’d let anyone or anything come between them. Now, none of that mattered. Nothing mattered.
He wandered through the apartment, remembering. He hadn’t wanted to move here. This was one of Adler’s properties. And it was way above his pay grade. But Neal said that his stepfather never lived here, it was an investment – like the dozens of other apartments in high class buildings around the city. There was no mortgage, just the condo fee and the property taxes. Neal was so much the voice of reason. Whatever he had been paying for his own place in Queens, he could pay here.
There was a framed picture of them on the fireplace mantel, they were shirtless, sunburned and smiling, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. Moz had taken that photo when they had all gone to Vero Beach for Spring Break. He had half of a smaller version of it in his ID folder, tucked behind his FBI credentials. Neal had the other half. Peter suddenly, desperately needed to see that – to see Neal’s private commitment to him.
The ID folder and Neal’s service weapon were in the safe in their bedroom closet. Peter stood in the doorway, breathing in the smell of fine wool, good leather, a touch of shoe polish and starched cotton. All scents that made up Neal Caffrey. He pushed aside a few jackets, exposing the build-in safe. Peter fished out his keys; this wasn’t the first time he had opened it since Neal went under cover. He would look at Neal’s ID, the relics of Neal’s father, a few of the more risqué photos that Moz had taken – including one where they were kissing – and try to console himself that their separation was only temporary.
But it wasn’t – not anymore.
Peter pulled out the ID folder and slipped his fingers into the space behind the credentials. There was nothing there. No photograph, no reminder of that bright, perfect day.
There was a sound – harsh and violent. It came from his own throat, he couldn’t breath for the grief. He was choking on it, gagging.
Someone was calling his name; someone was here – violating the privacy of his pain. He tried to push them away but he couldn’t move.
“Peter – Peter. You need to breathe. That’s it – take a breath.”
He struggled, and it hurt. It hurt so damn much.
Someone wet his lips. It was cold and he shivered.
“Open your eyes, Peter. Come on, look at me.” The voice was unfamiliar, and he flinched as a hand gently tapped his cheeks. “Come on, Peter.”
It was a struggle, but he did open his eyes and was confused by the whiteness. This wasn’t his closet – it wasn’t in their apartment. The face above him, dark and round and smiling, was a stranger’s face.
“Welcome back, Agent Burke.”
Where had he been?
“Are you in a lot of pain?”
Peter swallowed. His throat felt like fire, like he’d been punched in the larynx and his whole upper body was pounding. He still managed to get out a single word, “Yes.”
“Okay, we’ll give you something to take the edge off.” Someone fiddled with his IV and there was almost instantaneous relief.
“Neal? I need to see Neal.” Peter was convinced that Neal was dead – that he was waking up from something else, that it wasn’t simply a nightmare. “Please, bring Neal.”
The doctor left and he could make out a conversation. The word “Neal” was prominent. A few moments later, the doctor came back. “Neal isn’t here right now, but there are a few other people who’d like to see you. Are you up to it?”
Peter was floating from the drugs, and it hurt like hell to nod, but he somehow managed to agree. The nurses cleaned him up and pulled back the curtain when they finished. His parents were there, his mother smiling, his father too. They both looked terrible.
“Son -” Dad reached out to him, and he tried to grab his hand, but his arm was immobilized. “You’ve given us quite a scare.”
Mom was on the other side of the bed; she bent over and gently kissed his cheek.
“What happened?” It hurt to talk.
“You were shot.” Dad’s hand hovered over his chest and shoulder. “Afraid your pitching days are over for good.”
Peter tried to laugh. But it all seemed so unreal. He did have vague memories of someone pulling a gun on him, of the pain and the sense of loss, then the black emptiness of regret. “Neal?” He felt the rising tide of panic. Neal was dead, wasn’t he?
“I spoke with Agent Hughes, he said that he’s talked with Neal – they’ll try to get him in to see you as soon as possible.”
“Alive? Neal’s alive?”
“Oh, sweetie – of course he is.” Mom stroked his brow. “Is that what you’ve been having nightmares about?” She always knew when his sleep was troubled.
He tried to nod. “Yes. You sure he’s all right?”
“Yes, he’s fine.” Dad was smiling – and he’d never lie to him. But there was something else there, something his drug-fogged brain wasn’t letting him process.
A nurse came in and told his folks that they needed to let him rest. They both kissed him and promised to be back as soon as they could. He let the inexorable pull of the drugs wash over him, but this time he wasn’t afraid. Neal would be here soon. Neal was all right.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal double checked his appearance, power tie, power suit, perfectly placed pocket square, shoes polished to a mirror shine. Everything was perfect. He picked up the baggie with Kuroda’s bugs and his cell phone and took one last look around the apartment. If everything went according to plan, this would be the last time he saw it.
The limo ride uptown was just long enough for Neal to work himself into a tightly controlled rage. The right level of anger was imperative; too much and he’d lose the advantage, too little and he’d look like he was indulging in a fit of pique. By the time the driver pulled up to the building that housed Kuroda’s offices on Madison and Fifty-Sixth, Neal was wrapped in a perfectly tailored cloak of self-righteous anger.
As he stepped out of the car, there was another vehicle pulling up. Neal recognized the driver and the passenger – both were frequent tails. He scowled at them, meeting their eyes for the first time. Even through the windshield, he could see their appalled reaction. *Good.*
Kuroda’s offices were on the 35th floor, and the brief elevator ride helped Neal maintain the icy rage. The receptionist recognized him and murmured a greeting. Neal discarded custom, cultural mores and even good manners.
“Tell Kuroda I need to see him. Now.” His voice was harsh, startling the young woman.
“Is everything all right, Halden-san?” She bowed her head and Neal thought she looked like she was prepared for execution.
He felt a little sorry of her, but he wouldn’t let sympathy interfere with his mission. “My business is with your boss. I am running out of patience.”
She dialed an extension and spoke rapidly. Neal figured she was talking with Kuroda’s personal assistant, or his assistant’s assistant. He tapped his foot and crossed his arms, letting all of his rude, Western impatience show.
She hung up the phone and apologetically told him that someone would be out to see him right away. Neal glared at her, and she flushed. Someone did come, not Kuroda of course, but his primary assistant. He bowed to just the correct level of deference. Neal did not return the courtesy. The man was startled – Halden-san had always been the epitome of proper manners and respect. He led Neal back to Kuroda’s corner office, introduced him and quietly closed the door behind him.
“My friend, what is the matter that you have sent my receptionist to tears?”
“We. Are. Not. Friends.” Neal gritted out. He was gratified by the puzzled, then concerned look on Kuroda’s face.
“What do you mean?”
Neal pulled the bag with the listening devices out of his pocket and slapped them down on Kuroda’s desk. “Friends don’t invade their friend’s privacy. Friends don’t have their friends tailed every time they leave their apartment. Friends don’t plant bugs in their friend’s apartment.”
Kuroda blinked.
“I knew you were having me tailed and you even admitted it to me yesterday, but I didn’t let it bother me. Men of your stature –” Neal let the flattery sink in. “Can’t be too careful. But bugging my apartment is unacceptable.”
“Nick, please – ”
His plan was working – Kuroda was upset, it wouldn’t take much to edge him into shame. “Last night, I bought this –” Neal pulled out the little cell phone, “and I was about to call a friend when it started making all sorts of strange noises.” He passed the phone over the bugs, and it emitted a series of loud pops and crackles. “But only when I was standing near my bedside lamp. I went into my living room and it was fine until I was next to the reading lamp. I thought it might be a problem from the incandescent lamps, so I went into the kitchen. Oddly enough, the problem started when I was standing right next to the telephone. I did a little investigating and found these.” He pushed the bag across the polished wood desk.
Kuroda was pale, except for the high flush along his cheekbones. “You have to understand …”
“No, actually, I don’t. There is no reason you needed to invade my personal space, to destroy the sanctity of my home. We were not business associates, we were friends.” He put a special emphasis on the past tense.
“We are still friends, you have my deepest apologies. My security team is a little over zealous.”
“Your security team would never take these steps without your express authorization.”
Kuroda bowed his head stiffly towards Neal.
“You do not respect me, that is clear. I don’t see how we can continue our association.” Neal turned to leave. This was it, he either just wrecked the entire operation or he was about to bring it home.
“No, no – please, Halden-san – I am most terribly sorry.” There was an undercurrent of desperation there.
Neal turned back, and shook his head. “You may be sorry, but that doesn’t mean anything.” Now he just insulted Kuroda’s word.
“How can I prove it? How can I prove that I do trust you?”
Neal shook his head. He had to reel Kuroda in slowly, carefully. “I don’t know that you can. You’ve treated me like a criminal, the most untrustworthy of men.” His tone softened, he let sadness creep into his voice. “I admired you and you shamed me.” Neal again turned to leave.
Kuroda reached out. “Please, Halden-san – Nicholas. Let me prove that I do trust you.”
*Gotcha* Neal gave Kuroda a quizzical look. “I don’t think you can.”
The man licked his lips, “What if I invest with you? What if my friends took you up on your offer from the other night? Will that prove that I trust you?”
Neal paused, pretending to consider the matter. “Our relationship isn’t – wasn’t – based on business. I should never have mentioned it.”
“But you did – and your business is something important to you, something you value. Let me invest. Let me win back your trust.”
He let a crucial few seconds tick by and then nodded. “Okay. I’ll have my assistant courier over the paperwork. I’ll move on it when I get back.”
“Back? Where are you going?”
“I have some business that will take me out of town the next few weeks. When I get back, we’ll talk about what you want to invest.” Neal hoped he wasn’t overplaying the hard-to-get card.
“Weeks?” There was a nice touch of panic there. “Can’t we do this now?”
“Now?”
“Yes – by computer. Certainly you are using a computer to manage your accounts?”
Neal chuckled. “It’s 1997, of course I am!”
“Well, can you do it here?”
He looked over Kuroda’s system – a top of the line IBM, color monitor and if he wasn’t mistaken, an Ethernet line. “Do you have a connection to the Internet?” The FBI tech guys had set up a portal that Neal could telnet into just for this purpose.
“Certainly – my office is on the cutting edge of technology.” Kuroda advised, smiling. He was clearly pleased that Neal was going to forgive him for his lack of trust. Instead of directing him to the other computer in the room, he gestured for Neal to sit down at his desk, a singular honor.
It took just a few moments for Neal to get access to the portal. “How do you want to do this, Kuroda-san? My hedge fund has room for investors or I can manage your money directly through my Aruba accounts. The minimum investment is five million U.S. You can come in directly or indirectly.” The last was said most carefully, he was all but offering to launder money.
Kuroda thought for a moment and then smiled. “How about both?”
It was hard, but Neal managed to keep the triumph off his face. He set up the accounts and stood up, gesturing for Kuroda to sit. “You’ll need to enter your account information and routing numbers.” Kuroda would probably have given them to Neal directly, but it was better this way.
“All done!” Kuroda actually beamed at him; his pleasure was a little disconcerting.
Neal reached out and hit the Enter key. He held his breath. It wouldn’t be good if the portal failed. But it didn’t. A minute later a “confirmation” appeared on the screen.
“All is forgiven now, Halden-san?”
Neal gave Kuroda a brief smile and a nod. “You won’t have these bugs put back, right?”
Kuroda picked up a small bronze statue – a Louis Icart dancer – and smashed them. Neal winced; the piece was delicate and didn’t deserve to be handled like that. “I promise.”
“Thank you – and you’ll tell your security people to stop following me?”
Kuroda picked up the phone, and Neal listened as orders were given to leave Nick Halden alone. Neal trusted that the person at the other end was the security chief, and not some random worker.
Neal bowed to Kuroda, a gesture of thanks and renewed respect. Kuroda stood up and bowed back. “You have my deepest apologies – I greatly overstepped both the bounds of propriety and of our friendship.”
“Your apology is accepted.”
They chatted for a few more minutes, and Neal told Kuroda that he was leaving for Europe in the morning, after visiting a sick friend in the hospital. If he still had a tail, that would cover him. And the European trip would take him off the grid just long enough for the FBI to get the information they needed to bring down Kuroda and flip him like a burger on the grill.
He was on his way to the hospital, wondering if he should tell Hughes, when the cell phone started to buzz.
“Caffrey?” It was Hughes. It looked like his internal debate was resolved.
“Sir.”
“A little heads-up would have been nice. Agent Itani nearly had a heart attack when Kuroda’s bank data came through. Four numbered Swiss accounts – we’ve hit the jackpot.”
“It was a spur of the moment thing.”
“You need to come in, now. We’ll need to debrief you.”
“No, not for a while.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m heading up to Beth Israel now. I am going to see Peter and you aren’t going to stop me.”
There was a telling pause. “You promised you wouldn’t do anything rash. The op isn’t over yet.”
Neal looked around, double-checking that there was no tail, no one listening. “I didn’t do anything rash.” Well, not exactly. He crossed his fingers on that one.
There was an audible hrumph on the other end of the line. “And how do you know where Peter is? I deliberately didn’t tell you.”
“I have friends – people I’ve cultivated.”
“You have a CI? When did that happen?”
Rather than lie, Neal deflected. “Sir, I don’t think this is the best time or place to have this discussion. I’ll come in tonight for a debrief, you have my word.”
Hughes grumbled a bit more. “Okay, Caffrey. And one more thing.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Good work. Knew you were the right man for the job. Very good work, Caffrey. I’m proud of you.” Hughes hung up and Neal stood there, staring at the phone and grinning like a fool.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The morning drifted by in a haze of drugs and tests. He was still in pain, it hurt to breathe too deeply, and he was bored. Daytime television sucked, but he didn’t want to tell his mother that – she liked her soaps, and since she was keeping him company for hours on end, Peter didn’t think it would be right to ask her to change the channel.
He shifted and groaned as his damaged collar bone ached.
“You okay, sweetie?”
“Yeah, Mom – I’ll be fine.” He would – the doctors assured him that in time, he’d make a full recovery. He’d probably have a weather-wise ache and there would be some loss of mobility and extension in his right arm, but for getting shot three times in the chest, he was a very lucky man.
He rubbed at his nose, they had taken out the NG tube this morning and he was on solid food. Solid hospital food. Solid, disgusting hospital food. He’d give anything right now for a cup of his mother’s chicken soup.
His sigh was audible. His mother clicked through the channels until the television went off. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing – just uncomfortable.”
His mother knew better than to try to rearrange him. His clavicle was still fragile – more glue and titanium pins than bone.
“Missing Neal?”
Peter didn’t answer.
“Sorry, sweetie – that was a stupid question. Of course you are. You’ve been missing him for months.”
“Yeah, just wish…” He wished Neal could be here – even for a few minutes. Just so Peter could tell him he loved him, and he missed him and he needed him, and he was sorry. He shut down that train of thought. He’d start to cry soon. Hell, he was crying now. Damn drugs.
Without a word, his mother wiped his tears away and cupped her hand against his cheek. “Close your eyes, Peter. Get some sleep.”
“All I do is sleep,” he grumbled but the protest was half-hearted. They had him walking today; he barely made it halfway up the hall.
“Peter, rest.”
“You should go home, Mom. You and Dad. You don’t need to spend every minute by my bedside.”
“You’re our son; we’re not leaving you here alone. Just close your eyes and sleep.”
He obeyed her. It wasn’t like there was anything else to do. The steady click-click of her knitting needles was a familiar, soothing rhythm.
Peter opened his eyes again. The room was darker than it was a few minutes ago. Or maybe more than a few minutes. The clock on the wall read 4:25, so at least three hours had passed. He licked his lips. His mouth was bone dry and his throat still ached from the ventilator tube.
Someone was holding his hand.
“Hey there, sleepy head.”
It was Neal – or Neal’s voice. Peter was afraid he was still dreaming. This was familiar. How many times over the last five months had he dreamed about waking up next to Neal, only to find that he was still asleep? He shut his eyes again.
“No, no – no more of that.”
His hand was suddenly empty, chilled. But there was someone standing over him, gently wiping his face with a warm, wet washcloth. Peter had to open his eyes. Neal was there, a tentative smile on his lips and worry in his eyes.
Peter reached up, cupping Neal’s cheek. “You’re really here.”
Neal took his hand, “They couldn’t keep me away.”
“You’re not in trouble, right?”
“Nah – I’ve got it all covered. Hughes knows where I am.”
There was so much Peter wanted to say, but he couldn’t, the words he rehearsed over the last five months forgotten as emotions – beautiful and painful – filled his heart. A sob tore from his throat and the tears cascaded down his cheeks.
“Shhh, shhh. It’s all right, it’s all right.” Neal tried to soothe him but he couldn’t be soothed.
“Sorry, so sorry Neal – I didn’t want you to go, I was so wrong. I was an idiot again.” Peter knew that his words weren’t making any sense, but he couldn’t seem to get them out right.
“Peter, it’s okay. I’m here now, it’s okay.” Neal stroked his cheek, smearing the tears. Peter stirred and tried to sit up, but it hurt too damn much, everything hurt. His heart, his head – they ached.
“I’ve got you, just relax.” Neal pressed the controls and raised Peter into a sitting position. “How’s that? Better?”
Peter nodded, and reached out for Neal, who took his hand and squeezed it. His own words were a bit broken. “I’ve missed you, too. I don’t think I could have gone on much longer without you. Without seeing you, hearing your voice, holding you in the darkness.”
“Neal…” Peter was devastated by the pain in Neal’s voice.
Then Neal did something so wonderful, so perfect that all of the pain just disappeared. In full view of anyone passing by, Neal kissed him on the lips. It wasn’t a brief, polite salute, but as beautiful and sensual a kiss as they had ever shared in the privacy of their home. Neal’s lips clung to his, his tongue flirted and retreated, his teeth nipping gently. The kiss made him dizzy, but it healed him too, restoring the parts of his soul that were worn thin and sore by loneliness and regret.
“I love you, Peter Burke – don’t ever forget that.”
Neal kissed him again and Peter groaned, part unbelievable arousal, part post-surgical pain. Neal pulled back and all Peter could see was the blueness of his lover’s eyes.
“Love you, too, Neal Caffrey.”
Neal sat down, holding his hand against his lips so carefully that it caused another, sweeter ache.
There was still so much he wanted to say, he needed to tell Neal, but he was strangely contented to just lie back and let Neal’s presence, his love and affection fill the room. Words, even words of love, were just unnecessary.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Hughes couldn’t just let Neal roam free. There was no guarantee that Kuroda or his associates wouldn’t trail his agent to the hospital. Yet, it took almost three hours before he could break loose of his meetings, most of which concerned the data pouring in from Neal’s endgame with Kuroda.
Not that Neal would be wandering around the city, looking for trouble. He’d be at Peter’s bedside, of course.
It still amazed him that these two agents had been conducting a clandestine romance for more than three years – probably much longer, given the hints that Caffrey dropped during their initial interview and from what Peter’s father had said. It didn’t bother him that both men were, well, men. As long as no laws were being broken, he always believed in live and let live.
The Bureau did have an intradepartmental fraternization policy, and office romances were highly frowned upon, of course. But in a way, classifying Burke and Caffrey’s relationship as a sleazy office romance seemed wrong, and he’d defend both agents, their record and their right to be together all the way up to the Director himself.
Hughes laughed at himself; he was apparently an enlightened, liberal romantic.
Bancroft, ignorant of anything other than the success of Neal’s undercover assignment, was already making noises about poaching him for his team. It might not be a bad idea. Neal deserved a promotion, he deserved better than the self-imposed gulag he was currently working in, and if Bancroft would agree that Neal could be loaned back to White Collar, he’d push the boy to take the reassignment.
The path to Peter’s room was familiar, and Hughes navigated it without thought. The door was open, but he stopped, just a little shocked. Neal was there, at Peter’s side. Well, more than at his side, he was kissing Peter. Peter was kissing him back.
Hughes reminded himself that he was an enlightened, liberal romantic and stepped back out of the room. After everything that they’d been through, Burke and Caffrey deserved a little privacy.
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Peter/Neal, Reese Hughes, Mozzie, Elizabeth (Moz/El)
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Gunshot Wound, Heartbreak, Nightmares
Word Count: ~16,000 – Both Parts
Beta Credit: Many thanks to
jrosemary, rabidchild67 for their quick and thorough betas. Summary: It’s 1996, and things aren’t going so well for Peter and Neal in the White Collar unit. Neal’s been offered an assignment that will take him away from Peter for a long, long time, an assignment that could make his career or shatter their relationship.
Written for my entry for the
whitecollarhc community’s Whump-a-Palooza. Title is from Ani DiFranco’s Buildings and Bridges. This is Part 2 of 2. Part 1 was published yesterday, June 27, 2012This darkness was terrifying, it was cold and empty, except for the pain. He wanted the sun, he wanted warmth and happiness and everything that gave his life meaning. He wanted Neal, but Neal wasn’t here, he wouldn’t be here. Peter, in a moment of rank stupidity, had once again chased him away.
It was Monday morning, and Peter was sitting at their kitchen table having his third cup of coffee. He hadn’t been able to sleep and had gotten out of bed hours ago, sitting in kitchen and waiting for the sun to rise. The darkness and the noise from the street had a way of putting things in perspective. “Neal – don’t go.”
Neal looked up from his own cup of coffee, surprised. “What do you mean, don’t go.”
“Japan – the assignment. Don’t take it.”
Neal took a sip from his cup; Peter knew it was a delaying tactic. “Last night you were all gung-ho about it. What’s changed your mind?”
Neal’s question – his whole demeanor – was cool, distant. It hurt. So Peter chose his words with care. “I don’t want you to take this assignment because I told you to do so.”
“You didn’t tell me to take it, Peter.” Neal was still distant. “I think I can make up my own mind. But why do you think that I shouldn’t take it? What changed your mind?”
“Deep cover is difficult for even experienced agents. You’ll be completely cut off.” Peter knew he was putting his foot in it, he knew that this was all deflection and distraction. Why couldn’t he tell Neal the simple truth?
“Hughes thinks I can do it.” Neal sounded angry. He had every right to be. “We’ve worked together enough that he has complete confidence in my abilities.”
Peter knew what Neal was implying there – that Peter had no clue about what he did. They never intersected at work; in fact Peter went out of his way to distance himself from Neal at the office. And they both knew that it was beginning to affect their lives together. The easy communication that had been part of their lives for so many years had broken down. They didn’t talk much anymore, not about what mattered. In an attempt to compartmentalize their home life with the public life, they had lost something.
It was time to speak up – nothing was worth losing Neal. But instead of saying, “I couldn’t bear it if we were apart for so long,” a different set of words came out of his mouth. “I don’t think you can handle the stress of deep cover.”
Neal was shocked. “Why?”
“You’ll be on your own, no backup, no support network. It’s just you and your handler. You’re not the type of guy who’ll do well out on his own.” Peter couldn’t believe what he was saying. “You’ll be begging to come out of the cold within a week.”
Neal was icy pale, hurt radiated from him. “Nice to know that you think so highly of me.”
“Neal, I’m – ” The apology never came. Neal placed his cup very carefully in the sink, picked up his briefcase and walked out the door.
Neal looked up from his own cup of coffee, surprised. “What do you mean, don’t go.”
“Japan – the assignment. Don’t take it.”
Neal took a sip from his cup; Peter knew it was a delaying tactic. “Last night you were all gung-ho about it. What’s changed your mind?”
Neal’s question – his whole demeanor – was cool, distant. It hurt. So Peter chose his words with care. “I don’t want you to take this assignment because I told you to do so.”
“You didn’t tell me to take it, Peter.” Neal was still distant. “I think I can make up my own mind. But why do you think that I shouldn’t take it? What changed your mind?”
“Deep cover is difficult for even experienced agents. You’ll be completely cut off.” Peter knew he was putting his foot in it, he knew that this was all deflection and distraction. Why couldn’t he tell Neal the simple truth?
“Hughes thinks I can do it.” Neal sounded angry. He had every right to be. “We’ve worked together enough that he has complete confidence in my abilities.”
Peter knew what Neal was implying there – that Peter had no clue about what he did. They never intersected at work; in fact Peter went out of his way to distance himself from Neal at the office. And they both knew that it was beginning to affect their lives together. The easy communication that had been part of their lives for so many years had broken down. They didn’t talk much anymore, not about what mattered. In an attempt to compartmentalize their home life with the public life, they had lost something.
It was time to speak up – nothing was worth losing Neal. But instead of saying, “I couldn’t bear it if we were apart for so long,” a different set of words came out of his mouth. “I don’t think you can handle the stress of deep cover.”
Neal was shocked. “Why?”
“You’ll be on your own, no backup, no support network. It’s just you and your handler. You’re not the type of guy who’ll do well out on his own.” Peter couldn’t believe what he was saying. “You’ll be begging to come out of the cold within a week.”
Neal was icy pale, hurt radiated from him. “Nice to know that you think so highly of me.”
“Neal, I’m – ” The apology never came. Neal placed his cup very carefully in the sink, picked up his briefcase and walked out the door.
Peter shivered, he was so cold, in so much pain. But pain meant he was alive. Neal – where was Neal?
Hours that should have been spent reviewing deposition testimony were consumed by his obsessive watch of Hughes’ office. He had trailed Neal out of their apartment, but missed the elevator and by the time he got to the street, Neal was nowhere in sight. He arrived at the office to find Neal already in with Hughes, shaking his hand, shaking the hands of the two agents who had been there on Friday.
Amy Grainger stopped by his desk. He didn’t particularly care for her, not because of her aggressive sexuality, which was kind of refreshing in the male dominated Bureau, but the way she used it like a weapon. If you weren’t ready to jump her bones, you were probably impotent or queer or both. He knew that she was behind a lot of the nasty gossip in the office, most of it about Neal.
“What’s the deal with Caffrey?”
Peter shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“Funny, I’ve noticed that you haven’t taken your eyes off of Hughes’ office all day.”
“Nah, just distracted.” Peter smiled at her; he could play that game if he had to.
She didn’t buy it. “Hmmm, thought maybe you were interested in the kiss-ass little faggot.”
Peter dropped the smile; he dropped the pretense of friendliness. “Caffrey’s a good agent, better than you’ll ever be. Even if you learned to keep your legs together and your mouth shut.”
Grainger got a nasty look on her face, and Peter knew that all sorts of rumors would start circulating about him. He didn’t give a fuck.
She had her revenge, even if she never realized it. That brief conversation cost him his only opportunity to talk with Neal. He was escorted by the two agents, simply whisked away and out of his life.
The rest of the day was a matter of watching the clock slowing tick to five, and contrary to his work ethic, he was out of there like a shot. By time he made it home, it was way too late. Neal was gone. There was a note, though.
Amy Grainger stopped by his desk. He didn’t particularly care for her, not because of her aggressive sexuality, which was kind of refreshing in the male dominated Bureau, but the way she used it like a weapon. If you weren’t ready to jump her bones, you were probably impotent or queer or both. He knew that she was behind a lot of the nasty gossip in the office, most of it about Neal.
“What’s the deal with Caffrey?”
Peter shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“Funny, I’ve noticed that you haven’t taken your eyes off of Hughes’ office all day.”
“Nah, just distracted.” Peter smiled at her; he could play that game if he had to.
She didn’t buy it. “Hmmm, thought maybe you were interested in the kiss-ass little faggot.”
Peter dropped the smile; he dropped the pretense of friendliness. “Caffrey’s a good agent, better than you’ll ever be. Even if you learned to keep your legs together and your mouth shut.”
Grainger got a nasty look on her face, and Peter knew that all sorts of rumors would start circulating about him. He didn’t give a fuck.
She had her revenge, even if she never realized it. That brief conversation cost him his only opportunity to talk with Neal. He was escorted by the two agents, simply whisked away and out of his life.
The rest of the day was a matter of watching the clock slowing tick to five, and contrary to his work ethic, he was out of there like a shot. By time he made it home, it was way too late. Neal was gone. There was a note, though.
“Peter –
I don’t know when I’ll be back, but remember this:
I don’t know when I’ll be back, but remember this:
“In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
He didn’t know whether to rage or cry. This was his own fault – his own stupid pride. He could admit it now, he was jealous. His career was plodding along, a slow, steady pace. Yes, the higher ups had their eye on him, but at the end of the day, Neal was the one who got the plum assignments. He never thought he’d be that guy – the careerist who was diminished by his own partner’s successes.
This morning, he should have told Neal not to go – not because he didn’t think Neal couldn’t withstand the rigors of deep cover, but that he couldn’t bear to be apart for so long. Neal had the courage last night to tell him that, and he brushed him off. He dismissed the one true, the one important thing in his life because he was so fucking petty.
Now, Neal was gone. He would be for months and he had no way to contact him.
And then the nightmares started.
There was a squeezing pressure on his legs, his upper body was immobilized and the pain came in waves. Someone was calling his name. “Peter, Peter – we need you to open your eyes.”
He didn’t want to. He preferred the dark, it didn’t hurt so much. He could pretend that Neal was with him in the dark, that he wasn’t alone because of his own stupidity.
Neal was antsy. There was something wrong and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He spent most of yesterday playing at being a hedge fund manager, going to non-existent meetings, working in his “office”, pretending to be something he wasn’t. Nothing unusual about that. Except that he found himself dialing Peter’s office phone on three separate occasions, stopping just before pressing that last button.
But this morning, he woke up in a cold sweat, anxious for no reason. Neal couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something was wrong. Today, Kuroda’s tail was laughably incompetent. He was tempted to turn around and formally introduce himself. But he knew that Kuroda would be offended – such aggressive behavior wouldn’t sit well. No, it wasn’t the tail that was bothering him. The feeling was nebulous, an inchoate worry.
The dread dogged him through their golf outing. The third time he hooked his shot, Kuroda asked him what was wrong.
“Sorry, Isamu-san – just one of those days.”
“Maybe you are working too hard, my friend.”
“Maybe. But money doesn’t grow on trees, and even if it did – I would still need to nurture it.”
Kuroda gave a noncommittal grunt. “A tree that grows too quickly can lack strength; can have fatal weaknesses that remain unseen until it collapses. The slow growing tree is strong, resistant to disease.”
Neal looked at Kuroda, who was watching his guests tee off. If he wasn’t mistaken, there was a spark of humor in his normally serious demeanor. “Tell me, did you find that in a fortune cookie?”
Kuroda laughed. “Yes, actually I did. Ridiculous, isn’t it? But seriously, my friend – what is bothering you?”
“It’s nothing more than an off day. Burning the candle at both ends for too many nights.”
“Kept you out too late, I see.”
“Hmm, yeah.”
“And stopping for coffee before going home wasn’t such a bright idea.”
Neal couldn’t believe that Kuroda was acknowledging that he was having Neal followed. But he played it cool. “I had the stupid idea that I should just stay up for the rest of the night. The coffee at The Lantern is terrible, but it feels like it’s extra-caffeinated. I had a few very early meetings.”
“And it worked?”
“It seemed to, I was speaking Dutch and my clients didn’t hang up in outrage.”
“You are a man of many talents, Halden-san.” Kuroda gave him a brief, but significant bow.
Neal bowed back. This was the first time Kuroda added the honorific to his name.
Kuroda gave him a wry grin, pulled his driver out and teed off.
Although his game improved, the sense of dread never quite faded. By the time they finished up at the clubhouse and downed a few drinks, the feeling of doom was like a second, stronger heartbeat.
The ride back to Manhattan was interminable. Neal wanted to tune out the conversation, except that the conversation was about business – Kuroda’s business. Listening to the three men discuss how to move their money, Neal realized that he finally had his in. “I may be able to assist.”
They looked at him. It was show time. He described his theoretical hedge fund, how it invested, rates of return. “But that might not be the best situation for your … situation. My personal investment portfolio is based in Aruba. The banking laws there are – how shall I put it – most favorable.”
“Hence your conversation in Dutch today.” Kuroda commented.
Neal just smiled.
“We may be interested.” Yakuza 1 turned to Yakuza 2 and had a quick, furious dialogue. Neal caught about half of it – mostly how investing with a Westerner was against their code.
Neal pasted a smile on his lips and looked out the window, seemingly unconcerned. But by the time the car pulled up in front of his apartment building, he was confident that he had them hooked. Not just Kuroda, but the overseas organization, too.
The thoughts of operational success distracted him from the dread in his gut, but the sight of Hughes and the brass from Organized Crime waiting for him in the lobby was enough to bring it back, doubled. He didn’t acknowledge anyone, even as they joined him in the elevator. The door to his apartment on the 23rd floor opened. Mitch Ross was there, sweeper/scanner in hand.
“Place is clean, now.” There were a half-dozen listening devices in a container generating white noise.
“I’ll have to put them back after we’ve finished.” Neal had found the bugs that Kuroda’s men had planted a few days into the start of their association. Since he never did anything of interest in this place, he let them be.
Ross nodded.
“Caffrey – if we could get started.” Deborah Itani took control of the meeting. Ross, Bancroft, Hughes and a fourth man, who no one bothered to introduce to him, sat down.
The questions flew at him – about the op, about Kuroda, his associates, his business practices. Neal answered every question with ease. He knew he was doing good work, and when he was asked about the progress of the operation, he was able to tell them about the results of this morning’s golf game. Kuroda was about to sign on, and so were his associates.
“How do you know that these men were Yakuza?” That question came from the unidentified man relaxing in his favorite armchair. The tone was slightly contemptuous.
Neal was no one’s performing circus pony – and he wasn’t going to be disrespected. “I don’t know who you are or why you’re here.” The man was mid-fifties, regulation haircut, non-descript navy blue suit – probably Brooks Brothers, equally uninspiring tie with an old food stain on it. He wasn’t FBI, Neal was sure about that. Justice Department, maybe? Neal turned away, dismissing him
Bancroft stepped in. “Neal, please – just answer the question.”
“Both men were sporting nagasode on both arms.” At the blank looks from everyone but Itani and Ross, Neal explained. “Full body tattooing is a common practice in the Yakuza, and you would rarely see a complete sleeve, let alone two, on someone who was not a member of the organization. That both men had nagasode is conclusive.”
The relentless questioning continued for another two hours, and by the time they were finished, Neal felt like he just ran the Yellow Brick Road again, alone. But the brass seemed very satisfied.
“We’re going to sign off on this op for another five months.”
Neal groaned inside, another five months. “I think I can close this in a week.”
“Hmm, don’t rush it, young man.” For once, Bancroft’s avuncular tones irritated him. Or maybe it was the dread he was still feeling, dread that had nothing to do with this meeting.
“Can you hold on for another five months?” That was from Ross. As his handler, he was concerned about Neal’s ability to maintain his cover.
Neal shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “I don’t think it’s necessary but I’ll do what I have to. If this op does drag on, would it be possible to get a short break? See my family?”
“We’ll arrange something.”
Neal didn’t like the vagueness of Itani’s promise. He was going to finish this as soon as possible, have everything wrapped up in a big red bow for the higher ups. Then he was going to go home and spend the rest of his life with Peter. Even if that meant resigning from the FBI.
Everyone but Hughes left, which didn’t surprise him. Ross might have been his handler, the operation run out of Organized Crime, but Hughes was still his boss. He went to the fridge and got them both beers.
Except that Hughes pushed his away. “I don’t think you’ll want to have that.”
The dread intensified. “Sir?”
Hughes didn’t look at him, finding his hands far too interesting.
“What’s the matter?”
“Peter Burke was shot yesterday.”
Neal froze. He didn’t hear that correctly. “Excuse me?”
“Peter was shot while serving a warrant.”
He wanted to scream a denial, but habit – or fear – kept him outwardly calm. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Neal watched his hands shake and he placed them palms down on the table. His world cracked open and he wanted to fall into the abyss. Peter was dead. Gone and lost to him forever. He didn’t even get a chance to make things right, to tell him that he loved him, that nothing else mattered. There was nothing left for him now. He wanted Hughes to go, to leave him alone in his pain. He wanted to howl like an animal and burn the world down. He couldn’t look at Hughes a moment longer and stalked to the floor-to-ceiling window. Tears blurred the view as grief overwhelmed him.
“When is the funeral?” His voice sounded wooden, affectless, a stranger’s voice. But he would be there, even if it completely scuttled the operation.
“Funeral? Peter’s not dead – did you think … ?” Hughes ran his hand through his hair.
“He isn’t?” Neal spun around.
“Oh, god no. He was shot in the chest, and it was touch and go – but the doctors are cautiously optimistic that he’s going to be fine.” Hughes told him, in broad strokes, what happened.
The relief was like another body blow, and Neal had no idea how he managed to stay upright. How he managed not to break into a million pieces of joy.
“Son, you don’t have to keep pretending.” Hughes reached into breast pocket, pulling out a small square of paper. He looked at it for a moment then slid it across the table to Neal. “This was in Peter’s ID folder.”
Neal picked it up very carefully, trying not to see the flecks of rust brown on the edges. He remembered the day that photograph was taken. They were in Vero Beach for spring break, and Mozzie had taken snapshots of everyone. He had a similar picture of Peter, smiling and sunburned, in his own ID folder. He turned it over. Peter had written the opening lines of the sonnet, their sonnet, on the back. “There’s nothing more to say, is there?”
“Neal, you have no idea how sorry I am.”
He was surprised at Hughes’ compassion. “Sorry for what? That you discovered the truth?”
“No, that you and Peter have been forced to live a double life.”
Neal always knew that this double life could cost him everything, but as long as he had Peter, he’d survive. “Can I finish this op before I have to resign?”
“Resign?” Hughes was definitely puzzled.
“I’m gay – you know it. Don’t ask, don’t tell – right? This isn’t the military, but the FBI’s not too keen on having faggots in their ranks.” The words were a bitter acknowledgment.
“You’re right, Neal. This isn’t the military. And my policy, the only one that counts, is ‘don’t ask, don’t care.’ You and Peter are the best agents on my team, and I’ll be damned if I lose either of you.”
Peter floated in a universe defined by pain. He struggled against it, but his struggles were noticed and the pain went away for a bit. He wasn’t sure that he liked when that happened. Pain meant life, and when it went away, he was left in dark numbness.
Hughes left Neal, only after extracting promises from him that he wouldn’t try to see Peter until the proper safeguards were in place. He also gave Neal a cell phone – not one of those enormous bricks, but a palm-sized piece of sleek black plastic. This wasn’t something the Bureau supplied to its agents. He had bought this for Neal.
“I’ll call you as soon as we get things set up. You’ll have to shake Kuroda’s tail.”
Neal smiled, bright and shark-like. Hughes thought for a moment that Caffrey would have made a very successful con man if he wasn’t so committed to law and justice.
“Thank you, sir. And thank you for coming to tell me about Peter.” The slick persona vanished as if it never was, and the man before him was scared, vulnerable and far too young to be shouldering all of this burden.
“Peter will be fine – I promise you that.”
Neal nodded. “Could you do me another favor for me? Could you tell Peter’s parents that I’ll be there as soon as I can?”
That was definitely something he could do. “His father was quite upset that you weren’t there.” Hughes thought there was a story behind that. “And I take it that his parents know about your … relationship.”
“Yes, since we were in college. They knew before we told them.”
There definitely was a story there, but Hughes didn’t figure that he’d ever hear the whole thing. Just as well. He cautioned Neal again about not doing anything rash and left. He should have gone back to the office. There was probably a foot-high stack of reports that needed to be filled out and filed. But wasn’t that what probies were for? Hughes went up to the hospital instead.
Joe had sent Cathy back to the hotel where the FBI was putting them up. She put up a fight, but in the end he had been able to convince her that she wouldn’t do their son any good if she ended up in a hospital bed herself.
Peter had made it through surgery, and everyone was optimistic that he’d make a full recovery – everyone being the surgeons. They had explained that because he needed to be on a ventilator until his lung was stable, he needed to remain in deep sedation. Watching his son, he couldn’t help but feel that life was so fragile, that it could end without warning.
Peter seemed restless, and Joe wondered how deep that sedation was. He watched his son’s face, and even with the plastic tube down his throat and tape covering his mouth, he could still tell that he was in distress. The nurse said that Peter could be dreaming, and somehow that seemed to make it worse. His son was trapped in a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.
He wished that Neal was here. It was so wrong, so awfully wrong that he wasn’t. Peter’s boss said that Neal was “on assignment,” and Joe knew that Neal had been away for a while. For the first time in a dozen years, Neal hadn’t come home with Peter for the holidays. Peter said that nothing was wrong; Neal was doing something for work.
Joe wasn’t sure if he believed his son – not that he was lying that Neal was away on assignment, but that there was nothing wrong between them. Something was definitely wrong. Cathy chalked it up to Neal’s absence, but Joe thought there was something more. And this assignment had dragged on for months. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago that Peter let it slip that Neal wasn’t living in their apartment right now. He hadn’t meant to say anything, and refused to answer any of their questions except to say that it was important work.
Cathy had wanted to press Peter for details and he did, too. But they were both smart enough to realize whatever Neal was doing, they didn’t need the details. But the strain of that separation was written on their son’s face – the lines bracketing his mouth, the flecks of gray at his temples, the weight loss.
Joe had felt helpless then, but more helpless now. He couldn’t stand the idea that Neal was going about his business – make that the FBI’s business – in complete ignorance. That’s what happened to his brother’s partner, Robbie, so long ago. Joe never forgot the horror of that feeling – that Robbie had come home to an empty apartment, spent the better part of a week calling hospitals and fighting with the police about a missing person’s report, only to discover that James has been buried in an unmarked grave in Potter’s Field because the thugs that bashed his head in had stolen his wallet.
He sat next to his son, talking. The docs said that talking would be good for Peter. He told him how proud he was. How Peter was the finest son any man could hope for, and how much he loved him. He talked about inconsequential things too – the prospects for the Yankees and their phenomenal new shortstop, the trip he and Cathy had planned for their fiftieth anniversary, how the house needed a new roof. He talked about things from their past – the long-gone Satchmo, how much he missed coaching Little League, the time Peter had crashed his bike into their brand new car. He talked until all the words were gone.
A nurse came in and shooed him out of the room. Joe was surprised to see Peter’s boss standing in the hallway. If possible, the man looked even older.
“How is he?”
“The same. They are going to run some tests tomorrow to see if they can take the breathing tube out.”
Agent Hughes nodded. “That’s excellent.” He started to say something else, then thought better of it, gesturing instead to a small waiting room. “Can we talk privately?”
He followed him into the room and was a little surprised when Hughes locked the door. “What’s the matter?”
“I know about Peter and Neal Caffrey.”
Later on, Joe would appreciate the man’s plain speaking, but right now he was simply shocked. But not so shocked that he couldn’t, wouldn’t defend his son and his son’s partner. “They’ve done nothing wrong.”
“No, they haven’t. And I’m damn sorry that they have had to pretend that they barely know each other at work.” Hughes sighed. “I’ve talked to Neal – he knows what’s happened.”
Joe’s relief was profound. “When can he come see Peter?”
“We’re working on that. Neal could jeopardize his own safety, and maybe even Peter’s, if he came to visit without the proper safeguards in place.”
He wasn’t happy that Neal couldn’t come see Peter, couldn’t be with Peter through his recovery, but at least Neal wasn’t living in ignorance. “Thank you for this – for everything.”
“Peter’s a good agent, a good man. We’ll sort out what needs sorting out. Don’t worry about that.”
Joe knew just what Hughes was saying. Peter’s career – and Neal’s – was safe.
Neal wasn’t sure he could be patient; the need to get to Peter was all consuming. But he had one very profound barrier. Not Hughes’ instructions, not Kuroda’s tail, not even the fear that he’d somehow put Peter’s life in jeopardy by visiting.
No, Neal didn’t know what hospital Peter was in.
But he knew someone who could find Peter, and with the sleek piece of technology in his hand, he was just a phone call away. It sort of shocked him that he hadn’t thought of getting a cell phone before – it wasn’t like he couldn’t afford it. But that was a concern for another day.
Neal dialed the number, praying that someone would pick up. And someone did.
“Hello?” The voice was feminine, familiar.
“Hi, Elizabeth.”
“Neal? Neal? Is that you?” She all but squealed.
“Yeah, it’s me. Look, it’s pretty urgent. Is Mozzie around?” By his calculations, El was in her eighth month, and he probably should have asked her how she was feeling – but he didn’t have the time.
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s Peter.” He didn’t want to say anything more. “I really, really need to talk to Moz. Please, tell me that he’s around.”
El said she’d get him, and he waited impatiently for Moz to pick up.
“What’s got your panties in a knot, mon frère?”
Neal kept it brief. “Peter’s hurt – he’s in a hospital, but they didn’t tell me which one. Can you find out for me?”
“Give me an hour or so. And what number are you calling from? You’re still in Manhattan, right? But my caller ID says you’re on a 516 number.”
Hughes lived on Long Island; probably that’s where he got it. “It’s a cell phone – can you just call me back on this number?”
Moz promised to call him as soon as he had the information. His friend might be a professor at MIT, but he still had serious street cred in the hacker community. If he couldn’t get into hospital computer systems, he’d find someone who could.
Still, Neal was a bundle of nerves. He paced the length of his apartment, planning his next moves. There was no way – not now – that he was going to be able to stay under cover for another five months. He wasn’t going to make it another week, not with Peter so badly injured.
He paused in front of the container with Kuroda’s bugs. It was unlikely that the man had the listening station monitored, and Neal was pretty sure that he knew where it was. The tech was good, and it had a decent range. Probably the apartment three doors down. He had seen a familiar face, one of Kuroda’s tails, leaving it a few days ago. He lifted the lid and pulled one of the bugs out. The cell phone in his pocket gave a high pitched whine and he nearly dropped the damn thing.
Neal smiled as he put the bug back into the containment unit. Once Moz called him back, Neal knew just what he was going to do.
Peter was plugging away at yet another sweepstakes fraud case. It was either that or telemarketing scams. All the light, all the joy had been gone from his life these last few months and it showed. Instead of volunteering for the high profile cases, he let his desk become the dumping ground for anything that other agents didn’t want to handle.
Despite the pedestrian work, his close rate was still the best in the office, and he knew that Hughes and the higher-ups were puzzled by his sudden lack of initiative. There were rumors that one of the team would be tapped to head up a task force on stock market boiler room scams or something equally juicy. Five months ago, he would have been ready to sell his soul for that assignment. Now he couldn’t care less.
He was bone tired. The file in front of him made as much sense as one of the CDs Neal used to teach himself conversational Swahili. Peter tossed it back on the desk and looked at his watch. It was close to four and he wondered if anyone would notice or care if he packed it in early. Not that he had any plans. He just didn’t think he could sit here for another hour and see Neal’s empty desk.
Five months without a word. He knew that being undercover meant being cut off from everything, but still … Peter shook his head, trying to dispel the hurt; Neal was doing his job, plain and simple. He just wished that his last words hadn’t been so cruel, so thoughtless.
He was shutting down his computer and stowing the files when Hughes came out of his office and called for him. Grainger and Sullivan were out on surveillance duty, so no one was there to make a snide remark. Hughes didn’t give him the double finger point, which could mean … what? Something good? Something bad?
Peter went up to his boss’ office, his feet strangely heavy. Hughes gestured for him to take a seat. There was definitely a feeling of dread growing in his gut.
“What’s the matter, sir?”
“You and Neal Caffrey – you were friends, right?”
Peter swallowed hard; he didn’t like that ‘were’. “We’ve known each other since elementary school.”
Hughes nodded. “I think Caffrey said you roomed together when you were in grad school at Harvard.”
“That’s right.”
“You don’t seem very close now, though.”
Where was this going? Did someone out them? “We thought it best not to bring our friendship into the office.”
Hughes nodded and frowned. “That was probably for the best.” The frown got deeper. “You do know that Caffrey has been on assignment – deep cover, right?”
“Yes.” His throat was dry and his voice broke on a whisper. He swallowed again and repeated himself. “Yes. Neal had asked my opinion of it the weekend before he left.” Hughes didn’t say and Peter’s gut roiled. “Sir?”
Hughes gave him a sad, sympathetic look. “I have some bad news, son.”
Peter knew just what that bad news was. “How …?” There were a wealth of questions in that one word. How bad? How did it happen?
“Neal was having dinner last night with the target of the investigation and two of his ‘associates.’ There was – apparently – a falling out amongst the thieves. They killed him and Neal. They had no clue that Neal was a Federal agent.”
“When?” It was impossible to believe that he had been going about his day and Neal was dead. He had always thought he’d know if something happened to Neal, they were that close. But he guessed not.
“Last night – Neal had been wearing a transmitter, the surveillance team heard it happen, but he was dead before they were able to get to him.”
Peter felt himself shaking. He balled his hands into fists to keep them still. “Has his aunt been told?”
“No. Given the sensitivity of the case, nothing has been released, not to his family. We have the suspects in custody, but one of them has claimed diplomatic immunity and the other refuses to speak English or even acknowledge the translator.”
“But you’re telling me?”
“You’re a Federal agent – we know you won’t say anything. And Neal had you listed as his primary contact in case his was –” Hughes swallowed, clearly affected by Neal’s death, “Killed in the line of duty.” He handed Peter an envelope. “Caffrey left this for you.”
Peter took it and stuffed it in his jacket pocket – he couldn’t read it now. “Thank you.” That was all he could say.
“Burke, I’m sorry. It’s a hard thing to lose a friend like this.”
Peter got up and left. There was nothing left to do. He didn’t pause at his desk, he just kept going. Down the elevator, out the door. He passed someone he knew, but he ignored the greeting. The subway was crowded, but Peter was numb to the jostling. He was numb to everything.
The doorman said hello as he did every night. Peter just kept going. Upstairs, to their apartment – no, not *theirs* anymore. He let himself in. It was quiet, still. Dead. Last night, Peter could still feel the echoes of Neal, the expectation that he’d be home soon – that they’d be able to pick up their lives again.
Since Neal had left for Japan, Peter had constantly thought about how to make things better at the office. First and foremost, he was going to acknowledge his history with Neal. They were going to be friends and he’d be damned if he’d let anyone or anything come between them. Now, none of that mattered. Nothing mattered.
He wandered through the apartment, remembering. He hadn’t wanted to move here. This was one of Adler’s properties. And it was way above his pay grade. But Neal said that his stepfather never lived here, it was an investment – like the dozens of other apartments in high class buildings around the city. There was no mortgage, just the condo fee and the property taxes. Neal was so much the voice of reason. Whatever he had been paying for his own place in Queens, he could pay here.
There was a framed picture of them on the fireplace mantel, they were shirtless, sunburned and smiling, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. Moz had taken that photo when they had all gone to Vero Beach for Spring Break. He had half of a smaller version of it in his ID folder, tucked behind his FBI credentials. Neal had the other half. Peter suddenly, desperately needed to see that – to see Neal’s private commitment to him.
The ID folder and Neal’s service weapon were in the safe in their bedroom closet. Peter stood in the doorway, breathing in the smell of fine wool, good leather, a touch of shoe polish and starched cotton. All scents that made up Neal Caffrey. He pushed aside a few jackets, exposing the build-in safe. Peter fished out his keys; this wasn’t the first time he had opened it since Neal went under cover. He would look at Neal’s ID, the relics of Neal’s father, a few of the more risqué photos that Moz had taken – including one where they were kissing – and try to console himself that their separation was only temporary.
But it wasn’t – not anymore.
Peter pulled out the ID folder and slipped his fingers into the space behind the credentials. There was nothing there. No photograph, no reminder of that bright, perfect day.
There was a sound – harsh and violent. It came from his own throat, he couldn’t breath for the grief. He was choking on it, gagging.
Someone was calling his name; someone was here – violating the privacy of his pain. He tried to push them away but he couldn’t move.
“Peter – Peter. You need to breathe. That’s it – take a breath.”
He struggled, and it hurt. It hurt so damn much.
Someone wet his lips. It was cold and he shivered.
“Open your eyes, Peter. Come on, look at me.” The voice was unfamiliar, and he flinched as a hand gently tapped his cheeks. “Come on, Peter.”
It was a struggle, but he did open his eyes and was confused by the whiteness. This wasn’t his closet – it wasn’t in their apartment. The face above him, dark and round and smiling, was a stranger’s face.
“Welcome back, Agent Burke.”
Where had he been?
“Are you in a lot of pain?”
Peter swallowed. His throat felt like fire, like he’d been punched in the larynx and his whole upper body was pounding. He still managed to get out a single word, “Yes.”
“Okay, we’ll give you something to take the edge off.” Someone fiddled with his IV and there was almost instantaneous relief.
“Neal? I need to see Neal.” Peter was convinced that Neal was dead – that he was waking up from something else, that it wasn’t simply a nightmare. “Please, bring Neal.”
The doctor left and he could make out a conversation. The word “Neal” was prominent. A few moments later, the doctor came back. “Neal isn’t here right now, but there are a few other people who’d like to see you. Are you up to it?”
Peter was floating from the drugs, and it hurt like hell to nod, but he somehow managed to agree. The nurses cleaned him up and pulled back the curtain when they finished. His parents were there, his mother smiling, his father too. They both looked terrible.
“Son -” Dad reached out to him, and he tried to grab his hand, but his arm was immobilized. “You’ve given us quite a scare.”
Mom was on the other side of the bed; she bent over and gently kissed his cheek.
“What happened?” It hurt to talk.
“You were shot.” Dad’s hand hovered over his chest and shoulder. “Afraid your pitching days are over for good.”
Peter tried to laugh. But it all seemed so unreal. He did have vague memories of someone pulling a gun on him, of the pain and the sense of loss, then the black emptiness of regret. “Neal?” He felt the rising tide of panic. Neal was dead, wasn’t he?
“I spoke with Agent Hughes, he said that he’s talked with Neal – they’ll try to get him in to see you as soon as possible.”
“Alive? Neal’s alive?”
“Oh, sweetie – of course he is.” Mom stroked his brow. “Is that what you’ve been having nightmares about?” She always knew when his sleep was troubled.
He tried to nod. “Yes. You sure he’s all right?”
“Yes, he’s fine.” Dad was smiling – and he’d never lie to him. But there was something else there, something his drug-fogged brain wasn’t letting him process.
A nurse came in and told his folks that they needed to let him rest. They both kissed him and promised to be back as soon as they could. He let the inexorable pull of the drugs wash over him, but this time he wasn’t afraid. Neal would be here soon. Neal was all right.
Neal double checked his appearance, power tie, power suit, perfectly placed pocket square, shoes polished to a mirror shine. Everything was perfect. He picked up the baggie with Kuroda’s bugs and his cell phone and took one last look around the apartment. If everything went according to plan, this would be the last time he saw it.
The limo ride uptown was just long enough for Neal to work himself into a tightly controlled rage. The right level of anger was imperative; too much and he’d lose the advantage, too little and he’d look like he was indulging in a fit of pique. By the time the driver pulled up to the building that housed Kuroda’s offices on Madison and Fifty-Sixth, Neal was wrapped in a perfectly tailored cloak of self-righteous anger.
As he stepped out of the car, there was another vehicle pulling up. Neal recognized the driver and the passenger – both were frequent tails. He scowled at them, meeting their eyes for the first time. Even through the windshield, he could see their appalled reaction. *Good.*
Kuroda’s offices were on the 35th floor, and the brief elevator ride helped Neal maintain the icy rage. The receptionist recognized him and murmured a greeting. Neal discarded custom, cultural mores and even good manners.
“Tell Kuroda I need to see him. Now.” His voice was harsh, startling the young woman.
“Is everything all right, Halden-san?” She bowed her head and Neal thought she looked like she was prepared for execution.
He felt a little sorry of her, but he wouldn’t let sympathy interfere with his mission. “My business is with your boss. I am running out of patience.”
She dialed an extension and spoke rapidly. Neal figured she was talking with Kuroda’s personal assistant, or his assistant’s assistant. He tapped his foot and crossed his arms, letting all of his rude, Western impatience show.
She hung up the phone and apologetically told him that someone would be out to see him right away. Neal glared at her, and she flushed. Someone did come, not Kuroda of course, but his primary assistant. He bowed to just the correct level of deference. Neal did not return the courtesy. The man was startled – Halden-san had always been the epitome of proper manners and respect. He led Neal back to Kuroda’s corner office, introduced him and quietly closed the door behind him.
“My friend, what is the matter that you have sent my receptionist to tears?”
“We. Are. Not. Friends.” Neal gritted out. He was gratified by the puzzled, then concerned look on Kuroda’s face.
“What do you mean?”
Neal pulled the bag with the listening devices out of his pocket and slapped them down on Kuroda’s desk. “Friends don’t invade their friend’s privacy. Friends don’t have their friends tailed every time they leave their apartment. Friends don’t plant bugs in their friend’s apartment.”
Kuroda blinked.
“I knew you were having me tailed and you even admitted it to me yesterday, but I didn’t let it bother me. Men of your stature –” Neal let the flattery sink in. “Can’t be too careful. But bugging my apartment is unacceptable.”
“Nick, please – ”
His plan was working – Kuroda was upset, it wouldn’t take much to edge him into shame. “Last night, I bought this –” Neal pulled out the little cell phone, “and I was about to call a friend when it started making all sorts of strange noises.” He passed the phone over the bugs, and it emitted a series of loud pops and crackles. “But only when I was standing near my bedside lamp. I went into my living room and it was fine until I was next to the reading lamp. I thought it might be a problem from the incandescent lamps, so I went into the kitchen. Oddly enough, the problem started when I was standing right next to the telephone. I did a little investigating and found these.” He pushed the bag across the polished wood desk.
Kuroda was pale, except for the high flush along his cheekbones. “You have to understand …”
“No, actually, I don’t. There is no reason you needed to invade my personal space, to destroy the sanctity of my home. We were not business associates, we were friends.” He put a special emphasis on the past tense.
“We are still friends, you have my deepest apologies. My security team is a little over zealous.”
“Your security team would never take these steps without your express authorization.”
Kuroda bowed his head stiffly towards Neal.
“You do not respect me, that is clear. I don’t see how we can continue our association.” Neal turned to leave. This was it, he either just wrecked the entire operation or he was about to bring it home.
“No, no – please, Halden-san – I am most terribly sorry.” There was an undercurrent of desperation there.
Neal turned back, and shook his head. “You may be sorry, but that doesn’t mean anything.” Now he just insulted Kuroda’s word.
“How can I prove it? How can I prove that I do trust you?”
Neal shook his head. He had to reel Kuroda in slowly, carefully. “I don’t know that you can. You’ve treated me like a criminal, the most untrustworthy of men.” His tone softened, he let sadness creep into his voice. “I admired you and you shamed me.” Neal again turned to leave.
Kuroda reached out. “Please, Halden-san – Nicholas. Let me prove that I do trust you.”
*Gotcha* Neal gave Kuroda a quizzical look. “I don’t think you can.”
The man licked his lips, “What if I invest with you? What if my friends took you up on your offer from the other night? Will that prove that I trust you?”
Neal paused, pretending to consider the matter. “Our relationship isn’t – wasn’t – based on business. I should never have mentioned it.”
“But you did – and your business is something important to you, something you value. Let me invest. Let me win back your trust.”
He let a crucial few seconds tick by and then nodded. “Okay. I’ll have my assistant courier over the paperwork. I’ll move on it when I get back.”
“Back? Where are you going?”
“I have some business that will take me out of town the next few weeks. When I get back, we’ll talk about what you want to invest.” Neal hoped he wasn’t overplaying the hard-to-get card.
“Weeks?” There was a nice touch of panic there. “Can’t we do this now?”
“Now?”
“Yes – by computer. Certainly you are using a computer to manage your accounts?”
Neal chuckled. “It’s 1997, of course I am!”
“Well, can you do it here?”
He looked over Kuroda’s system – a top of the line IBM, color monitor and if he wasn’t mistaken, an Ethernet line. “Do you have a connection to the Internet?” The FBI tech guys had set up a portal that Neal could telnet into just for this purpose.
“Certainly – my office is on the cutting edge of technology.” Kuroda advised, smiling. He was clearly pleased that Neal was going to forgive him for his lack of trust. Instead of directing him to the other computer in the room, he gestured for Neal to sit down at his desk, a singular honor.
It took just a few moments for Neal to get access to the portal. “How do you want to do this, Kuroda-san? My hedge fund has room for investors or I can manage your money directly through my Aruba accounts. The minimum investment is five million U.S. You can come in directly or indirectly.” The last was said most carefully, he was all but offering to launder money.
Kuroda thought for a moment and then smiled. “How about both?”
It was hard, but Neal managed to keep the triumph off his face. He set up the accounts and stood up, gesturing for Kuroda to sit. “You’ll need to enter your account information and routing numbers.” Kuroda would probably have given them to Neal directly, but it was better this way.
“All done!” Kuroda actually beamed at him; his pleasure was a little disconcerting.
Neal reached out and hit the Enter key. He held his breath. It wouldn’t be good if the portal failed. But it didn’t. A minute later a “confirmation” appeared on the screen.
“All is forgiven now, Halden-san?”
Neal gave Kuroda a brief smile and a nod. “You won’t have these bugs put back, right?”
Kuroda picked up a small bronze statue – a Louis Icart dancer – and smashed them. Neal winced; the piece was delicate and didn’t deserve to be handled like that. “I promise.”
“Thank you – and you’ll tell your security people to stop following me?”
Kuroda picked up the phone, and Neal listened as orders were given to leave Nick Halden alone. Neal trusted that the person at the other end was the security chief, and not some random worker.
Neal bowed to Kuroda, a gesture of thanks and renewed respect. Kuroda stood up and bowed back. “You have my deepest apologies – I greatly overstepped both the bounds of propriety and of our friendship.”
“Your apology is accepted.”
They chatted for a few more minutes, and Neal told Kuroda that he was leaving for Europe in the morning, after visiting a sick friend in the hospital. If he still had a tail, that would cover him. And the European trip would take him off the grid just long enough for the FBI to get the information they needed to bring down Kuroda and flip him like a burger on the grill.
He was on his way to the hospital, wondering if he should tell Hughes, when the cell phone started to buzz.
“Caffrey?” It was Hughes. It looked like his internal debate was resolved.
“Sir.”
“A little heads-up would have been nice. Agent Itani nearly had a heart attack when Kuroda’s bank data came through. Four numbered Swiss accounts – we’ve hit the jackpot.”
“It was a spur of the moment thing.”
“You need to come in, now. We’ll need to debrief you.”
“No, not for a while.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m heading up to Beth Israel now. I am going to see Peter and you aren’t going to stop me.”
There was a telling pause. “You promised you wouldn’t do anything rash. The op isn’t over yet.”
Neal looked around, double-checking that there was no tail, no one listening. “I didn’t do anything rash.” Well, not exactly. He crossed his fingers on that one.
There was an audible hrumph on the other end of the line. “And how do you know where Peter is? I deliberately didn’t tell you.”
“I have friends – people I’ve cultivated.”
“You have a CI? When did that happen?”
Rather than lie, Neal deflected. “Sir, I don’t think this is the best time or place to have this discussion. I’ll come in tonight for a debrief, you have my word.”
Hughes grumbled a bit more. “Okay, Caffrey. And one more thing.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Good work. Knew you were the right man for the job. Very good work, Caffrey. I’m proud of you.” Hughes hung up and Neal stood there, staring at the phone and grinning like a fool.
The morning drifted by in a haze of drugs and tests. He was still in pain, it hurt to breathe too deeply, and he was bored. Daytime television sucked, but he didn’t want to tell his mother that – she liked her soaps, and since she was keeping him company for hours on end, Peter didn’t think it would be right to ask her to change the channel.
He shifted and groaned as his damaged collar bone ached.
“You okay, sweetie?”
“Yeah, Mom – I’ll be fine.” He would – the doctors assured him that in time, he’d make a full recovery. He’d probably have a weather-wise ache and there would be some loss of mobility and extension in his right arm, but for getting shot three times in the chest, he was a very lucky man.
He rubbed at his nose, they had taken out the NG tube this morning and he was on solid food. Solid hospital food. Solid, disgusting hospital food. He’d give anything right now for a cup of his mother’s chicken soup.
His sigh was audible. His mother clicked through the channels until the television went off. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing – just uncomfortable.”
His mother knew better than to try to rearrange him. His clavicle was still fragile – more glue and titanium pins than bone.
“Missing Neal?”
Peter didn’t answer.
“Sorry, sweetie – that was a stupid question. Of course you are. You’ve been missing him for months.”
“Yeah, just wish…” He wished Neal could be here – even for a few minutes. Just so Peter could tell him he loved him, and he missed him and he needed him, and he was sorry. He shut down that train of thought. He’d start to cry soon. Hell, he was crying now. Damn drugs.
Without a word, his mother wiped his tears away and cupped her hand against his cheek. “Close your eyes, Peter. Get some sleep.”
“All I do is sleep,” he grumbled but the protest was half-hearted. They had him walking today; he barely made it halfway up the hall.
“Peter, rest.”
“You should go home, Mom. You and Dad. You don’t need to spend every minute by my bedside.”
“You’re our son; we’re not leaving you here alone. Just close your eyes and sleep.”
He obeyed her. It wasn’t like there was anything else to do. The steady click-click of her knitting needles was a familiar, soothing rhythm.
Peter opened his eyes again. The room was darker than it was a few minutes ago. Or maybe more than a few minutes. The clock on the wall read 4:25, so at least three hours had passed. He licked his lips. His mouth was bone dry and his throat still ached from the ventilator tube.
Someone was holding his hand.
“Hey there, sleepy head.”
It was Neal – or Neal’s voice. Peter was afraid he was still dreaming. This was familiar. How many times over the last five months had he dreamed about waking up next to Neal, only to find that he was still asleep? He shut his eyes again.
“No, no – no more of that.”
His hand was suddenly empty, chilled. But there was someone standing over him, gently wiping his face with a warm, wet washcloth. Peter had to open his eyes. Neal was there, a tentative smile on his lips and worry in his eyes.
Peter reached up, cupping Neal’s cheek. “You’re really here.”
Neal took his hand, “They couldn’t keep me away.”
“You’re not in trouble, right?”
“Nah – I’ve got it all covered. Hughes knows where I am.”
There was so much Peter wanted to say, but he couldn’t, the words he rehearsed over the last five months forgotten as emotions – beautiful and painful – filled his heart. A sob tore from his throat and the tears cascaded down his cheeks.
“Shhh, shhh. It’s all right, it’s all right.” Neal tried to soothe him but he couldn’t be soothed.
“Sorry, so sorry Neal – I didn’t want you to go, I was so wrong. I was an idiot again.” Peter knew that his words weren’t making any sense, but he couldn’t seem to get them out right.
“Peter, it’s okay. I’m here now, it’s okay.” Neal stroked his cheek, smearing the tears. Peter stirred and tried to sit up, but it hurt too damn much, everything hurt. His heart, his head – they ached.
“I’ve got you, just relax.” Neal pressed the controls and raised Peter into a sitting position. “How’s that? Better?”
Peter nodded, and reached out for Neal, who took his hand and squeezed it. His own words were a bit broken. “I’ve missed you, too. I don’t think I could have gone on much longer without you. Without seeing you, hearing your voice, holding you in the darkness.”
“Neal…” Peter was devastated by the pain in Neal’s voice.
Then Neal did something so wonderful, so perfect that all of the pain just disappeared. In full view of anyone passing by, Neal kissed him on the lips. It wasn’t a brief, polite salute, but as beautiful and sensual a kiss as they had ever shared in the privacy of their home. Neal’s lips clung to his, his tongue flirted and retreated, his teeth nipping gently. The kiss made him dizzy, but it healed him too, restoring the parts of his soul that were worn thin and sore by loneliness and regret.
“I love you, Peter Burke – don’t ever forget that.”
Neal kissed him again and Peter groaned, part unbelievable arousal, part post-surgical pain. Neal pulled back and all Peter could see was the blueness of his lover’s eyes.
“Love you, too, Neal Caffrey.”
Neal sat down, holding his hand against his lips so carefully that it caused another, sweeter ache.
There was still so much he wanted to say, he needed to tell Neal, but he was strangely contented to just lie back and let Neal’s presence, his love and affection fill the room. Words, even words of love, were just unnecessary.
Hughes couldn’t just let Neal roam free. There was no guarantee that Kuroda or his associates wouldn’t trail his agent to the hospital. Yet, it took almost three hours before he could break loose of his meetings, most of which concerned the data pouring in from Neal’s endgame with Kuroda.
Not that Neal would be wandering around the city, looking for trouble. He’d be at Peter’s bedside, of course.
It still amazed him that these two agents had been conducting a clandestine romance for more than three years – probably much longer, given the hints that Caffrey dropped during their initial interview and from what Peter’s father had said. It didn’t bother him that both men were, well, men. As long as no laws were being broken, he always believed in live and let live.
The Bureau did have an intradepartmental fraternization policy, and office romances were highly frowned upon, of course. But in a way, classifying Burke and Caffrey’s relationship as a sleazy office romance seemed wrong, and he’d defend both agents, their record and their right to be together all the way up to the Director himself.
Hughes laughed at himself; he was apparently an enlightened, liberal romantic.
Bancroft, ignorant of anything other than the success of Neal’s undercover assignment, was already making noises about poaching him for his team. It might not be a bad idea. Neal deserved a promotion, he deserved better than the self-imposed gulag he was currently working in, and if Bancroft would agree that Neal could be loaned back to White Collar, he’d push the boy to take the reassignment.
The path to Peter’s room was familiar, and Hughes navigated it without thought. The door was open, but he stopped, just a little shocked. Neal was there, at Peter’s side. Well, more than at his side, he was kissing Peter. Peter was kissing him back.
Hughes reminded himself that he was an enlightened, liberal romantic and stepped back out of the room. After everything that they’d been through, Burke and Caffrey deserved a little privacy.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Your wonderful series
Date: 2012-07-01 02:09 am (UTC)Squeaky
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Date: 2012-07-05 04:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-28 01:36 pm (UTC)There are so many things I love about this part. The separation was both a test for them but also an eye-opener. I still feel they needed it to make things even better for them :D. And ooh, it was such a clever way to deliver the, uhm, final punch/wake-up call in the form of making both of them believe for a brief moment that the love of their was dead. EVIL... and brilliant... and I love both Neal misunderstanding Hughes' statement and Peter having the nightmare and waking up confused enough to believe it was real! Definitely my favorite parts ♥
And then the KISS, of course. Haha, you are so right, this gotta be one of the best kisses ever :D Not only because after months of separation and emotional turmoil, it was almost like a silent vow sealing their lives together for good, for better or for worse, the whole world be damned! But man, I love it that Hughes was there... and his reaction... brilliant! *pats Hughes on the shoulder* Good man :D
Win, win, win! I must sound like a broken record by now :D But THANK YOU again! ♥ *hugs*
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Date: 2012-06-28 01:44 pm (UTC)I think, except for the original story, and maybe the seduction scene in "The Ends of Being and Ideal Grace", this is (so far) my favorite story in the series.
I definitely had doubts about it at times, it felt too case-ficcy and not enough H/C...but it came together just the way I had hoped.
And yes - the parallel pain of loss was important and intentional.
Thank you so much for this wonderful, enthusiastic and heartfelt feedback. As you were first commenter on both parts, I'm going to let you pick which story I write next in this verse:
1 - Coming Out (About 3k already written)
2 - Wedding (in the planning stages)
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Date: 2012-06-28 02:11 pm (UTC)I'm definitely looking forward to more stories in this universe! Thank you!
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Date: 2012-06-28 03:38 pm (UTC)Peter's smart and it always puzzles me how much trouble he has expressing his emotions.
I too hope to see much more of Hughes.
Thank you again.
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Date: 2012-06-28 03:30 pm (UTC)Indeed!
Oh this is just what the doctor ordered -- I have to say I thought your idea of using the feedback on the phone for the bugs was brilliant! Really well played and so Neal!
I also loved the insight into Peter's psyche and his memories. It really placed everything in context and helped me understand how everything happened.
Now I do have a question - is Neal in danger now? I just have this uneasy feeling about this secret op?
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Date: 2012-06-28 03:37 pm (UTC)Thank you so much! I have loved Hughes since the very beginning (and I've always loved James Rebthorn - since the played the expert witness who so gracefully conceded that he was wrong in "My Cousin Vinny") and missed him so much last season. In fact, my first reaction when the first sneak peak promos came out was HUGHES IS BACK!!!!!!!
The feedback between the bugs and the cellphone is a combination of things - I remembered a scene from a movie where someone used a transistor radio to sweep for bugs, and early cellphone would buzz and crackle with interference when they sat next to computers, so I am hoping that none calls me on this, because it sounds plausible, but I don't know if it actually would work that way.
And no, Neal isn't in any danger at this point. But that could change with the right plot bunneh!
Thank you again for your feedback and support.
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Date: 2012-06-28 03:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-28 03:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-28 03:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-08 05:40 pm (UTC)There is a new chapter of Dance!Verse up today.
Your feedback is always greatly appreciated.
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Date: 2012-06-28 05:38 pm (UTC)Also, yay for getting the 90's technology right because so many people forget about those details. (Try being in a fandom with a lot of 80-90's backstory with fic being written by people who weren't alive then. Heh.)
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Date: 2012-07-08 06:03 pm (UTC)I kept saying to myself while writing this that the 1990s weren't that long ago - but so many details were hard to remember. Wikipedia was definitely my friend.
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Date: 2012-06-28 06:05 pm (UTC)Love this 'verse. What I love the most is Neal and Peter's unconditional love, so basically I'm just loving all the love! LOL.
You are a great writer and I'm so thankful that I discovered this fandom and discovered such wonderful people (like you) that write things that not only entertain me but also make me grow as a person.
*waits patiently for more*
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Date: 2012-07-08 06:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-28 06:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-08 06:07 pm (UTC)I was afraid that there wasn't enough whump or too much casefic.
And as I've said before, that is one of my all-time favorite kisses.
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Date: 2012-06-28 07:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-08 06:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-28 10:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-08 06:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-28 11:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-08 06:13 pm (UTC)Thank you so much.
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Date: 2012-06-29 12:42 am (UTC)Get well soon, Peter! You can Neal need to be home together.
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Date: 2012-07-08 06:14 pm (UTC)They will definitely have a nice time while Peter recuperates.
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Date: 2012-06-29 01:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-08 06:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-29 03:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-08 06:25 pm (UTC)I have missed Hughes and was actually more excited to see his return in the first promos than almost anything else.
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Date: 2012-06-29 04:09 am (UTC)I thought your plot twist with Neal taking the reins and going after Kuroda was brilliant. Loved the bit with the cell phone and the bugs. I loved the STORY in this story.
Most of all I loved the vulnerability of Neal and Peter, their pain from the way they parted, from their separation, from the reason for their reunion. I love their tenderness, their sensuality, their longing.
I love this 'verse. Love it.
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Date: 2012-07-08 06:28 pm (UTC)I had worried that there was a little too much casestory in my whumpfic, so thank you even more for letting me know that I've gotten the balance just right.
Again, THANK YOU.
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Date: 2012-06-29 02:45 pm (UTC)I also really liked the time-appropriate details (such as the telnet connection and the cell phones -- giant brick vs. small, sleek flip phone). It gives such texture to this already very nuanced 'verse.
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Date: 2012-07-08 06:40 pm (UTC)And also thank you for appreciating the time-relevant details...it's funny. The 1990s aren't that long ago, but it was so difficult to remember EXACTLY when technology changed over. Things that seem to have been in place forever aren't really THAT old!
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Date: 2012-06-30 12:01 pm (UTC)“I love you, Peter Burke – don’t ever forget that.”
I'm flailing with love for this verse! Perfect!
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Date: 2012-07-08 05:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-01 07:17 pm (UTC)And Hughes Hughes reminded himself that he was an enlightened, liberal romantic and stepped back out of the room. After everything that they’d been through, Burke and Caffrey deserved a little privacy., love, love his reaction!
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Date: 2012-07-08 05:52 pm (UTC)Also - thank you for noting and appreciating the technological details - it was a bit of a bear to remember everything, and damnit, 1998 wasn't THAT long ago.
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Date: 2012-07-08 07:48 am (UTC)Your fanfiction makes me fall in love with this couple again and again.
Good job!
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Date: 2012-07-08 05:42 pm (UTC)I do love these two in this 'verse.
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Date: 2012-07-10 10:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-10 01:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-03 06:16 pm (UTC)I really hope to see more from this universe!
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Date: 2012-10-12 11:48 am (UTC)Loved the uber-angst when Neal thought "Peter's been shot" meant "Peter's dead"... and Hughes being so gentle and accepting of their relationship, and apologizing that they thought they had to stay closeted.
::hugs Hughes for being a liberal romantic::
I was a bit surprised that Neal couldn't seem to make friends in the White Collar office; even in canon, as a felonious, less-than-trustworthy C.I. on an anklet, he was able to make friends. The old crew must be total wankers... Are they THAT envious of his success?
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Date: 2012-10-12 12:35 pm (UTC)Love is Never Wrong
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Date: 2012-12-02 04:51 pm (UTC)I crying at the stories when they came out to thee families and I loved it so much.
Amazingly written, thank you for writing and sharing these stories with us.
Amy
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Date: 2012-12-02 07:12 pm (UTC)There are two more in the 'verse that will be published by the end of December.