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elrhiarhodanClose Your Eyes and Think of Me (call out my name) - Part Two
Early December
“Come on, Herr Neal.”
He was locked into the support harness, his right arm gripped against the bar, left one into a brace. An aide stood behind him, to catch him when he fell. Neal tried to take a step, but he couldn’t. The last surgery was yet another setback. The grafts on his right knee were rejected and he was facing an even longer recovery. Matters became more complicated when an infection set in, sending him back to the hospital and ICU for almost two weeks.
He felt weak and useless. Whatever progress he had made was gone.
The therapist, Dietrich according to his name tag, was insistent. “You must start walking.”
He glared at him and resisted the urge to make a nasty crack about Nazis. “I can’t.” He clung to the bar, unable to move forward or backward, unable to stand but too afraid to fall.
“One step, that’s all you need to take. Right leg. Left leg. Then we’re done.”
“No. Please let me sit. I can’t.”
The therapist was merciless. He pulled something out of his pocket, something Neal recognized instantly. It was his cell phone.
“Give that back.” A sudden burst of rage lent strength to his voice.
Dietrich waggled it. “Come on, Herr Neal. One step and you can have this back.”
Neal didn’t move, he just repeated his demand. “Give it back.” He couldn’t hold out a hand. If he let go of the bar, he’d fall.
“One step – that’s all you need to take.”
The adrenaline -fueled rush faded too quickly. His arm started to shake and his grip slipped. “Please, give me my phone back.”
“Take a step.” The therapist was implacable.
“I can’t. Please.” He needed his phone. He couldn’t bear if anything happened to it. With everything that had happened to him – prison, Kate, Adler, the mess he had made of his life after Moz stole the treasure, his flight from New York and the struggles after coming back – Neal had never begged for anything. But now, he couldn’t do anything but beg. “Please, give it back to me.” He felt the tears start. Desperate and aching and he hated them, he hated the weakness, the neediness.
“If you don’t take a step, I’m keeping your phone.” Dietrich put it back in his pocket.
Neal didn’t want to be like this, broken and ruined. He wanted to take the step – he wanted to walk again. He wanted something of a life back. And he wanted his cell phone more than anything else. Clinging to the bar with the last of his strength, Neal pushed his left leg forward.
“Good, good. You can do it. I know you can.”
Neal could feel the aide behind him, ready to catch him when he collapsed. But he wasn’t going to give up. His right leg, locked into a brace, dragged forward a few inches. Dietrich didn’t say anything. Neal took a deep breath and tried to push himself forward, to get one foot in front of the other. To take that damn step.
He managed it, he didn’t know how, but he took that one step. A wheelchair rolled up behind him, he was unhooked from the safety harness, and eased into the seat. Neal held out his hand for the phone, and Dietrich gave it to him.
“If you ever do that again, I will break you.”
The therapist smiled. “Good, then we’ve made progress.”
Neal gripped the phone as tightly as he had held onto the support bar in the therapy room. It was just a phone, nothing special about the model, but it was the only thing in his life that kept him sane.
The aides bathed and dressed him. They were going to park him in the solarium, where the winter sunlight warmed the glass -enclosed space. But today, Neal couldn’t bear it – the room was decorated for the holidays, in the best European tradition. It only served to remind him that it was a year since his life had ended. More than a year since he turned his back on the only thing that mattered, the only people that matter.
His room was private, and if it wasn’t for the medical equipment, the special bed, the call button, it could have been a luxury hotel room. And like any fine hotel, he paid extra for the view.
Tucked into a recliner, Neal stared out over the chilly and serene waters of Lake Geneva, the French Alps in the distance. Alone again, or at last (did it matter which?), he pulled out the damn phone, his precious connection back to the world he left behind. He launched the photo app and the images of his friends – his family – glided by. He had looked at them so many times, but each time the pain and the pleasure was just as fresh. There was Jones in the surveillance van. Diana, giving him the stink-eye at the office. There was the Harvard Crew, celebrating a major closure. June, Moz, Cindy and Samantha, Bugsy, too. Sara, scowling and smiling and beautiful. Alex, pissed off that he took her picture. Other women, Maya in the café; an old one of Kate – the hurt was still there, but it was an echo of another life, another man, one who was whole and healthy and happy.
Neal held his breath as the best pictures flashed on the screen. Elizabeth and Peter – laughing and goofing around. Peter in a loose t-shirt and jeans, El in a casual blouse and skirt, unbelievably, deliciously braless. Neal remembered when he took those pictures. It was a Sunday afternoon, Moz was away, and he had come around, lonely and bored, and Peter put him to work fixing the kitchen sink.
This last picture was his favorite. Elizabeth had taken it; it was just the two of them, a little grubby from the work but so damn pleased with themselves. He looked at it until the image was imprinted on his eyes. He could build epic fantasies around it. Sometimes the fantasies were of a life with just him and Peter – those were guilty and horrible and he hated them, hated himself for even imagining them, because Elizabeth Burke was not someone who could simply be disappeared, even in a fantasy. There were others, better ones, where the three of them lived in perfect and beautiful harmony. The configurations were never set in stone. He could pretend to be a friend, just someone who shared the best parts of their life, but never crossing the line between what was right and what he really wanted.
Or he could be their lover, their dirty secret, and it wasn’t shame he felt. Neal looked at himself, even dressed, he was still a wasted thing, unfit for the impossibility of their loving hands.
There was one more fantasy, the worst of all. It made him sweat and cry, but he couldn’t help himself. Like all the other ones, it centered on Peter. He found him again, not on the run, not in jail, but here. He found him and took him home, cared for him, made him get well. And when he was all healed, they would race up the stairs and tumble into bed, all three of them, they’d kiss and no one would care about his scars and they’d make love and everything would be perfect and wonderful and he’d never have to go anyway because El would curl up in his arms and Peter would be behind him, his own arms beloved shackles chaining him there forever.
The images, the story spun out behind his eyelids, Peter striding into the clinic. He’d see Neal, his body wasted and obscene, but there wouldn’t be any disgust in his eyes. He’d look at Neal like he was the most precious thing in the world. His fingers would be gentle as they brushed the curls from his forehead, tracing the scars. He would place a soft, sweet kiss on his brow, another on his lips and ask. “Isn’t it time to come home to those who love you?”
The tears streamed out from under Neal’s eyelids. He tried to stop, he didn’t want this dream. He couldn’t bear the thought of Peter seeing him like this, feeling duty-bound to take care of him. Seeing whatever love that was there wither and die in the face of obligation.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The French representative did a fine job of shouting everyone down, everyone but the head of cyber security for the German DAX. Peter and his team watched and listened in near awe as the two law enforcement agents screamed at the top of their lungs.
At least they were using English, so it was understandable as well as entertaining. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter noticed a line light up on his office phone, but didn’t bother to go to answer it. It was probably just a robo-call or a wrong number. His phone rang almost every time he was here after hours. Jones and Diana got calls too, but there was never anyone at the other end of the line.
He caught Clinton’s eye and shrugged. Diana was falling asleep and to be honest, he felt guilty about dragging his team into the office two or three nights/mornings a week. Whatever progress they’d made since early November had long since evaporated. These bi-weekly teleconferences were a waste of time and resources.
Peter interrupted the squabbling Europeans and advised them that they were signing off. He didn’t wait for a response before terminating the connection.
“Guys, you’re done.” Diana woke up at Clinton’s nudge. It was just the three of them. He had told Price, Blake, and Wesley to stop attending weeks ago.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s pointless to keep dragging you in for this shit. Until I say otherwise, you don’t have to come in for these calls. If I need you, I’ll let you know. Otherwise, I’ll brief you in the morning.”
“Peter – ” Jones began a half-hearted protest.
“Nope, my mind’s made up. I need you to run the daylight shift, not play vampire so the Bureau has better numbers in attendance than those jackasses overseas.”
Both of his agents gave him their heartfelt thanks, and they all packed up and went home.
Three nights later, as Peter settled himself in his office, he thought that this was actually a better arrangement. As much as he enjoyed his team, taking these mostly futile meetings in the conference room meant he couldn’t multitask. The IT department hooked his computer into the secure video conferencing system, attached a small camera to his monitor and he was now able to take the calls and actually get some work done at the same time.
It wasn’t close to an even tradeoff for having to be at the office in the wee small hours of the morning, but it was an improvement, to say the least. The call came through; he lowered the volume and worked through a half-dozen reports while the Russians and French continued their argument. Around a quarter past one, his desk phone rang. He muted the teleconference, and without thinking, picked it up and answered.
“Peter Burke, how can I help you?” It was automatic; he certainly didn’t expect anyone on the other end of the line.
Instead of the click of a computerized system transferring the call to an operator, or even a dial tone, there was a very audible gasp on the other end and suddenly an abrupt click as the call disconnected. Peter couldn’t say what prompted him, but he heard himself asking, “Neal? Is that you?”
Peter stared at the handset for a moment before carefully replacing it. The talking heads on the conference call all seemed to be looking at him, and he turned the volume back up with an apology. For the next few hours, he gave the participants his full attention. It was nearly dawn before the conference call ended and Peter decided to stay in the office. He needed to talk with the IT department as soon as they arrived.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal gripped his cell phone so hard he could feel the edges of it cutting into his hands.
For almost a year, as often as he was able to, he had called Peter’s office early in the morning, Geneva time. He needed to hear Peter’s voice, even if it was just a recording:
Sometimes, when he was falling into despair, he’d call Diana’s office line and Clinton’s too. With the six hour difference, Neal never thought he’d have to worry about any of them actually picking of their phones. All-nighters weren’t spent at the office, but in surveillance vans or on stakeouts.
Hearing Peter’s live voice was shocking. Neal’s heart started beating so hard he thought it would burst out of his chest and take flight. The joy warred with fear, aided by shame, and he quickly disconnected.
The temptation to shatter this phone, to toss it away, was terrifying. Until his accident, he never thought twice about disposing of his cell phones. They were called burner phones for a reason – nothing was irreplaceable except for his freedom. But now, when he was trapped in a prison, sentenced by circumstance, it seemed as if this phone and its contents were irreplaceable (though truly anything could be replaced). It was just that the phone – this physical thing that he purchased at Charles de Gaulle when he landed – was the last remnant of a life that was supposed to be filled with freedom.
And even if he could get everything back, it wasn’t as if Peter could trace him here. There were no thunderstorms or Spanish bells. There were no sounds in this room at all. It was just a fluke that Peter was in the office and answered his phone. It wouldn’t happen again.
Neal let his grip relax and he slipped the phone into his pocket. He’d wait a few days before calling again, when he was strong enough. Especially now that he had the memory of Peter’s voice calling his name.
Snow was falling, great big flakes that disappeared into the lake. It would be Christmas in a few days, he could hold off calling Peter until then. That would be his present, something to look forward to.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter scrubbed at his face, his eyes were crusty and he had that nasty wired-tired buzz from too much bad coffee and not enough sleep. It was eight-thirty and the staff was wandering in, bright and chipper, anticipating the holidays next week. He should be, too, but Neal’s absence was still a gaping hole in his life.
Most days were okay, he could now get through them without looking for his friend, his partner. Yet there were always moments, quiet and unguarded, where he’d say something and look up, wondering why Neal hadn’t answered. Because Neal wasn’t there, and he never would be again. The dream he had of Neal returning, of him just appearing at the front door, was discarded a long time ago. He wasn’t coming back, and he had to accept that. Even the emails that Peter sent to the emergency address bounced back – the account had been closed.
Suddenly, he couldn’t take it any longer. All the nagging worry, the incipient dread that had been dogging him came roaring back. The psychiatrist he had seen briefly last year said he had a mild anxiety disorder, not uncommon in men of his age. He recommended weekly talk sessions and a low dose of Prozac. He declined both. He knew what his problem was, and it had nothing to do with brain chemistry and everything to do with Neal’s absence in his life.
Peter dialed the IT department for the fourth time since eight o’clock, frustrated that no one was picking up. To his relief, someone did answer this time, and Peter asked her to come to his office ASAP.
Diana, festively dressed in red and gold, popped into his office. “How did the call go last night?”
“Call?” How the hell did Diana know that his phantom caller could be Neal?
“Yeah – were the French still overplaying the outrage card?”
“Oh – that call.”
“Boss, what call did you think I was talking about?” Diana looked at him critically. “And did you even go home last night?”
Peter leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Maybe saying it aloud would make it seem more plausible. “You know those calls we’ve been getting?”
“The ones where no one leaves a message?”
“Yeah – those.” He swallowed. “I think they’re from Neal.”
Diana looked as puzzled as he felt. “How? Why?”
“Don’t know.” He shook his head. “My desk phone rang last night – this morning,” Peter corrected himself. “I picked it up on the first ring. There was someone on the other end of the line, I could hear it. Whoever it was waited a few seconds and hung up. My gut tells me it’s Neal.”
“But why would he be calling us and not leaving a message? Why our office lines, when he has our cell phones, our home phones? This doesn’t make sense.”
“I know, Di. I just can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong, that Neal’s in trouble.”
A middle-aged woman with an FBI staff badge knocked on the door frame. “Agent Burke? I’m Eleanor Perza from IT, you wanted to see me? You’re having computer problems?”
Diana didn’t leave, clearly invested in the problem now.
Peter explained. “Not computer problems – telephone. For a while, I’ve been getting phantom calls very early in the morning – around one or two AM. I’ve been letting the calls go to voice mail, except for this morning. I picked up and someone was on the other end. I don’t think it’s a security issue, but I was wondering if there was a log of incoming calls.”
Eleanor nodded and chuckled. “Of course we have that, we’re the FBI. We keep logs of everything. How far back do you want to go?”
Peter didn’t need to think hard. “Can you get me the incoming call logs for my phone, for Agent Berrigan’s and Agent Clinton Jones, too, for the last twelve months?”
“Sure thing. We also can run a trace on the incoming calls. This is government property so you won’t have to worry about a warrant for a pen register.” Peter blinked. Of course IT would have to know that. Eleanor continued, clearly excited by the prospect of an interesting project. “I’m presuming that your caller isn’t using a landline – that would be too easy. And even if they’re using cell phones, it won’t take much to identify the cell towers from where the call originated, but as you know, the call still needs to stay live for at least two minutes to get a pinpoint location. I’ll send you the forms to sign off. Once I get them, I can set this up before the end of the day.”
Peter looked at Diana. She shrugged. “You really think the caller is Neal?”
“Yeah, I do.” He turned to Eleanor. “Do it.”
“Sure thing – I’ll email you the call logs too, but that may take a few days – we’re short staffed for the holidays.” The woman left and Peter leaned back in his chair, weary and upset.
“Go home, Peter. You look like death warmed over.”
“Thanks, Di. You really know how to boost my ego.” But Peter took her advice. To his disappointment, El had already left for the day. He wanted to tell her, and yet, he didn’t. Dealing with Diana’s skepticism was bad enough; he didn’t want to hear Elizabeth tell him he was chasing ghosts.
Winter was back with a vengeance, coating the city with a layer of icy sleet. Peter stripped and climbed into bed, the muffled tap-tap-tap of ice pellets against the windows was a soothing rhythm and he fell into a deep, dream-filled sleep.
Peter woke up, gasping and tear-stained. No, no, no. It’s just a nightmare. Neal isn’t dead. He swallowed against the sharp, metallic taste in his mouth, the residue of fear and bile and tried to reassure himself that this was only a bad dream, a projection of his worries, nothing more. Peter looked at the clock; it was almost two-thirty in the afternoon. Too late to call his contacts at Interpol in Paris.
But first thing tomorrow, the gloves were coming off, so to speak. He was going to find Neal Caffrey. It was what he did best.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Mid January
Neal’s plans for calling or not calling Peter’s office until Christmas day were scuttled. Scar tissue from the multiple surgeries he needed immediately following the accident had created a blockage in his small intestine. He was moved back to the hospital for an emergency procedure, and what was supposed to be a three-day stay lasted more than two weeks. The ever-present risk of post-operative infections materialized, and he spent ten days in an isolation ward, treated for intra-abdominal abscesses.
There were no windows out onto the world, just three walls of glass and a sterile environment, like a cage in a zoo. No one touched him, no one talked to him, except to fulfill some medical directive. They were courteous in a cursory fashion, calling him Herr or Monsieur or Signore as their gloved hands tended to his failing body.
Whatever progress he had made through the late autumn was gone. By the time the infection was defeated and he healed from the surgery, Neal had lost more weight and much of the muscle tone he had worked so hard to build. They shipped him back to the private clinic just after New Year’s, where he started his regime from square one. Somewhere along the way, his cell phone, his one connection to the past, went missing. The staff was apologetic and purchased a replacement for him.
He could reload the telephone numbers, and even the photos with a few taps, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It wasn’t apathy – far from it. It was just that it hurt too much to look at the life he lost, to hear their voices, those recordings.
Neal tried not to think about those few seconds when he heard Peter’s voice He closed his eyes and tried to forget. He couldn’t. Those familiar tones echoed in his head like one of the great church bells, and cracked his soul just as easily.
The phone slipped from his hand, onto the floor. He didn’t even try to reach for it. Maybe housekeeping would find it. He half-hoped they’d keep it.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Go to Part Three On DW On LJ
Early December
“Come on, Herr Neal.”
He was locked into the support harness, his right arm gripped against the bar, left one into a brace. An aide stood behind him, to catch him when he fell. Neal tried to take a step, but he couldn’t. The last surgery was yet another setback. The grafts on his right knee were rejected and he was facing an even longer recovery. Matters became more complicated when an infection set in, sending him back to the hospital and ICU for almost two weeks.
He felt weak and useless. Whatever progress he had made was gone.
The therapist, Dietrich according to his name tag, was insistent. “You must start walking.”
He glared at him and resisted the urge to make a nasty crack about Nazis. “I can’t.” He clung to the bar, unable to move forward or backward, unable to stand but too afraid to fall.
“One step, that’s all you need to take. Right leg. Left leg. Then we’re done.”
“No. Please let me sit. I can’t.”
The therapist was merciless. He pulled something out of his pocket, something Neal recognized instantly. It was his cell phone.
“Give that back.” A sudden burst of rage lent strength to his voice.
Dietrich waggled it. “Come on, Herr Neal. One step and you can have this back.”
Neal didn’t move, he just repeated his demand. “Give it back.” He couldn’t hold out a hand. If he let go of the bar, he’d fall.
“One step – that’s all you need to take.”
The adrenaline -fueled rush faded too quickly. His arm started to shake and his grip slipped. “Please, give me my phone back.”
“Take a step.” The therapist was implacable.
“I can’t. Please.” He needed his phone. He couldn’t bear if anything happened to it. With everything that had happened to him – prison, Kate, Adler, the mess he had made of his life after Moz stole the treasure, his flight from New York and the struggles after coming back – Neal had never begged for anything. But now, he couldn’t do anything but beg. “Please, give it back to me.” He felt the tears start. Desperate and aching and he hated them, he hated the weakness, the neediness.
“If you don’t take a step, I’m keeping your phone.” Dietrich put it back in his pocket.
Neal didn’t want to be like this, broken and ruined. He wanted to take the step – he wanted to walk again. He wanted something of a life back. And he wanted his cell phone more than anything else. Clinging to the bar with the last of his strength, Neal pushed his left leg forward.
“Good, good. You can do it. I know you can.”
Neal could feel the aide behind him, ready to catch him when he collapsed. But he wasn’t going to give up. His right leg, locked into a brace, dragged forward a few inches. Dietrich didn’t say anything. Neal took a deep breath and tried to push himself forward, to get one foot in front of the other. To take that damn step.
He managed it, he didn’t know how, but he took that one step. A wheelchair rolled up behind him, he was unhooked from the safety harness, and eased into the seat. Neal held out his hand for the phone, and Dietrich gave it to him.
“If you ever do that again, I will break you.”
The therapist smiled. “Good, then we’ve made progress.”
Neal gripped the phone as tightly as he had held onto the support bar in the therapy room. It was just a phone, nothing special about the model, but it was the only thing in his life that kept him sane.
The aides bathed and dressed him. They were going to park him in the solarium, where the winter sunlight warmed the glass -enclosed space. But today, Neal couldn’t bear it – the room was decorated for the holidays, in the best European tradition. It only served to remind him that it was a year since his life had ended. More than a year since he turned his back on the only thing that mattered, the only people that matter.
His room was private, and if it wasn’t for the medical equipment, the special bed, the call button, it could have been a luxury hotel room. And like any fine hotel, he paid extra for the view.
Tucked into a recliner, Neal stared out over the chilly and serene waters of Lake Geneva, the French Alps in the distance. Alone again, or at last (did it matter which?), he pulled out the damn phone, his precious connection back to the world he left behind. He launched the photo app and the images of his friends – his family – glided by. He had looked at them so many times, but each time the pain and the pleasure was just as fresh. There was Jones in the surveillance van. Diana, giving him the stink-eye at the office. There was the Harvard Crew, celebrating a major closure. June, Moz, Cindy and Samantha, Bugsy, too. Sara, scowling and smiling and beautiful. Alex, pissed off that he took her picture. Other women, Maya in the café; an old one of Kate – the hurt was still there, but it was an echo of another life, another man, one who was whole and healthy and happy.
Neal held his breath as the best pictures flashed on the screen. Elizabeth and Peter – laughing and goofing around. Peter in a loose t-shirt and jeans, El in a casual blouse and skirt, unbelievably, deliciously braless. Neal remembered when he took those pictures. It was a Sunday afternoon, Moz was away, and he had come around, lonely and bored, and Peter put him to work fixing the kitchen sink.
“You know your way around a torch and brazing rod, right?”
He chuckled and stepped back, hand up. “Metal isn’t my medium, you know.”
“But safes and security bars are.” Peter popped a safety mask on his head and pushed him towards the sink.
“I don’t think my contract with the Bureau extends to your home improvement projects.”
“Hmmm, and I don’t think the terms of your parole include many things that you do on a regular basis. Besides, if we’re going to feed you tonight, you should make a small effort to earn it.”
“Yeah, yeah – I know the speech.”
He had made quick work of the repair, managing not to burn himself or set the kitchen on fire. Truthfully, he had enjoyed it – enjoyed Peter kneeling next to him, handing him tools, keeping him busy. Making him part of their lives.
He chuckled and stepped back, hand up. “Metal isn’t my medium, you know.”
“But safes and security bars are.” Peter popped a safety mask on his head and pushed him towards the sink.
“I don’t think my contract with the Bureau extends to your home improvement projects.”
“Hmmm, and I don’t think the terms of your parole include many things that you do on a regular basis. Besides, if we’re going to feed you tonight, you should make a small effort to earn it.”
“Yeah, yeah – I know the speech.”
He had made quick work of the repair, managing not to burn himself or set the kitchen on fire. Truthfully, he had enjoyed it – enjoyed Peter kneeling next to him, handing him tools, keeping him busy. Making him part of their lives.
This last picture was his favorite. Elizabeth had taken it; it was just the two of them, a little grubby from the work but so damn pleased with themselves. He looked at it until the image was imprinted on his eyes. He could build epic fantasies around it. Sometimes the fantasies were of a life with just him and Peter – those were guilty and horrible and he hated them, hated himself for even imagining them, because Elizabeth Burke was not someone who could simply be disappeared, even in a fantasy. There were others, better ones, where the three of them lived in perfect and beautiful harmony. The configurations were never set in stone. He could pretend to be a friend, just someone who shared the best parts of their life, but never crossing the line between what was right and what he really wanted.
Or he could be their lover, their dirty secret, and it wasn’t shame he felt. Neal looked at himself, even dressed, he was still a wasted thing, unfit for the impossibility of their loving hands.
There was one more fantasy, the worst of all. It made him sweat and cry, but he couldn’t help himself. Like all the other ones, it centered on Peter. He found him again, not on the run, not in jail, but here. He found him and took him home, cared for him, made him get well. And when he was all healed, they would race up the stairs and tumble into bed, all three of them, they’d kiss and no one would care about his scars and they’d make love and everything would be perfect and wonderful and he’d never have to go anyway because El would curl up in his arms and Peter would be behind him, his own arms beloved shackles chaining him there forever.
The images, the story spun out behind his eyelids, Peter striding into the clinic. He’d see Neal, his body wasted and obscene, but there wouldn’t be any disgust in his eyes. He’d look at Neal like he was the most precious thing in the world. His fingers would be gentle as they brushed the curls from his forehead, tracing the scars. He would place a soft, sweet kiss on his brow, another on his lips and ask. “Isn’t it time to come home to those who love you?”
The tears streamed out from under Neal’s eyelids. He tried to stop, he didn’t want this dream. He couldn’t bear the thought of Peter seeing him like this, feeling duty-bound to take care of him. Seeing whatever love that was there wither and die in the face of obligation.
The French representative did a fine job of shouting everyone down, everyone but the head of cyber security for the German DAX. Peter and his team watched and listened in near awe as the two law enforcement agents screamed at the top of their lungs.
At least they were using English, so it was understandable as well as entertaining. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter noticed a line light up on his office phone, but didn’t bother to go to answer it. It was probably just a robo-call or a wrong number. His phone rang almost every time he was here after hours. Jones and Diana got calls too, but there was never anyone at the other end of the line.
He caught Clinton’s eye and shrugged. Diana was falling asleep and to be honest, he felt guilty about dragging his team into the office two or three nights/mornings a week. Whatever progress they’d made since early November had long since evaporated. These bi-weekly teleconferences were a waste of time and resources.
Peter interrupted the squabbling Europeans and advised them that they were signing off. He didn’t wait for a response before terminating the connection.
“Guys, you’re done.” Diana woke up at Clinton’s nudge. It was just the three of them. He had told Price, Blake, and Wesley to stop attending weeks ago.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s pointless to keep dragging you in for this shit. Until I say otherwise, you don’t have to come in for these calls. If I need you, I’ll let you know. Otherwise, I’ll brief you in the morning.”
“Peter – ” Jones began a half-hearted protest.
“Nope, my mind’s made up. I need you to run the daylight shift, not play vampire so the Bureau has better numbers in attendance than those jackasses overseas.”
Both of his agents gave him their heartfelt thanks, and they all packed up and went home.
Three nights later, as Peter settled himself in his office, he thought that this was actually a better arrangement. As much as he enjoyed his team, taking these mostly futile meetings in the conference room meant he couldn’t multitask. The IT department hooked his computer into the secure video conferencing system, attached a small camera to his monitor and he was now able to take the calls and actually get some work done at the same time.
It wasn’t close to an even tradeoff for having to be at the office in the wee small hours of the morning, but it was an improvement, to say the least. The call came through; he lowered the volume and worked through a half-dozen reports while the Russians and French continued their argument. Around a quarter past one, his desk phone rang. He muted the teleconference, and without thinking, picked it up and answered.
“Peter Burke, how can I help you?” It was automatic; he certainly didn’t expect anyone on the other end of the line.
Instead of the click of a computerized system transferring the call to an operator, or even a dial tone, there was a very audible gasp on the other end and suddenly an abrupt click as the call disconnected. Peter couldn’t say what prompted him, but he heard himself asking, “Neal? Is that you?”
Peter stared at the handset for a moment before carefully replacing it. The talking heads on the conference call all seemed to be looking at him, and he turned the volume back up with an apology. For the next few hours, he gave the participants his full attention. It was nearly dawn before the conference call ended and Peter decided to stay in the office. He needed to talk with the IT department as soon as they arrived.
Neal gripped his cell phone so hard he could feel the edges of it cutting into his hands.
For almost a year, as often as he was able to, he had called Peter’s office early in the morning, Geneva time. He needed to hear Peter’s voice, even if it was just a recording:
“Hello, you’ve reached the office of Special Agent Peter Burke, in the White Collar division of the FBI. I’m not at my desk right now, so please leave a brief message with your name, telephone number and the purpose of your call. If this is an emergency, please press Zero for the operator, and ask for Special Agent Clinton Jones or Special Agent Diana Berrigan. They will be able to assist you.”
Sometimes, when he was falling into despair, he’d call Diana’s office line and Clinton’s too. With the six hour difference, Neal never thought he’d have to worry about any of them actually picking of their phones. All-nighters weren’t spent at the office, but in surveillance vans or on stakeouts.
Hearing Peter’s live voice was shocking. Neal’s heart started beating so hard he thought it would burst out of his chest and take flight. The joy warred with fear, aided by shame, and he quickly disconnected.
The temptation to shatter this phone, to toss it away, was terrifying. Until his accident, he never thought twice about disposing of his cell phones. They were called burner phones for a reason – nothing was irreplaceable except for his freedom. But now, when he was trapped in a prison, sentenced by circumstance, it seemed as if this phone and its contents were irreplaceable (though truly anything could be replaced). It was just that the phone – this physical thing that he purchased at Charles de Gaulle when he landed – was the last remnant of a life that was supposed to be filled with freedom.
And even if he could get everything back, it wasn’t as if Peter could trace him here. There were no thunderstorms or Spanish bells. There were no sounds in this room at all. It was just a fluke that Peter was in the office and answered his phone. It wouldn’t happen again.
Neal let his grip relax and he slipped the phone into his pocket. He’d wait a few days before calling again, when he was strong enough. Especially now that he had the memory of Peter’s voice calling his name.
Snow was falling, great big flakes that disappeared into the lake. It would be Christmas in a few days, he could hold off calling Peter until then. That would be his present, something to look forward to.
Peter scrubbed at his face, his eyes were crusty and he had that nasty wired-tired buzz from too much bad coffee and not enough sleep. It was eight-thirty and the staff was wandering in, bright and chipper, anticipating the holidays next week. He should be, too, but Neal’s absence was still a gaping hole in his life.
Most days were okay, he could now get through them without looking for his friend, his partner. Yet there were always moments, quiet and unguarded, where he’d say something and look up, wondering why Neal hadn’t answered. Because Neal wasn’t there, and he never would be again. The dream he had of Neal returning, of him just appearing at the front door, was discarded a long time ago. He wasn’t coming back, and he had to accept that. Even the emails that Peter sent to the emergency address bounced back – the account had been closed.
Suddenly, he couldn’t take it any longer. All the nagging worry, the incipient dread that had been dogging him came roaring back. The psychiatrist he had seen briefly last year said he had a mild anxiety disorder, not uncommon in men of his age. He recommended weekly talk sessions and a low dose of Prozac. He declined both. He knew what his problem was, and it had nothing to do with brain chemistry and everything to do with Neal’s absence in his life.
Peter dialed the IT department for the fourth time since eight o’clock, frustrated that no one was picking up. To his relief, someone did answer this time, and Peter asked her to come to his office ASAP.
Diana, festively dressed in red and gold, popped into his office. “How did the call go last night?”
“Call?” How the hell did Diana know that his phantom caller could be Neal?
“Yeah – were the French still overplaying the outrage card?”
“Oh – that call.”
“Boss, what call did you think I was talking about?” Diana looked at him critically. “And did you even go home last night?”
Peter leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Maybe saying it aloud would make it seem more plausible. “You know those calls we’ve been getting?”
“The ones where no one leaves a message?”
“Yeah – those.” He swallowed. “I think they’re from Neal.”
Diana looked as puzzled as he felt. “How? Why?”
“Don’t know.” He shook his head. “My desk phone rang last night – this morning,” Peter corrected himself. “I picked it up on the first ring. There was someone on the other end of the line, I could hear it. Whoever it was waited a few seconds and hung up. My gut tells me it’s Neal.”
“But why would he be calling us and not leaving a message? Why our office lines, when he has our cell phones, our home phones? This doesn’t make sense.”
“I know, Di. I just can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong, that Neal’s in trouble.”
A middle-aged woman with an FBI staff badge knocked on the door frame. “Agent Burke? I’m Eleanor Perza from IT, you wanted to see me? You’re having computer problems?”
Diana didn’t leave, clearly invested in the problem now.
Peter explained. “Not computer problems – telephone. For a while, I’ve been getting phantom calls very early in the morning – around one or two AM. I’ve been letting the calls go to voice mail, except for this morning. I picked up and someone was on the other end. I don’t think it’s a security issue, but I was wondering if there was a log of incoming calls.”
Eleanor nodded and chuckled. “Of course we have that, we’re the FBI. We keep logs of everything. How far back do you want to go?”
Peter didn’t need to think hard. “Can you get me the incoming call logs for my phone, for Agent Berrigan’s and Agent Clinton Jones, too, for the last twelve months?”
“Sure thing. We also can run a trace on the incoming calls. This is government property so you won’t have to worry about a warrant for a pen register.” Peter blinked. Of course IT would have to know that. Eleanor continued, clearly excited by the prospect of an interesting project. “I’m presuming that your caller isn’t using a landline – that would be too easy. And even if they’re using cell phones, it won’t take much to identify the cell towers from where the call originated, but as you know, the call still needs to stay live for at least two minutes to get a pinpoint location. I’ll send you the forms to sign off. Once I get them, I can set this up before the end of the day.”
Peter looked at Diana. She shrugged. “You really think the caller is Neal?”
“Yeah, I do.” He turned to Eleanor. “Do it.”
“Sure thing – I’ll email you the call logs too, but that may take a few days – we’re short staffed for the holidays.” The woman left and Peter leaned back in his chair, weary and upset.
“Go home, Peter. You look like death warmed over.”
“Thanks, Di. You really know how to boost my ego.” But Peter took her advice. To his disappointment, El had already left for the day. He wanted to tell her, and yet, he didn’t. Dealing with Diana’s skepticism was bad enough; he didn’t want to hear Elizabeth tell him he was chasing ghosts.
Winter was back with a vengeance, coating the city with a layer of icy sleet. Peter stripped and climbed into bed, the muffled tap-tap-tap of ice pellets against the windows was a soothing rhythm and he fell into a deep, dream-filled sleep.
He was back in Cape Verde, but there was no Collins, no threat of capture or life in prison. The boy had stolen his wallet and he was chasing him through the streets. And as he ran, the memory faltered, changed. The streets were still cobblestone, but the sky was different – gray, cloudy, cold. He wasn’t in Praia anymore, and he knew these streets. They were just as steep but many centuries more ancient.
This was Paris in the winter, well more than a dozen years ago. Hot on the trail of Neal Caffrey and a series of brilliant forgeries, Peter had a tip that his suspect was living near Sacre Coeur. Probably not a garret apartment; despite Caffrey’s well-deserved reputation as an artist, he was a man who enjoyed his creature comforts. No, he had a well-furnished pied à terre that Peter was planning on casing.
Except that Caffrey had spotted him and ran. Up and up and up the hill; Peter chased him into a church. There was no way out except past him, or so he thought. He was wrong. Neal bolted up the bell tower stairs, Peter following, nearly out of breath. He made it to the top – a few seconds behind. It was cold and windy, snow falling.
This was not how it happened in reality. Neal hadn’t run up the tower stairs, he had ducked into a small side chapel, and then doubled back behind Peter, escaping out the vestry doors.
Even dreaming, Peter recognized that he was melding two realities – young, impulsive and reckless Neal Caffrey, thrilled by the chase, and the older man, honed by hardship and loss, the man he thought of as his dearest friend.
“Neal.” That’s all he said, holding his arms out. He took one step, and another.
Neal held up a hand, as if that would stop him. Peter felt himself grinning, because seeing Neal – young/old – so perfect – was the best moment he had in such a damn long time.
He dropped the hand and Peter took that last step, wrapping his arms around him, holding him as tight as he could. And Neal – this time, there was no hesitation; he grasped Peter as if he were a life preserver. It felt so good; Neal was in his arms, where he belonged.
“When are you coming home? I’ve missed you so much.”
Neal pulled back, the happiness gone from his face. “I can’t come home, not now. Not ever.”
Peter thought his heart was going to break. “Why, why can’t you? If it’s about El, about us, we can work that out. You know that. You’re my friend, before anything else. And I miss my friend. I miss you.”
“No, Peter – it’s not that. When I say I can’t come home, it’s because I can’t – it’s impossible now.”
The ice and snow stung his face. “Are you in prison, Neal? Is that why you can’t come home?” This was his greatest fear. “You should have called me, I would have helped you.”
Neal shook his head, sad and slow. “No, Peter. I’m not in jail.”
The dread turned to terror, to a thought that had never occurred before. “Neal – are you dead?”
This was Paris in the winter, well more than a dozen years ago. Hot on the trail of Neal Caffrey and a series of brilliant forgeries, Peter had a tip that his suspect was living near Sacre Coeur. Probably not a garret apartment; despite Caffrey’s well-deserved reputation as an artist, he was a man who enjoyed his creature comforts. No, he had a well-furnished pied à terre that Peter was planning on casing.
Except that Caffrey had spotted him and ran. Up and up and up the hill; Peter chased him into a church. There was no way out except past him, or so he thought. He was wrong. Neal bolted up the bell tower stairs, Peter following, nearly out of breath. He made it to the top – a few seconds behind. It was cold and windy, snow falling.
This was not how it happened in reality. Neal hadn’t run up the tower stairs, he had ducked into a small side chapel, and then doubled back behind Peter, escaping out the vestry doors.
Even dreaming, Peter recognized that he was melding two realities – young, impulsive and reckless Neal Caffrey, thrilled by the chase, and the older man, honed by hardship and loss, the man he thought of as his dearest friend.
“Neal.” That’s all he said, holding his arms out. He took one step, and another.
Neal held up a hand, as if that would stop him. Peter felt himself grinning, because seeing Neal – young/old – so perfect – was the best moment he had in such a damn long time.
He dropped the hand and Peter took that last step, wrapping his arms around him, holding him as tight as he could. And Neal – this time, there was no hesitation; he grasped Peter as if he were a life preserver. It felt so good; Neal was in his arms, where he belonged.
“When are you coming home? I’ve missed you so much.”
Neal pulled back, the happiness gone from his face. “I can’t come home, not now. Not ever.”
Peter thought his heart was going to break. “Why, why can’t you? If it’s about El, about us, we can work that out. You know that. You’re my friend, before anything else. And I miss my friend. I miss you.”
“No, Peter – it’s not that. When I say I can’t come home, it’s because I can’t – it’s impossible now.”
The ice and snow stung his face. “Are you in prison, Neal? Is that why you can’t come home?” This was his greatest fear. “You should have called me, I would have helped you.”
Neal shook his head, sad and slow. “No, Peter. I’m not in jail.”
The dread turned to terror, to a thought that had never occurred before. “Neal – are you dead?”
Peter woke up, gasping and tear-stained. No, no, no. It’s just a nightmare. Neal isn’t dead. He swallowed against the sharp, metallic taste in his mouth, the residue of fear and bile and tried to reassure himself that this was only a bad dream, a projection of his worries, nothing more. Peter looked at the clock; it was almost two-thirty in the afternoon. Too late to call his contacts at Interpol in Paris.
But first thing tomorrow, the gloves were coming off, so to speak. He was going to find Neal Caffrey. It was what he did best.
Mid January
Neal’s plans for calling or not calling Peter’s office until Christmas day were scuttled. Scar tissue from the multiple surgeries he needed immediately following the accident had created a blockage in his small intestine. He was moved back to the hospital for an emergency procedure, and what was supposed to be a three-day stay lasted more than two weeks. The ever-present risk of post-operative infections materialized, and he spent ten days in an isolation ward, treated for intra-abdominal abscesses.
There were no windows out onto the world, just three walls of glass and a sterile environment, like a cage in a zoo. No one touched him, no one talked to him, except to fulfill some medical directive. They were courteous in a cursory fashion, calling him Herr or Monsieur or Signore as their gloved hands tended to his failing body.
Whatever progress he had made through the late autumn was gone. By the time the infection was defeated and he healed from the surgery, Neal had lost more weight and much of the muscle tone he had worked so hard to build. They shipped him back to the private clinic just after New Year’s, where he started his regime from square one. Somewhere along the way, his cell phone, his one connection to the past, went missing. The staff was apologetic and purchased a replacement for him.
He could reload the telephone numbers, and even the photos with a few taps, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It wasn’t apathy – far from it. It was just that it hurt too much to look at the life he lost, to hear their voices, those recordings.
Neal tried not to think about those few seconds when he heard Peter’s voice He closed his eyes and tried to forget. He couldn’t. Those familiar tones echoed in his head like one of the great church bells, and cracked his soul just as easily.
The phone slipped from his hand, onto the floor. He didn’t even try to reach for it. Maybe housekeeping would find it. He half-hoped they’d keep it.
Tags:
- character: clinton jones,
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: mozzie,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: ofc,
- character: omc,
- character: peter burke,
- character: reese hughes,
- character: salie,
- genre: angst,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: ot3,
- genre: post-anklet,
- genre: pre-ot3,
- genre: pre-slash,
- genre: sick fic,
- genre: slash,
- genre: ust,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth/neal,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- white collar,
- written for: wcbb,
- year: 2012
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no subject
Date: 2013-09-07 03:54 pm (UTC)I wish that when Peter find him, he would hold Neal tight and say, I love you, I love you, I love you. Please don't ever leave me again. You're perfect.