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elrhiarhodanTitle: Three Pitched Balls
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, Satchmo, Peter/Neal (Peter/Elizabeth/Neal)
Spoilers: 2.03 – Copycat Caffrey, 3.15 – Stealing Home
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~3500
Beta Credit:coffeethyme4me, theatregirl7299, and jrosemary
Summary: Set in the Paladin ‘Verse, Peter tells Neal about the choices he’s made in his life. He has no regrets. Neither does Neal.
A/N: Writter for today’s Peter-Centric whumpfest on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
whitecollarhc: Peter Burke and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. Also, fills the "Loss of Identity" Square on my H/C Bingo Card.
__________________
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Elizabeth: “Well, you know, the Twins drafted him.”
Neal: “Peter played pro?”
Elizabeth: “He had an amazing slider. Played in the minors right after college.”
Neal: “Wow!”
Peter: “And two weeks into spring training I blew out my rotator cuff.”
Elizabeth: “Honey, I’m sorry, I thought Neal knew.”
Peter: “That’s okay.”
Neal: “So that’s it? You only got to play for two weeks?”
Peter: “I went under the knife and they were able to repair it. Three months later, I was back in the rotation with the Triple-A club.”
Neal: “So you still had the slider?”
Peter: “Yeah, but that was the problem. I could throw it, but the doctors said that if I continued, I could destroy my arm for good. That was in my head every time I pitched, so … I left. I had a choice. I could continue down that path or … find a new passion.”
Neal: “It’s a tough call to make. You ever look back and wish you played in the majors?”
Peter: “Oh, of course I do. There’s no bigger dream than playing in The Show. Standing on that mound, right in the middle of the stadium, the crowd chanting your name. Phew…ah. In hindsight, if I kept playing, I would have destroyed my arm and I never would have been able to pass the FBI physical… And I never would have caught you.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It was raining.
Not some ordinary summer drizzle, but a torrential downpour. The remnants of the tropical storm that had flooded most of the East Coast over the last few days were wreaking havoc on the metropolitan area. The Weather Channel said it was going to hang around until tomorrow – midday Sunday – before moving out to sea. Something like three inches of rain had fallen since this afternoon. Peter should have been disappointed because the bad weather forced a cancellation of the baseball game he was supposed to be attending right now.
Except that his beloved Yankees were playing like … the Mets. They were in fourth place, barely a half-game out of the basement, and even though he was a fan of the game more than he was a fan of the Yankees, sitting there and watching them lose wasn’t a hell of a lot of fun. Better to stay home and catch up on paperwork.
Or have sex.
Elizabeth was out of town, seeing to her clients in San Francisco, but Neal was here, and making out with Neal – fucking Neal – was definitely better than attending a Yankees game, even if the seats were along the first base line.
He looked over at his lover, who was intently sketching something or someone, and Peter suspected he was the subject, but it could have been Satchmo. He had to smile. Their life together wasn’t easy, not by any stretch of the imagination. But having Neal, loving Neal, was well worth living in the shadows. Peter never forgot that there were always eyes on them, that discovery could mean disgrace and dismissal. And prison for Neal.
Not that that hadn’t happened before. Peter didn’t realize he laughed out loud at that though until he heard himself.
“What’s so funny?”
“Just thinking.”
“Funny thoughts?”
“More ironic than funny.”
“Wanna share?” Neal’s curiosity was idle, his attention mostly on the sketchbook in front of him.
“No, not particularly.” Peter answered truthfully. He wouldn’t give up Neal for the world, but the thought of the price he’d have to pay to keep him (not to mention the price he already paid), was discomfiting.
Neal glanced up, shook his head and closed his sketchbook. “Something’s bothering you.”
“No, just …”
“Just?”
“Thinking,” Peter repeated.
“About?” Neal was not letting go so easily.
“You, me, El. Us.”
“And what would happen if people found out the truth?”
Of course Neal would see what was bothering him. “Yeah.”
Neal even echoed his own earlier thoughts. “They can do nothing to you or to me that hasn’t already happened. Suspension, jail, investigation. Threats of the breadline and professional disgrace. It’s happened before, it could happen again. So why worry?”
“Thank you very much, Alfred E. Newman.” Peter knew Neal was being pragmatic, but herreally couldn’t take comfort from that.
Neal didn’t find the MAD Magazine reference amusing. “Peter – you know what I mean. Wasting time worrying won’t change anything, especially anything that hasn’t happened yet.”
He sighed. “I know that it’s pointless to worry.”
“But you can’t help it, can you?”
“No, I guess I can’t.”
Neal tossed the sketchbook on the table and moved from his chair over to the couch next to Peter. “I think it’s well worth the risk – and there are few things these days that I’d risk prison for. You, you and El – that’s it.”
Peter sighed, smiled and rested his head against Neal’s. “You may be the romantic, but you’re right. Love’s always worth the risk.”
This should have been a moment when they kissed the stuffing out of each other, but a tremendous crack of thunder sent the house shaking and Satchmo howling. The normally placid dog had developed an irrational fear of thunderstorms over the past few years and he clawed his way onto their laps, burrowing his head under Peter’s shirt.
Peter gave Neal a rueful look and started stroking Satchmo, doing his best to keep him calm. Another rumble, although less powerful, was still loud enough to send the Lab shaking.
“Maybe some television – something to distract him?” Neal reached for the remote.
“Sure – whatever.” Peter tried not to wince, and not just from Satchmo’s claws digging into his thighs. As compatible as they were in so many ways, their tastes in popular entertainment rarely intersected. Neal was a fan of old movies, the high-brow stuff on PBS, documentary series about cheese or coffee shops on (and Peter tried not to gag) Wealth TV. He preferred sports, police procedurals, if just to pick them apart, and the occasional comedy. But since Elizabeth’s tastes synced more with Neal’s than his, Peter had learned to tolerate Frank Sinatra (as both singer and actor), Charlie Rose, and now knew far too much about artisanal Gouda.
Neal was flipping through the channels, pausing every so often, until finally settling on his favorite station – Turner Classic Movies. But a terrified Satchmo distracted Peter from the screen and the "Coming Up Next" banner.
Neal, however, was pleased and hit the pause button on the remote. “Ah, we’re in luck. A movie both of us will like is just about to start.”
“Is that possible?”
“It’s a baseball movie – the baseball movie.”
“Field of Dreams?”
“Nope.”
“The Lou Gehrig Story?”
“Nope.”
“Bull Durham?”
“Not even close.”
“Come on, tell me.” Peter would have grabbed the remote, but eighty-five pounds of shivering dog made that awkward.
“Just relax and watch.” Neal unpaused the movie.
A white horse galloped into the frame, the studio credits shimmering before they faded into the movie’s opening scene, a glowing, golden field and a young man pitching a ball.
“The Natural. It’s the best baseball movie ever made. You can’t tell me you don’t want to watch this.”
Peter swallowed against the slightly sick feeling in his belly. “I’ve never seen it.”
“What?” Neal sounded outraged. “You really have never seen it? That’s impossible.” He stopped the movie again.
“No, not impossible. It came out the year I was graduated college and was drafted by the Twins. I was working with my dad right after graduation. There were loans to pay off, the stuff that the scholarship didn’t cover, and even then, life in Cambridge wasn’t cheap. Spring training didn’t start until February and I wasn’t going to loaf around for half a year.”
“But …” Neal couldn’t seem to comprehend that he hadn’t seen a classic sports movie.
“It was the 1980s, remember? There were no DVDs or DVRs, no endless repeats on classic movie channels. My folks didn’t even have cable and they didn’t get a VCR until – I don’t know – maybe after I graduated from Quantico?”
“But it’s been thirty years and you still haven’t seen it?”
“It’s kind of hard to explain.” Peter kept petting Satchmo, who whimpered as another clap of thunder rattled the house. “Ballplayers are superstitious. You’re hot – you don’t do anything to break the streak. You eat chicken every night when you’re throwing strikeouts, so you keep eating chicken until you give up back-to-back home runs. You don’t shave, you don’t wash your jock…”
“Eww!”
“Yeah – well, that’s being a baseball player. Anyway – I hadn’t seen the movie and when my shoulder went, it just seemed wrong – like it was bad luck. I thought I was going to jinx my recovery if I watched it.”
“And afterwards?”
“Well, I did go back – and my slider still had the same accuracy. But I couldn’t bring myself to watch it. Then … when I finally decided to give up baseball – it just seemed like a painful reminder of everything I gave up.” Listening to himself as he tried to explain the nebulous, inchoate reasons, Peter realized how foolish, stupid, and superstitious he sounded.
Neal fell silent and went to change the channel. This time, Peter was able to take the remote from him. He was not a fool, he wasn’t stupid, and nearly thirty years later, it was time to put that superstition to rest. “No – let’s watch.” He pressed “play” and relaxed, determined to enjoy what had become a classic.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The movie was good, better than good. And Redford, for all his movie star glamour, was convincing in the role of Roy Hobbs, first as the young pitcher on his way to try out for the Cubs, then as a down-on-his-luck slugger with a homemade bat and way too many secrets.
Hobbs hit his game-winning home run, the ball hit into the darkness became one tossed from father to son in an Iowa cornfield. There was the sense that as long as the game was played with honor and joy, all was right with the world.
The rain still beat against the windows, but with far less fury. The thunderstorms that sent Satchmo onto their laps had moved out and the dog was back to snoozing on his bed next to the dormant fireplace. Neal was leaning against him, so quiet and still that Peter wondered if he’d fallen asleep.
He hadn’t. As the credits rolled and the screen divided to show what was coming up next, Neal turned the television off.
“How did it happen?”
“What – how did what happen?”
“When you blew out your shoulder – you said it went while you were in spring training, right?”
“Yeah – we were down in Florida, it was early March. The Triple-A season was just starting.” Peter couldn’t keep the melancholy out of his voice. He had loved those days. “Pitchers and catchers reported in early February and, well, it was pretty clear that I was earmarked for a spot in the rotation on the big club.”
“The Show.”
“Yeah – The Show.” He sighed. He’d been so young – twenty-one and as wet behind the ears as any rookie who put on a glove. But he knew that there were eyes on him. “Big league scouts were sitting in the bleachers every day when I was pitching. I could feel them watching.”
“I have a question – something that’s always confused me. You once told me that the FBI recruited you right out of college. But you had four years of advanced math on scholarship, then two years of accounting. And the Twins recruited you right out of college, too. Something doesn’t make sense.”
Peter chuckled. “Yeah – I know. I was an math major on a full academic scholarship and added accounting as a second major when I was a junior.”
Neal laughed too. “As if you didn’t have enough to do.”
“Anything to secure my future. Math majors usually end up teaching, which wasn’t where I saw myself. Hence the accounting courses. Besides, Harvard didn’t offer sports scholarships. None of the Ivy League universities did. But I played on the baseball team and we were top of the division for the three years I pitched. The FBI came around just before the end of my last fall semester. They were recruiting and I interviewed. I was shocked when they offered me a spot in the Academy and was all set to join when the Twins made their offer just before graduation.”
“So you told the FBI that you’d rather play ball?”
“Pretty much. But they said that they’d keep a slot open for me for a year if I changed my mind.”
“Wow – that’s … impressive.”
He shrugged. It was difficult remembering the mixed feelings, wanting to take both roads but only able to travel on one. “I talked with my dad – for hours. We weighed the pros and cons. Of course, joining the FBI would give me security and stability.”
Neal laughed.
“Well, it did in the pre-Caffrey days.”
“But baseball?”
“How many guys get the chance to play professionally? How could I pass that up?”
Neal gave him that beautiful, rueful smile. “You couldn’t.”
“Nope.”
“So – what happened?”
“We were in Tampa, playing the Columbus Clippers, a Yankees farm team. It was March and way too early to be in the home territory. During the season, the Tornados played in Rochester and there was still two feet of snow on the ground.”
“Yeah – not the best conditions.”
“It was a night game, one of those perfect evenings when you can see the moon above the stadium lights. The Tornados were ahead 3-2, and the Clippers had men on second and third, but there were two outs. I was called in to save the game.” He could hear his imaginary walk-on music playing, and as small as the crowd had been at the tiny minor league stadium, in his memory, it was roaring.
“And?”
“Three pitched balls – all strikes. The guy went down swinging, but on that last throw …” He rubbed his shoulder at the memory. “Something felt off, wrong. I couldn’t lift my arm. It was sort of numb.”
Neal put his hand on top of his own, as if he were trying to soothe the nearly thirty year-old ache.
“I remember going to the hospital, waiting for the x-rays and test results. This was years before MRIs, and CAT scans were hardly routine. I hadn’t even called my parents. It was so damn cold in that hospital.” Peter couldn’t help but shiver from the memory. “Coach came in with the docs, I could read the bad news on his face.”
“But they fixed you, you said that.”
“Yup – went to the Cleveland Clinic – that’s where all the baseball players had this surgery back then. The big team picked up the bill, too.”
“You really were a hot prospect, I guess.”
“That I was. And I spent three months in rehab. But it was always there, in the back of my mind, that if I threw one more pitch, I could lose everything. Baseball, the chance for a career with the FBI. I’d wind up as a CPA with a bum arm, fit only for punching numbers.”
“Somehow, I don’t see that happening.” Neal gave a skeptical laugh. “Nothing could keep you down for long.”
Peter wrapped his arm around Neal and Neal relaxed against him. Peter thought he could stay like this all night, breathing in the scent of warm man.
“But what did your dad say?”
He could still hear his father’s words. “He told me that I had to live my life, and that some dreams die harder than others. He always wanted what was best for me.”
“You’re a lucky man. You know that.” Neal got that sad, distant look on his face, the one he could never hide when he thought about James and his own lost childhood dreams.
“I am, and I’m grateful every day for the people who’ve been in my life.” Peter wondered, not for the first time, what Neal’s life would have been like if his family hadn’t collapsed.
“But you had to go back, you had to give it a shot.”
“Exactly – I had to try.”
“And you still had the slider?”
“Yup – could still throw the damn ball – probably even better. First game back, threw nine pitches, struck out three batters, celebrated with the team and cleaned out my locker.”
Neal understood Peter, better than almost anyone. “You wanted to prove to yourself that this could have been your life, that you could have made a success of it.”
“Yeah. And I also realized that as much as I loved the game, I wanted something more.”
“Stability, security?”
“That too.” He shook his head. “It was a chance to make a difference.” It was eerie how those words echoed the plea he’d made to Neal that terrible day. “Even during the months before spring training, before I reported, I couldn’t stop thinking about the FBI and what it would mean. You know, I was one of only ten candidates they selected right out of college. Usually the Bureau requires two years of post-college experience, but they were pushing for Ivy League grads, over-achievers. It was kind of heady knowing that I was wanted so much.”
“And I bet you had some big-name companies sniffing around you, too.”
“Yup – there was an offer from McKinsey Consulting, another from Arthur Anderson. E&Y, a few Wall Street firms, even a few in London were sniffing around.”
“All those opportunities – and baseball, too.” There was something wistful in Neal’s comment.
“I know what you’re thinking. Had I taken any other path...”
Neal grinned. “Yeah – but I think it was fate.”
Peter leaned over and kissed Neal. “Fate, karma, destiny. Whatever you want to call it. Just as I was meant to meet Elizabeth, I was meant to catch you. None of those other paths mean anything without either of you in my life.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter was sleeping, but Neal couldn’t seem to find a way to still his restless brain. This wasn’t anything new. Usually, if he stayed quiet, followed the rhythm of Peter’s breathing, he could drop off. Not tonight, though.
The storm had moved off, a steady breeze taking the heavy veil of clouds with it. Moonlight poured through the curtains, casting deep shadows and illuminating the hidden secrets in the room. A shaft of light, as soft as a feather, drifted across Peter’s torso, gilding his shoulder. As the curtain fluttered, scattering the light, Neal could see it – the faint marks of a surgical scar.
It wasn’t big – maybe as wide as his pinkie, not quite as long as the spread of his hand. It didn’t mar the smooth musculature of Peter’s shoulder. But Neal couldn’t help but wonder at those six inches. He traced them with his finger, lightly, so as not to wake Peter.
That scar and the damage it concealed made all the difference in the world. It hurt Neal to think of Peter hurt, but if he could go back and change history, he wouldn’t. The thought of his life without all of the moments that defined him – Peter waiting to spring the trap in that storage facility. Peter walking into Kate’s apartment and finding him on the floor, clinging to the empty wine bottle. Peter chasing after him, calling him back, keeping him from rushing into the fire. Peter talking him down from killing Fowler. Peter killing Vincent Adler to keep him safe.
Even with all the bad times between them – the broken trust, the anger, the perceived betrayals, Neal wouldn’t change his past, Peter’s past for anything. His life wouldn’t be worth living without Peter in it, defining him, making him better than he could ever be without him. And all because of a tiny rip – a minuscule separation of muscle and tendon and bone.
He could hear Peter’s words as if they were spoken right now.
“In hindsight, if I kept playing, I would have destroyed my arm and I never would have been able to pass the FBI physical. And I never would have caught you.”
Thank god.
Fin
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Satchmo, Peter/Neal (Peter/Elizabeth/Neal)
Spoilers: 2.03 – Copycat Caffrey, 3.15 – Stealing Home
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~3500
Beta Credit:
coffeethyme4me, theatregirl7299, and jrosemarySummary: Set in the Paladin ‘Verse, Peter tells Neal about the choices he’s made in his life. He has no regrets. Neither does Neal.
A/N: Writter for today’s Peter-Centric whumpfest on
whitecollarhc: Peter Burke and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. Also, fills the "Loss of Identity" Square on my H/C Bingo Card.Elizabeth: “Well, you know, the Twins drafted him.”
Neal: “Peter played pro?”
Elizabeth: “He had an amazing slider. Played in the minors right after college.”
Neal: “Wow!”
Peter: “And two weeks into spring training I blew out my rotator cuff.”
Elizabeth: “Honey, I’m sorry, I thought Neal knew.”
Peter: “That’s okay.”
Neal: “So that’s it? You only got to play for two weeks?”
Peter: “I went under the knife and they were able to repair it. Three months later, I was back in the rotation with the Triple-A club.”
Neal: “So you still had the slider?”
Peter: “Yeah, but that was the problem. I could throw it, but the doctors said that if I continued, I could destroy my arm for good. That was in my head every time I pitched, so … I left. I had a choice. I could continue down that path or … find a new passion.”
Neal: “It’s a tough call to make. You ever look back and wish you played in the majors?”
Peter: “Oh, of course I do. There’s no bigger dream than playing in The Show. Standing on that mound, right in the middle of the stadium, the crowd chanting your name. Phew…ah. In hindsight, if I kept playing, I would have destroyed my arm and I never would have been able to pass the FBI physical… And I never would have caught you.”
From Stealing Home
It was raining.
Not some ordinary summer drizzle, but a torrential downpour. The remnants of the tropical storm that had flooded most of the East Coast over the last few days were wreaking havoc on the metropolitan area. The Weather Channel said it was going to hang around until tomorrow – midday Sunday – before moving out to sea. Something like three inches of rain had fallen since this afternoon. Peter should have been disappointed because the bad weather forced a cancellation of the baseball game he was supposed to be attending right now.
Except that his beloved Yankees were playing like … the Mets. They were in fourth place, barely a half-game out of the basement, and even though he was a fan of the game more than he was a fan of the Yankees, sitting there and watching them lose wasn’t a hell of a lot of fun. Better to stay home and catch up on paperwork.
Or have sex.
Elizabeth was out of town, seeing to her clients in San Francisco, but Neal was here, and making out with Neal – fucking Neal – was definitely better than attending a Yankees game, even if the seats were along the first base line.
He looked over at his lover, who was intently sketching something or someone, and Peter suspected he was the subject, but it could have been Satchmo. He had to smile. Their life together wasn’t easy, not by any stretch of the imagination. But having Neal, loving Neal, was well worth living in the shadows. Peter never forgot that there were always eyes on them, that discovery could mean disgrace and dismissal. And prison for Neal.
Not that that hadn’t happened before. Peter didn’t realize he laughed out loud at that though until he heard himself.
“What’s so funny?”
“Just thinking.”
“Funny thoughts?”
“More ironic than funny.”
“Wanna share?” Neal’s curiosity was idle, his attention mostly on the sketchbook in front of him.
“No, not particularly.” Peter answered truthfully. He wouldn’t give up Neal for the world, but the thought of the price he’d have to pay to keep him (not to mention the price he already paid), was discomfiting.
Neal glanced up, shook his head and closed his sketchbook. “Something’s bothering you.”
“No, just …”
“Just?”
“Thinking,” Peter repeated.
“About?” Neal was not letting go so easily.
“You, me, El. Us.”
“And what would happen if people found out the truth?”
Of course Neal would see what was bothering him. “Yeah.”
Neal even echoed his own earlier thoughts. “They can do nothing to you or to me that hasn’t already happened. Suspension, jail, investigation. Threats of the breadline and professional disgrace. It’s happened before, it could happen again. So why worry?”
“Thank you very much, Alfred E. Newman.” Peter knew Neal was being pragmatic, but herreally couldn’t take comfort from that.
Neal didn’t find the MAD Magazine reference amusing. “Peter – you know what I mean. Wasting time worrying won’t change anything, especially anything that hasn’t happened yet.”
He sighed. “I know that it’s pointless to worry.”
“But you can’t help it, can you?”
“No, I guess I can’t.”
Neal tossed the sketchbook on the table and moved from his chair over to the couch next to Peter. “I think it’s well worth the risk – and there are few things these days that I’d risk prison for. You, you and El – that’s it.”
Peter sighed, smiled and rested his head against Neal’s. “You may be the romantic, but you’re right. Love’s always worth the risk.”
This should have been a moment when they kissed the stuffing out of each other, but a tremendous crack of thunder sent the house shaking and Satchmo howling. The normally placid dog had developed an irrational fear of thunderstorms over the past few years and he clawed his way onto their laps, burrowing his head under Peter’s shirt.
Peter gave Neal a rueful look and started stroking Satchmo, doing his best to keep him calm. Another rumble, although less powerful, was still loud enough to send the Lab shaking.
“Maybe some television – something to distract him?” Neal reached for the remote.
“Sure – whatever.” Peter tried not to wince, and not just from Satchmo’s claws digging into his thighs. As compatible as they were in so many ways, their tastes in popular entertainment rarely intersected. Neal was a fan of old movies, the high-brow stuff on PBS, documentary series about cheese or coffee shops on (and Peter tried not to gag) Wealth TV. He preferred sports, police procedurals, if just to pick them apart, and the occasional comedy. But since Elizabeth’s tastes synced more with Neal’s than his, Peter had learned to tolerate Frank Sinatra (as both singer and actor), Charlie Rose, and now knew far too much about artisanal Gouda.
Neal was flipping through the channels, pausing every so often, until finally settling on his favorite station – Turner Classic Movies. But a terrified Satchmo distracted Peter from the screen and the "Coming Up Next" banner.
Neal, however, was pleased and hit the pause button on the remote. “Ah, we’re in luck. A movie both of us will like is just about to start.”
“Is that possible?”
“It’s a baseball movie – the baseball movie.”
“Field of Dreams?”
“Nope.”
“The Lou Gehrig Story?”
“Nope.”
“Bull Durham?”
“Not even close.”
“Come on, tell me.” Peter would have grabbed the remote, but eighty-five pounds of shivering dog made that awkward.
“Just relax and watch.” Neal unpaused the movie.
A white horse galloped into the frame, the studio credits shimmering before they faded into the movie’s opening scene, a glowing, golden field and a young man pitching a ball.
“The Natural. It’s the best baseball movie ever made. You can’t tell me you don’t want to watch this.”
Peter swallowed against the slightly sick feeling in his belly. “I’ve never seen it.”
“What?” Neal sounded outraged. “You really have never seen it? That’s impossible.” He stopped the movie again.
“No, not impossible. It came out the year I was graduated college and was drafted by the Twins. I was working with my dad right after graduation. There were loans to pay off, the stuff that the scholarship didn’t cover, and even then, life in Cambridge wasn’t cheap. Spring training didn’t start until February and I wasn’t going to loaf around for half a year.”
“But …” Neal couldn’t seem to comprehend that he hadn’t seen a classic sports movie.
“It was the 1980s, remember? There were no DVDs or DVRs, no endless repeats on classic movie channels. My folks didn’t even have cable and they didn’t get a VCR until – I don’t know – maybe after I graduated from Quantico?”
“But it’s been thirty years and you still haven’t seen it?”
“It’s kind of hard to explain.” Peter kept petting Satchmo, who whimpered as another clap of thunder rattled the house. “Ballplayers are superstitious. You’re hot – you don’t do anything to break the streak. You eat chicken every night when you’re throwing strikeouts, so you keep eating chicken until you give up back-to-back home runs. You don’t shave, you don’t wash your jock…”
“Eww!”
“Yeah – well, that’s being a baseball player. Anyway – I hadn’t seen the movie and when my shoulder went, it just seemed wrong – like it was bad luck. I thought I was going to jinx my recovery if I watched it.”
“And afterwards?”
“Well, I did go back – and my slider still had the same accuracy. But I couldn’t bring myself to watch it. Then … when I finally decided to give up baseball – it just seemed like a painful reminder of everything I gave up.” Listening to himself as he tried to explain the nebulous, inchoate reasons, Peter realized how foolish, stupid, and superstitious he sounded.
Neal fell silent and went to change the channel. This time, Peter was able to take the remote from him. He was not a fool, he wasn’t stupid, and nearly thirty years later, it was time to put that superstition to rest. “No – let’s watch.” He pressed “play” and relaxed, determined to enjoy what had become a classic.
The movie was good, better than good. And Redford, for all his movie star glamour, was convincing in the role of Roy Hobbs, first as the young pitcher on his way to try out for the Cubs, then as a down-on-his-luck slugger with a homemade bat and way too many secrets.
Hobbs hit his game-winning home run, the ball hit into the darkness became one tossed from father to son in an Iowa cornfield. There was the sense that as long as the game was played with honor and joy, all was right with the world.
The rain still beat against the windows, but with far less fury. The thunderstorms that sent Satchmo onto their laps had moved out and the dog was back to snoozing on his bed next to the dormant fireplace. Neal was leaning against him, so quiet and still that Peter wondered if he’d fallen asleep.
He hadn’t. As the credits rolled and the screen divided to show what was coming up next, Neal turned the television off.
“How did it happen?”
“What – how did what happen?”
“When you blew out your shoulder – you said it went while you were in spring training, right?”
“Yeah – we were down in Florida, it was early March. The Triple-A season was just starting.” Peter couldn’t keep the melancholy out of his voice. He had loved those days. “Pitchers and catchers reported in early February and, well, it was pretty clear that I was earmarked for a spot in the rotation on the big club.”
“The Show.”
“Yeah – The Show.” He sighed. He’d been so young – twenty-one and as wet behind the ears as any rookie who put on a glove. But he knew that there were eyes on him. “Big league scouts were sitting in the bleachers every day when I was pitching. I could feel them watching.”
“I have a question – something that’s always confused me. You once told me that the FBI recruited you right out of college. But you had four years of advanced math on scholarship, then two years of accounting. And the Twins recruited you right out of college, too. Something doesn’t make sense.”
Peter chuckled. “Yeah – I know. I was an math major on a full academic scholarship and added accounting as a second major when I was a junior.”
Neal laughed too. “As if you didn’t have enough to do.”
“Anything to secure my future. Math majors usually end up teaching, which wasn’t where I saw myself. Hence the accounting courses. Besides, Harvard didn’t offer sports scholarships. None of the Ivy League universities did. But I played on the baseball team and we were top of the division for the three years I pitched. The FBI came around just before the end of my last fall semester. They were recruiting and I interviewed. I was shocked when they offered me a spot in the Academy and was all set to join when the Twins made their offer just before graduation.”
“So you told the FBI that you’d rather play ball?”
“Pretty much. But they said that they’d keep a slot open for me for a year if I changed my mind.”
“Wow – that’s … impressive.”
He shrugged. It was difficult remembering the mixed feelings, wanting to take both roads but only able to travel on one. “I talked with my dad – for hours. We weighed the pros and cons. Of course, joining the FBI would give me security and stability.”
Neal laughed.
“Well, it did in the pre-Caffrey days.”
“But baseball?”
“How many guys get the chance to play professionally? How could I pass that up?”
Neal gave him that beautiful, rueful smile. “You couldn’t.”
“Nope.”
“So – what happened?”
“We were in Tampa, playing the Columbus Clippers, a Yankees farm team. It was March and way too early to be in the home territory. During the season, the Tornados played in Rochester and there was still two feet of snow on the ground.”
“Yeah – not the best conditions.”
“It was a night game, one of those perfect evenings when you can see the moon above the stadium lights. The Tornados were ahead 3-2, and the Clippers had men on second and third, but there were two outs. I was called in to save the game.” He could hear his imaginary walk-on music playing, and as small as the crowd had been at the tiny minor league stadium, in his memory, it was roaring.
“And?”
“Three pitched balls – all strikes. The guy went down swinging, but on that last throw …” He rubbed his shoulder at the memory. “Something felt off, wrong. I couldn’t lift my arm. It was sort of numb.”
Neal put his hand on top of his own, as if he were trying to soothe the nearly thirty year-old ache.
“I remember going to the hospital, waiting for the x-rays and test results. This was years before MRIs, and CAT scans were hardly routine. I hadn’t even called my parents. It was so damn cold in that hospital.” Peter couldn’t help but shiver from the memory. “Coach came in with the docs, I could read the bad news on his face.”
“But they fixed you, you said that.”
“Yup – went to the Cleveland Clinic – that’s where all the baseball players had this surgery back then. The big team picked up the bill, too.”
“You really were a hot prospect, I guess.”
“That I was. And I spent three months in rehab. But it was always there, in the back of my mind, that if I threw one more pitch, I could lose everything. Baseball, the chance for a career with the FBI. I’d wind up as a CPA with a bum arm, fit only for punching numbers.”
“Somehow, I don’t see that happening.” Neal gave a skeptical laugh. “Nothing could keep you down for long.”
Peter wrapped his arm around Neal and Neal relaxed against him. Peter thought he could stay like this all night, breathing in the scent of warm man.
“But what did your dad say?”
He could still hear his father’s words. “He told me that I had to live my life, and that some dreams die harder than others. He always wanted what was best for me.”
“You’re a lucky man. You know that.” Neal got that sad, distant look on his face, the one he could never hide when he thought about James and his own lost childhood dreams.
“I am, and I’m grateful every day for the people who’ve been in my life.” Peter wondered, not for the first time, what Neal’s life would have been like if his family hadn’t collapsed.
“But you had to go back, you had to give it a shot.”
“Exactly – I had to try.”
“And you still had the slider?”
“Yup – could still throw the damn ball – probably even better. First game back, threw nine pitches, struck out three batters, celebrated with the team and cleaned out my locker.”
Neal understood Peter, better than almost anyone. “You wanted to prove to yourself that this could have been your life, that you could have made a success of it.”
“Yeah. And I also realized that as much as I loved the game, I wanted something more.”
“Stability, security?”
“That too.” He shook his head. “It was a chance to make a difference.” It was eerie how those words echoed the plea he’d made to Neal that terrible day. “Even during the months before spring training, before I reported, I couldn’t stop thinking about the FBI and what it would mean. You know, I was one of only ten candidates they selected right out of college. Usually the Bureau requires two years of post-college experience, but they were pushing for Ivy League grads, over-achievers. It was kind of heady knowing that I was wanted so much.”
“And I bet you had some big-name companies sniffing around you, too.”
“Yup – there was an offer from McKinsey Consulting, another from Arthur Anderson. E&Y, a few Wall Street firms, even a few in London were sniffing around.”
“All those opportunities – and baseball, too.” There was something wistful in Neal’s comment.
“I know what you’re thinking. Had I taken any other path...”
Neal grinned. “Yeah – but I think it was fate.”
Peter leaned over and kissed Neal. “Fate, karma, destiny. Whatever you want to call it. Just as I was meant to meet Elizabeth, I was meant to catch you. None of those other paths mean anything without either of you in my life.”
Peter was sleeping, but Neal couldn’t seem to find a way to still his restless brain. This wasn’t anything new. Usually, if he stayed quiet, followed the rhythm of Peter’s breathing, he could drop off. Not tonight, though.
The storm had moved off, a steady breeze taking the heavy veil of clouds with it. Moonlight poured through the curtains, casting deep shadows and illuminating the hidden secrets in the room. A shaft of light, as soft as a feather, drifted across Peter’s torso, gilding his shoulder. As the curtain fluttered, scattering the light, Neal could see it – the faint marks of a surgical scar.
It wasn’t big – maybe as wide as his pinkie, not quite as long as the spread of his hand. It didn’t mar the smooth musculature of Peter’s shoulder. But Neal couldn’t help but wonder at those six inches. He traced them with his finger, lightly, so as not to wake Peter.
That scar and the damage it concealed made all the difference in the world. It hurt Neal to think of Peter hurt, but if he could go back and change history, he wouldn’t. The thought of his life without all of the moments that defined him – Peter waiting to spring the trap in that storage facility. Peter walking into Kate’s apartment and finding him on the floor, clinging to the empty wine bottle. Peter chasing after him, calling him back, keeping him from rushing into the fire. Peter talking him down from killing Fowler. Peter killing Vincent Adler to keep him safe.
Even with all the bad times between them – the broken trust, the anger, the perceived betrayals, Neal wouldn’t change his past, Peter’s past for anything. His life wouldn’t be worth living without Peter in it, defining him, making him better than he could ever be without him. And all because of a tiny rip – a minuscule separation of muscle and tendon and bone.
He could hear Peter’s words as if they were spoken right now.
“In hindsight, if I kept playing, I would have destroyed my arm and I never would have been able to pass the FBI physical. And I never would have caught you.”
Thank god.
Tags:
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Date: 2013-07-18 03:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-18 12:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-17 01:44 pm (UTC)Ooh - first?
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Date: 2013-07-17 01:45 pm (UTC)You doing good, babe?
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Date: 2013-07-17 01:56 pm (UTC)But the story of Peter's past - you have told it in the most gripping, perfect way \o/ With Neal listening to it and understanding so much more than just the words that were being spoken ♥
And the fear of what could have been if Peter hadn't injured his arm - it's something I've thought about often, how it would all be different, so much would have never happened... awwwww.
I love them here and now, together, the way it's supposed to be ♥
Thank you for this, such a delight to read \o/
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Date: 2013-07-17 01:59 pm (UTC)I, too, love the quiet moments - they can just be themselves.
And I do think that Peter recognizes the hand of fate in his life - he was so quick to point out that had he continued to play ball, he never would have caught Neal. That was clearly a paramount issue for him.
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Date: 2013-07-17 02:44 pm (UTC)It must have been tough for Peter at the time, but I also like what he says when at the stadium about things being in the past.
So much love for Stealing Home !
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Date: 2013-07-17 02:49 pm (UTC)The rift in canon between what Peter told Neal in Copycat Caffrey and what he said in Stealing Home always bothered me. So I was glad to have a chance to "fix" it here.
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Date: 2013-07-17 03:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-17 04:37 pm (UTC)So interesting that it's Neal, not Peter, lying awake and thinking about Peter's "what might have been".
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Date: 2013-07-17 04:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-18 12:10 pm (UTC)Yes, Peter's content - happy - with his life and he'd not trade it for the world. Maybe if he hadn't gone back, hadn't proven that he could have been that star, maybe things would have been different.
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Date: 2013-07-17 09:49 pm (UTC)Totally Peter Burke.
Beautiful fic. Thank you!
As a lifelong BoSox fan, what tale can beat the combined elements of baseball and Burke? (Well ... if Peter was a Red Sox fan. Okay, I can forgive him, Tim DeKay loves the Sox) :)
By the way, I had to look up *artisanal* cheese. Learned a great deal.
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Date: 2013-07-18 12:13 pm (UTC)Yes, Tim is definitely a BoSox fan!
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Date: 2013-07-17 11:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-18 12:14 pm (UTC)You're exactly right - Peter needed to know he still could do it, if he wanted to. But he's also a big picture kind of guy and he won't regret his decision.
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Date: 2013-07-17 11:50 pm (UTC)I like the melancholy of this piece. Most of us have some life event(s), maybe not quite so dramatic, that changes our lives in a different direction. It's the way we handle it that really counts. Peter - our favorite FBI agent, Neal- our favorite con artist.
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Date: 2013-07-18 12:15 pm (UTC)I have to confess, I went to one minor league game - the Brooklyn Cyclones - and I was bored to tears. I guess I'm just not as much of a baseball fan as I thought I was.
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Date: 2013-07-18 12:24 am (UTC)*hugs Peter and Neal both*
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Date: 2013-07-18 12:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-18 01:00 am (UTC)Thank you so much for sharing! It was amazing and brilliant!
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Date: 2013-07-18 12:17 pm (UTC)Yes, Neal was hurting for Peter, but he was also so relieved that this was the way his life turned out, BECAUSE Peter was hurt. What a strange place to be in.
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Date: 2013-07-18 01:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-18 12:18 pm (UTC)Yes, even in canon, Peter makes it clear that they were fated for each other.
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Date: 2013-07-18 11:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-18 12:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-18 05:52 pm (UTC)This is canon as far as I'm concerned.
The way you tell Peter's story - the simplicity of the words - makes the whole thing so rich.
My favorite part:
Even with all the bad times between them – the broken trust, the anger, the perceived betrayals, Neal wouldn’t change his past, Peter’s past for anything. His life wouldn’t be worth living without Peter in it, defining him, making him better than he could ever be without him. And all because of a tiny rip – a minuscule separation of muscle and tendon and bone.
He could hear Peter’s words as if they were spoken right now.
“In hindsight, if I kept playing, I would have destroyed my arm and I never would have been able to pass the FBI physical. And I never would have caught you.”
Thank god.
Thank you for writing this.
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Date: 2013-07-18 09:16 pm (UTC)And thank you for quoting your favorite bits. I always love seeing that.
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Date: 2013-07-18 11:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-18 11:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-18 11:43 pm (UTC)"In hindsight, if I kept playing, I would have destroyed my arm and I never would have been able to pass the FBI physical… And I never would have caught you.”
From Stealing Home"
Dear Sweet Lord, that's from the SHOW?????? That is pure slash right there. WOW.
But on to the story:
<333333333
GAH!
I adore this. It moves me as someone who had to leave a physical profession early or risk permanent injury. I love Peter in this. I love Neal. I love that they have all three found each other and have one another. This is beautiful.
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Date: 2013-07-19 03:50 pm (UTC)I look at filling you in on WC canon as my sacred duty.
Thank you so very much!
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Date: 2013-07-19 02:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-19 03:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-20 02:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-23 07:36 pm (UTC)Thank you so very much!
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Date: 2013-07-20 05:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-23 07:39 pm (UTC)It's funny, but until I wrote this, I never considered the scene where Peter tells Neal about his short-lived baseball career to be particularly slashy, but that last line - "And I would never have caught you" - really does scream that, from the cheap seats.
And if Peter had never been on Neal's case ... who knows?
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Date: 2013-07-23 07:33 pm (UTC)Thank you for this. It made my day. :)
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Date: 2013-07-23 07:36 pm (UTC)I've always been troubled by the inconsistencies in canon and this seemed a perfect opportunity to fix the problem.
So happy you enjoyed it and thank you again for letting me know that.