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elrhiarhodanTitle: The Strength to Dream Is All That Remains - Part I - A Wonder(ful) Years Story
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, Reese Hughes, Jack Franklin OMC, OFC, Peter Burke/Neal Caffrey, Jack Franklin/OFC
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Discussion of HIV/AIDS, expressions of homophobia, sexist appellations
Word Count: ~12,200 (two parts)
Beta Credit:coffeethyme4me, theatregirl7299 and jrosemary
Summary: In the aftermath of the events first told in Heaven for the Hunger, Poison for the Pain, where Neal might have been exposed to HIV/AIDS, Neal’s colleagues rally to him, they have his back and make it known that he’s very much part of the team.
This story also ties up some loose ends in It's Life That Just Sharpens the Blade and What Doesn't Bend, Breaks.
Author's Notes: Written for the lovelyangelita26, who asked me to write more of the story from Heaven for the Hunger, on my Timestamps Meme. Now, technically, a timestamp is a short outtake of a much longer story, but not in this case. The original fic was 2000 words, this one is six times longer.
Fills the "Wildcard" Square on my H/C Bingo Card and the "Coming Out" Square on my Trope Bingo Card, and the "In Sickness and in Health" square on my Love Bingo Card.
Title from Dougie MacLean’s “Hearts Can Never Hide”.
__________________
For most of her life, Amy Grainger hadn’t been a woman given to deep introspection. Maybe if she’d been more mindful, more self-aware, she wouldn’t have had half the problems that she did. She wasn’t completely oblivious, though. She knew who she was - hard as nails, tough as boot leather, and at almost forty, she still could pose naked for Playboy. From the moment she applied to the FBI Academy, she understood that being a woman in a man’s profession meant giving up on certain things, like softness, fragility, compassion, empathy.
But of late, she’d been taking stock of herself and not liking what she’d found.
She never expected to end up as a cold-hearted bitch with a serious drinking habit. The alcohol problem was something she figured out a few years back, after she disgraced herself with Caffrey in that bar, with Franklin, Channing, Powell, and Burke watching. For six months she endured a never-ending practical joke. Bottles of Vagisil kept showing up in her desk, her handbag, once even delivered in a box of chocolates. She knew that Caffrey had nothing to do with it, and was damn certain that Burke didn’t, either. It was those morons, Channing and Powell, and probably Franklin, too.
But Neal Caffrey remained the target of her ire for a long time. Even after one especially horrible morning, about three months after the incident, when she woke up in a strange hotel room with her firearm in her hand, safety off, and no recollection of how she got there, or even where she was.
Of course the Bureau offered counseling for agents, but there was no way she’d ever let the bosses know she had “a problem.” Her career would very quickly, very quietly, die. She’d find herself reassigned to some Resident Agency office in Lower Bumfuck, Idaho. But even if she didn’t take the Bureau’s help, it didn’t mean she wasn’t going to fix the problem. There were meetings she could go to. The synagogue around the corner from her apartment hosted one every Tuesday night and Sunday afternoon.
The hardest thing was walking in the door. But she did. And she continued to do so. Every Tuesday night and Sunday afternoon for the last four years. Half the time she just wanted to ditch the whole program and find a liquor store that sold liter-sized bottles of Stoli. She wouldn’t even have to go all that far. This was New York, after all.
But it got easier, just a little. Those assholes, Channing and Powell, were gone from the office, and Jack never commented that she switched from ordering vodka martinis to tonic waters on their Friday night get-togethers. Of course, she never went out with Burke or Caffrey again.
She was still a bitch though, and most of the time, she was proud of it. And Caffrey was still sex on a stick, and even the lack of vodka in her life couldn’t erase the fact that she wanted him and he never looked twice at her. So for four years, he got the rough edge of her tongue, even as she knew he was the best agent in the division. She might have called him a lucky rabbit’s foot that first week, but it really wasn’t luck – he was smart and he never stopped learning and he was simply a damn good agent.
If it wasn’t for the way he never looked at her, never talked to her, the way he made her feel – like she didn’t even exist for him – she might have relented and made her peace. Instead, she made him miserable. She wielded enough power in the office to set the line, one even Jack wouldn’t cross. Making Neal Caffrey into the office pariah made her feel better, and that’s what counted, right?
Except that it wasn’t right, and she’d known that for a very long time. Hell, wasn’t she supposed to make amends? Her sponsor – if he knew – would tell her that this failing might keep her from making a full recovery. He’d be less judgmental and he’d ask her if making amends would actually make things worse. She could lie and say yes, but then that would defeat the whole exercise. If she told him the truth, that Caffrey deserved her deepest apologies, he’d never let the opportunity pass to remind her that making amends to those she’d harmed was Step Nine.
Months passed and she did nothing. Then years and she let matters grow worse. Then Caffrey disappeared and a whole bunch of rumors circulated. He was promoted, he was fired, he was undercover. The last seemed the least plausible, but it was actually the truth, and she, not know-it-all Jack, found out first. One afternoon, a few days after Burke had been shot, a whole bunch of agents that she’d never seen burst into the office and bee-lined for Hughes. Given the gloom and despair after nearly losing Peter, seeing their SAIC so animated was startling.
Franklin had been out chasing some CI about some insider trading scheme, and even though there were a half-dozen other agents at their desks, Hughes had called her upstairs, complete with the double finger point.
“Grainger – my office.”
“Sir?”
“You’re my stand-in today – you’ll represent the division when Agent Itani goes to the U.S. Attorney’s Office and explains why we need more wiretap and some of those new-fangled electronic surveillance warrants for good measure.” Hughes had put on his jacket and commanded, “Itani – fill her in, I have to go.”
Her boss bolted, leaving her standing there feeling like so much window dressing. The other agent had smiled. “Sorry about this – we weren’t expecting the data we got to come through today. Caffrey came up aces.”
“Caffrey? Neal Caffrey?”
On the walk over to Centre Street, the other agent had explained that Caffrey had been on deep cover assignment for the last five months, infiltrating the bankers for the Japanese mob in the U.S., and thanks to Caffrey, the FBI had just gotten their hooks into the biggest financial network the Yakuza had in the US.
Amy blinked. It made sense.
Of course, there really hadn’t been much for her to contribute when they met with the AUSA, or the judge a few hours later, but it felt good, even a little redemptive. And if Caffrey was going to be back in the office soon, maybe – just maybe – she’d be able to take that last step and apologize for being such a shit to him.
“I guess you heard.” Jack, being Jack, seemed to spend more time with his ass on the edge of her desk than in his own chair.
“Yup – Caffrey’s a hero, apparently.”
“That must put a knot in your panties. Caffrey getting all the accolades.”
She had shrugged. “No, it doesn’t and to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t trade places with him for the world. Five months undercover, no contact with friends and family, no back up. And half the time not even being able to speak your own language? Caffrey might be a – “ Amy had stopped herself. Caffrey was nothing of the sort. “Caffrey’s good and the agent running the op said that she’d never seen an undercover agent perform so flawlessly.”
Franklin gave her an odd look. “Thought you hated him?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s time I grew up.” The words had felt good coming out of her mouth.
Jack had a funny look on his face, but he left her comment alone. “Anyways – after work I’m going up to Beth Israel to see Peter. Hughes says he’s up for visitors. Want to come with me? We could catch some dinner afterwards.”
Amy was struck by something – it felt like a hammer or maybe a slug from a .44 Magnum. Jack was asking her out on a date. He’d been asking her out most Fridays for the last few years and she’d been too self-absorbed to see the offer as anything more than an offer of casual companionship. She wasn’t sure how she felt about him or her own blindness.
She gave him a sigh, a rueful smile, and what she had hoped was a reluctant rejection. “I’m kind of beat, and probably the both of us will be too much for Burke. I was planning to go over tomorrow afternoon. But maybe dinner some night next week?”
Franklin gave her a tight smile and called it a date, but the slightly derisive tone hadn’t disguised his disappointment. She’d make it up to him. How, though, she wasn’t quite sure.
Her plans to visit Peter Burke on Saturday had been scuttled by some truly horrendous weather, and she almost ditched the idea on Sunday. But her meeting was good - something touched her during one of the testimonials. She’d never be as spiritual as the organization tenets required, but she could see the light sometimes.
Beth Israel was a short subway ride from the synagogue and before heading up to Peter’s room, she stopped and picked up a potted plant. The admins at the office had circulated a get-well card, which she signed and tucked in a few bucks for some ridiculous teddy bear. But she could still hear her mother and grandmother yenching at her not to go up empty-handed.
Burke’s room was on the ninth floor, and according to a few of the other agents who’d already visited him, it was almost as nice as a luxury hotel. Amy wasn’t sure that was possible in a hospital, but the hushed tones in the corridor, the lack of a medicinal feel, told her that Peter had earned some type of VIP privilege. She’d have to rag him on that.
She found his room, and not surprisingly, Peter wasn’t alone. It sounded like his folks were with him. And there was another voice, a very familiar voice, telling Peter to pick a card.
It was Caffrey. What the hell was he doing here? Amy had stepped back, hanging in the shadow of the doorway, observing.
Playing the role of entertainer, Neal seemed extraordinarily chummy with Peter Burke, the way he was sitting on the edge of the bed. And Burke’s parents definitely knew Caffrey - the woman Amy thought was Peter’s mother reached out and pulled his hand away. Neal caught the woman’s hand and lifted it to his lips. The look in his eyes was one of affection and maybe even love.
She kept standing there, hidden, while Caffrey performed his little parlor trick. Peter looked healthy enough, if pale. Understandable, after taking two bullets. “And what’s your next trick, Houdini?”
“How about …” Caffrey was leaning over Burke and Amy had the oddest feeling that he was about to kiss the man.
Peter’s father (there was no mistaking the familial resemblance) must have spotted her and cleared his throat. The two men separated and looked over to the doorway where she was standing, potted plant in hand. Caffrey got off of the bed and looked a little - well - sheepish. Burke seemed genuinely pleased to see her.
“Amy!”
“Hey there.”
“Come in. I’d get up - but it’s kind of hard at the moment.”
“That’s okay - I can do without seeing your ass flapping in the wind.” She bit her lip - her abrasive tone wasn’t really called for. But everyone laughed. Everyone but Caffrey, who looked at her like a field mouse might look at a falcon.
She hoped her smile wasn’t threatening. “Good to see you, Neal.” This might have been the first time that she used his first name in years. “It’s been a while.”
“Um, yeah.”
“And congratulations.”
That earned her a puzzled look.
“Your op.”
“You know about it?”
“Hell, everyone knows now. You’re the talk of the building.”
“Ah.”
She tried not to laugh. Caffrey was blushing and had his hands shoved in his pockets. He looked remarkably like a sixteen year old kid. And then, not. There were threads of silver in his hair and on his five o’clock shadow. There were lines on his face, too. No - Caffrey was no kid.
The moment became a little awkward. Amy stood there, not quite knowing what to say. Peter’s mother, though, rescued her.
“Here, let me take that…” She pried the plant from Amy’s hands. “A spider plant. Not even my son will be able to kill this.” She put it on the windowsill, fussing with it. “Peter, you’re being very rude.”
Amy wanted to smirk, but she restrained herself.
“Umm, thanks, Amy. It was very nice of you to come and visit.”
“Peter! Your manners are terrible. Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
She did smirk this time; she really couldn’t help herself, but Peter was laughing and Neal was trying to hide a smile. “Mom, Dad - this is Agent Amy Grainger. She works with me in White Collar.”
“With you and Neal.” Peter’s dad added. She wasn’t sure why that clarification was needed.
“Yeah, with Neal and me,” Peter confirmed.
She wasn’t sure what was going on here. The Burkes clearly knew Neal, and yet Peter had never said word one about knowing him. No, wait - that wasn’t true. The day that Neal showed up for his assignment, Peter had said that they had been at Harvard together, that they had shared a house for a year. Yet, in the four years since Neal had joined the unit, the two men rarely exchanged hellos, let alone seemed like friends.
But they clearly were friends. Very good friends, for that matter.
“Your father and I are going to get a bite to eat. That’ll give you a chance to catch up with your colleague.” Mrs. Burke picked up her handbag, kissed Peter on the forehead, kissed Neal’s cheek, and all but dragged her husband out of the room.
The awkwardness returned. Caffrey just stood there, looking at everything but her and Peter. Peter seemed intensely interested in the weave of his blanket.
“Well, I guess you’re going to be out of commission for a while. Does it hurt?” Those were fairly innocuous questions.
“Yeah - it hurts like hell, and every time I want to move, I have to think twice, and then think again. Docs say I’ll need another two surgeries to finish the repair, but I’ll have full mobility eventually.”
“Good. That’s good to hear. The place won’t be the same without you.” Which was true. She always liked Burke - even since that awful humiliating night at the bar.
“Thanks.”
More awkwardness.
“Yeah - well. I should get going. Let you rest.”
“Umm, yeah. But I really appreciate you stopping by. And thanks for the plant. I’ll try not to kill it too quickly.”
She chuckled. “You can’t have a blacker thumb than I do. I’ve been known to kill silk flowers.”
Amy nodded at Caffrey and left. This was one of the weirder moments in her life, and as if she was Lot’s wife, she paused and looked back into the room. Caffrey had taken a step back towards the hospital bed and looked down at Peter. Neither man said a word, but their expressions spoke volumes.
She didn’t linger. She didn’t need to. It was suddenly, terribly clear. She knew that she should have been disgusted, she should have been angry. She should have been anything other than relieved. Anything other than happy because Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey weren’t just very good friends. They were lovers.
The sick, self-loathing feeling that constantly dogged her whenever she thought about Neal Caffrey just fell away. He never looked at her the way she was accustomed to men looking at her because he just didn’t see her like that. It wasn't because she was unattractive or unworthy of his attention. It was so weird to be relieved that Caffrey was gay. Amy had never quite realized how much she expected every man she desired to desire her, and how much she depended on that desire to validate her own worth until someone she wanted wouldn’t even give her the time of day.
She would make amends with Neal. It was just a matter of finding the right place and the right time.
In the elevator, she caught a glimpse of herself in the security mirror, and she looked strange. Not because her face was distorted by the curve of the glass, but because she was smiling. It had been a long time since she’d grinned like this, like she was happy with the world and her place in it.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Jeremy Hanover was born and raised in a small town in western Pennsylvania. His father worked in the steel mills, his grandfather in the coal mines. Both men died before they were sixty. Neither man was mourned. Jeremy never dreamed of becoming an FBI agent, he dreamed of getting out of the dead end hellhole where he grew up, and the only way out (other than hopping on a Greyhound bus) was football.
It wasn’t an impossible dream. Fifty some-odd miles to the south was New Eagle, Pennsylvania, the birthplace of one of the biggest football legends of all time, Joe Montana. His coaches told him that he was just as good as Montana, that he had the stuff to make it all the way to the pros. Apparently, so did the scouts and recruiters, who never forgot that some of the greatest players in the game came out of some of the most obscure places.
Like his idol, Jeremy was offered a full ride at Notre Dame, but unlike Montana, his career ended before it really began. An overly enthusiastic sack by a Michigan player in his junior year resulted in a torn rotator cuff and a popped knee. He finished out his college career with a less-than-stellar record, and figured that he needed to find something else to do with his life.
That he found himself in the FBI was always kind of hard to explain. The guy who sacked him was a decent enough human being and never stopped feeling guilty about the injuries he’d caused. His father was also a congressman. So when he offered to write a letter of recommendation to the FBI, Jeremy shrugged and said fine. He never expected to get in. He never expected to make it through the grueling five month training course. But he did, and thought he was pretty damn good at it. In the seven years since he finished his probie term, Jeremy had worked his way up from an assignment in the Phoenix field office to a better on one in Chicago and finally, a promotion to the big leagues – in New York City. It helped, of course, that his Congressional connection was still willing to put in a good word for him.
It was, to a certain extent, a little disappointing to end up in the financial crimes division, not Organized Crime, but White Collar – as they called themselves. He’d been on the anti-crime unit in Phoenix, busting up drug rings. His time in Chicago was all about the gangs and taking down mobsters and drug dealers. He was a man who liked assignments where he could use his gun. Finding himself in the midst of a bunch of number-crunchers and art-loving pansies was really a letdown.
But it was New York, and there was always the possibility of a lateral transfer.
“You have an interesting record, Agent Hanover.” His new boss was an old fossil called Hughes.
“Thank you, sir.” He could play the game, he could kiss ass with the best of them.
“That wasn’t a compliment.” Hughes looked at him from over the file he was reading - his file.
“Sir?”
“Since you graduated from Quantico, you’ve discharged your firearm in the course of duty seven times. Three times resulting in suspect fatalities and twice you injured civilians.”
Damn, he hadn’t been expecting this – this interrogation. “Each shooting was justified. The review board didn’t hesitate to clear me.”
Hughes kept staring at him.
He started to sweat and looked away.
Finally the old man spoke. “Agent Hanover, this is New York, not some imaginary version of the wild west. Agents in my division have some of the highest marksmanship scores in the entire Bureau, but they don’t go into a situation hoping to clear leather. Just want to make sure you understand that.”
Hanover couldn’t hold his tongue. “But what about Peter Burke? Didn’t he work for this division? Maybe if he’d been a bit more proactive with his weapon, he wouldn’t have gotten shot.” Of course he heard about the shooting – it made news throughout the Bureau.
Hughes wasn’t happy. “Agent Burke still works in this office, he’s returning to active duty next week. And he was injured while serving a warrant on a sixty-two year old currency trader who had no record of gun ownership.”
Jeremy figured that belaboring the point wouldn’t earn him any brownie points. “I understand – financial crimes require a different approach. More finesse.”
Hughes inclined his head but didn’t smile. “Exactly.”
The old man burdened him with a half-dozen cases that needed updating and review reports, more grunt work for probies than veteran agents, but Jeremy kept his dissatisfaction to himself. He’d find a way out of this assignment as soon as he could, but in the meanwhile, he’d play ball and curry favor wherever possible.
Hughes dismissed him, and as he was about to leave, another agent rushed in. “Sir – you’d better come quickly. It’s Caffrey – there’s a problem.”
Pushed aside and unwilling to get involved, Hanover found his desk and dumped the files on it. Might as well get a cup of coffee and make himself at home. Of course, he couldn’t help but notice the little drama in the conference room – a bunch of agents were huddled around another – who must be “Caffrey.”
He grimaced at the quality of the java. One would have thought that in New York, the coffee would be decent. No one had introduced him to any of the probies yet, so there was no one to get him a decent cup of coffee.
The excitement upstairs seemed to reach a climax when the old man escorted someone with a tiny bandage on his hand out of the office. The other agents filtered back to their desks and a good looking blonde with the endless legs and extremely superior tits sat down at the desk next to his. Jeremy put on his best smile and introduced himself.
She didn’t seem all that impressed, focused instead on the two men waiting for the elevator to arrive. When they finally disappeared she turned back to her work station, ignoring him completely. She didn’t even give him her name.
Another agent, though, did come over. “Jack Franklin, and you must be Jeremy Hanover, the fresh meat from Chicago.”
He wasn’t sure he liked being referred to as “fresh meat” but in keeping with his plan, he put on his most accommodating grin and nodded. “Yup – just off the gang task force in Chi-town.”
“And you’re now in White Collar? That seems a strange career move.” The blonde with the extremely superior tits was talking to him now, but she still hadn't deigned to look up from her desk.
“New York’s where the action’s at – so I took the first open slot the brass offered.”
Franklin pushed the pile of folders to one side and sat on the edge of his desk. “A few things you should know about how we work here, Hanover.”
“Oh, believe me, the old geezer upstairs already gave me The Speech.”
Finally, Super-Tits turned around, her face was like stone. “Really? What old geezer?”
Realizing that he’d stepped in it, Jeremy backtracked. “I meant no disrespect. I was referring to Agent Hughes, of course.”
“And he told you how things worked in the division?”
“Yeah – how no one draws a gun here. You’re all about finesse.” He made air quotes around that last word.
Blondie sneered, but Franklin answered. “Well, we are. Other than what happened with Agent Burke last year, we haven’t had a firearms incident since the late ‘80s. Having a guy with your record is kind of strange, but I suspect you’ll learn soon enough.”
“My record?” Jeremy didn’t think he cared for this guy’s tone.
“Yeah – seven shootings, three fatalities, two wounded civilians. Seems kind of excessive, when you consider that ninety-seven percent of all agents in the FBI never discharge their firearm throughout their entire career.”
“You’ve actually seen my jacket?” He supposed that he shouldn’t be surprised.
“Yeah.” Franklin waved it off. “But that’s not what I was going to tell you.”
“Ah.” Jeremy leaned back in his chair. “I’m all ears. Clue me in.”
“Me and Amy – and until she says otherwise, it’s Agent Grainger to you – Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey – we’re the senior agents here. Top of the totem pole. Agent Hughes delegates to us, we delegate downward. You’re a somewhat experienced agent, but until we figure out how well you’re going to fit in, you’ll be riding a desk.”
He didn’t like it, but if these were the playground rules, he’d follow them – until he could make his own. “Okay … so you four are the best in the office.”
“No – actually, Burke and Caffrey are, we’ve just got seniority.” That was from the ice queen.
“But Burke got himself shot – by a sixty-two year old man. At least that’s what Agent Hughes said.”
“That has no bearing on Burke’s competence. He’s got a ninety-four percent conviction rate.”
“And Caffrey?”
Franklin gave him a tight smile. “Neal Caffrey’s just off of a five-month deep-cover operation that dismantled the Japanese mob here in New York. He’s closed more high profile cases than agents with ten years’ more experience.”
That didn’t make Jeremy happy. He could work his way up the ladder if he could push aside the small obstacles. Franklin and Super-Tits, for all their talk, seemed like typical big fish in a tiny pond, ones he could get past with little effort, but this Caffrey seemed like another matter altogether. “So, what happened to Caffrey just now? What was the emergency?”
“Some asshole hid a used syringe in one of the shred bins we confiscated. Neal was stuck.”
“Huh – seems like you guys made a really big deal out of a little pin-prick. Would hate to see your reaction if someone got a paper cut. Would you call 911?”
“What century are you from?” Grainger shook her head and looked at him like he was a moron.
“What?”
“No one takes needle-sticks lightly – especially when they’re stuck by a syringe where no syringe should be.”
The light dawned. “Ah – AIDS. So he’s worried about getting the fags’ disease.” Both agents looked like they were about to hurt him. He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, sorry. Didn’t realize you guys – and gals – were so politically correct.”
Neither agent said anything to him. Eventually, Franklin walked away and Grainger turned back to her desk.
About five minutes later, Super-Tits actually spoke to him again. “You know something, Hanover?” Grainger’s tone was surprisingly sweet. “You’re really going to make your mark here.”
He wondered if she was being facetious.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
He wasn’t a man who made snap judgments. He was cool and deliberate and never moved without considering all of the options, getting all the facts. He didn’t have the astounding leaps of brilliance that Caffrey did, nor did he possess Peter Burke’s near-infallible gut instincts, but Jack Franklin was one of the best agents in the division because he believed in the power of information.
Rumors, whispers, innuendo – he kept his ear to the ground and listened. And he’d already heard plenty about Jeremy Hanover.
None of it was good.
He was more than a little shocked that the agent ended up here, in the crown jewel of the FBI. The man’s record warranted a placement in some dusty backwater, a resident agency office where there was nothing more challenging that a church’s rigged bingo game to investigate. It took a little more digging, but apparently he had connections and he didn’t hesitate to use them.
Hanover reminded him of how one of the priests in his native Boston kept getting shuffled from post to post, one step ahead of the rumors and lawsuits. He didn’t know what was more disgusting. A priest abusing the most innocent members of his flock or an FBI agent who abused his badge and gun.
Maybe the priest, but it was a close-run call.
Hughes had given him the green light to deal with Hanover however he saw fit. At least until he was transferred out of New York and into some less prestigious assignment. That’s one of the things he really appreciated about his boss. Hughes knew when to delegate and he knew when to trust Jack’s judgment.
So Hanover was going to ride a desk, and Jack was going to keep an eye on the man. No telling what poison he could spill if he wasn’t watched. He had made mistakes with Channing and Powell, but they’d been entrenched in the office before he arrived and there was little he could do to mitigate the damage they had caused.
Or so he kept telling himself that. The incident with Grainger and Caffrey at the bar, and the prank afterwards wasn’t one of his shining moments.
Amy, to her credit, never said a word even as Channing and Powell kept at it. She kept her mouth shut and did her work and ignored the laughter at her expense. Jack felt bad about his role in it. He was drunk that night, and more than a little pissed at how Amy was hanging over Caffrey, so he’d egged the other agents on. But the following Monday, he should have put a stop to it. He could have; all it would have taken was a word to those assholes, but he let the prank roll on for six months.
He did get back at them, though. At the end of that year, Hughes tasked him with both agents’ performance reviews and he was meticulous with his opinions and careful how he parsed the information that the review form requested. Within six months, Powell took an early retirement package and Channing transferred to Atlanta. Something about being closer to his wife’s family, apparently.
And for four years, he let Amy make Neal Caffrey’s life hell. It wasn’t that he disliked Neal - far from it. The agent was so damn brilliant he blinded everyone. But Jack was jealous and angry. Amy wanted Caffrey and Caffrey wouldn’t give her the time of day. Jack had figured that if Caffrey would just give Amy what she wanted, she’d dump him like yesterday’s New York Times. But as long as Caffrey remained aloof, Amy wasn’t going to stop wanting him, and that meant she’d never see Jack, never realize that he was in love with her.
So he helped make Caffrey’s life miserable because Caffrey made Amy miserable. Poor guy didn’t deserve it, but it was a fucked up situation all the way around.
Maybe if he had all the information, it might not have been. A guy’s private life was private but if there were mitigating circumstances…
And there were. Neal Caffrey was gay. That he never figured that out said something about how discreet Neal was, since nothing got past Jack Franklin. Well, apparently not, because this did. There were no rumors, no innuendos, no whispers, no god damned nothing about him. And what was even more appalling was that he was in a relationship with Peter Burke. The man who’d been sitting next to him for almost a decade. Burke was close-mouthed about his personal life, but Jack never figured him for being gay.
The two of them …
It didn’t bother Jack. He was a live-and-let-live kind of guy. He had close friends who were gay. He never felt threatened or creeped out or anything like that. It just boggled his mind that he never picked up on Burke and Caffrey.
Well, maybe if he’d checked their personnel files and found out that they lived together; he might have gotten a clue. But he didn’t and he apparently didn’t have a functioning gaydar either. Walking into Peter’s hospital room and seeing Caffrey, who’d been undercover for five months, holding the other hand while he slept, was enough to finally clue him in.
He didn’t say anything, not then and not since. What was interesting was that Amy knew about them, too. She must have seen something when she visited Peter that weekend, not that she said anything to him, either. It was just so obvious from her lack of hostility towards Caffrey when he returned to his desk.
Actually, it was a hell of a lot more than that. Amy was nice to Neal, but without the tigress’ claws, the overt sexuality. The very first morning he was back, she brought him a god-damned muffin and told him he could use some fattening up.
Women.
It was really kind of amusing, to be honest. Caffrey wasn’t sure just how he was supposed to behave, and between Amy’s volt-face and his efforts to reacclimate to the office environment (and probably his worry about Burke), he seemed like he was about to have a nervous breakdown.
Of course, Jack took pity on the guy. He made sure, this time around, that Caffrey was integrated into the office environment, that he was treated as a ranking member of the A-Team and not some trick pony. And when Burke came back three months later, for desk duty, it was Jack’s job to make sure that everyone understood just what Burke and Caffrey meant to each other, and what they meant to the office and the Bureau.
He didn’t use the words, he just made it clear what his position, and more importantly, what Hughes’ position was. He didn’t tell anyone that they had to approve of whatever relationship Peter and Neal had, but they were a pair of heroes and he (and Hughes) wouldn’t tolerate anything less than one-hundred percent respect.
But today was shaping up to be a cluster fuck of epic proportions and he wasn’t sure how he could fix it. He could use a little help.
Jack got up and dropped a folder on Amy’s desk. “Look this over for me?” It was empty, except for the note inside. Dinner, my place? Seven sharp?
A few minutes later, Amy gave the folder back to him, commenting, “This looks fine.”
Jack opened it. She had scrawled across his note, Can’t wait.
End Part I
Go to Part II - On LJ | On DW
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Reese Hughes, Jack Franklin OMC, OFC, Peter Burke/Neal Caffrey, Jack Franklin/OFC
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Discussion of HIV/AIDS, expressions of homophobia, sexist appellations
Word Count: ~12,200 (two parts)
Beta Credit:
coffeethyme4me, theatregirl7299 and jrosemarySummary: In the aftermath of the events first told in Heaven for the Hunger, Poison for the Pain, where Neal might have been exposed to HIV/AIDS, Neal’s colleagues rally to him, they have his back and make it known that he’s very much part of the team.
This story also ties up some loose ends in It's Life That Just Sharpens the Blade and What Doesn't Bend, Breaks.
Author's Notes: Written for the lovely
angelita26, who asked me to write more of the story from Heaven for the Hunger, on my Timestamps Meme. Now, technically, a timestamp is a short outtake of a much longer story, but not in this case. The original fic was 2000 words, this one is six times longer.Fills the "Wildcard" Square on my H/C Bingo Card and the "Coming Out" Square on my Trope Bingo Card, and the "In Sickness and in Health" square on my Love Bingo Card.
Title from Dougie MacLean’s “Hearts Can Never Hide”.
For most of her life, Amy Grainger hadn’t been a woman given to deep introspection. Maybe if she’d been more mindful, more self-aware, she wouldn’t have had half the problems that she did. She wasn’t completely oblivious, though. She knew who she was - hard as nails, tough as boot leather, and at almost forty, she still could pose naked for Playboy. From the moment she applied to the FBI Academy, she understood that being a woman in a man’s profession meant giving up on certain things, like softness, fragility, compassion, empathy.
But of late, she’d been taking stock of herself and not liking what she’d found.
She never expected to end up as a cold-hearted bitch with a serious drinking habit. The alcohol problem was something she figured out a few years back, after she disgraced herself with Caffrey in that bar, with Franklin, Channing, Powell, and Burke watching. For six months she endured a never-ending practical joke. Bottles of Vagisil kept showing up in her desk, her handbag, once even delivered in a box of chocolates. She knew that Caffrey had nothing to do with it, and was damn certain that Burke didn’t, either. It was those morons, Channing and Powell, and probably Franklin, too.
But Neal Caffrey remained the target of her ire for a long time. Even after one especially horrible morning, about three months after the incident, when she woke up in a strange hotel room with her firearm in her hand, safety off, and no recollection of how she got there, or even where she was.
Of course the Bureau offered counseling for agents, but there was no way she’d ever let the bosses know she had “a problem.” Her career would very quickly, very quietly, die. She’d find herself reassigned to some Resident Agency office in Lower Bumfuck, Idaho. But even if she didn’t take the Bureau’s help, it didn’t mean she wasn’t going to fix the problem. There were meetings she could go to. The synagogue around the corner from her apartment hosted one every Tuesday night and Sunday afternoon.
The hardest thing was walking in the door. But she did. And she continued to do so. Every Tuesday night and Sunday afternoon for the last four years. Half the time she just wanted to ditch the whole program and find a liquor store that sold liter-sized bottles of Stoli. She wouldn’t even have to go all that far. This was New York, after all.
But it got easier, just a little. Those assholes, Channing and Powell, were gone from the office, and Jack never commented that she switched from ordering vodka martinis to tonic waters on their Friday night get-togethers. Of course, she never went out with Burke or Caffrey again.
She was still a bitch though, and most of the time, she was proud of it. And Caffrey was still sex on a stick, and even the lack of vodka in her life couldn’t erase the fact that she wanted him and he never looked twice at her. So for four years, he got the rough edge of her tongue, even as she knew he was the best agent in the division. She might have called him a lucky rabbit’s foot that first week, but it really wasn’t luck – he was smart and he never stopped learning and he was simply a damn good agent.
If it wasn’t for the way he never looked at her, never talked to her, the way he made her feel – like she didn’t even exist for him – she might have relented and made her peace. Instead, she made him miserable. She wielded enough power in the office to set the line, one even Jack wouldn’t cross. Making Neal Caffrey into the office pariah made her feel better, and that’s what counted, right?
Except that it wasn’t right, and she’d known that for a very long time. Hell, wasn’t she supposed to make amends? Her sponsor – if he knew – would tell her that this failing might keep her from making a full recovery. He’d be less judgmental and he’d ask her if making amends would actually make things worse. She could lie and say yes, but then that would defeat the whole exercise. If she told him the truth, that Caffrey deserved her deepest apologies, he’d never let the opportunity pass to remind her that making amends to those she’d harmed was Step Nine.
Months passed and she did nothing. Then years and she let matters grow worse. Then Caffrey disappeared and a whole bunch of rumors circulated. He was promoted, he was fired, he was undercover. The last seemed the least plausible, but it was actually the truth, and she, not know-it-all Jack, found out first. One afternoon, a few days after Burke had been shot, a whole bunch of agents that she’d never seen burst into the office and bee-lined for Hughes. Given the gloom and despair after nearly losing Peter, seeing their SAIC so animated was startling.
Franklin had been out chasing some CI about some insider trading scheme, and even though there were a half-dozen other agents at their desks, Hughes had called her upstairs, complete with the double finger point.
“Grainger – my office.”
“Sir?”
“You’re my stand-in today – you’ll represent the division when Agent Itani goes to the U.S. Attorney’s Office and explains why we need more wiretap and some of those new-fangled electronic surveillance warrants for good measure.” Hughes had put on his jacket and commanded, “Itani – fill her in, I have to go.”
Her boss bolted, leaving her standing there feeling like so much window dressing. The other agent had smiled. “Sorry about this – we weren’t expecting the data we got to come through today. Caffrey came up aces.”
“Caffrey? Neal Caffrey?”
On the walk over to Centre Street, the other agent had explained that Caffrey had been on deep cover assignment for the last five months, infiltrating the bankers for the Japanese mob in the U.S., and thanks to Caffrey, the FBI had just gotten their hooks into the biggest financial network the Yakuza had in the US.
Amy blinked. It made sense.
Of course, there really hadn’t been much for her to contribute when they met with the AUSA, or the judge a few hours later, but it felt good, even a little redemptive. And if Caffrey was going to be back in the office soon, maybe – just maybe – she’d be able to take that last step and apologize for being such a shit to him.
“I guess you heard.” Jack, being Jack, seemed to spend more time with his ass on the edge of her desk than in his own chair.
“Yup – Caffrey’s a hero, apparently.”
“That must put a knot in your panties. Caffrey getting all the accolades.”
She had shrugged. “No, it doesn’t and to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t trade places with him for the world. Five months undercover, no contact with friends and family, no back up. And half the time not even being able to speak your own language? Caffrey might be a – “ Amy had stopped herself. Caffrey was nothing of the sort. “Caffrey’s good and the agent running the op said that she’d never seen an undercover agent perform so flawlessly.”
Franklin gave her an odd look. “Thought you hated him?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s time I grew up.” The words had felt good coming out of her mouth.
Jack had a funny look on his face, but he left her comment alone. “Anyways – after work I’m going up to Beth Israel to see Peter. Hughes says he’s up for visitors. Want to come with me? We could catch some dinner afterwards.”
Amy was struck by something – it felt like a hammer or maybe a slug from a .44 Magnum. Jack was asking her out on a date. He’d been asking her out most Fridays for the last few years and she’d been too self-absorbed to see the offer as anything more than an offer of casual companionship. She wasn’t sure how she felt about him or her own blindness.
She gave him a sigh, a rueful smile, and what she had hoped was a reluctant rejection. “I’m kind of beat, and probably the both of us will be too much for Burke. I was planning to go over tomorrow afternoon. But maybe dinner some night next week?”
Franklin gave her a tight smile and called it a date, but the slightly derisive tone hadn’t disguised his disappointment. She’d make it up to him. How, though, she wasn’t quite sure.
Her plans to visit Peter Burke on Saturday had been scuttled by some truly horrendous weather, and she almost ditched the idea on Sunday. But her meeting was good - something touched her during one of the testimonials. She’d never be as spiritual as the organization tenets required, but she could see the light sometimes.
Beth Israel was a short subway ride from the synagogue and before heading up to Peter’s room, she stopped and picked up a potted plant. The admins at the office had circulated a get-well card, which she signed and tucked in a few bucks for some ridiculous teddy bear. But she could still hear her mother and grandmother yenching at her not to go up empty-handed.
Burke’s room was on the ninth floor, and according to a few of the other agents who’d already visited him, it was almost as nice as a luxury hotel. Amy wasn’t sure that was possible in a hospital, but the hushed tones in the corridor, the lack of a medicinal feel, told her that Peter had earned some type of VIP privilege. She’d have to rag him on that.
She found his room, and not surprisingly, Peter wasn’t alone. It sounded like his folks were with him. And there was another voice, a very familiar voice, telling Peter to pick a card.
It was Caffrey. What the hell was he doing here? Amy had stepped back, hanging in the shadow of the doorway, observing.
Playing the role of entertainer, Neal seemed extraordinarily chummy with Peter Burke, the way he was sitting on the edge of the bed. And Burke’s parents definitely knew Caffrey - the woman Amy thought was Peter’s mother reached out and pulled his hand away. Neal caught the woman’s hand and lifted it to his lips. The look in his eyes was one of affection and maybe even love.
She kept standing there, hidden, while Caffrey performed his little parlor trick. Peter looked healthy enough, if pale. Understandable, after taking two bullets. “And what’s your next trick, Houdini?”
“How about …” Caffrey was leaning over Burke and Amy had the oddest feeling that he was about to kiss the man.
Peter’s father (there was no mistaking the familial resemblance) must have spotted her and cleared his throat. The two men separated and looked over to the doorway where she was standing, potted plant in hand. Caffrey got off of the bed and looked a little - well - sheepish. Burke seemed genuinely pleased to see her.
“Amy!”
“Hey there.”
“Come in. I’d get up - but it’s kind of hard at the moment.”
“That’s okay - I can do without seeing your ass flapping in the wind.” She bit her lip - her abrasive tone wasn’t really called for. But everyone laughed. Everyone but Caffrey, who looked at her like a field mouse might look at a falcon.
She hoped her smile wasn’t threatening. “Good to see you, Neal.” This might have been the first time that she used his first name in years. “It’s been a while.”
“Um, yeah.”
“And congratulations.”
That earned her a puzzled look.
“Your op.”
“You know about it?”
“Hell, everyone knows now. You’re the talk of the building.”
“Ah.”
She tried not to laugh. Caffrey was blushing and had his hands shoved in his pockets. He looked remarkably like a sixteen year old kid. And then, not. There were threads of silver in his hair and on his five o’clock shadow. There were lines on his face, too. No - Caffrey was no kid.
The moment became a little awkward. Amy stood there, not quite knowing what to say. Peter’s mother, though, rescued her.
“Here, let me take that…” She pried the plant from Amy’s hands. “A spider plant. Not even my son will be able to kill this.” She put it on the windowsill, fussing with it. “Peter, you’re being very rude.”
Amy wanted to smirk, but she restrained herself.
“Umm, thanks, Amy. It was very nice of you to come and visit.”
“Peter! Your manners are terrible. Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
She did smirk this time; she really couldn’t help herself, but Peter was laughing and Neal was trying to hide a smile. “Mom, Dad - this is Agent Amy Grainger. She works with me in White Collar.”
“With you and Neal.” Peter’s dad added. She wasn’t sure why that clarification was needed.
“Yeah, with Neal and me,” Peter confirmed.
She wasn’t sure what was going on here. The Burkes clearly knew Neal, and yet Peter had never said word one about knowing him. No, wait - that wasn’t true. The day that Neal showed up for his assignment, Peter had said that they had been at Harvard together, that they had shared a house for a year. Yet, in the four years since Neal had joined the unit, the two men rarely exchanged hellos, let alone seemed like friends.
But they clearly were friends. Very good friends, for that matter.
“Your father and I are going to get a bite to eat. That’ll give you a chance to catch up with your colleague.” Mrs. Burke picked up her handbag, kissed Peter on the forehead, kissed Neal’s cheek, and all but dragged her husband out of the room.
The awkwardness returned. Caffrey just stood there, looking at everything but her and Peter. Peter seemed intensely interested in the weave of his blanket.
“Well, I guess you’re going to be out of commission for a while. Does it hurt?” Those were fairly innocuous questions.
“Yeah - it hurts like hell, and every time I want to move, I have to think twice, and then think again. Docs say I’ll need another two surgeries to finish the repair, but I’ll have full mobility eventually.”
“Good. That’s good to hear. The place won’t be the same without you.” Which was true. She always liked Burke - even since that awful humiliating night at the bar.
“Thanks.”
More awkwardness.
“Yeah - well. I should get going. Let you rest.”
“Umm, yeah. But I really appreciate you stopping by. And thanks for the plant. I’ll try not to kill it too quickly.”
She chuckled. “You can’t have a blacker thumb than I do. I’ve been known to kill silk flowers.”
Amy nodded at Caffrey and left. This was one of the weirder moments in her life, and as if she was Lot’s wife, she paused and looked back into the room. Caffrey had taken a step back towards the hospital bed and looked down at Peter. Neither man said a word, but their expressions spoke volumes.
She didn’t linger. She didn’t need to. It was suddenly, terribly clear. She knew that she should have been disgusted, she should have been angry. She should have been anything other than relieved. Anything other than happy because Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey weren’t just very good friends. They were lovers.
The sick, self-loathing feeling that constantly dogged her whenever she thought about Neal Caffrey just fell away. He never looked at her the way she was accustomed to men looking at her because he just didn’t see her like that. It wasn't because she was unattractive or unworthy of his attention. It was so weird to be relieved that Caffrey was gay. Amy had never quite realized how much she expected every man she desired to desire her, and how much she depended on that desire to validate her own worth until someone she wanted wouldn’t even give her the time of day.
She would make amends with Neal. It was just a matter of finding the right place and the right time.
In the elevator, she caught a glimpse of herself in the security mirror, and she looked strange. Not because her face was distorted by the curve of the glass, but because she was smiling. It had been a long time since she’d grinned like this, like she was happy with the world and her place in it.
Jeremy Hanover was born and raised in a small town in western Pennsylvania. His father worked in the steel mills, his grandfather in the coal mines. Both men died before they were sixty. Neither man was mourned. Jeremy never dreamed of becoming an FBI agent, he dreamed of getting out of the dead end hellhole where he grew up, and the only way out (other than hopping on a Greyhound bus) was football.
It wasn’t an impossible dream. Fifty some-odd miles to the south was New Eagle, Pennsylvania, the birthplace of one of the biggest football legends of all time, Joe Montana. His coaches told him that he was just as good as Montana, that he had the stuff to make it all the way to the pros. Apparently, so did the scouts and recruiters, who never forgot that some of the greatest players in the game came out of some of the most obscure places.
Like his idol, Jeremy was offered a full ride at Notre Dame, but unlike Montana, his career ended before it really began. An overly enthusiastic sack by a Michigan player in his junior year resulted in a torn rotator cuff and a popped knee. He finished out his college career with a less-than-stellar record, and figured that he needed to find something else to do with his life.
That he found himself in the FBI was always kind of hard to explain. The guy who sacked him was a decent enough human being and never stopped feeling guilty about the injuries he’d caused. His father was also a congressman. So when he offered to write a letter of recommendation to the FBI, Jeremy shrugged and said fine. He never expected to get in. He never expected to make it through the grueling five month training course. But he did, and thought he was pretty damn good at it. In the seven years since he finished his probie term, Jeremy had worked his way up from an assignment in the Phoenix field office to a better on one in Chicago and finally, a promotion to the big leagues – in New York City. It helped, of course, that his Congressional connection was still willing to put in a good word for him.
It was, to a certain extent, a little disappointing to end up in the financial crimes division, not Organized Crime, but White Collar – as they called themselves. He’d been on the anti-crime unit in Phoenix, busting up drug rings. His time in Chicago was all about the gangs and taking down mobsters and drug dealers. He was a man who liked assignments where he could use his gun. Finding himself in the midst of a bunch of number-crunchers and art-loving pansies was really a letdown.
But it was New York, and there was always the possibility of a lateral transfer.
“You have an interesting record, Agent Hanover.” His new boss was an old fossil called Hughes.
“Thank you, sir.” He could play the game, he could kiss ass with the best of them.
“That wasn’t a compliment.” Hughes looked at him from over the file he was reading - his file.
“Sir?”
“Since you graduated from Quantico, you’ve discharged your firearm in the course of duty seven times. Three times resulting in suspect fatalities and twice you injured civilians.”
Damn, he hadn’t been expecting this – this interrogation. “Each shooting was justified. The review board didn’t hesitate to clear me.”
Hughes kept staring at him.
He started to sweat and looked away.
Finally the old man spoke. “Agent Hanover, this is New York, not some imaginary version of the wild west. Agents in my division have some of the highest marksmanship scores in the entire Bureau, but they don’t go into a situation hoping to clear leather. Just want to make sure you understand that.”
Hanover couldn’t hold his tongue. “But what about Peter Burke? Didn’t he work for this division? Maybe if he’d been a bit more proactive with his weapon, he wouldn’t have gotten shot.” Of course he heard about the shooting – it made news throughout the Bureau.
Hughes wasn’t happy. “Agent Burke still works in this office, he’s returning to active duty next week. And he was injured while serving a warrant on a sixty-two year old currency trader who had no record of gun ownership.”
Jeremy figured that belaboring the point wouldn’t earn him any brownie points. “I understand – financial crimes require a different approach. More finesse.”
Hughes inclined his head but didn’t smile. “Exactly.”
The old man burdened him with a half-dozen cases that needed updating and review reports, more grunt work for probies than veteran agents, but Jeremy kept his dissatisfaction to himself. He’d find a way out of this assignment as soon as he could, but in the meanwhile, he’d play ball and curry favor wherever possible.
Hughes dismissed him, and as he was about to leave, another agent rushed in. “Sir – you’d better come quickly. It’s Caffrey – there’s a problem.”
Pushed aside and unwilling to get involved, Hanover found his desk and dumped the files on it. Might as well get a cup of coffee and make himself at home. Of course, he couldn’t help but notice the little drama in the conference room – a bunch of agents were huddled around another – who must be “Caffrey.”
He grimaced at the quality of the java. One would have thought that in New York, the coffee would be decent. No one had introduced him to any of the probies yet, so there was no one to get him a decent cup of coffee.
The excitement upstairs seemed to reach a climax when the old man escorted someone with a tiny bandage on his hand out of the office. The other agents filtered back to their desks and a good looking blonde with the endless legs and extremely superior tits sat down at the desk next to his. Jeremy put on his best smile and introduced himself.
She didn’t seem all that impressed, focused instead on the two men waiting for the elevator to arrive. When they finally disappeared she turned back to her work station, ignoring him completely. She didn’t even give him her name.
Another agent, though, did come over. “Jack Franklin, and you must be Jeremy Hanover, the fresh meat from Chicago.”
He wasn’t sure he liked being referred to as “fresh meat” but in keeping with his plan, he put on his most accommodating grin and nodded. “Yup – just off the gang task force in Chi-town.”
“And you’re now in White Collar? That seems a strange career move.” The blonde with the extremely superior tits was talking to him now, but she still hadn't deigned to look up from her desk.
“New York’s where the action’s at – so I took the first open slot the brass offered.”
Franklin pushed the pile of folders to one side and sat on the edge of his desk. “A few things you should know about how we work here, Hanover.”
“Oh, believe me, the old geezer upstairs already gave me The Speech.”
Finally, Super-Tits turned around, her face was like stone. “Really? What old geezer?”
Realizing that he’d stepped in it, Jeremy backtracked. “I meant no disrespect. I was referring to Agent Hughes, of course.”
“And he told you how things worked in the division?”
“Yeah – how no one draws a gun here. You’re all about finesse.” He made air quotes around that last word.
Blondie sneered, but Franklin answered. “Well, we are. Other than what happened with Agent Burke last year, we haven’t had a firearms incident since the late ‘80s. Having a guy with your record is kind of strange, but I suspect you’ll learn soon enough.”
“My record?” Jeremy didn’t think he cared for this guy’s tone.
“Yeah – seven shootings, three fatalities, two wounded civilians. Seems kind of excessive, when you consider that ninety-seven percent of all agents in the FBI never discharge their firearm throughout their entire career.”
“You’ve actually seen my jacket?” He supposed that he shouldn’t be surprised.
“Yeah.” Franklin waved it off. “But that’s not what I was going to tell you.”
“Ah.” Jeremy leaned back in his chair. “I’m all ears. Clue me in.”
“Me and Amy – and until she says otherwise, it’s Agent Grainger to you – Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey – we’re the senior agents here. Top of the totem pole. Agent Hughes delegates to us, we delegate downward. You’re a somewhat experienced agent, but until we figure out how well you’re going to fit in, you’ll be riding a desk.”
He didn’t like it, but if these were the playground rules, he’d follow them – until he could make his own. “Okay … so you four are the best in the office.”
“No – actually, Burke and Caffrey are, we’ve just got seniority.” That was from the ice queen.
“But Burke got himself shot – by a sixty-two year old man. At least that’s what Agent Hughes said.”
“That has no bearing on Burke’s competence. He’s got a ninety-four percent conviction rate.”
“And Caffrey?”
Franklin gave him a tight smile. “Neal Caffrey’s just off of a five-month deep-cover operation that dismantled the Japanese mob here in New York. He’s closed more high profile cases than agents with ten years’ more experience.”
That didn’t make Jeremy happy. He could work his way up the ladder if he could push aside the small obstacles. Franklin and Super-Tits, for all their talk, seemed like typical big fish in a tiny pond, ones he could get past with little effort, but this Caffrey seemed like another matter altogether. “So, what happened to Caffrey just now? What was the emergency?”
“Some asshole hid a used syringe in one of the shred bins we confiscated. Neal was stuck.”
“Huh – seems like you guys made a really big deal out of a little pin-prick. Would hate to see your reaction if someone got a paper cut. Would you call 911?”
“What century are you from?” Grainger shook her head and looked at him like he was a moron.
“What?”
“No one takes needle-sticks lightly – especially when they’re stuck by a syringe where no syringe should be.”
The light dawned. “Ah – AIDS. So he’s worried about getting the fags’ disease.” Both agents looked like they were about to hurt him. He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, sorry. Didn’t realize you guys – and gals – were so politically correct.”
Neither agent said anything to him. Eventually, Franklin walked away and Grainger turned back to her desk.
About five minutes later, Super-Tits actually spoke to him again. “You know something, Hanover?” Grainger’s tone was surprisingly sweet. “You’re really going to make your mark here.”
He wondered if she was being facetious.
He wasn’t a man who made snap judgments. He was cool and deliberate and never moved without considering all of the options, getting all the facts. He didn’t have the astounding leaps of brilliance that Caffrey did, nor did he possess Peter Burke’s near-infallible gut instincts, but Jack Franklin was one of the best agents in the division because he believed in the power of information.
Rumors, whispers, innuendo – he kept his ear to the ground and listened. And he’d already heard plenty about Jeremy Hanover.
None of it was good.
He was more than a little shocked that the agent ended up here, in the crown jewel of the FBI. The man’s record warranted a placement in some dusty backwater, a resident agency office where there was nothing more challenging that a church’s rigged bingo game to investigate. It took a little more digging, but apparently he had connections and he didn’t hesitate to use them.
Hanover reminded him of how one of the priests in his native Boston kept getting shuffled from post to post, one step ahead of the rumors and lawsuits. He didn’t know what was more disgusting. A priest abusing the most innocent members of his flock or an FBI agent who abused his badge and gun.
Maybe the priest, but it was a close-run call.
Hughes had given him the green light to deal with Hanover however he saw fit. At least until he was transferred out of New York and into some less prestigious assignment. That’s one of the things he really appreciated about his boss. Hughes knew when to delegate and he knew when to trust Jack’s judgment.
So Hanover was going to ride a desk, and Jack was going to keep an eye on the man. No telling what poison he could spill if he wasn’t watched. He had made mistakes with Channing and Powell, but they’d been entrenched in the office before he arrived and there was little he could do to mitigate the damage they had caused.
Or so he kept telling himself that. The incident with Grainger and Caffrey at the bar, and the prank afterwards wasn’t one of his shining moments.
Amy, to her credit, never said a word even as Channing and Powell kept at it. She kept her mouth shut and did her work and ignored the laughter at her expense. Jack felt bad about his role in it. He was drunk that night, and more than a little pissed at how Amy was hanging over Caffrey, so he’d egged the other agents on. But the following Monday, he should have put a stop to it. He could have; all it would have taken was a word to those assholes, but he let the prank roll on for six months.
He did get back at them, though. At the end of that year, Hughes tasked him with both agents’ performance reviews and he was meticulous with his opinions and careful how he parsed the information that the review form requested. Within six months, Powell took an early retirement package and Channing transferred to Atlanta. Something about being closer to his wife’s family, apparently.
And for four years, he let Amy make Neal Caffrey’s life hell. It wasn’t that he disliked Neal - far from it. The agent was so damn brilliant he blinded everyone. But Jack was jealous and angry. Amy wanted Caffrey and Caffrey wouldn’t give her the time of day. Jack had figured that if Caffrey would just give Amy what she wanted, she’d dump him like yesterday’s New York Times. But as long as Caffrey remained aloof, Amy wasn’t going to stop wanting him, and that meant she’d never see Jack, never realize that he was in love with her.
So he helped make Caffrey’s life miserable because Caffrey made Amy miserable. Poor guy didn’t deserve it, but it was a fucked up situation all the way around.
Maybe if he had all the information, it might not have been. A guy’s private life was private but if there were mitigating circumstances…
And there were. Neal Caffrey was gay. That he never figured that out said something about how discreet Neal was, since nothing got past Jack Franklin. Well, apparently not, because this did. There were no rumors, no innuendos, no whispers, no god damned nothing about him. And what was even more appalling was that he was in a relationship with Peter Burke. The man who’d been sitting next to him for almost a decade. Burke was close-mouthed about his personal life, but Jack never figured him for being gay.
The two of them …
It didn’t bother Jack. He was a live-and-let-live kind of guy. He had close friends who were gay. He never felt threatened or creeped out or anything like that. It just boggled his mind that he never picked up on Burke and Caffrey.
Well, maybe if he’d checked their personnel files and found out that they lived together; he might have gotten a clue. But he didn’t and he apparently didn’t have a functioning gaydar either. Walking into Peter’s hospital room and seeing Caffrey, who’d been undercover for five months, holding the other hand while he slept, was enough to finally clue him in.
He didn’t say anything, not then and not since. What was interesting was that Amy knew about them, too. She must have seen something when she visited Peter that weekend, not that she said anything to him, either. It was just so obvious from her lack of hostility towards Caffrey when he returned to his desk.
Actually, it was a hell of a lot more than that. Amy was nice to Neal, but without the tigress’ claws, the overt sexuality. The very first morning he was back, she brought him a god-damned muffin and told him he could use some fattening up.
Women.
It was really kind of amusing, to be honest. Caffrey wasn’t sure just how he was supposed to behave, and between Amy’s volt-face and his efforts to reacclimate to the office environment (and probably his worry about Burke), he seemed like he was about to have a nervous breakdown.
Of course, Jack took pity on the guy. He made sure, this time around, that Caffrey was integrated into the office environment, that he was treated as a ranking member of the A-Team and not some trick pony. And when Burke came back three months later, for desk duty, it was Jack’s job to make sure that everyone understood just what Burke and Caffrey meant to each other, and what they meant to the office and the Bureau.
He didn’t use the words, he just made it clear what his position, and more importantly, what Hughes’ position was. He didn’t tell anyone that they had to approve of whatever relationship Peter and Neal had, but they were a pair of heroes and he (and Hughes) wouldn’t tolerate anything less than one-hundred percent respect.
But today was shaping up to be a cluster fuck of epic proportions and he wasn’t sure how he could fix it. He could use a little help.
Jack got up and dropped a folder on Amy’s desk. “Look this over for me?” It was empty, except for the note inside. Dinner, my place? Seven sharp?
A few minutes later, Amy gave the folder back to him, commenting, “This looks fine.”
Jack opened it. She had scrawled across his note, Can’t wait.
Go to Part II - On LJ | On DW
Tags:
- character: jack franklin,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: ofc,
- character: omc,
- character: peter burke,
- character: reese hughes,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: coming out,
- genre: friendship,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: sick fic,
- genre: slash,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- wc verse: wonderful years,
- white collar,
- written for: h/c bingo,
- written for: love bingo,
- written for: timestamp meme,
- written for: trope bingo,
- year: 2013
no subject
Date: 2013-08-05 02:40 pm (UTC)Can't wait for part 2! This was amazing and brilliant, and I really just kind of want to hug all of them - except for Hanover. Thank you so, so much!
no subject
Date: 2013-08-06 03:44 pm (UTC)I know that the outsider POV was a risk, and I'm so glad you liked it. Also, having the chance to redeem Amy was an extra special bonus.
Also: Hanover is the living definition of "dickweed"!