elrhiarhodan

Title: Full Disclosure – Part Two of Two
Author:

elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar, The West Wing
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, Jed Bartlet, Mozzie, Diana Berrigan, Theo Berrigan, Clinton Jones
Spoilers: None, other than generally well-known canon deaths for The West Wing, White Collar
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Non-canon events for The West Wing, possible timeline issues for The West Wing.
Word Count: ~3,700 this part, ~12,000 total
Beta and Cheerleading Credit:

theatregirl7299,

miri_thompson,

coffeethyme4me,

gnomi
Summary: On the day that Neal’s tracker is removed for the last time, he and his lovers go to The Four Seasons to celebrate. Peter encounters an old acquaintance and issues an invitation to Sunday brunch. An encounter, of the strangest kind ensues.

Part One – On Dreamwidth

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Epilogue - Sunday Afternoon, Noonish

Never one to turn down an invitation to a party, Moz arrived at the Burkes' a little on the early side, hoping to get some quality time with the guest of honor.

He supposed he should have been happy for his friend, finally freed from his shackle, finally cut loose from all the strings tying him down. Except that Neal, for all his talk of freedom, for all his stated intentions to embrace his criminal genius, decided he'd be a lot happier sleeping with the dogs that gave him fleas to begin with.

Okay, that really wasn't a nice way to put it. But love had a terrible way of changing people, and not for the best. He had such high hopes for Neal (and for himself) after that debacle with his father, with Hagen. It really had seemed like Neal was going to turn away from the dark side for once and for all.

Except that he didn't. He decided he'd rather be an upstanding citizen, giving the Suits a free pass to oppress him in so many unnatural ways. He had business cards, for crying out loud.

Still, Moz couldn't help but be a little happy for Neal, who was so damn happy himself.

Mrs. Suit, always the most charming of hostesses, told him to help himself to whatever he wanted. Moz figured she meant the brunch set up on the dining room table, and not her grandmother's Lalique crystal decanter.

"There's tofu-chive spread in the last dish. Do you want a mimosa or a Bloody Mary?"

"Well, since it's past noon somewhere, a Bloody Mary sounds good."

She smiled and handed him a glass neatly trimmed with celery. "Since when has the clock ever stopped you from hard drinking, Moz?"

"Touché, Mrs. Suit, touché." He took a sip. "Not bad at all." He scanned the room, there was no sign of either Neal or his Suit. But other suits were coming in.

"Mah-thee! Mah-thee Mah-thee!" Little Theo Berrigan, who was far too adorable to be a Baby Suit, was tugging at the She-Eagle, desperately try to get to his Papoose. Diana let go of the little boy, who ran right to him. It was a good thing he'd put has glass down. Twenty pounds of toddler slamming into his legs wasn't good for his balance.

"Up-up-UP!" The little boy was demanding, but Moz didn't mind. Before making her way to the buffet, Diana just gave him the stinkeye, clearly communicating her intention to do him serious bodily harm if he taught her precious baby boy anything useful, like picking child-proof locks.

"That's a good look for you." Neal appeared out of nowhere, almost startling him into dropping his namesake.

"Hmmm." Theo was too interested in his glasses and Moz needed to distract him, so he "stole" his nose. It worked, and Theo became more interested in stealing his nose than trying to take his glasses.

Neal must have drifted off, or maybe Moz did. He found himself in a space under the staircase, content to entertain the Baby Suit, and if he did introduce the boy to some less than FBI-worth concepts, he did them in terms that no one could object to. After all, what was wrong with quoting Sun-Tzu and Von Clausewitz and Cicero? Even at eighteen months, Theo Berrigan was a smart little boy and was intensely interested in everything his Papoose had to tell him. At least until he pooped his diaper and fell asleep.

Moz made his way back into the main part of the living room, surprised to find almost all of the guests crowded onto the Burkes' tiny patio. He spotted Theo's diaper bag, shouldered it and the baby and took him upstairs, to the guest room.

He'd handled many disgusting things in his life, but he'd have to say that Theo’s diaper might rank at the top of the list, along with his first batch of toilet wine and that time he was assigned to cleaning up road kill. But Moz wasn't a man to flinch in the face of danger, or even a diaper full of poop. He changed young Theo, got him all nice and clean and sweet smelling (and even remembered to keep his little pee-pee covered when the boy decided to go all water pistol on him). By the time he finished, it sounded like most of the party had moved indoors. He could even hear the She-Eagle on the war path, undoubtedly looking for her spawn.

She was standing at the door, her eyes unaccountably soft. "Thanks, Moz."

He shrugged, letting himself enjoy the moment without the need for sarcasm.

"Go downstairs and enjoy the party, I'll sit here for a bit."

He nodded, leaving her with her son, the most precious thing in the universe. As he made his way downstairs, he was struck by the irony of everything. He might resent Neal's need to tie himself to the Suits, but it wasn't like he was going to go anywhere himself. He was just as firmly tied to them, too.

June had arrived and Moz was a little relived to see a friendly face. Except that she was in conversation with a man he didn't know.

He sort of looked like a Suit, but maybe not. Or maybe he was a different cut of Suit, one who seemed vaguely familiar.

Peter had joined June and the unlabeled Suit, and the three of them were laughing at something. But Moz wasn't blind to the odd sort of tension in the room. It wasn't fear or anxiety or anything negative. People just kept looking at the strangely cut Suit, according him some measure of respect. Which made the man all the more intriguing.

"So, do you want an introduction?" Jones, no longer a Demi-Suit, but a full-fledged member of the mostly-to-be-despised coterie, asked. Moz noticed the slight hesitation there, as if he shouldn't want to be introduced, but good manners dictated that he should.

"I think I can manage my own introductions." Moz wasn't sure he even wanted an introduction. It was bad enough that at least two dozen Suits knew him by his nom de guerre.

Jones gave him a look that he could have interpreted as a warning, but one he chose to ignore, and walked off.

June and Peter had left the unexpected guest, who was now sitting alone. Moz couldn't help himself. Curiosity might have killed the cat, but he still had many lives to burn.

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

Jed was enjoying himself immensely. When he left the White House, he had made the deliberate decision to lead a quiet life. Some former presidents liked to light up the lecture circuit, write books, play at punditry, or become the public face of worthy causes. That wasn't for him.

And it wasn't just the precarious state of his health. Abbey wanted a quieter life too, a break in the pattern of constant crisis management. There were new grandchildren to coddle and adore, a medical practice she was eager to resume, her own chance to be a star.

He hadn't minded. He was tired of all the people, all the decisions, all the names and faces he needed to remember, but couldn't. But the quiet life was just that, quiet. It took about three years - years of surprising good health - to find that the space he carved out for himself was a little too small and confining.

It wasn't that he was longing for the limelight again. He wasn't waiting for some world leader to call him up and ask for his sage advice. The truth was that he missed his friends. He missed Leo. He missed him every damned day. He missed Mrs. Landingham. He missed Fitz. All those who went before him. Maybe that was the price of living too long?

He was simply a lonely old man with near infinite resources and little way to use them. And it wasn't like the world was coming to Manchester anymore.

And still, he dithered at Abbey's suggestion that he travel with her to New York. He knew what would happen - she'd get caught up in her lectures and all the bright young minds she could influence and he'd be left to have dinner along in his hotel room, playing solitaire or trying to drum up even the slightest interest in revising a decades-old and still-unpublished manuscript about Keynesian economics.

Which made his encounter with Peter Burke all the more serendipitous. Of all the people to run into at The Four Seasons, the last face he expected to see was his former prodigy and one-time proofreader of said manuscript. He hadn't thought of Peter in years, decades even. Maybe the last time had been shortly before his first inauguration, when he briefly considered bringing him onto his staff. But that idea hadn't survived the transition team. What could a fairly junior FBI agent contribute to the political needs of a new administration?

Thinking about it now, he was sorry that he let that connection go. But Peter Burke had led an interesting life in the years since they'd last met. Jed hadn't been interested in maintaining the privileges that came with his past life, he mostly ignored the briefings and position papers that were sent to him as courtesy. But in this case, he wasn't ashamed to reach out to an old friend at the FBI and that's all it took to get a complete and unredacted copy of Peter's jacket.

Four suspensions, an arrest for murdering a U.S. Senator (Jed had always thought that Terrance Pratt was a man who needed murdering), a promotion hot on the heels of his exoneration, and then last year, another promotion – to Assistant Director. Which he turned down.

There were more than a few notes in Peter's jacket about his CI, the very intriguing Mr. Neal Caffrey, who appeared to be a sort of Renaissance criminal. All of Burke's suspensions, and even his arrest, were somehow tied back to his relationship with that young man.

There were few qualities that Jed prized more than loyalty, and it seemed that Peter Burke was intensely and unusually loyal to his CI. It wasn't hard to read between the lines, he had declined the promotion, which would have sent him to D.C., because he wanted to stay near his CI.

Jed wasn't blind. It wasn't hard to see what was going on between the Burkes and Caffrey, and frankly, he was too old to be shocked by anything anymore. Hadn't he once told Peter (who had certainly surprised him when he got married) that all he wanted was for him to be happy? And if that took a reformed criminal who just happened to look like he just stepped off of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel (he most definitely wasn't blind), and as long as his wife didn't mind (Jed had the feeling that she called most of the shots, anyway), why should anyone else care?

So he sat in Peter Burke's living room and enjoyed himself. He hadn’t come here to hold court, and yet it was almost inevitable. The other guests were mostly bright and shining FBI agents, some so young that they probably only knew about his presidency from history classes. But they were FBI agents and weren’t at all shy about approaching him and spending a few moments talking to an old man they respected.

He didn’t mind, not in the least, yet he was grateful when there was a bit of a interlude between handshakes and homages. Peter might have told his guests to give him some space. He had not had the chance to speak with the real guest of honor. He wanted to ask Mr. Caffrey about a certain painting that had been missing from the National Gallery for nearly a decade – not that the man’s answers would, in any way, be used against him – when he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Someone was watching him.

It was a strange sensation, particularly when he was used to being the cynosure of all eyes. He turned and spotted a small, bald man in oddly worn clothes, peering at him like a myopic tortoise. Definitely not an FBI agent, he didn’t meet the minimum height requirement. Jed sympathized.

“I don’t know you, do I?” the tortoise asked.

Now, this was a novelty to be savored. “Perhaps.”

The man sat down next to him. “I’d ask if you were a friend of the bride or the groom’s, but I know all of Neal’s friends.”

Jed blinked, wondering if, perhaps, this stranger meant grooms, plural.

He was persistent, though. “So are you a friend of Elizabeth’s or Peter’s?”

“Peter’s. He was a student of mine, a long time ago.”

“And you – just fortuitously – happened to be in the neighborhood? You just decided to drop by?”

He was a little taken aback by the man’s aggressive conversational gambit. “I ran into Peter and Elizabeth and Neal the other night. Elizabeth was kind enough to invite me to brunch today.”

“Ah, well, yes. Mrs. Suit is a very kind and considerate lady. She would do that.”

Mrs. Suit? “And you are?”

The man tilted his head and gave him a considering stare, as if he wasn’t sure he could be entrusted with his name. “You can call me Moz. And your name?”

“Jed.” He waited for that moment of recognition. It didn’t come, but this Moz held out his hand and Jed took it. Now this was a novelty to be savored. There was something to be said for being nothing more than a retired college professor relaxing in the less-than-presidential trappings of the Burkes' living room.

“So, you taught the Suit everything he knows?”

“Hmm, I’d like to think I helped Peter become the man he is. After all, ‘The whole art of teaching is only the art of awakening the natural curiosity of young minds for the purpose of satisfying it afterwards’.”

“Ah, an admirer of Anatole France. You strike me as the type of man who only reads the works of Nobel Laureates."

Jed wondered whether the conversation could get any more surreal, and it did. “No, not really.”

The tortoise was a lot quicker than he looked, riposting with, " 'Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.' "

Jed wasn't willing to concede defeat. "Quoting Oscar Wilde is a dirty trick, and I suppose you're one who'd prefer to believe that 'The only thing that interferes with my learning is my education'."

"Yes, in fact, I do prefer Einstein, generally speaking."

He said that like one would express a preference for red over white wine. Jed found himself enjoying the conversation and this strange little man, it was a little like sparing with Sir John Marbury. And he had the feeling that this 'Moz' shared the former ambassador's preference for a liquid diet. "So, you're a friend of Mr. Caffrey's?"

"Yes, but don't hold that against me."

"Or against him?"

Moz laughed. "Yet."

"Have you known him long?"

"By long, do you mean before his incarceration and oppression by the Suits, or before he went to prison?"

Jed blinked, confused, but he decided he didn't want an elaboration. "He seems like a good man."

"Neal? Yeah - he's one of the best."

"But?" Jed couldn't resist.

"Yeah - there's a ‘but’ there, all right. He's gone over to the dark side. He's a Suit in all but name. You'd have thought, after everything I taught him, all that we went through together …"

Jed had to wonder just what type of education Moz had given Neal Caffrey, and he doubted that the curriculum would be found in even the diciest of institutions. "A ‘Suit’ in all but name?"

"Yeah, they wanted him to go to Quantico. At least Neal had the good sense to turn that down. Imagine, Neal Caffrey, an FBI agent."

"I suppose it would be hard to be in law enforcement and not be able to use a gun."

"Neal told you that? That he wasn't able to use a gun?"

"Hmm, maybe not that he couldn't use a gun. Maybe he said he didn't like guns?"

Moz nodded. "That's true. He doesn't like guns. They are too ordinary."

"And heaven forbid Neal Caffrey be 'ordinary'?"

"You must have spent quite a bit of time with him to figure that out."

Jed shrugged. "I think it's kind of obvious. Besides, Peter Burke seems to think he's extraordinary."

The tortoise sighed. "Yes, the Suit does think that."

The tortoise seemed content to let conversation fall into a lull. Jed hadn't enjoyed himself this much in a very long time - or at least since Friday night at The Four Seasons.

But Moz didn't take himself off. "I have to say, you really do look very familiar. Are you sure we haven't met?"

"No, I don't believe we have." Jed would have definitely remembered an encounter with this strange little man.

"Hmm, where are you from?"

"Manchester."

"Not England - you don't have the right accent."

"No, Manchester, New Hampshire." Jed tried not to smile.

"Ah. I've been to Manchester. New Hampshire."

"Did you like it?" Jed had an inordinate amount of pride in his home town

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. A lovely little city with an exceptional museum."

"The Currier."

"Yes - it's delightful, one of the best small museums in the country. They once had a particularly fine set of Revere dinnerware on display."

"Yes - I'm familiar with that. I believe it was on loan from a former governor. A family heirloom."

Moz sighed. "Yes, and a pity, too."

That comment was surprising. "Pity? Why?"

"Too much security. On the silver and on a marvelous set of Copley portraits. Couldn't get near them. They were also on loan, an exhibit of some presidential ancestors, I think."

Jed blinked. He had hoped for interesting conversation. He just didn't expect it to be this interesting.

Moz looked at him again, peering at him intently through thick glasses. "You know, you look like you could have been related to those presidential ancestors."

Jed stared back, meeting the man's pale blue eyes. "You want to know something? I am." He leaned back in the chair, enjoying the dawning recognition on Moz's face. And for the first time, he realized that no one else was talking, that they were the focus of all eyes. All appalled eyes.

He wondered how badly Moz was going to react. He didn't seem like a man who'd enjoy being the butt of a joke. But the tortoise surprised him again.

"I voted for you."

"Thank you."

"Eight times."

"Ah, well - like I said, thank you." For some reason, Jed had the feeling he wasn't talking about either of his gubernatorial races or his elections to Congress.

Moz nodded, satisfied. He then leaned in close and asked, in the most confidential of tones, "So, I guess you know all about the crop circles. And the death of the electric car. And Area 51. Anything you can share?"

FIN