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elrhiarhodanTitle: The Weight of Sleep - 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 (Peter/Neal)
Word Count: ~3000
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Discussion of death, HIV/AIDS, Implied Request for Assisted Suicide
Beta Credit:miri_thompson
Summary: In the end of The Strength to Dream is All That Remains, Neal and Peter are facing a still-uncertain future. Neal needs to be tested ever few weeks to make certain that he does not have HIV/AIDS. The promise that he extracted from Peter in Heaven for the Hunger, Poison for the Pain weighs heavily on both men, especially as Neal waits for the results of the final test.
Author’s Note: Written for the lovelycalis_1st for Day Three of my 2013 Fic-Can-Ukah meme, for the prompt that is the title of the story. She asked for a timestamp for the Wonder(ful) Years 'verse.
__________________
Neal lifted his head; his eyes were an ocean of blue, his lashes clumped into spikes. “When the time comes, you’ll take me to that place in Maine, by the lake. You remember? You’ll let me go.”
Peter did. They had rented a cabin right after Neal took the bar exams and right before he started at Quantico and spent an idyllic two weeks doing nothing more strenuous than swimming and fucking. “Don’t - don’t talk like your life is over. Please.”
Neal took his hand, his grip bruising. “You promised me, Peter. You won’t let me suffer. Not like that. If you can’t do it, just make sure I’m strong enough to hold my gun.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter dreaded that little red mark on the calendar. Not just for what it represented, but for what it did to the man he loved so much.
For the months and weeks leading up to that date, Peter watched Neal as he did his best to forget about the possibility of poison in his bloodstream, the danger the lurked just below his skin. He’d laugh and smile and pretend to live his life like there was nothing wrong. As far as their colleagues and family knew, his blood test was negative for HIV/AIDS and hepatitis, and he had nothing more to worry about.
But Peter knew otherwise. He knew that there was a grim likelihood that the initial negative result wasn't really negative, and the virus hadn't had the time to replicate its malignancy in Neal's bloodstream. So Neal needed to get tested again and again. None of this suffering would have been necessary if the assholes at the FBI lab did their jobs. Somewhere along the line, they fucking lost the syringe that stuck Neal, and no amount of screaming and finger-pointing could recover it.
The strain of uncertainty was taking its toll. Neal was, as always, brilliant at work, his closure rate only second to Peter’s in the entire New York field office, and the distinction between them was measured in places to the right of a decimal point. But he was pushing himself, working endless hours, keeping up a case load that should have left him exhausted. But maybe that was the point. Neal needed to stay too busy to think and worry, to become too tired to stay awake until the sun rose and it was time to start the day all over again.
Peter understood, however, understanding was pointless when he was helpless to fix things.
Tomorrow was his six-month blood test, the critical one. The one that would clear him or keep him on this roller coaster ride of uncertainty.
But today would be a replica of the days before his other blood tests. Today, Neal would stay at the office until well after seven, come home and pretend to eat – pushing food around his plate before dumping it in the trash. He’d pace the apartment until the confines became too much. Peter would say nothing; he’d grab his keys and they’d go for a walk and be grateful that Neal allowed him this. Sometime after midnight, or maybe even later, they’d come home and Neal would fall into an exhausted and unrestful sleep. Peter would stay awake, watching him and guarding against the demons.
Tomorrow, they’d go to work as if it was an ordinary day except that Neal would disappear for a few hours. He would head to the same clinic that did the initial blood test, then the first follow up, and his second, too. The West Side Clinic had the new Rapid Result equipment, and he'd know within an hour if the disease had just been dormant or if he was still healthy.
Peter wanted to go with Neal, give him the support he so clearly needed, but Neal didn't want any companionship, not for this. They'd argued about it each time, the most serious fights they'd had since he'd been shot. But as much as Peter begged, Neal refused to let him accompany him. Peter thought he understood Neal’s reason for going alone, but he was so desperately afraid of what Neal would do if the results came back positive.
He could never forget the promise Neal had unwittingly extracted from him. Even the memory of Neal's words that day had the power to terrify him - “You promised me, Peter. You won’t let me suffer. Not like that. If you can’t do it, just make sure I’m strong enough to hold my gun.” His partner had been prepared to die, and Peter wasn't sure that his mindset had changed since then.
It was far too easy to envision Neal just taking himself off and ending his life before the disease took its toll. There would be no chance for them to say goodbye, no chance for Peter to convince Neal that this path was a terrible mistake. No chance at all.
So, tomorrow (like he did twelve weeks ago, and six weeks before that) Peter followed him, keeping a discreet distance, waiting outside the clinic for Neal to call with the good news so he could pretend to meet him for a celebratory dinner. Or waiting to intervene if the news was … bad.
Neal must have known that Peter was close by even though he never said anything, and Peter was grateful for that silence. He knew that if there was some acknowledgment, Neal would find another clinic, he'd go on a different day. It would be just that simple to foil Peter's best intentions. So they played the game and pretended everything was normal.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal felt like a burning cigarette, heat consuming him until there was nothing left but stale, stinking ashes. Endless days followed by sleepless nights. The weight of fear was only slightly heavier than the weight of Peter’s silent and unspoken worry, and both were crushing him into nothingness.
In contrast, the phlebotomist, Lula (according to her name tag) was a young woman with a stupendous set of beaded cornrows and a smile bright enough to guide ships on a foggy night. She didn't tell him he was going to be fine, or that there was really nothing to worry about (and Neal had enough of that from his own doctor). She was competent, confident and treated him like an adult with a potentially deadly disease.
She drew his blood, labeled the vials and gave him his number. "It'll take about an hour, so you can go get coffee or a bite to eat and come back, or you can wait in the chairs. The coffee shop on the corner isn't bad."
"I'll wait, but thanks." Neal took a seat in the waiting room and wondered how many of the clinic's clients left and never came back, never called for their results, waiting instead for someone to come knocking with the bad news.
It had been a little past noon when he left the office. Neal had told Hughes that he was chasing down a lead but should be back before the end of the day. He didn’t like lying but there was no need for the old man to worry. He suspected, however, that Hughes knew just where Neal was heading today. He was smart, smart enough to do a little research and learn that his negative results were conditional and he'd need retesting.
He hadn’t told Peter where he was going. There was no need. He figured that his partner waited less than five minutes before following him and was probably now outside, waiting and watching. Neal should have let him come and he couldn’t think of a good reason for making Peter suffer through this alone, except that he was afraid.
Just last month, another college friend died, a man they'd both known since their freshman year. Daniel Godwin had been a suite mate that first year in Harvard, and Neal had once been blisteringly jealous of him. He was tall and gorgeous, with bright red hair worn long like some Viking warrior and a soft North Carolina drawl. He had flirted delicately with both of them (and mostly with Peter), but took no offense when they'd declined his offers. By the time they'd met up again, Dan had been sick for years. He'd confessed that he'd had only gotten in touch with them after hearing that Neal had come into some money. He'd thought that maybe Neal could get him on a list for some of the drug trials.
Neal had explained that it didn't work like that, that he couldn't buy his place - but he'd see what he could do about getting him into hospice care. He hadn't told Dan about his own possible exposure - there was no need, but he did what he could to help. It wasn't enough. By the time Dan died, he weighed 87 pounds and was too weak to swallow.
This wasn't a future Neal wanted for himself, and although he knew that Peter loved him and would love him no matter what, he couldn’t' bear the thought of inflicting that suffering on him. Better to go when the going was good, right?
Except that it wasn't right and Neal knew that, too.
One of the clinic's staff called out a number, interrupting his dire thoughts. Neal checked, it was his. The drill was simple, go to the front desk, wait for another staff member to take you back to one of the small consultation rooms, wait another few minutes until a counselor appeared. If the results were negative, make an appointment for a retest in two months. If they were positive, it was time for more tests, more waiting.
Neal didn't sit, he paced the room, looked out of the dirty window onto a small patio - a tiny green oasis that seemed out of place in the overcrowded bustle of Midtown. Two white-coated techs - the smiling Lula and another woman - shared cigarettes and gossip.
"Mr. Caffrey?"
Neal hadn't heard the door open. The counselor, Patrick, was familiar. He'd been following Neal's case since the beginning.
"Well?"
Patrick didn’t smile. "Sorry – we’re going to have to take another blood sample."
Neal blinked, not sure he heard the man correctly. “What?”
“The results were …” Patrick made a face. “Inconclusive. Not positive, but not negative.” He held up a hand before Neal could interrupt. “It’s not uncommon and it could simply mean that the blood was not taken properly, or the testing reagent was misapplied. We’ll draw again and rerun the test, okay?”
That really shouldn’t have been a question, but Neal just nodded.
Patrick went over to the window and tapped to get Lula’s attention and gestured for her to come in. “Wait, we’ll do the draw here.”
Neal removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeve. The little gauze pad from the early blood draw was still taped to his arm. He stared at it and the only thing he could think of was Peter standing outside, waiting for him.
“Make a fist.”
Neal looked up; he hadn’t heard Lula come in. She wrapped the rubber strap around his arm and ripped off the gauze pad before wiping his skin with alcohol. Neal winced as the needle punctured him, but the stinging ache was familiar. The strap was untied, he relaxed his fist and watched with detached fascination as the dark red blood filled the vials.
Lula withdrew the needle, put another piece of gauze on his arm and left, the beads in her braids lightly clacking.
Neal pulled his sleeve down, surprised at how steady his hands were, and put his suit jacket back on. “How long?”
“It’ll still take about an hour. Sorry. But you can stay in here if you’d like.” Patrick gave him a sympathetic look.
“No – I need…” Neal took a deep breath, he felt like he was suffocating. “I need fresh air.”
“I understand.” Patrick held the door open for him. Neal made his way past the consultation rooms, the curtained cubes where the blood was drawn, back out to the waiting room and then through the clinic’s front door and onto the street.
Intellectually, he knew that the odds were in his favor. Months of negative results weren’t obviated by an anomaly, but still Neal couldn’t stop the feeling of doom. It wasn’t positive, but it wasn’t negative.
He stood in the shadow of the building, trying to calm himself. He’d given into panic once, and the results of that were …
Unforgivable.
Neal was struck by a terrible certainty. That unless he made things right, unless he fixed this, he’d never be right - they’d never be right again.
He scanned the busy street, trying to spot Peter among the throngs of pedestrians. He knew his partner was close by, waiting and prepared to do whatever it took to keep him safe. There he was, leaning against the lee of the building on the other side of the street, and even from this distance, Neal feel the weight of Peter’s gaze as it focus on him.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The first time he’d played this waiting game, it had been pouring. One of those freakish summer storms that swept through the city, drenching anyone unlucky enough to be caught outside. The second time, it was a blisteringly hot day, a record for August in Manhattan.
But today was perfect – one of those incredible autumn days that New York City was so famous for. It was almost too much to hope that the weather would be a portent.
If his calculations were correct, Neal would be leaving the clinic a little after one. He wasn’t sure what his plans were – to wait for him to call and give him the news, if he should acknowledge this semi-clandestine surveillance, or if it would be best to just walk away and meet back at the office.
They didn’t celebrate on either of the two previous occasions; there really wasn’t anything to rejoice over. Neal’s status was still provisional. And Peter didn’t even want to think about what they’d do tonight. He wasn’t the type of man to indulge in magical thinking, but even so much as considering a celebration would be fatal.
He checked his watch. It was ten after the hour; Neal should be leaving soon. He kept his gaze fixed on the clinic doorway and, soon enough, he walked through the door and stood there. To his surprise, he seemed to be looking for him.
He stepped out of the building’s shadows and their eyes met. They’d been together so long that even from this distance, Peter shouldn’t have had trouble reading Neal’s body language. But he couldn’t, and even as he crossed the street and drew close, Peter couldn’t tell what Neal was feeling.
They were face-to-face and all Peter could think was that the news wasn’t good, that the results were positive and Neal was …
No. He refused to consider that possibility.
“Neal?”
“We need to talk.”
That was all he said. Peter’s heart skipped a beat. He followed Neal to a coffee shop on the corner and made their way to a booth at the back.
“It was positive?” Peter was confused when Neal shook his head. “Then what’s the matter?”
“The results were – ” Neal made a face. “Ambiguous. They drew more blood and are doing the test again.” He took a deep breath. “But I needed to talk to you first.”
“Okay – I’m here.”
Neal took his hand, unconcerned that anyone might be watching. “I’m sorry, Peter. Sorrier than I can ever say.”
“For what? For insisting on doing this alone? I understand – I don’t like it, but I understand.”
Neal shook his head. “No, not that.”
“Then what?”
“For what I made you promise.”
Peter sat back, stunned. They’d never talked about that, not once in the six months since that awful day, when Neal had extracted a blind promise from him. Don't let me suffer.
“It was a terrible thing to do to you, to trade on your worry and your love and devotion, to make you pledge to help me die.” Neal looked like he was about to cry, something that he hadn’t done since that night. “I was sorry I did it almost immediately, but I was too scared to let you retract that oath. To tell you that I wanted to live, no matter what.”
Peter took a deep, shuddering breath. He felt like he was about to shatter. “Neal –”
“But I want to live, Peter. For as long as I possibly can, and I don’t want to die any sooner than I have to. To ask what I asked of you – that was such a horrible thing to do, can you forgive me?”
Peter gripped his hand, he clung to Neal like a drowning man clings to a lifeline. “I don’t know if I could have done it. I don’t know if I could have let you go, no matter how bad it got. I don’t know how I could have gone on. Afterwards. Alone.”
In that dingy coffee shop that smelled of fried food and burnt coffee, they held onto each other, understanding everything, understanding that forgiveness, like love, was infinite.
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey (Peter/Neal)
Word Count: ~3000
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Discussion of death, HIV/AIDS, Implied Request for Assisted Suicide
Beta Credit:
miri_thompson Summary: In the end of The Strength to Dream is All That Remains, Neal and Peter are facing a still-uncertain future. Neal needs to be tested ever few weeks to make certain that he does not have HIV/AIDS. The promise that he extracted from Peter in Heaven for the Hunger, Poison for the Pain weighs heavily on both men, especially as Neal waits for the results of the final test.
Author’s Note: Written for the lovely
calis_1st for Day Three of my 2013 Fic-Can-Ukah meme, for the prompt that is the title of the story. She asked for a timestamp for the Wonder(ful) Years 'verse.Neal lifted his head; his eyes were an ocean of blue, his lashes clumped into spikes. “When the time comes, you’ll take me to that place in Maine, by the lake. You remember? You’ll let me go.”
Peter did. They had rented a cabin right after Neal took the bar exams and right before he started at Quantico and spent an idyllic two weeks doing nothing more strenuous than swimming and fucking. “Don’t - don’t talk like your life is over. Please.”
Neal took his hand, his grip bruising. “You promised me, Peter. You won’t let me suffer. Not like that. If you can’t do it, just make sure I’m strong enough to hold my gun.”
Peter dreaded that little red mark on the calendar. Not just for what it represented, but for what it did to the man he loved so much.
For the months and weeks leading up to that date, Peter watched Neal as he did his best to forget about the possibility of poison in his bloodstream, the danger the lurked just below his skin. He’d laugh and smile and pretend to live his life like there was nothing wrong. As far as their colleagues and family knew, his blood test was negative for HIV/AIDS and hepatitis, and he had nothing more to worry about.
But Peter knew otherwise. He knew that there was a grim likelihood that the initial negative result wasn't really negative, and the virus hadn't had the time to replicate its malignancy in Neal's bloodstream. So Neal needed to get tested again and again. None of this suffering would have been necessary if the assholes at the FBI lab did their jobs. Somewhere along the line, they fucking lost the syringe that stuck Neal, and no amount of screaming and finger-pointing could recover it.
The strain of uncertainty was taking its toll. Neal was, as always, brilliant at work, his closure rate only second to Peter’s in the entire New York field office, and the distinction between them was measured in places to the right of a decimal point. But he was pushing himself, working endless hours, keeping up a case load that should have left him exhausted. But maybe that was the point. Neal needed to stay too busy to think and worry, to become too tired to stay awake until the sun rose and it was time to start the day all over again.
Peter understood, however, understanding was pointless when he was helpless to fix things.
Tomorrow was his six-month blood test, the critical one. The one that would clear him or keep him on this roller coaster ride of uncertainty.
But today would be a replica of the days before his other blood tests. Today, Neal would stay at the office until well after seven, come home and pretend to eat – pushing food around his plate before dumping it in the trash. He’d pace the apartment until the confines became too much. Peter would say nothing; he’d grab his keys and they’d go for a walk and be grateful that Neal allowed him this. Sometime after midnight, or maybe even later, they’d come home and Neal would fall into an exhausted and unrestful sleep. Peter would stay awake, watching him and guarding against the demons.
Tomorrow, they’d go to work as if it was an ordinary day except that Neal would disappear for a few hours. He would head to the same clinic that did the initial blood test, then the first follow up, and his second, too. The West Side Clinic had the new Rapid Result equipment, and he'd know within an hour if the disease had just been dormant or if he was still healthy.
Peter wanted to go with Neal, give him the support he so clearly needed, but Neal didn't want any companionship, not for this. They'd argued about it each time, the most serious fights they'd had since he'd been shot. But as much as Peter begged, Neal refused to let him accompany him. Peter thought he understood Neal’s reason for going alone, but he was so desperately afraid of what Neal would do if the results came back positive.
He could never forget the promise Neal had unwittingly extracted from him. Even the memory of Neal's words that day had the power to terrify him - “You promised me, Peter. You won’t let me suffer. Not like that. If you can’t do it, just make sure I’m strong enough to hold my gun.” His partner had been prepared to die, and Peter wasn't sure that his mindset had changed since then.
It was far too easy to envision Neal just taking himself off and ending his life before the disease took its toll. There would be no chance for them to say goodbye, no chance for Peter to convince Neal that this path was a terrible mistake. No chance at all.
So, tomorrow (like he did twelve weeks ago, and six weeks before that) Peter followed him, keeping a discreet distance, waiting outside the clinic for Neal to call with the good news so he could pretend to meet him for a celebratory dinner. Or waiting to intervene if the news was … bad.
Neal must have known that Peter was close by even though he never said anything, and Peter was grateful for that silence. He knew that if there was some acknowledgment, Neal would find another clinic, he'd go on a different day. It would be just that simple to foil Peter's best intentions. So they played the game and pretended everything was normal.
Neal felt like a burning cigarette, heat consuming him until there was nothing left but stale, stinking ashes. Endless days followed by sleepless nights. The weight of fear was only slightly heavier than the weight of Peter’s silent and unspoken worry, and both were crushing him into nothingness.
In contrast, the phlebotomist, Lula (according to her name tag) was a young woman with a stupendous set of beaded cornrows and a smile bright enough to guide ships on a foggy night. She didn't tell him he was going to be fine, or that there was really nothing to worry about (and Neal had enough of that from his own doctor). She was competent, confident and treated him like an adult with a potentially deadly disease.
She drew his blood, labeled the vials and gave him his number. "It'll take about an hour, so you can go get coffee or a bite to eat and come back, or you can wait in the chairs. The coffee shop on the corner isn't bad."
"I'll wait, but thanks." Neal took a seat in the waiting room and wondered how many of the clinic's clients left and never came back, never called for their results, waiting instead for someone to come knocking with the bad news.
It had been a little past noon when he left the office. Neal had told Hughes that he was chasing down a lead but should be back before the end of the day. He didn’t like lying but there was no need for the old man to worry. He suspected, however, that Hughes knew just where Neal was heading today. He was smart, smart enough to do a little research and learn that his negative results were conditional and he'd need retesting.
He hadn’t told Peter where he was going. There was no need. He figured that his partner waited less than five minutes before following him and was probably now outside, waiting and watching. Neal should have let him come and he couldn’t think of a good reason for making Peter suffer through this alone, except that he was afraid.
Just last month, another college friend died, a man they'd both known since their freshman year. Daniel Godwin had been a suite mate that first year in Harvard, and Neal had once been blisteringly jealous of him. He was tall and gorgeous, with bright red hair worn long like some Viking warrior and a soft North Carolina drawl. He had flirted delicately with both of them (and mostly with Peter), but took no offense when they'd declined his offers. By the time they'd met up again, Dan had been sick for years. He'd confessed that he'd had only gotten in touch with them after hearing that Neal had come into some money. He'd thought that maybe Neal could get him on a list for some of the drug trials.
Neal had explained that it didn't work like that, that he couldn't buy his place - but he'd see what he could do about getting him into hospice care. He hadn't told Dan about his own possible exposure - there was no need, but he did what he could to help. It wasn't enough. By the time Dan died, he weighed 87 pounds and was too weak to swallow.
This wasn't a future Neal wanted for himself, and although he knew that Peter loved him and would love him no matter what, he couldn’t' bear the thought of inflicting that suffering on him. Better to go when the going was good, right?
Except that it wasn't right and Neal knew that, too.
One of the clinic's staff called out a number, interrupting his dire thoughts. Neal checked, it was his. The drill was simple, go to the front desk, wait for another staff member to take you back to one of the small consultation rooms, wait another few minutes until a counselor appeared. If the results were negative, make an appointment for a retest in two months. If they were positive, it was time for more tests, more waiting.
Neal didn't sit, he paced the room, looked out of the dirty window onto a small patio - a tiny green oasis that seemed out of place in the overcrowded bustle of Midtown. Two white-coated techs - the smiling Lula and another woman - shared cigarettes and gossip.
"Mr. Caffrey?"
Neal hadn't heard the door open. The counselor, Patrick, was familiar. He'd been following Neal's case since the beginning.
"Well?"
Patrick didn’t smile. "Sorry – we’re going to have to take another blood sample."
Neal blinked, not sure he heard the man correctly. “What?”
“The results were …” Patrick made a face. “Inconclusive. Not positive, but not negative.” He held up a hand before Neal could interrupt. “It’s not uncommon and it could simply mean that the blood was not taken properly, or the testing reagent was misapplied. We’ll draw again and rerun the test, okay?”
That really shouldn’t have been a question, but Neal just nodded.
Patrick went over to the window and tapped to get Lula’s attention and gestured for her to come in. “Wait, we’ll do the draw here.”
Neal removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeve. The little gauze pad from the early blood draw was still taped to his arm. He stared at it and the only thing he could think of was Peter standing outside, waiting for him.
“Make a fist.”
Neal looked up; he hadn’t heard Lula come in. She wrapped the rubber strap around his arm and ripped off the gauze pad before wiping his skin with alcohol. Neal winced as the needle punctured him, but the stinging ache was familiar. The strap was untied, he relaxed his fist and watched with detached fascination as the dark red blood filled the vials.
Lula withdrew the needle, put another piece of gauze on his arm and left, the beads in her braids lightly clacking.
Neal pulled his sleeve down, surprised at how steady his hands were, and put his suit jacket back on. “How long?”
“It’ll still take about an hour. Sorry. But you can stay in here if you’d like.” Patrick gave him a sympathetic look.
“No – I need…” Neal took a deep breath, he felt like he was suffocating. “I need fresh air.”
“I understand.” Patrick held the door open for him. Neal made his way past the consultation rooms, the curtained cubes where the blood was drawn, back out to the waiting room and then through the clinic’s front door and onto the street.
Intellectually, he knew that the odds were in his favor. Months of negative results weren’t obviated by an anomaly, but still Neal couldn’t stop the feeling of doom. It wasn’t positive, but it wasn’t negative.
He stood in the shadow of the building, trying to calm himself. He’d given into panic once, and the results of that were …
Unforgivable.
Neal was struck by a terrible certainty. That unless he made things right, unless he fixed this, he’d never be right - they’d never be right again.
He scanned the busy street, trying to spot Peter among the throngs of pedestrians. He knew his partner was close by, waiting and prepared to do whatever it took to keep him safe. There he was, leaning against the lee of the building on the other side of the street, and even from this distance, Neal feel the weight of Peter’s gaze as it focus on him.
The first time he’d played this waiting game, it had been pouring. One of those freakish summer storms that swept through the city, drenching anyone unlucky enough to be caught outside. The second time, it was a blisteringly hot day, a record for August in Manhattan.
But today was perfect – one of those incredible autumn days that New York City was so famous for. It was almost too much to hope that the weather would be a portent.
If his calculations were correct, Neal would be leaving the clinic a little after one. He wasn’t sure what his plans were – to wait for him to call and give him the news, if he should acknowledge this semi-clandestine surveillance, or if it would be best to just walk away and meet back at the office.
They didn’t celebrate on either of the two previous occasions; there really wasn’t anything to rejoice over. Neal’s status was still provisional. And Peter didn’t even want to think about what they’d do tonight. He wasn’t the type of man to indulge in magical thinking, but even so much as considering a celebration would be fatal.
He checked his watch. It was ten after the hour; Neal should be leaving soon. He kept his gaze fixed on the clinic doorway and, soon enough, he walked through the door and stood there. To his surprise, he seemed to be looking for him.
He stepped out of the building’s shadows and their eyes met. They’d been together so long that even from this distance, Peter shouldn’t have had trouble reading Neal’s body language. But he couldn’t, and even as he crossed the street and drew close, Peter couldn’t tell what Neal was feeling.
They were face-to-face and all Peter could think was that the news wasn’t good, that the results were positive and Neal was …
No. He refused to consider that possibility.
“Neal?”
“We need to talk.”
That was all he said. Peter’s heart skipped a beat. He followed Neal to a coffee shop on the corner and made their way to a booth at the back.
“It was positive?” Peter was confused when Neal shook his head. “Then what’s the matter?”
“The results were – ” Neal made a face. “Ambiguous. They drew more blood and are doing the test again.” He took a deep breath. “But I needed to talk to you first.”
“Okay – I’m here.”
Neal took his hand, unconcerned that anyone might be watching. “I’m sorry, Peter. Sorrier than I can ever say.”
“For what? For insisting on doing this alone? I understand – I don’t like it, but I understand.”
Neal shook his head. “No, not that.”
“Then what?”
“For what I made you promise.”
Peter sat back, stunned. They’d never talked about that, not once in the six months since that awful day, when Neal had extracted a blind promise from him. Don't let me suffer.
“It was a terrible thing to do to you, to trade on your worry and your love and devotion, to make you pledge to help me die.” Neal looked like he was about to cry, something that he hadn’t done since that night. “I was sorry I did it almost immediately, but I was too scared to let you retract that oath. To tell you that I wanted to live, no matter what.”
Peter took a deep, shuddering breath. He felt like he was about to shatter. “Neal –”
“But I want to live, Peter. For as long as I possibly can, and I don’t want to die any sooner than I have to. To ask what I asked of you – that was such a horrible thing to do, can you forgive me?”
Peter gripped his hand, he clung to Neal like a drowning man clings to a lifeline. “I don’t know if I could have done it. I don’t know if I could have let you go, no matter how bad it got. I don’t know how I could have gone on. Afterwards. Alone.”
In that dingy coffee shop that smelled of fried food and burnt coffee, they held onto each other, understanding everything, understanding that forgiveness, like love, was infinite.
