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elrhiarhodanTitle: Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot?
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Neal Caffrey, OFC, Peter/Elizabeth, Neal/OFC
Word Count: ~3000
Spoilers: Vague spoilers for S5.09 - No Good Deed
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Beta Credit: None
Summary: Another year comes to an end, and Peter is filled with regrets for wounds that haven’t healed, and may never heal. He doesn’t know that he has reason to hope.
Author’s Note: Happy New Year to all my dear friends in the White Collar fandom. I wanted to end this year on a happy (or at least, less angsty) note. It was difficult when listening to the Dougie MacLean version of the famous Robert Burns song, but hopefully I’ve succeeded.
__________________
Satchmo, old and so gray around his muzzle that his face seemed white, was slow to move these days. Peter’s heart always seemed to skip a beat in the mornings when the old boy didn’t lift his head at the sound of his footsteps coming down the stairs.
He hadn’t taken the move to D.C. well at all. Getting him to walk through their neighborhood was impossible and heartbreaking. He became anxious and distressed, crying and whimpering before they reached the end of the driveway, and ultimately refusing to move off of the front porch. Unless it involved a trip to the vet’s, Satch never ventured beyond the small fenced in run off the garage. Their home, a stately center hall colonial in Arlington, had a lovely backyard, dozens of times bigger than the one in Brooklyn, but the dog couldn’t care less. He did his business outside, lumbered back in and flopped onto his dog bed, mostly uninterested in anything beyond his food bowl.
The vet said Satch was healthy, as healthy as a twelve year old yellow Labrador Retriever could be. He was just slowing down and they needed to accept the inevitable.
Peter wondered if his dog was depressed, if he missed the bright closeness of the old neighborhood; the apartment building next door, with a dozen families, children always racing up and down the street. It had seemed like every house had a dog and Satchmo knew all of them.
Arlington was as different from Cobble Hill, Brooklyn, as it was from the moon. They lived in a subdivision filled with big houses with rolling lawns and streets without sidewalks, and apparently without people, too - no one ever seemed to be outside, enjoying the vast opened spaces. They never got to know the neighbors because there was nothing about the neighborhood that encouraged friendliness.
If his dog wasn’t depressed, then he should be. Or maybe Peter was simply projecting.
El seemed happy, though. She’d had fun decorating the house and even more fun establishing her business in the D.C. area. They’d been here for a little more than two years and Burke Premier Events was the go-to company for the movers and shakers in the art world. El didn’t even try to break into the political arena, it was too crowded and cutthroat for her liking.
Peter kept telling himself that as long as Elizabeth was happy, nothing else mattered, regardless of the fact that the “nothing else” list was endless. He hated the politics, the constant ass-kissing and bootlicking. He hated having to be polite to morons just because they controlled his budget. He hated having to defend what was morally indefensible because it was politically expedient. He hated the agents who reported to him. Or maybe “hate” wasn’t the right word. He held them in utter contempt - they were worse than the politicians he had to go begging day in and day out during budget season. These men and women were careerists of the worst kind - occupying their positions like the old Soviet Union occupied its satellite states.
He hated the lack of meaningful work. Being ASAC had been a rough change for him, but he’d survived the change and even convinced himself he enjoyed it. After all, if he went into the field every once and a while, he had a good excuse - he was supervising an active team of agents and he needed to see how well they performed. He had no opportunity for that here, he supervised an army of bureaucrats and pencil pushers.
Sitting in his spacious living room, a fire burning in the fireplace, ice and snow pelting the windows, something soft and jazzy playing in the background, Peter could admit what he hated the most about his life in D.C.
Neal Caffrey wasn’t here.
He’d made his peace - somewhat - with what Neal had done. It had been an act of friendship, a sacrifice that he hadn’t recognized until it was too late. But the damage was done. His words, his shame, was the hammer blow that shattered their friendship.
Peter could never find his way back to what they had. And maybe he was better off.
Kramer had warned him about getting too close to his CI. Poor, doomed David Siegel understood the risks far better than he ever did. But Neal had made it easy for him those last few months before the promotion to D.C. came through. He had kept his distance, and even better, he kept his nose clean. Peter had reluctantly handed him off to Diana, who demanded a level of discipline from Neal that almost made Peter feel sorry for the man.
Almost.
He’d left for Washington with a clean conscience. Or one as clean as it could be. It wasn’t shame that colored his perceptions of his new position, it was regret and grief and the sad, simple fact that he was lonely and there was nothing he could do to fix that.
Sixteen months ago, he’d gotten an email from Diana that Neal’s work-release program had successfully concluded. She’d removed his tracking anklet for the last time, he’d put on his hat and walked out the door, never looking back. Diana told him she’d waited a few days before going over to June’s, only to be told by the grand dame herself that Neal had left. June had no forwarding address and from her attitude, it was clear that even if she did, she wasn’t sharing it with the FBI.
Out of curiosity, Peter regularly ran Neal’s known aliases, not that Neal would be foolish enough to use an identity that had been compromised during his time with the FBI. But still he had to check. Nothing ever came up. There were no art thefts or elaborate confidence schemes that bore the hallmarks of a Caffrey job.
Peter tried to be glad, he tried to hold fast to the idea that Neal had - despite everything - gone on to live a life on the right side of the law. Maybe he had a job with a museum or was working as a security consultant or even working on his art. Peter had even subscribed to ARTNews in the hopes that Neal would be mentioned in the publication’s pages.
But he never saw Neal’s name, or any other name Neal might have used.
The cat, tired of sleeping, jumped into his lap, carefully kneaded at his thighs and settled down for a well-earned nap. Peter had to smile. He’d never thought of himself as a cat person, but apparently he was. About eleven months ago, Satchmo found the shivering mass of bones and fur. It had nearly frozen to death behind the garbage cans, and Elizabeth had insisted that they nurse the poor creature back to health.
He’d protested. The cat was a stray, probably infested with fleas and diseases and Satchmo was old and frail and wouldn’t be happy with an intruder into his quiet home.
El had given him the Look, took the cat to the vet, who’d pronounced the creature to be in surprisingly good health, despite its malnourished state. His blood work showed that he’d been inoculated against all of the common feline diseases, and the doctor even thought the cat might even be a purebred animal who’d run off or gotten lost.
Peter thought if that was true, the owners were terribly negligent not to have had the cat microchipped. They scanned Craigslist and the local newspapers and the notice boards at the local supermarkets for weeks, but there was no one looking for black cat with pale blue eyes and a stripe of silver on it back left ankle.
The vet strongly recommended that once the animal had gained some weight and was less traumatized, that they have him neutered. It would be a benefit to everyone if he was - the world didn’t need more kittens.
Peter hadn’t planned on keeping the cat. He’d asked everyone he could at his office if they were interested in adopting a pet, but there were no takers. He’d brought the topic up every night at dinner until Elizabeth told him to shit or get off the pot - or more precisely, that if he really didn’t want to keep the cat, to take him to the local animal shelter and be done with it. But he had to remember that the shelter wasn’t guarantying that they wouldn’t put the cat to sleep if he wasn’t adopted.
Peter looked at El, horrified. She just concentrated on the meal in front of her. Peter looked at Satchmo, who wasn’t giving him any support. His dog seemed to like the stray - or at least tolerate it. Finally, his eyes found the cat, who was too busy licking its genitals to chime in.
Finally, he’d turned back to his wife. “You think we should keep him?”
She looked up and smiled, like he was a five year old who’d just finished counting to one hundred. “I do. And I think we need to name him.”
The words slipped from Peter’s lips without thought. “We should call him Neal.”
The air in the house stilled, as if the world had suddenly stopped on its axis and then began to spin again. Elizabeth chuckled and shook her head, Satchmo gave a bark of approval and the cat - Neal - jumped into his lap and started purring like some rare and expensive Italian race car.
Peter never wanted to admit it, but he adored the cat. He loved the quiet moments like this when the little animal rumbled its happiness and looked at him with so much trust.
It wasn’t the same … but it was something.
Satchmo rolled over on his bed and let out a contented doggy sigh. El rejoined him, setting a bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes on the table before going to fuss with the fire.
In moments like this, Peter had to figure that his life really wasn’t that bad after all.
El sat down next to him and reached over to stroke Neal. The cat was too much like his namesake, needing attention, getting into trouble, getting out of trouble, being a handsome devil and loved by everyone.
It was kind of funny, though, they couldn’t seem to get him neutered. Twice, they’d made appointments with the vet, only to have them inexplicably cancelled. Once, Neal had been sick and the vet didn’t want to operate. At least two other appointments had to be cancelled because scheduling conflicts meant that neither he nor El could take Neal to the vet.
At least Neal was well behaved for a male animal. He didn’t spray or go catting around. In fact, Neal was as reluctant as Satchmo to leave the confines of the yard and rarely ventured off the patio if he went outside at all. Peter had only wished that the human Neal had displayed such contentment with his environment. El thought that maybe the poor cat had been so traumatized by the loss of his first home that he didn’t want to risk losing the one he had with them.
They’d get around to having Neal fixed, eventually.
Elizabeth sighed, a melancholy sound.
“What’s the matter, hon?”
“Just thinking.” El lifted the cat out of his lap and draped him over her shoulder, pressing a kiss on its little head. Neal purred again and fell asleep - a picture of feline contentment.
Peter didn’t have to ask what - or who - Elizabeth was thinking of. He’d been thinking of him too. “He’s probably on the Cote d’Azure, charming some beautiful woman out of her jewels.”
“Probably.” Elizabeth didn’t sound convinced, though.
“I do keep track of him, you know.” He’d made certain that if Neal Caffrey’s fingerprints were ever searched for or matched up by any law enforcement agency, he’d be immediately notified. Interpol was good for something.
“I do. But …”
“I know - but it’s not the same.” The sadness he’d been feeling earlier hit him again, that much harder.
“No, it’s not. And I still miss him, too.”
Peter swallowed, there were words trying to crawl out, words he hadn’t wanted to say but now couldn’t keep them buried. “I wish – ” He took a deep breath. “I wish I’d apologized. I wish I said I was sorry. I don’t know if it would have made a difference, but I wish I’d tried to fix things. I have so many regrets.”
El leaned her head on his shoulder, displacing the cat, who’d jumped back into Peter’s lap. “I just hope, wherever he is, that he’s safe and healthy and happy.”
Peter gave her a wan smile and shrugged. “I guess that’s all we can hope for.” He sighed. “Sorry to be such a downer. It’s New Year’s eve and time to ring out the old, bring in the new.” Damn, but he sounded like he was about to cry.
“Oh, hon, it’s all right. The words to the song are ‘Should old acquaintance be forgot?’ It’s all right to be sad. He was your friend. ”
“Yeah.”
Someone’s phone chirped, breaking the mood. Before he could check his, El reached for the champagne and the glasses. “I set the alarm, didn’t want to miss midnight again.”
Peter chuckled at the memory. Both of them had fallen asleep on the couch around ten o’clock after they’d each promised to wake the other before midnight.
He found the remote and turned on the television and flipped the channel to one that was broadcasting from Times Square. Despite the horrendous weather, the usual crowds were packed into the area waiting for the ball to drop.
“Remember the year we did that?” El asked.
“How could I forget - we were young and stupid.” They’d been married for about a year and thought it would be exciting. It was just the opposite - hours of boredom punctuated by even more boredom and a desperate need to use the bathroom.
Peter unceremoniously took Neal and set him on the floor, next to Satchmo’s bed. The cat stretched and delicately made himself comfortable against the Lab’s belly. Peter picked up the chilled bottle of champagne - a decent enough vintage - and began to peel away the foil. By the time he’d undone the little wire cage securing the cork, the ball began to make it’s descent.
El counted down with the announcer on the television “5 - 4 - 3 - 2 - 1! Happy New Year, hon!”
Peter eased the cork out of the bottle and poured them each a glass of bubbly. “Happy New Year, hon.” They touched glasses and took a sip. On a whim, he looked at Neal and Satchmo. The dog was asleep, but Neal was staring at him with those bright aquamarine eyes. “And happy New Year to you, Neal.” Neal stared for a moment longer and then yawned, tucking his head under his tail. Peter then turned to his dog, “And to you, too, Satchmo.” A wave of sadness threatened to swamp him as he wondered if Satch would be here to celebrate with them next year.
He put down the glass and El took his hand. It was late and time for bed.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and days of old lang syne?
Neal raised his glass - the last of many he’d had this evening - to his companion, a platinum blonde who reminded him of no one. She was smart and wealthy and even if she was twice his age, Neal didn’t mind. She kept him in a style that he had always wanted to become accustomed to.
“Neal.” She purred at him and he wasn’t sure if she was saying his name or giving a command.
He smiled and slid a hand down her bony, surgically enhanced torso. He was a world-class con man, the best there ever was, and what was this but another con? He wasn’t stealing, not really. Her Highness, the Grand Duchess Cecilia of the infinite number of names, was buying him - his attention, his sex, his affection when she wanted it, his obedience - always.
The old song was playing somewhere, probably blasting from the speakers on one of the yachts that were floating beneath them in Monte Carlo’s famous harbor. The fireworks were long since over; it was just a few hours until dawn, but the wealthy were still celebrating. Neal glanced over at the clock, it was just five AM - and finally midnight in New York. All the more reason to celebrate.
The music was still playing - someone seemed to have the damn thing on replay. And at maximum volume, since he was standing on a terrace fifteen stories up.
“I don’t understand this song, I never did.” Cecilia pouted at him. “And I don’t like it, it makes me sad. And you know how much I hate being sad.”
But despite her complaints, the song continued.
We two have paddled in the stream,
from morning sun till dine
But seas between us broad have roared,
since days of auld lang syne.
The words struck Neal in his heart, reminding him of everything - everyone - he left behind.
“Neal?” Cecilia wasn’t purring or pouting any longer. She wanted his attention and she wanted it now.
And there’s a hand my trusty friend,
And give me a hand o’ thine
And we’ll take a right good-will draught,
for days of auld lang syne.
As the words echoed across the water, it seemed as if there was no other decision that he needed to make for the rest of his life. Neal took her hand and planted a gentle, lingering kiss on the back of it, ignoring the thin, loose skin and the varicose veins. “Alas, my dear - I must go.”
“Go?” She spoke the word as if it was an impossibility.
“Yes, I am afraid that I must leave.” Neal picked up his tuxedo jacket and shrugged into it, feeling the comforting weight of his wallet and the passport he always carried.
“But – but where?”
“Home.” Neal smiled at the woman and left without another word.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
for days of auld lang syne.
FIN
The story continues in Resolute in Courage
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Neal Caffrey, OFC, Peter/Elizabeth, Neal/OFC
Word Count: ~3000
Spoilers: Vague spoilers for S5.09 - No Good Deed
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Beta Credit: None
Summary: Another year comes to an end, and Peter is filled with regrets for wounds that haven’t healed, and may never heal. He doesn’t know that he has reason to hope.
Author’s Note: Happy New Year to all my dear friends in the White Collar fandom. I wanted to end this year on a happy (or at least, less angsty) note. It was difficult when listening to the Dougie MacLean version of the famous Robert Burns song, but hopefully I’ve succeeded.
Satchmo, old and so gray around his muzzle that his face seemed white, was slow to move these days. Peter’s heart always seemed to skip a beat in the mornings when the old boy didn’t lift his head at the sound of his footsteps coming down the stairs.
He hadn’t taken the move to D.C. well at all. Getting him to walk through their neighborhood was impossible and heartbreaking. He became anxious and distressed, crying and whimpering before they reached the end of the driveway, and ultimately refusing to move off of the front porch. Unless it involved a trip to the vet’s, Satch never ventured beyond the small fenced in run off the garage. Their home, a stately center hall colonial in Arlington, had a lovely backyard, dozens of times bigger than the one in Brooklyn, but the dog couldn’t care less. He did his business outside, lumbered back in and flopped onto his dog bed, mostly uninterested in anything beyond his food bowl.
The vet said Satch was healthy, as healthy as a twelve year old yellow Labrador Retriever could be. He was just slowing down and they needed to accept the inevitable.
Peter wondered if his dog was depressed, if he missed the bright closeness of the old neighborhood; the apartment building next door, with a dozen families, children always racing up and down the street. It had seemed like every house had a dog and Satchmo knew all of them.
Arlington was as different from Cobble Hill, Brooklyn, as it was from the moon. They lived in a subdivision filled with big houses with rolling lawns and streets without sidewalks, and apparently without people, too - no one ever seemed to be outside, enjoying the vast opened spaces. They never got to know the neighbors because there was nothing about the neighborhood that encouraged friendliness.
If his dog wasn’t depressed, then he should be. Or maybe Peter was simply projecting.
El seemed happy, though. She’d had fun decorating the house and even more fun establishing her business in the D.C. area. They’d been here for a little more than two years and Burke Premier Events was the go-to company for the movers and shakers in the art world. El didn’t even try to break into the political arena, it was too crowded and cutthroat for her liking.
Peter kept telling himself that as long as Elizabeth was happy, nothing else mattered, regardless of the fact that the “nothing else” list was endless. He hated the politics, the constant ass-kissing and bootlicking. He hated having to be polite to morons just because they controlled his budget. He hated having to defend what was morally indefensible because it was politically expedient. He hated the agents who reported to him. Or maybe “hate” wasn’t the right word. He held them in utter contempt - they were worse than the politicians he had to go begging day in and day out during budget season. These men and women were careerists of the worst kind - occupying their positions like the old Soviet Union occupied its satellite states.
He hated the lack of meaningful work. Being ASAC had been a rough change for him, but he’d survived the change and even convinced himself he enjoyed it. After all, if he went into the field every once and a while, he had a good excuse - he was supervising an active team of agents and he needed to see how well they performed. He had no opportunity for that here, he supervised an army of bureaucrats and pencil pushers.
Sitting in his spacious living room, a fire burning in the fireplace, ice and snow pelting the windows, something soft and jazzy playing in the background, Peter could admit what he hated the most about his life in D.C.
Neal Caffrey wasn’t here.
He’d made his peace - somewhat - with what Neal had done. It had been an act of friendship, a sacrifice that he hadn’t recognized until it was too late. But the damage was done. His words, his shame, was the hammer blow that shattered their friendship.
Peter could never find his way back to what they had. And maybe he was better off.
Kramer had warned him about getting too close to his CI. Poor, doomed David Siegel understood the risks far better than he ever did. But Neal had made it easy for him those last few months before the promotion to D.C. came through. He had kept his distance, and even better, he kept his nose clean. Peter had reluctantly handed him off to Diana, who demanded a level of discipline from Neal that almost made Peter feel sorry for the man.
Almost.
He’d left for Washington with a clean conscience. Or one as clean as it could be. It wasn’t shame that colored his perceptions of his new position, it was regret and grief and the sad, simple fact that he was lonely and there was nothing he could do to fix that.
Sixteen months ago, he’d gotten an email from Diana that Neal’s work-release program had successfully concluded. She’d removed his tracking anklet for the last time, he’d put on his hat and walked out the door, never looking back. Diana told him she’d waited a few days before going over to June’s, only to be told by the grand dame herself that Neal had left. June had no forwarding address and from her attitude, it was clear that even if she did, she wasn’t sharing it with the FBI.
Out of curiosity, Peter regularly ran Neal’s known aliases, not that Neal would be foolish enough to use an identity that had been compromised during his time with the FBI. But still he had to check. Nothing ever came up. There were no art thefts or elaborate confidence schemes that bore the hallmarks of a Caffrey job.
Peter tried to be glad, he tried to hold fast to the idea that Neal had - despite everything - gone on to live a life on the right side of the law. Maybe he had a job with a museum or was working as a security consultant or even working on his art. Peter had even subscribed to ARTNews in the hopes that Neal would be mentioned in the publication’s pages.
But he never saw Neal’s name, or any other name Neal might have used.
The cat, tired of sleeping, jumped into his lap, carefully kneaded at his thighs and settled down for a well-earned nap. Peter had to smile. He’d never thought of himself as a cat person, but apparently he was. About eleven months ago, Satchmo found the shivering mass of bones and fur. It had nearly frozen to death behind the garbage cans, and Elizabeth had insisted that they nurse the poor creature back to health.
He’d protested. The cat was a stray, probably infested with fleas and diseases and Satchmo was old and frail and wouldn’t be happy with an intruder into his quiet home.
El had given him the Look, took the cat to the vet, who’d pronounced the creature to be in surprisingly good health, despite its malnourished state. His blood work showed that he’d been inoculated against all of the common feline diseases, and the doctor even thought the cat might even be a purebred animal who’d run off or gotten lost.
Peter thought if that was true, the owners were terribly negligent not to have had the cat microchipped. They scanned Craigslist and the local newspapers and the notice boards at the local supermarkets for weeks, but there was no one looking for black cat with pale blue eyes and a stripe of silver on it back left ankle.
The vet strongly recommended that once the animal had gained some weight and was less traumatized, that they have him neutered. It would be a benefit to everyone if he was - the world didn’t need more kittens.
Peter hadn’t planned on keeping the cat. He’d asked everyone he could at his office if they were interested in adopting a pet, but there were no takers. He’d brought the topic up every night at dinner until Elizabeth told him to shit or get off the pot - or more precisely, that if he really didn’t want to keep the cat, to take him to the local animal shelter and be done with it. But he had to remember that the shelter wasn’t guarantying that they wouldn’t put the cat to sleep if he wasn’t adopted.
Peter looked at El, horrified. She just concentrated on the meal in front of her. Peter looked at Satchmo, who wasn’t giving him any support. His dog seemed to like the stray - or at least tolerate it. Finally, his eyes found the cat, who was too busy licking its genitals to chime in.
Finally, he’d turned back to his wife. “You think we should keep him?”
She looked up and smiled, like he was a five year old who’d just finished counting to one hundred. “I do. And I think we need to name him.”
The words slipped from Peter’s lips without thought. “We should call him Neal.”
The air in the house stilled, as if the world had suddenly stopped on its axis and then began to spin again. Elizabeth chuckled and shook her head, Satchmo gave a bark of approval and the cat - Neal - jumped into his lap and started purring like some rare and expensive Italian race car.
Peter never wanted to admit it, but he adored the cat. He loved the quiet moments like this when the little animal rumbled its happiness and looked at him with so much trust.
It wasn’t the same … but it was something.
Satchmo rolled over on his bed and let out a contented doggy sigh. El rejoined him, setting a bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes on the table before going to fuss with the fire.
In moments like this, Peter had to figure that his life really wasn’t that bad after all.
El sat down next to him and reached over to stroke Neal. The cat was too much like his namesake, needing attention, getting into trouble, getting out of trouble, being a handsome devil and loved by everyone.
It was kind of funny, though, they couldn’t seem to get him neutered. Twice, they’d made appointments with the vet, only to have them inexplicably cancelled. Once, Neal had been sick and the vet didn’t want to operate. At least two other appointments had to be cancelled because scheduling conflicts meant that neither he nor El could take Neal to the vet.
At least Neal was well behaved for a male animal. He didn’t spray or go catting around. In fact, Neal was as reluctant as Satchmo to leave the confines of the yard and rarely ventured off the patio if he went outside at all. Peter had only wished that the human Neal had displayed such contentment with his environment. El thought that maybe the poor cat had been so traumatized by the loss of his first home that he didn’t want to risk losing the one he had with them.
They’d get around to having Neal fixed, eventually.
Elizabeth sighed, a melancholy sound.
“What’s the matter, hon?”
“Just thinking.” El lifted the cat out of his lap and draped him over her shoulder, pressing a kiss on its little head. Neal purred again and fell asleep - a picture of feline contentment.
Peter didn’t have to ask what - or who - Elizabeth was thinking of. He’d been thinking of him too. “He’s probably on the Cote d’Azure, charming some beautiful woman out of her jewels.”
“Probably.” Elizabeth didn’t sound convinced, though.
“I do keep track of him, you know.” He’d made certain that if Neal Caffrey’s fingerprints were ever searched for or matched up by any law enforcement agency, he’d be immediately notified. Interpol was good for something.
“I do. But …”
“I know - but it’s not the same.” The sadness he’d been feeling earlier hit him again, that much harder.
“No, it’s not. And I still miss him, too.”
Peter swallowed, there were words trying to crawl out, words he hadn’t wanted to say but now couldn’t keep them buried. “I wish – ” He took a deep breath. “I wish I’d apologized. I wish I said I was sorry. I don’t know if it would have made a difference, but I wish I’d tried to fix things. I have so many regrets.”
El leaned her head on his shoulder, displacing the cat, who’d jumped back into Peter’s lap. “I just hope, wherever he is, that he’s safe and healthy and happy.”
Peter gave her a wan smile and shrugged. “I guess that’s all we can hope for.” He sighed. “Sorry to be such a downer. It’s New Year’s eve and time to ring out the old, bring in the new.” Damn, but he sounded like he was about to cry.
“Oh, hon, it’s all right. The words to the song are ‘Should old acquaintance be forgot?’ It’s all right to be sad. He was your friend. ”
“Yeah.”
Someone’s phone chirped, breaking the mood. Before he could check his, El reached for the champagne and the glasses. “I set the alarm, didn’t want to miss midnight again.”
Peter chuckled at the memory. Both of them had fallen asleep on the couch around ten o’clock after they’d each promised to wake the other before midnight.
He found the remote and turned on the television and flipped the channel to one that was broadcasting from Times Square. Despite the horrendous weather, the usual crowds were packed into the area waiting for the ball to drop.
“Remember the year we did that?” El asked.
“How could I forget - we were young and stupid.” They’d been married for about a year and thought it would be exciting. It was just the opposite - hours of boredom punctuated by even more boredom and a desperate need to use the bathroom.
Peter unceremoniously took Neal and set him on the floor, next to Satchmo’s bed. The cat stretched and delicately made himself comfortable against the Lab’s belly. Peter picked up the chilled bottle of champagne - a decent enough vintage - and began to peel away the foil. By the time he’d undone the little wire cage securing the cork, the ball began to make it’s descent.
El counted down with the announcer on the television “5 - 4 - 3 - 2 - 1! Happy New Year, hon!”
Peter eased the cork out of the bottle and poured them each a glass of bubbly. “Happy New Year, hon.” They touched glasses and took a sip. On a whim, he looked at Neal and Satchmo. The dog was asleep, but Neal was staring at him with those bright aquamarine eyes. “And happy New Year to you, Neal.” Neal stared for a moment longer and then yawned, tucking his head under his tail. Peter then turned to his dog, “And to you, too, Satchmo.” A wave of sadness threatened to swamp him as he wondered if Satch would be here to celebrate with them next year.
He put down the glass and El took his hand. It was late and time for bed.
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and days of old lang syne?
Neal raised his glass - the last of many he’d had this evening - to his companion, a platinum blonde who reminded him of no one. She was smart and wealthy and even if she was twice his age, Neal didn’t mind. She kept him in a style that he had always wanted to become accustomed to.
“Neal.” She purred at him and he wasn’t sure if she was saying his name or giving a command.
He smiled and slid a hand down her bony, surgically enhanced torso. He was a world-class con man, the best there ever was, and what was this but another con? He wasn’t stealing, not really. Her Highness, the Grand Duchess Cecilia of the infinite number of names, was buying him - his attention, his sex, his affection when she wanted it, his obedience - always.
The old song was playing somewhere, probably blasting from the speakers on one of the yachts that were floating beneath them in Monte Carlo’s famous harbor. The fireworks were long since over; it was just a few hours until dawn, but the wealthy were still celebrating. Neal glanced over at the clock, it was just five AM - and finally midnight in New York. All the more reason to celebrate.
The music was still playing - someone seemed to have the damn thing on replay. And at maximum volume, since he was standing on a terrace fifteen stories up.
“I don’t understand this song, I never did.” Cecilia pouted at him. “And I don’t like it, it makes me sad. And you know how much I hate being sad.”
But despite her complaints, the song continued.
We two have paddled in the stream,
from morning sun till dine
But seas between us broad have roared,
since days of auld lang syne.
The words struck Neal in his heart, reminding him of everything - everyone - he left behind.
“Neal?” Cecilia wasn’t purring or pouting any longer. She wanted his attention and she wanted it now.
And there’s a hand my trusty friend,
And give me a hand o’ thine
And we’ll take a right good-will draught,
for days of auld lang syne.
As the words echoed across the water, it seemed as if there was no other decision that he needed to make for the rest of his life. Neal took her hand and planted a gentle, lingering kiss on the back of it, ignoring the thin, loose skin and the varicose veins. “Alas, my dear - I must go.”
“Go?” She spoke the word as if it was an impossibility.
“Yes, I am afraid that I must leave.” Neal picked up his tuxedo jacket and shrugged into it, feeling the comforting weight of his wallet and the passport he always carried.
“But – but where?”
“Home.” Neal smiled at the woman and left without another word.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
for days of auld lang syne.
The story continues in Resolute in Courage
