![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: One Precious Thing Lost
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, Clinton Jones, Diana Berrigan, June Ellington, Mozzie
Word Count: ~5500
Spoilers: S5.10 - Live Feed, S5.11 - Shot Through the Heart
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Non-Canon Death of Major Canon Character
Beta Credit:miri_thompson
Summary: A year after moving into the halls of power, Peter gets a call and he needs to make terrible decision.
Author’s Notes: For more about John Connelly and Whitey Bulger, real people mentioned in the story, please follow the links to the Wikipedia pages.
__________________
Before he left New York, Peter had made it clear to his soon-to-be former team that while he would always enjoy hearing from them, he was no longer their boss. They owed their allegiance to whichever agent the powers that be selected to replace him as ASAC. Until that time, Clinton was temporarily in charge and the agents and staff would need to look to him for direction.
What Peter didn’t say – but was all too clear – was that as far as Neal Caffrey was concerned, he was no longer his responsibility (or problem). He gave Neal over to Clinton’s keeping, but he wasn’t certain that the man would be able to keep Neal in line. It was possible that no one could.
In the last conversation Peter had with him before he left for DC, Peter again suggested to Clinton that maybe taking Neal on was a big mistake, that he’d regret volunteering for this. He knew his words were born of bitter disillusion, but they were the truth.
“Do you regret it, Peter?”
Regret was too simple a word, but it was a large part of what he was feeling at the moment. Peter couldn’t look him in the eye and lie, so he didn’t answer.
Understanding everything that wasn’t said, Clinton just held out his hand. Peter reached into his pocket, fished out his key ring and removed the small unlocking device. It weighed a few grams, an ounce at the most, but when he put his key ring back in his pocket, he felt lighter, less burdened than he had in a long time.
“Good luck, Clinton.” You’re going to need it.
“Don’t worry about me. Or Caffrey.”
Truth was, Peter didn’t think that was possible, even for a moment. Worrying about Neal was reflexive, like breathing.
But time proved him wrong, and he found himself too busy to give much thought to Neal, at least during his endless office hours. The first six months in the rarified confines of DC were challenging in ways he never expected. He would always prefer to be out in the field, doing what he was trained to do, what he was good at, but he had to admit that this work had its upsides, too. Including not worrying about what a certain criminal informant was doing when he was out of his sight.
Peter never enjoyed the bureaucracy that his new role thrust him into, but once he got some perspective, he was able to pride in what he did. He had a working brief with a budget in the tens of millions and was responsible for the safety and welfare of hundreds of agents.
Early on, maybe a week after starting in DC, he had a conversation with the higher-ups – the very higher-ups. It wasn’t a frank and open discussion; these were career bureaucrats who knew the dangers of unguarded exchanges. But they made it clear to Peter that his selection for this spot was not just because of his stellar record, but due to his so-successful working relationship with his primary CI.
They thought it impressive how he’d kept such a close rein on Neal Caffrey, that he was less concerned with reforming a career criminal than using those talents to the benefit of the Bureau. Peter had wanted to ask if they ever talked with Phil Kramer, who knew the truth of his relationship with Neal, how often he’d covered for him, how many times he’d bent the law to keep Neal out of prison.
The brass seemed to think that the Burke-Caffrey relationship was the answer to the damage done by another, more deadly agent-CI pairing. The stain that John Connolly left on the Bureau couldn’t be rubbed out, even a decade later. But it could be papered over with the face of a man who’d been in the trenches, who’d known what it was like to work with informants, who knew where to draw the line. It really was a pisser of an irony. He took the promotion to Section Chief in part to get away from Neal Caffrey, only to find that he was being lauded for his handling of the man.
Peter never stopped feeling like a liar and a fraud and a cheat; he had spent three years covering for Neal, lying for him, protecting him. In the dark silence of the night, he knew he was no different from Connolly, and to him the fact that Whitey Bulger was a gang leader, drug dealer and sadistic murderer, and Neal would sooner take a bullet than commit a violent crime wasn’t relevant. Not in the least.
He talked with Clinton and Diana regularly. They might have once been his subordinates, but they were also his friends and he didn’t want to lose touch with them. There was one rule when they spoke, though. They didn’t talk about Neal.
It wasn’t that Peter didn’t care; he just couldn’t let himself become involved. He was afraid it would suck him back into another vortex of pain and disappointment that he’d never escape from. He made his peace with what Neal did. In less dark moments, he could even rationalize it. He’d been innocent of the crime he’d been charged with, and the only reason the U.S. Attorney pushed for an indictment was that he’d gotten paid by Hagen to do so. The deck had been stacked against him and Neal’s actions only leveled the playing field.
But self-delusion only went so far and it was easier to maintain that fiction if he didn’t hear about the doings of Neal Caffrey. As much as he wanted to.
Six months became a year and El asked him if they should sell the house in Brooklyn instead of renting it out. They had a nice place in Alexandria - it wasn’t quite the same as New York, but it wasn’t some cookie-cutter suburb where people spent a fortune maintaining vast lawns and never went outside. They could take Satchmo for long walks through town, stop at a coffee shop and enjoy some people-watching.
But Peter couldn’t quite bring himself to cut that last link. As long as they had the house, he could pretend that this was only a temporary sojourn and someday he’d be released from exile.
There was a date marked in red on his calendar, although there was no notation as to the meaning. In truth, Peter didn’t need a reminder for the day that Neal’s tracker would come off for good. He’d programmed that date a long time ago - back when things between them were good. Neal was his partner, his friend, someone he trusted with his life.
As the date approached - the square becoming visible on the monthly overview - Peter kept going to delete the entry, only to stop each time. It was a milestone, and maybe he should break his self-imposed gag rule and call Neal to congratulate him. Instead, Peter scheduled a series of back-to-back-to-back meetings that would keep him tied up from first thing in the morning until well into evening. There’d be no time for him to indulge in a bit of nostalgia with someone who shouldn’t matter so much to him.
But Peter didn’t delete the calendar entry. He couldn’t.
He was important now. And he liked to think that the work he did made a difference. Somehow, he became the public face of the FBI - the go-to man for the Sunday morning talk shows, the one who was asked to testify before Congressional subcommittees. A week before that alarm was set to go off, Peter was finishing up a three-hour briefing with the Deputy White House Budget Director when his cell phone rang. Not the FBI-issued one, but his personal phone. El knew about this meeting, and she’d only call him in an emergency. The woman waved him off and Peter went into the hallway to take the call. To his surprise, it wasn’t Elizabeth, but Diana. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine why she’d call him on his personal line.
“Di?”
“Hey, Peter.”
She sounded way too relieved for his peace of mind. “What’s the matter? Why are you calling me on this phone?”
“I needed to talk to you. You weren’t answering your other phone.”
Peter juggled the cell and fished his other one out of his pocket. It was on mute, but there were notifications of multiple texts and incoming calls. Concerned, he asked, “Is Theo all right?”
“Theo’s fine.”
There was a pause, a hitch in her breath and Peter knew - he knew - what she was going to say. “Who?”
“Neal.”
The small, petty, mean part of him wanted to ask what he’d done and how could he be so stupid to fuck up this close to the end of his tenure. But all he said was “What happened?”
“We don’t know. Three days ago, his tracker went off, but he wasn’t running. He was taken to the Emergency Room at New York – Presbyterian hospital.”
In some disconnected part of his mind, Peter thought how odd it was to have a conversation about Neal while standing in the West Wing of the White House. “What’s wrong?” But maybe he should have asked, “How bad?” instead.
“He has a terrible infection, sepsis. They don’t know how he got it, but it’s – it’s killing him. None of the antibiotics are working” Diana choked up.
Peter started walking, heading for the exit with as much speed as he could, because if he stopped, he’d collapse. Diana kept talking. Neal was in surgery. The infection had spread so rapidly, they had to amputate his feet – they’d gone gangrenous.
“Are you coming home, Boss?” There were tears in her voice. "You have to. June says you’re in his legal papers. He had made you his health care proxy. You can make the decisions.”
Decisions. Peter knew just what type of decisions Diana was talking about.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Heartsick, he could barely manage to get the words out.
He called and told El, and she dropped everything and met him at Union Station. As the train pulled out, Peter remembered to call his assistant, that she needed to cancel all of his meetings for the rest of the week, he had a family emergency.
Elizabeth clung to him and they sat huddled together for the almost three-hour train ride. It was the quickest way to get to Manhattan. Diana called to update him. Neal had survived the surgery, but he’d gone into cardiac arrest twice. The doctors didn’t know if he’d make it through the night.
Peter stared out at the passing scenery and cursed his cold heart, his ambition, his rigid morals and his sense of moral superiority. He cursed the train for moving too slowly and the sun for setting to fast.
Elizabeth squeezed his hand and tried to offer some reassurance. “We’ll make it, Peter. We’ll be there in time.”
In time.
Peter had a million questions, but one kept breaking his heart, because he knew the answer. Neal had been in the hospital for days, dying by inches, but no one called to tell him until they had no choice. Because those who would have told him knew that he didn’t want to hear about Neal.
The train finally pulled into Penn Station and they ran for the uptown subway platform. The express A train was the quickest way to the hospital, and Peter did something he’d never do under any other circumstances – he flashed his badge at transit cop and by-passed the turnstile. Luck was with them. An express train had just pulled up to the platform.
Fifteen minutes later, Clinton met them at the hospital entrance and Peter’s heart stopped at the expression on his face.
“Is he – ?” He couldn’t complete the sentence.
“No, but it won’t be long, the doctors say a few days at most.” Clinton wiped his mouth, as if the words were making him sick.
El asked the question that Peter should have asked hours ago. “How did this happen?”
Clinton shook his head. “We don’t know. Neal was fine, behaving himself, pretty much counting down the days and doing nothing to jeopardize his release.” He let out a bitter laugh. “A few nights before, he’d come over and we spent the evening going over what was going to be his last op. Nothing was wrong. Then I got the alert that he was out of his radius, but he was here, in the Emergency Room. June called and said that her housekeeper had discovered him unconscious in the shower. He had a huge open sore on his back and couldn’t say how it got there.”
Clinton led them through the vast hospital to a bank of elevators, telling them about the bacteria-resistant infection that was destroying Neal from the inside out. Peter couldn’t help but wonder what Neal had gotten up to with Mozzie, but realized that it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Not anymore.
They finally arrived at the ICU and Peter took comfort from the cluster of familiar faces in the waiting room. June was there, looking nothing like the vibrant woman he remembered. Diana was sitting with her. Peter was surprised to see that Michael Morrissey was there; he was the agent who’d taken over as ASAC for the White Collar division.
Morrissey approached. “Clinton filled you in?”
Peter nodded. “Any updates?”
“None. All I know is that he made it through surgery.” Morrissey looked at him, regret deepening his normal hangdog look. “I don’t know how this happened, Peter. I’m sorry.”
Of all the things he expected, this was the last on the list. “Why are you apologizing?”
Morrissey stuffed his hands in his pockets and wouldn’t look him in the eye. “For years, I’ve heard about the amazing deeds of the great Burke and Caffrey - Gotham’s finest Cop and Robber. Then I got to New York and what seemed like the script for a bad television show turned out to be a hell of a lot more. How you two were like partners, and more than that - you were friends. I couldn’t begin to imagine having a working relationship like that with a criminal and I had my reservations about keeping on an embedded CI. But a contract’s a contract and according to the Bureau, Caffrey’s proven his worth.
“I’ve pretty much let Jones and Berrigan run with him and they’ve done well, and Caffrey seemed to enjoy working with them. The division is still the star it was when you left and the thing is – it’s hard not to like him. Hard not to feel that you’re being played, but still…” Morrissey scrubbed at his face. “He was working for us when this happened and I can’t help but feel that it’s our fault. That he got hurt or was sick and we never noticed.”
Peter didn’t know what to say. He looked around and it hit him that someone was missing, someone who should have been here. “Where’s Mozzie?” Then he wondered if Morrissey even knew about Neal’s friend and criminal enabler.
Apparently he did. “The little guy? He comes and goes, and when he’s here, he usually he’s sticking close to Neal’s landlady. He barely gives us the time of day.” Morrissey looked around the room and he gave a small laugh. “And here he is.”
Moz appeared as if summoned by will alone. “Suit.” The contempt in that single word was like a bullet.
Morrissey left, giving them privacy. “What happened, Moz? How did this happen to him? What did he do?”
Moz shook his head. “I don’t know. I had been away for a few days and got a call from June that Neal was really sick.”
“You’ve been talking to his doctors?”
“No. They won’t say anything to me. Seems that you Suits are his legal guardians. And apparently Neal thought you were the only one who was entitled to make important decisions about him.”
“Mozzie – ” Peter wanted to apologize for Neal’s choice, but seeing the man in such a distraught state, maybe Neal knew what he was doing. But still, it didn’t seem fair. He took a deep breath and prayed he was doing the right thing. “I won’t make any decisions without consulting you, okay?”
The man nodded, but he wasn’t appeased.
Peter looked around, feeling so much at sea. El was sitting with June and Diana, Clinton was talking to Morrissey. “Can we talk to the doctor now?”
It took a while to get hold of the physician in charge of Neal’s case, and when they did the news was grim.
“We amputated just below the ankles, but it’s probably not going to do Mr. Caffrey much good. ”
Peter couldn’t keep the hope from his voice, “Is there any chance for Neal to recover from this?”
The doctor shook his head. “It’s so slight that you’d be more likely to win the lottery. The infection is in his liver, his kidneys, and his lungs. It’s a matter of time before it invades his heart and his spinal cord.”
“How could this happen? Neal was healthy; he took good care of himself.”
The doctor shrugged. “It’s possible that there was something lying dormant in his system, and it was waiting for just the right opportunity. We’ve identified the strain of bacteria; it’s fairly exotic and doesn’t respond to any of the broad spectrum antibiotics we’ve tried. Was Mr. Caffrey a traveler? Did he go to Africa in the last few years?”
Mozzie inhaled sharply. “We – he – was in Cape Verde about two years ago. So was I, so was Peter.”
The doctor peered at both of them and frowned. “You might want to think about having some blood work done, make sure that you’re not carrying the same bacteria.”
Moz nodded.
Peter brought the conversation back to Neal. “How long does he have?”
The doctor shoved his hands in the pockets of his white coat and shrugged. “A few days at the most, and they aren’t going to be good ones for him.” He told them how Neal’s kidneys and liver were beginning to fail, and that blood flow was compromised for his extremities - those that remained. The doctor gave Peter a grave look. “I was told that you have Mr. Caffrey’s health care proxy, that you are authorized to make end of life decisions for him.”
Peter nodded. “I haven’t read the document yes, but that is what I understand.”
“Then I'd strongly consider that you have Mr. Caffrey on palliative care only. No further surgeries, no interventions. He’d be DNR. We could take him off the ventilator if you want.”
“If I don’t elect palliative care for Neal, if I want to use all possible means to keep him alive, what happens next?”
“He will need surgical intervention to address the inevitable soft tissue infection, and it’s possible that additional amputation will be required. He could lose one or both eyes.”
Peter didn’t know what to say and he looked down at Mozzie, who had taken his glasses off and was wiping them furiously. “I need to discuss this with Neal’s family.”
“I thought that Mr. Caffrey had no family.”
“Not by blood, but his friends are here and they should be part of the decision.”
The doctor sighed, understanding. “The hospital will, of course, abide by your orders.”
Finally, Peter asked the question he most needed to. “Can I see Neal?”
“He’s in isolation, to avoid risk of additional infection and spreading his own, but we can suit you up.”
“Moz, too?” Peter gestured to the other man and wondered if Moz, so notoriously germophobic, could deal with this.
The doctor frowned, but agreed. “Just the two of you, at least for now.”
They went back out to the waiting room. Everyone was still there and they were looking to him for answers. Peter just nodded, now was not the time. He needed to talk with El first.
She went with him back towards the small room where he and Moz had talked with the doctor. Before he could say anything, El handed him an envelope. His name was scrawled across the front in Neal’s distinctive handwriting.
“June said that this was his health care proxy. He’d asked her to hold onto it, to give it to you if she had to.”
Peter opened the envelope. The proxy was little more than a fill-in-the-blank document; the type that was available for free on the Internet, but it was complete. Peter’s name was in all the right places and Neal had actually taken the form to a bank and had it notarized. The directives were fairly clear and Neal has specified that Peter was authorized to make all medical decisions for him. It also specified that no extraordinary measures should be taken to prolong his life.
What surprised him was the date of the document. It was less than a year old, signed a few months after he’d left New York.
The proxy form wasn’t the only thing in the envelope - there was another, smaller one, still sealed. This one had Mozzie’s name on it, and Peter would give it to him.
“Hon?”
He took a shuddering breath. “Neal’s dying. It’s a matter of days at the most. If I do this, I could make it easier for him.” He told her what the doctor suggested. “He’d get pain medication, but that’s it. No extraordinary measures. I could even have the ventilator turned off.” Peter made no effort to hide his tears. “I don’t want this, El - I don’t want to make this decision.”
She hugged him. “You know you’re not alone in this.”
“I know, and I even told Moz I’d consult with him, but …”
“Ultimately, Neal trusted you to be strong enough to make the right decision. The best one for him.”
With that simple statement, Peter knew that he had to see this through. “Yeah.” Heart aching, he held on Elizabeth’s hand as they returned to the waiting room. Without comment, he gave Moz the letter Neal had left for him and watched as he read it. The grief that shadowed Moz’s face aged him by decades.
Moz finished the letter, folded it up and put it in his pocket. He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes before gathering himself. “Neal didn’t want me to have to make this decision. He thought you could carry the burden better. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust me to make the hard choice, he didn’t want me to have to live with the consequences of that choice.” Moz sounded bitter but resigned. “Can you?”
Peter didn’t answer Moz’s question, instead, he asked one of his own. “Do you know what Neal would have wanted?”
“He was a lover, not a fighter, you know that. But he never gave up on anything if there was a reason to hope.”
“Does he have reason to hope? Would he want to live like this?” Peter’s voice cracked. He wasn’t one to give up if there was still some reason to hope, but to survive in such a state would be intolerable.
Moz didn’t answer. He just looked at him, the agony in his eyes a mirror of Peter’s own.
“I need to see him; I can’t make this decision until I do.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Morrissey had to go back to the office, but he gave Clinton and Diana leave to stay at the hospital as long as they needed to. There was nothing urgent on their desks.
Peter sat with June. The older woman just stared out into the distance, not saying anything. Finally, spoke. “I don’t know what happened between you, but I know that Neal had constantly regretted the distance, the loss of your friendship. We’d sit on the terrace and he’d talk about you, hoping that you were happy with your new job. But there was always such sadness in his voice.”
“Did he ever say what his plans were? Afterwards?” Peter couldn’t stop the hope in his voice, even though it was a pointless emotion now.
“He wanted to travel, but he never told me anything specific. He’d talk about Venice or Paris or London, but not like he was actually planning to go. Maybe he didn’t want to jinx himself.” June’s laugh was sad as she recognized the irony of that.
She squeezed his hand. “Don’t let him suffer, Peter. Don’t make the same mistake I did.”
“Mistake?”
“When Byron was so sick, those last few weeks of his life, he begged me not to let him suffer. He wanted to go, but I couldn’t let him, I couldn’t give up a single minute, no matter how much agony he was in.”
“You loved him.”
June gave him a sharp look. “And you love Neal. Don’t deny that. You wouldn’t have been so hurt; you wouldn’t have needed such distance if you didn’t.”
“I don’t know if I can do this.” Peter had never needed to choose between hope and compassion.
“He told me that you were the only one he trusted, the only one who could make the right decision.”
“El said the same thing.”
“She’s right.”
They sat in silence. Peter watched his wife as she talked with Moz, with Diana and Clinton. Diana had pulled out her phone and was showing them something, probably pictures of little Theo. The four of them were smiling, but those smiles were like masks.
“Mr. Burke?” A nurse called his name and Peter stood up.
“Yes?”
“Neal is conscious; would you like to see him?”
He nodded and looked at Moz, who shook his head and stayed behind. Peter followed the nurse into a small, windowless room, and she handed him a package of sterile clothing. There was a face mask and a pair of goggles, too. “It may seem like overkill, but your eyes are a likely point of entry for anything airborne.”
He had to pass through two sets of doors, like an airlock. Neal was what could best be described as a glass cube. He was barely recognizable, hooked up to monitors and IVs, a ventilator tube distorting his mouth. Peter glanced at his hands and had to look away from the spreading blackness.
Peter focused on Neal’s face and gasped when his eyes opened and their gazes met. He wondered whether Neal even recognized him behind the protective gear. Neal turned his head and Peter thought, impossibly, that he was smiling. He moved closer and whispered, “Hey.” Of all the stupid, useless things to say, but what could he say?
Neal blinked rapidly and Peter found words, somehow. “Of course I came. I would have been here sooner if I knew.”
Neal’s blinking slowed to something less frantic.
“June gave me the proxy you’d signed. Why, Neal? After everything, why me?” Peter had to ask, even though Elizabeth and June, and even Mozzie had supplied the answer.
Neal stopped blinking. He just stared at Peter, eyes blazing. Peter knew that expression, one so full of hope and trust. He never felt less worthy of that, not with everything still unspoken between them. This outcome may not have been avoided, but the distance between them could have been, if only he’d spoken the words. It hit him at that moment that maybe it didn’t need to be like this, it never did and if he couldn’t undo the damage time had wrought, maybe he could bring them peace for the few moments they had left.
“I’m sorry, Neal. Sorry for everything.”
Neal blinked slowly, just once, absolution in that infinitesimal gesture. Peter didn’t know where the next words came from, but they felt as inevitable as the dawn. “I forgive you, too. I understand why you did what you did and I - ” Peter choked up. “I should have understood.”
Neal started blinking furiously again and Peter realized that he was crying. He looked around and couldn’t find a tissue, so he took the edge of the sheet and wiped away the tears. Peter ached to pull off the gloves that protected his hands and touch Neal, to give him comfort, to take comfort for himself. But Neal didn’t seem to mind the barrier and turned his face into Peter’s hand.
In an instant, the beeping from one of the monitors when crazy and Peter didn’t know what was happening. The room was filled with nurses in protective garb and he was hustled out of the room. Peter stood outside, watching them work on Neal. The sheet covering his torso was pulled back and that once perfect skin was stained by masses of black and red, then it was pulled off completely and Peter saw the blood stained bandages wrapped around what was left of Neal’s feet.
Someone came out of Neal’s room, and when he removed the protective gear from his face, Peter recognized the doctor he’d spoken with earlier.
“What happened?”
“His heart rate spiked, but we’ve got him stabilized for the moment.” The doctor stared at him.
“I haven’t made a decision yet.” That wasn’t true, he knew what he’d want if it was him on that bed. “Can I go back in?”
“We’ve increased his morphine, the stress from the pain is contributing to the cardiac situation. But he should be awake for a few more minutes.”
Peter put the goggles and face mask back on and went back into the room. Order had been restored, the sheet pulled back over Neal, hiding the damage. Not that Peter would ever unsee that horror.
“Neal?” He walked around so that Neal didn’t have to turn his head and knelt by the bed so they were face-to-face, as close as they could get. Peter brushed the damp curls off Neal’s forehead. Neal closed and opened his eyes slowly.
The sharpness that had been in his gaze just a few moments ago was gone, replaced by the mellowing haze of the opiate.
Peter had to ask the question and he couldn’t wait any longer. “Is this what you want?”
Neal just stared at him, unblinking and Peter’s heart sank. The drug giving him relief had also stolen his will. But he couldn’t give up without trying - maybe he’d asked the wrong question. “Do you want me to make this decision for you?”
Neal moved his head, the very slightest nod. His eyelids slowly closed and didn’t open again. Peter waited, but Neal didn’t move. He brushed his fingers again Neal’s cheek and bent over, pressing a soft kiss on his forehead through the face mask.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Everyone was still in the waiting room when he came back. It seemed that no one had moved.
Moz was the one to break the silence. “How is he?”
Peter scrubbed at his face, he never felt so old. “He knows he’s dying. He asked me to – ” He couldn’t say the words, but everyone understood.
“You were always good at the hard decisions.” Moz’s tone was surprisingly kind. “Neal – he told me to look to you for this, that you’d do what was right for him.” He patted his pocket, where he’d put Neal’s letter.
“Do you want to see him?” Peter didn’t think it was a good idea, but he didn’t want to cheat Moz out of the chance to say goodbye.
“Will he know I’m there?”
“No. He’s on a heavy dose of morphine now.”
Moz’s face crumpled and Peter felt an echoing wave of grief. He reached out and grabbed Moz, holding him close, giving him what comfort he could. “Then remember him as he was. You don’t need to see him like this.”
Moz clung for a minute before pushing him away. Peter wondered if he’d insist but the other man just stood there. El got up and went to him, wrapping an arm around him, leading him over to the corner. Peter couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could easily imagine the conversation.
Clinton and Diana were still with June and Peter joined them, sitting quietly. Waiting.
El and Moz came back and Peter saw the peace in the man’s face. Grief was still the predominant emotion, but the turmoil was mostly gone. “Whatever you decide will be the right decision.”
Peter just nodded and got up to find the doctor. He needed to do this now.
Before he couldn’t.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The sky was deep blue, marred only be a few drifting cirrus clouds. It was a perfect October day, not so different from another October day, over half a decade ago.
Peter told El where he was going. He didn’t ask her to join him; this was something he needed to do by himself.
Neal’s gravestone was simple, a name, the dates, and two words: “Beloved Friend.” Peter knelt down and brushed away the leaves that had accumulated at the marble base. His heart ached, the pain still sharp, the loss as present as ever. He had learned to live with it, to accept that it was as much a part of him as his name.
He traced the letters, the cold stone both rough and smooth under his fingertip. “I still miss you.”
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Neal Caffrey, Clinton Jones, Diana Berrigan, June Ellington, Mozzie
Word Count: ~5500
Spoilers: S5.10 - Live Feed, S5.11 - Shot Through the Heart
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Non-Canon Death of Major Canon Character
Beta Credit:
miri_thompson Summary: A year after moving into the halls of power, Peter gets a call and he needs to make terrible decision.
Author’s Notes: For more about John Connelly and Whitey Bulger, real people mentioned in the story, please follow the links to the Wikipedia pages.
Before he left New York, Peter had made it clear to his soon-to-be former team that while he would always enjoy hearing from them, he was no longer their boss. They owed their allegiance to whichever agent the powers that be selected to replace him as ASAC. Until that time, Clinton was temporarily in charge and the agents and staff would need to look to him for direction.
What Peter didn’t say – but was all too clear – was that as far as Neal Caffrey was concerned, he was no longer his responsibility (or problem). He gave Neal over to Clinton’s keeping, but he wasn’t certain that the man would be able to keep Neal in line. It was possible that no one could.
In the last conversation Peter had with him before he left for DC, Peter again suggested to Clinton that maybe taking Neal on was a big mistake, that he’d regret volunteering for this. He knew his words were born of bitter disillusion, but they were the truth.
“Do you regret it, Peter?”
Regret was too simple a word, but it was a large part of what he was feeling at the moment. Peter couldn’t look him in the eye and lie, so he didn’t answer.
Understanding everything that wasn’t said, Clinton just held out his hand. Peter reached into his pocket, fished out his key ring and removed the small unlocking device. It weighed a few grams, an ounce at the most, but when he put his key ring back in his pocket, he felt lighter, less burdened than he had in a long time.
“Good luck, Clinton.” You’re going to need it.
“Don’t worry about me. Or Caffrey.”
Truth was, Peter didn’t think that was possible, even for a moment. Worrying about Neal was reflexive, like breathing.
But time proved him wrong, and he found himself too busy to give much thought to Neal, at least during his endless office hours. The first six months in the rarified confines of DC were challenging in ways he never expected. He would always prefer to be out in the field, doing what he was trained to do, what he was good at, but he had to admit that this work had its upsides, too. Including not worrying about what a certain criminal informant was doing when he was out of his sight.
Peter never enjoyed the bureaucracy that his new role thrust him into, but once he got some perspective, he was able to pride in what he did. He had a working brief with a budget in the tens of millions and was responsible for the safety and welfare of hundreds of agents.
Early on, maybe a week after starting in DC, he had a conversation with the higher-ups – the very higher-ups. It wasn’t a frank and open discussion; these were career bureaucrats who knew the dangers of unguarded exchanges. But they made it clear to Peter that his selection for this spot was not just because of his stellar record, but due to his so-successful working relationship with his primary CI.
They thought it impressive how he’d kept such a close rein on Neal Caffrey, that he was less concerned with reforming a career criminal than using those talents to the benefit of the Bureau. Peter had wanted to ask if they ever talked with Phil Kramer, who knew the truth of his relationship with Neal, how often he’d covered for him, how many times he’d bent the law to keep Neal out of prison.
The brass seemed to think that the Burke-Caffrey relationship was the answer to the damage done by another, more deadly agent-CI pairing. The stain that John Connolly left on the Bureau couldn’t be rubbed out, even a decade later. But it could be papered over with the face of a man who’d been in the trenches, who’d known what it was like to work with informants, who knew where to draw the line. It really was a pisser of an irony. He took the promotion to Section Chief in part to get away from Neal Caffrey, only to find that he was being lauded for his handling of the man.
Peter never stopped feeling like a liar and a fraud and a cheat; he had spent three years covering for Neal, lying for him, protecting him. In the dark silence of the night, he knew he was no different from Connolly, and to him the fact that Whitey Bulger was a gang leader, drug dealer and sadistic murderer, and Neal would sooner take a bullet than commit a violent crime wasn’t relevant. Not in the least.
He talked with Clinton and Diana regularly. They might have once been his subordinates, but they were also his friends and he didn’t want to lose touch with them. There was one rule when they spoke, though. They didn’t talk about Neal.
It wasn’t that Peter didn’t care; he just couldn’t let himself become involved. He was afraid it would suck him back into another vortex of pain and disappointment that he’d never escape from. He made his peace with what Neal did. In less dark moments, he could even rationalize it. He’d been innocent of the crime he’d been charged with, and the only reason the U.S. Attorney pushed for an indictment was that he’d gotten paid by Hagen to do so. The deck had been stacked against him and Neal’s actions only leveled the playing field.
But self-delusion only went so far and it was easier to maintain that fiction if he didn’t hear about the doings of Neal Caffrey. As much as he wanted to.
Six months became a year and El asked him if they should sell the house in Brooklyn instead of renting it out. They had a nice place in Alexandria - it wasn’t quite the same as New York, but it wasn’t some cookie-cutter suburb where people spent a fortune maintaining vast lawns and never went outside. They could take Satchmo for long walks through town, stop at a coffee shop and enjoy some people-watching.
But Peter couldn’t quite bring himself to cut that last link. As long as they had the house, he could pretend that this was only a temporary sojourn and someday he’d be released from exile.
There was a date marked in red on his calendar, although there was no notation as to the meaning. In truth, Peter didn’t need a reminder for the day that Neal’s tracker would come off for good. He’d programmed that date a long time ago - back when things between them were good. Neal was his partner, his friend, someone he trusted with his life.
As the date approached - the square becoming visible on the monthly overview - Peter kept going to delete the entry, only to stop each time. It was a milestone, and maybe he should break his self-imposed gag rule and call Neal to congratulate him. Instead, Peter scheduled a series of back-to-back-to-back meetings that would keep him tied up from first thing in the morning until well into evening. There’d be no time for him to indulge in a bit of nostalgia with someone who shouldn’t matter so much to him.
But Peter didn’t delete the calendar entry. He couldn’t.
He was important now. And he liked to think that the work he did made a difference. Somehow, he became the public face of the FBI - the go-to man for the Sunday morning talk shows, the one who was asked to testify before Congressional subcommittees. A week before that alarm was set to go off, Peter was finishing up a three-hour briefing with the Deputy White House Budget Director when his cell phone rang. Not the FBI-issued one, but his personal phone. El knew about this meeting, and she’d only call him in an emergency. The woman waved him off and Peter went into the hallway to take the call. To his surprise, it wasn’t Elizabeth, but Diana. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine why she’d call him on his personal line.
“Di?”
“Hey, Peter.”
She sounded way too relieved for his peace of mind. “What’s the matter? Why are you calling me on this phone?”
“I needed to talk to you. You weren’t answering your other phone.”
Peter juggled the cell and fished his other one out of his pocket. It was on mute, but there were notifications of multiple texts and incoming calls. Concerned, he asked, “Is Theo all right?”
“Theo’s fine.”
There was a pause, a hitch in her breath and Peter knew - he knew - what she was going to say. “Who?”
“Neal.”
The small, petty, mean part of him wanted to ask what he’d done and how could he be so stupid to fuck up this close to the end of his tenure. But all he said was “What happened?”
“We don’t know. Three days ago, his tracker went off, but he wasn’t running. He was taken to the Emergency Room at New York – Presbyterian hospital.”
In some disconnected part of his mind, Peter thought how odd it was to have a conversation about Neal while standing in the West Wing of the White House. “What’s wrong?” But maybe he should have asked, “How bad?” instead.
“He has a terrible infection, sepsis. They don’t know how he got it, but it’s – it’s killing him. None of the antibiotics are working” Diana choked up.
Peter started walking, heading for the exit with as much speed as he could, because if he stopped, he’d collapse. Diana kept talking. Neal was in surgery. The infection had spread so rapidly, they had to amputate his feet – they’d gone gangrenous.
“Are you coming home, Boss?” There were tears in her voice. "You have to. June says you’re in his legal papers. He had made you his health care proxy. You can make the decisions.”
Decisions. Peter knew just what type of decisions Diana was talking about.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Heartsick, he could barely manage to get the words out.
He called and told El, and she dropped everything and met him at Union Station. As the train pulled out, Peter remembered to call his assistant, that she needed to cancel all of his meetings for the rest of the week, he had a family emergency.
Elizabeth clung to him and they sat huddled together for the almost three-hour train ride. It was the quickest way to get to Manhattan. Diana called to update him. Neal had survived the surgery, but he’d gone into cardiac arrest twice. The doctors didn’t know if he’d make it through the night.
Peter stared out at the passing scenery and cursed his cold heart, his ambition, his rigid morals and his sense of moral superiority. He cursed the train for moving too slowly and the sun for setting to fast.
Elizabeth squeezed his hand and tried to offer some reassurance. “We’ll make it, Peter. We’ll be there in time.”
In time.
Peter had a million questions, but one kept breaking his heart, because he knew the answer. Neal had been in the hospital for days, dying by inches, but no one called to tell him until they had no choice. Because those who would have told him knew that he didn’t want to hear about Neal.
The train finally pulled into Penn Station and they ran for the uptown subway platform. The express A train was the quickest way to the hospital, and Peter did something he’d never do under any other circumstances – he flashed his badge at transit cop and by-passed the turnstile. Luck was with them. An express train had just pulled up to the platform.
Fifteen minutes later, Clinton met them at the hospital entrance and Peter’s heart stopped at the expression on his face.
“Is he – ?” He couldn’t complete the sentence.
“No, but it won’t be long, the doctors say a few days at most.” Clinton wiped his mouth, as if the words were making him sick.
El asked the question that Peter should have asked hours ago. “How did this happen?”
Clinton shook his head. “We don’t know. Neal was fine, behaving himself, pretty much counting down the days and doing nothing to jeopardize his release.” He let out a bitter laugh. “A few nights before, he’d come over and we spent the evening going over what was going to be his last op. Nothing was wrong. Then I got the alert that he was out of his radius, but he was here, in the Emergency Room. June called and said that her housekeeper had discovered him unconscious in the shower. He had a huge open sore on his back and couldn’t say how it got there.”
Clinton led them through the vast hospital to a bank of elevators, telling them about the bacteria-resistant infection that was destroying Neal from the inside out. Peter couldn’t help but wonder what Neal had gotten up to with Mozzie, but realized that it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Not anymore.
They finally arrived at the ICU and Peter took comfort from the cluster of familiar faces in the waiting room. June was there, looking nothing like the vibrant woman he remembered. Diana was sitting with her. Peter was surprised to see that Michael Morrissey was there; he was the agent who’d taken over as ASAC for the White Collar division.
Morrissey approached. “Clinton filled you in?”
Peter nodded. “Any updates?”
“None. All I know is that he made it through surgery.” Morrissey looked at him, regret deepening his normal hangdog look. “I don’t know how this happened, Peter. I’m sorry.”
Of all the things he expected, this was the last on the list. “Why are you apologizing?”
Morrissey stuffed his hands in his pockets and wouldn’t look him in the eye. “For years, I’ve heard about the amazing deeds of the great Burke and Caffrey - Gotham’s finest Cop and Robber. Then I got to New York and what seemed like the script for a bad television show turned out to be a hell of a lot more. How you two were like partners, and more than that - you were friends. I couldn’t begin to imagine having a working relationship like that with a criminal and I had my reservations about keeping on an embedded CI. But a contract’s a contract and according to the Bureau, Caffrey’s proven his worth.
“I’ve pretty much let Jones and Berrigan run with him and they’ve done well, and Caffrey seemed to enjoy working with them. The division is still the star it was when you left and the thing is – it’s hard not to like him. Hard not to feel that you’re being played, but still…” Morrissey scrubbed at his face. “He was working for us when this happened and I can’t help but feel that it’s our fault. That he got hurt or was sick and we never noticed.”
Peter didn’t know what to say. He looked around and it hit him that someone was missing, someone who should have been here. “Where’s Mozzie?” Then he wondered if Morrissey even knew about Neal’s friend and criminal enabler.
Apparently he did. “The little guy? He comes and goes, and when he’s here, he usually he’s sticking close to Neal’s landlady. He barely gives us the time of day.” Morrissey looked around the room and he gave a small laugh. “And here he is.”
Moz appeared as if summoned by will alone. “Suit.” The contempt in that single word was like a bullet.
Morrissey left, giving them privacy. “What happened, Moz? How did this happen to him? What did he do?”
Moz shook his head. “I don’t know. I had been away for a few days and got a call from June that Neal was really sick.”
“You’ve been talking to his doctors?”
“No. They won’t say anything to me. Seems that you Suits are his legal guardians. And apparently Neal thought you were the only one who was entitled to make important decisions about him.”
“Mozzie – ” Peter wanted to apologize for Neal’s choice, but seeing the man in such a distraught state, maybe Neal knew what he was doing. But still, it didn’t seem fair. He took a deep breath and prayed he was doing the right thing. “I won’t make any decisions without consulting you, okay?”
The man nodded, but he wasn’t appeased.
Peter looked around, feeling so much at sea. El was sitting with June and Diana, Clinton was talking to Morrissey. “Can we talk to the doctor now?”
It took a while to get hold of the physician in charge of Neal’s case, and when they did the news was grim.
“We amputated just below the ankles, but it’s probably not going to do Mr. Caffrey much good. ”
Peter couldn’t keep the hope from his voice, “Is there any chance for Neal to recover from this?”
The doctor shook his head. “It’s so slight that you’d be more likely to win the lottery. The infection is in his liver, his kidneys, and his lungs. It’s a matter of time before it invades his heart and his spinal cord.”
“How could this happen? Neal was healthy; he took good care of himself.”
The doctor shrugged. “It’s possible that there was something lying dormant in his system, and it was waiting for just the right opportunity. We’ve identified the strain of bacteria; it’s fairly exotic and doesn’t respond to any of the broad spectrum antibiotics we’ve tried. Was Mr. Caffrey a traveler? Did he go to Africa in the last few years?”
Mozzie inhaled sharply. “We – he – was in Cape Verde about two years ago. So was I, so was Peter.”
The doctor peered at both of them and frowned. “You might want to think about having some blood work done, make sure that you’re not carrying the same bacteria.”
Moz nodded.
Peter brought the conversation back to Neal. “How long does he have?”
The doctor shoved his hands in the pockets of his white coat and shrugged. “A few days at the most, and they aren’t going to be good ones for him.” He told them how Neal’s kidneys and liver were beginning to fail, and that blood flow was compromised for his extremities - those that remained. The doctor gave Peter a grave look. “I was told that you have Mr. Caffrey’s health care proxy, that you are authorized to make end of life decisions for him.”
Peter nodded. “I haven’t read the document yes, but that is what I understand.”
“Then I'd strongly consider that you have Mr. Caffrey on palliative care only. No further surgeries, no interventions. He’d be DNR. We could take him off the ventilator if you want.”
“If I don’t elect palliative care for Neal, if I want to use all possible means to keep him alive, what happens next?”
“He will need surgical intervention to address the inevitable soft tissue infection, and it’s possible that additional amputation will be required. He could lose one or both eyes.”
Peter didn’t know what to say and he looked down at Mozzie, who had taken his glasses off and was wiping them furiously. “I need to discuss this with Neal’s family.”
“I thought that Mr. Caffrey had no family.”
“Not by blood, but his friends are here and they should be part of the decision.”
The doctor sighed, understanding. “The hospital will, of course, abide by your orders.”
Finally, Peter asked the question he most needed to. “Can I see Neal?”
“He’s in isolation, to avoid risk of additional infection and spreading his own, but we can suit you up.”
“Moz, too?” Peter gestured to the other man and wondered if Moz, so notoriously germophobic, could deal with this.
The doctor frowned, but agreed. “Just the two of you, at least for now.”
They went back out to the waiting room. Everyone was still there and they were looking to him for answers. Peter just nodded, now was not the time. He needed to talk with El first.
She went with him back towards the small room where he and Moz had talked with the doctor. Before he could say anything, El handed him an envelope. His name was scrawled across the front in Neal’s distinctive handwriting.
“June said that this was his health care proxy. He’d asked her to hold onto it, to give it to you if she had to.”
Peter opened the envelope. The proxy was little more than a fill-in-the-blank document; the type that was available for free on the Internet, but it was complete. Peter’s name was in all the right places and Neal had actually taken the form to a bank and had it notarized. The directives were fairly clear and Neal has specified that Peter was authorized to make all medical decisions for him. It also specified that no extraordinary measures should be taken to prolong his life.
What surprised him was the date of the document. It was less than a year old, signed a few months after he’d left New York.
The proxy form wasn’t the only thing in the envelope - there was another, smaller one, still sealed. This one had Mozzie’s name on it, and Peter would give it to him.
“Hon?”
He took a shuddering breath. “Neal’s dying. It’s a matter of days at the most. If I do this, I could make it easier for him.” He told her what the doctor suggested. “He’d get pain medication, but that’s it. No extraordinary measures. I could even have the ventilator turned off.” Peter made no effort to hide his tears. “I don’t want this, El - I don’t want to make this decision.”
She hugged him. “You know you’re not alone in this.”
“I know, and I even told Moz I’d consult with him, but …”
“Ultimately, Neal trusted you to be strong enough to make the right decision. The best one for him.”
With that simple statement, Peter knew that he had to see this through. “Yeah.” Heart aching, he held on Elizabeth’s hand as they returned to the waiting room. Without comment, he gave Moz the letter Neal had left for him and watched as he read it. The grief that shadowed Moz’s face aged him by decades.
Moz finished the letter, folded it up and put it in his pocket. He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes before gathering himself. “Neal didn’t want me to have to make this decision. He thought you could carry the burden better. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust me to make the hard choice, he didn’t want me to have to live with the consequences of that choice.” Moz sounded bitter but resigned. “Can you?”
Peter didn’t answer Moz’s question, instead, he asked one of his own. “Do you know what Neal would have wanted?”
“He was a lover, not a fighter, you know that. But he never gave up on anything if there was a reason to hope.”
“Does he have reason to hope? Would he want to live like this?” Peter’s voice cracked. He wasn’t one to give up if there was still some reason to hope, but to survive in such a state would be intolerable.
Moz didn’t answer. He just looked at him, the agony in his eyes a mirror of Peter’s own.
“I need to see him; I can’t make this decision until I do.”
Morrissey had to go back to the office, but he gave Clinton and Diana leave to stay at the hospital as long as they needed to. There was nothing urgent on their desks.
Peter sat with June. The older woman just stared out into the distance, not saying anything. Finally, spoke. “I don’t know what happened between you, but I know that Neal had constantly regretted the distance, the loss of your friendship. We’d sit on the terrace and he’d talk about you, hoping that you were happy with your new job. But there was always such sadness in his voice.”
“Did he ever say what his plans were? Afterwards?” Peter couldn’t stop the hope in his voice, even though it was a pointless emotion now.
“He wanted to travel, but he never told me anything specific. He’d talk about Venice or Paris or London, but not like he was actually planning to go. Maybe he didn’t want to jinx himself.” June’s laugh was sad as she recognized the irony of that.
She squeezed his hand. “Don’t let him suffer, Peter. Don’t make the same mistake I did.”
“Mistake?”
“When Byron was so sick, those last few weeks of his life, he begged me not to let him suffer. He wanted to go, but I couldn’t let him, I couldn’t give up a single minute, no matter how much agony he was in.”
“You loved him.”
June gave him a sharp look. “And you love Neal. Don’t deny that. You wouldn’t have been so hurt; you wouldn’t have needed such distance if you didn’t.”
“I don’t know if I can do this.” Peter had never needed to choose between hope and compassion.
“He told me that you were the only one he trusted, the only one who could make the right decision.”
“El said the same thing.”
“She’s right.”
They sat in silence. Peter watched his wife as she talked with Moz, with Diana and Clinton. Diana had pulled out her phone and was showing them something, probably pictures of little Theo. The four of them were smiling, but those smiles were like masks.
“Mr. Burke?” A nurse called his name and Peter stood up.
“Yes?”
“Neal is conscious; would you like to see him?”
He nodded and looked at Moz, who shook his head and stayed behind. Peter followed the nurse into a small, windowless room, and she handed him a package of sterile clothing. There was a face mask and a pair of goggles, too. “It may seem like overkill, but your eyes are a likely point of entry for anything airborne.”
He had to pass through two sets of doors, like an airlock. Neal was what could best be described as a glass cube. He was barely recognizable, hooked up to monitors and IVs, a ventilator tube distorting his mouth. Peter glanced at his hands and had to look away from the spreading blackness.
Peter focused on Neal’s face and gasped when his eyes opened and their gazes met. He wondered whether Neal even recognized him behind the protective gear. Neal turned his head and Peter thought, impossibly, that he was smiling. He moved closer and whispered, “Hey.” Of all the stupid, useless things to say, but what could he say?
Neal blinked rapidly and Peter found words, somehow. “Of course I came. I would have been here sooner if I knew.”
Neal’s blinking slowed to something less frantic.
“June gave me the proxy you’d signed. Why, Neal? After everything, why me?” Peter had to ask, even though Elizabeth and June, and even Mozzie had supplied the answer.
Neal stopped blinking. He just stared at Peter, eyes blazing. Peter knew that expression, one so full of hope and trust. He never felt less worthy of that, not with everything still unspoken between them. This outcome may not have been avoided, but the distance between them could have been, if only he’d spoken the words. It hit him at that moment that maybe it didn’t need to be like this, it never did and if he couldn’t undo the damage time had wrought, maybe he could bring them peace for the few moments they had left.
“I’m sorry, Neal. Sorry for everything.”
Neal blinked slowly, just once, absolution in that infinitesimal gesture. Peter didn’t know where the next words came from, but they felt as inevitable as the dawn. “I forgive you, too. I understand why you did what you did and I - ” Peter choked up. “I should have understood.”
Neal started blinking furiously again and Peter realized that he was crying. He looked around and couldn’t find a tissue, so he took the edge of the sheet and wiped away the tears. Peter ached to pull off the gloves that protected his hands and touch Neal, to give him comfort, to take comfort for himself. But Neal didn’t seem to mind the barrier and turned his face into Peter’s hand.
In an instant, the beeping from one of the monitors when crazy and Peter didn’t know what was happening. The room was filled with nurses in protective garb and he was hustled out of the room. Peter stood outside, watching them work on Neal. The sheet covering his torso was pulled back and that once perfect skin was stained by masses of black and red, then it was pulled off completely and Peter saw the blood stained bandages wrapped around what was left of Neal’s feet.
Someone came out of Neal’s room, and when he removed the protective gear from his face, Peter recognized the doctor he’d spoken with earlier.
“What happened?”
“His heart rate spiked, but we’ve got him stabilized for the moment.” The doctor stared at him.
“I haven’t made a decision yet.” That wasn’t true, he knew what he’d want if it was him on that bed. “Can I go back in?”
“We’ve increased his morphine, the stress from the pain is contributing to the cardiac situation. But he should be awake for a few more minutes.”
Peter put the goggles and face mask back on and went back into the room. Order had been restored, the sheet pulled back over Neal, hiding the damage. Not that Peter would ever unsee that horror.
“Neal?” He walked around so that Neal didn’t have to turn his head and knelt by the bed so they were face-to-face, as close as they could get. Peter brushed the damp curls off Neal’s forehead. Neal closed and opened his eyes slowly.
The sharpness that had been in his gaze just a few moments ago was gone, replaced by the mellowing haze of the opiate.
Peter had to ask the question and he couldn’t wait any longer. “Is this what you want?”
Neal just stared at him, unblinking and Peter’s heart sank. The drug giving him relief had also stolen his will. But he couldn’t give up without trying - maybe he’d asked the wrong question. “Do you want me to make this decision for you?”
Neal moved his head, the very slightest nod. His eyelids slowly closed and didn’t open again. Peter waited, but Neal didn’t move. He brushed his fingers again Neal’s cheek and bent over, pressing a soft kiss on his forehead through the face mask.
Everyone was still in the waiting room when he came back. It seemed that no one had moved.
Moz was the one to break the silence. “How is he?”
Peter scrubbed at his face, he never felt so old. “He knows he’s dying. He asked me to – ” He couldn’t say the words, but everyone understood.
“You were always good at the hard decisions.” Moz’s tone was surprisingly kind. “Neal – he told me to look to you for this, that you’d do what was right for him.” He patted his pocket, where he’d put Neal’s letter.
“Do you want to see him?” Peter didn’t think it was a good idea, but he didn’t want to cheat Moz out of the chance to say goodbye.
“Will he know I’m there?”
“No. He’s on a heavy dose of morphine now.”
Moz’s face crumpled and Peter felt an echoing wave of grief. He reached out and grabbed Moz, holding him close, giving him what comfort he could. “Then remember him as he was. You don’t need to see him like this.”
Moz clung for a minute before pushing him away. Peter wondered if he’d insist but the other man just stood there. El got up and went to him, wrapping an arm around him, leading him over to the corner. Peter couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could easily imagine the conversation.
Clinton and Diana were still with June and Peter joined them, sitting quietly. Waiting.
El and Moz came back and Peter saw the peace in the man’s face. Grief was still the predominant emotion, but the turmoil was mostly gone. “Whatever you decide will be the right decision.”
Peter just nodded and got up to find the doctor. He needed to do this now.
Before he couldn’t.
The sky was deep blue, marred only be a few drifting cirrus clouds. It was a perfect October day, not so different from another October day, over half a decade ago.
Peter told El where he was going. He didn’t ask her to join him; this was something he needed to do by himself.
Neal’s gravestone was simple, a name, the dates, and two words: “Beloved Friend.” Peter knelt down and brushed away the leaves that had accumulated at the marble base. His heart ached, the pain still sharp, the loss as present as ever. He had learned to live with it, to accept that it was as much a part of him as his name.
He traced the letters, the cold stone both rough and smooth under his fingertip. “I still miss you.”
Tags:
- character: clinton jones,
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: peter burke,
- genre: angst,
- genre: death fic,
- genre: emotional trauma,
- genre: friendship,
- genre: future fic,
- genre: gen,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth,
- type: fan fiction,
- white collar,
- year: 2014
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
DAMMIT!
Date: 2014-01-21 05:20 pm (UTC)Beautifully, painfully written.
Re: DAMMIT!
Date: 2014-01-21 11:16 pm (UTC)Thank you for reading and for letting me know how much you appreciate this. It wasn't easy to write.
no subject
Date: 2014-01-21 05:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-21 11:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-21 05:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-21 06:25 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2014-01-21 06:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-21 11:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-21 07:02 pm (UTC)This just broke my poor, fuzzy heart, totally and completely. It was so beautiful and so affecting. I need my boys back together more than ever, but not this way!!!!
no subject
Date: 2014-01-21 11:21 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for reading and for letting me know how you appreciated it.
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2014-01-21 08:03 pm (UTC)I need more tissues, damn!
And I need a hug {{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{squish}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}
ETA: Aww, I can't stop thinking about this story, I have a feeling it is going to stick with me for a long time...
no subject
Date: 2014-01-22 02:04 am (UTC)Thank you for your beautiful feedback. It hurt to write, but your appreciation has made the pain worth it.
no subject
Date: 2014-01-21 08:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-21 11:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-21 09:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-21 11:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-21 10:16 pm (UTC)*hugs my boys*
I'm trying hard to be coherent and leave a comment worthy of this. But. Hurts now. :(
no subject
Date: 2014-01-21 11:24 pm (UTC)Thank you for reading and for letting me know that you appreciate it - it wasn't easy to write and it kind of broke me, too.
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2014-01-21 10:20 pm (UTC)I know I shouldn't be so invested in fictional characters, especially when it's "just" fanfic, but you never "just" write fanfic. You know exactly how to grab your readers and kills us with feels.
Neal's not even making an appearance and still manages to tear me apart with his complete faith in Peter and show of trust and friendship, despite what had happened between them.
And Peter... Peter, with his late (too late) realization that his pride, his indignation, his self-righteous anger robbed him of so much precious time he could have spent with his friend.
Mozzie... God, Moz. The others. Morrissey, giving us an outsider's look at Neal that is so perfect: Neal, the charming manipulator you can't help but like. *hearts*
Regrets. Missed opportunities. Too little, too late.
This was absolutely heart-wrenching. I hate you and love you equal parts for writing this, and I worship you and your talent for being able to write something like this.
no subject
Date: 2014-01-21 10:25 pm (UTC)The Connelly/Bulger twist is a stroke of genius. Keeping the whole WC backstory in mind (even just the part the higher-ups know about), it's totally unrealistic that Peter would currently be on the fast track to DC. A year after having been relegated to the Cave. After being suspended. After the Pratt thing (even if he was "found" innocent, it's still a big black spot on his bright white career).
Seeing the higher-ups wanting to have the famous Burke of the Caffrey-Burke partnership, the one that seemed to work so brilliantly, represent the FBI after the Connelly/Bulger fiasco actually makes sense. And it's now my new head canon (until the show will reveal what this Bruce character is really after).
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2014-01-21 11:14 pm (UTC)Yeah, you are right, you warned me and my fragile heart and I read it anyway. So, now I'm crying for my beloved Neal. *sobs*
It is heart breaking and so out of the blue. I can't say more... *sobs*
Have to read something sweet and loving right now. But thanks anyway, you wonderful writer with so much talent for emotional and loving writing. You always grip my heart, either melting it or breaking it, it's always deeply involved in your fanfics.
I need a hug too!!! *smishes you all*
no subject
Date: 2014-01-21 11:31 pm (UTC)Thank you for reading (despite the warnings and tags) and for letting me know your feelings.
no subject
Date: 2014-01-22 01:12 am (UTC)I'm hoping you are going to be responsible for cheering me up too. I downloaded your fic about the hotel bed from AO3 yesterday, and haven't read it yet. I'm going to read that on my e-reader before going to sleep (and will be back tomorrow to comment).
Elr, responsible for breaking fangirls' hearts, and fixing them, all in one fell swoop.
I'm glad Neal seemed to enjoy his time with Clinton & Diana. It might make the ending even sadder, but sadder in a life-affirming way. If that makes sense. A life appreciated rather than wasted.
no subject
Date: 2014-01-23 03:17 pm (UTC)The hardest part of this story was the "conversation" between Peter and Neal - that they were still so close that Peter could understand Neal without needing words.
And yes, a life appreciated is never wasted.
no subject
Date: 2014-01-22 06:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-22 02:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-22 08:15 am (UTC)I should've read this at another time since this morning in Paris was already depressing
This is heartbreaking.
This is not your first death fic in this fandom ( I've read some others) but this..this is just so...
Difficult to think straight.
Somehow, what really got me ( or made me completely loose it, crying like a baby) was the last scene between Moz and Peter ( aka the two presons that loved Neal the most)...when Peter protects Moz saying " you don't need to see him like this".
I think Peter would do exactly that....
Ok, crying again
Incoherent with sadness
hugs
no subject
Date: 2014-01-22 02:08 pm (UTC)No, this is far from my first death fic (and it's actually the third in about a month), but I think this one's the most poignant - because it gives everyone closure.
Thank you so very much.
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2014-01-22 10:55 am (UTC)This fic is chilling and painful and somehow still beautiful and (intellectually) I want to sob it all out but I can't. There aren't any tears in my eyes.
This was beautiful and so painful and so scary and it just. Killed me, even though it doesn't show on my face.
no subject
Date: 2014-01-22 02:27 pm (UTC)**hugs you tightly**
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2014-01-22 12:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-22 02:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-22 03:37 pm (UTC)No matter the distance; no matter the offense, the love remains between our boys. Highlights the message that you really need to confront a deep hurt and resolve the issue, not run away from it.
"Teary-eyed".
no subject
Date: 2014-01-22 03:39 pm (UTC)That sums it up in a nutshell!
Thank you so much.
no subject
Date: 2014-01-22 09:17 pm (UTC)Thank you for giving this piece to us.
no subject
Date: 2014-01-23 02:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-22 11:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-23 02:38 pm (UTC)Offers you her almost empty box of Kleenex.
no subject
Date: 2014-01-22 11:30 pm (UTC)It was really beautifully (heart wrenching) written, so kudos.
Someway, somehow, this line made my eyes tear up :
“Are you coming home, Boss?” There were tears in her voice.
Diana is so vulnerable in there, that you know something bad has happened and something worse is bound to happen.
Thank you for this!
PS : is there a way to add entries to LJ as favourites or something, so we don't lose them? I want to keep this for future re-reading !
no subject
Date: 2014-01-23 02:40 pm (UTC)If you go to the top of the page, you can "add to memories" - which will save this story to your "memorable entries" file.
no subject
Date: 2014-01-23 01:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-23 03:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-23 02:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-23 02:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-23 03:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-23 02:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-23 02:25 pm (UTC)Thank you for sharing!
no subject
Date: 2014-01-23 02:28 pm (UTC)It was extremely difficult to write.
One Precious Thing Lost
Date: 2014-01-23 06:48 pm (UTC)