![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: If the Soul Doesn’t Sing (Just One Life) - Part I
Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kanarek13
Author:elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, June Ellington, Garrett Fowler, Reese Hughes, Matthew Keller, Mozzie, Clinton Jones, Diana Berrigan, mention of Kate Moreau, mention of Elizabeth Burke, mention of Satchmo, mention of Terrance Pratt, mention of James Bennett, original characters
Pairings: Pre-story Peter/Elizabeth, pre-story Peter/Hughes; Neal/Keller, Peter/Neal
Spoilers: Mention of canon events at the end of In the Wind (S4.16)
Warnings : Non-canon deaths of canon characters (all off-camera and pre-story): Elizabeth Burke, Satchmo, Kate Moreau, OMC
Word Count: Total ~50,000 / Part I - 8,500
Beta Credit:coffeethyme4me, sinfulslasher
Summary: Neal is an Archon, a ‘guardian angel’, who has been watching over the soul of Peter Burke for millennia. He’s learned that Peter’s soul will not be reborn into a new life, and cannot bear the thought that he will continue for eternity without Peter. So he decides to take the forbidden path: become mortal and spend the rest of his days watching over Peter and caring for him.
But he will need to make a sacrifice, and he will need to learn how to Fall.
A/N: The artwork thatkanarek13 has created has so blown past my wildest hopes and expectations. I am humbled by her generosity and awed by her creativity. Please don’t forget to go to her artwork post and look at all of the amazing pieces she’s created for this story and let her know just how wonderful she is.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Carefully perched over the mirror pool, wings outspread to give balance, Neal viewed the lone soul he’d been caring for its entire existence. He watched as the soul – this time around, a man – hurried about his business, unaware that he was being observed. Or maybe he was aware? The man’s pace slowed and then stopped. He looked up and Neal was struck by the terrible weariness in the man’s eyes. But beyond the weariness was something else, a hunger, a need, his loneliness so bitter it was hard to comprehend. The man shook his head and shrugged, looking back at the ground as he moved on.
Neal watched and grieved, understanding that this soul’s time – in this body and forever after – was nearly up.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
What he didn’t know was that he was being watched, too. The Elders of his kind, Archons, were monitoring his every moment.
They argued gently amongst themselves, as was their habit. “He does not know that his grief is unnecessary.”
“He has guarded that lone soul for an eternity. His grief is already too much to bear.”
“Is it? If he does not grieve, then the sacrifice is meaningless.”
The Elders sighed collectively and continued their debate.
“The time is almost up.”
“Almost, but not yet. The cycle is not yet complete.”
“No, but it is not really a cycle, is it? This soul is approaching its endpoint – it has become tangled, impaired. There will be no rebirth, no new flowering into that life. He knows that.”
“But he does not know all of it. He does not remember what he did. He does not know why this is happening.”
One of the Elders noted, “And that is only part of the price he is paying for his repeated interference.”
Another replied, “He has always been too attached to that soul. Maybe if he had been required to watch over others, this tragedy might not have happened. It would be better if he had been able to keep some distance, some perspective.”
The Elder called June spoke for the first time. “Better for whom? Not for his charge, not for the greater good of us all. It is Neal’s grief that makes you uncomfortable."
The other Elders’ wings fluttered; a sign of reluctant agreement. “Yes. It feels … unnatural.”
June replied, “It is not unnatural. Merely unfamiliar. It has been a long time since this happened. And it has been a very long time since you have allowed yourself to feel so strongly about anything.”
“It is a mistake. It should not have been allowed to flourish.”
“Since when is a new life a mistake?” June’s words, though softly spoken, rang like bells through the stone chamber.
None of the other Elders answered.
“I will guide him.”
“You cannot interfere. Foreknowledge will destroy him.”
“I know.” The rustle of wings punctuated June's irritation. “It will be his choice. And when he makes that choice – of his own free will – he will need to know what to do. He will need guidance.”
The other Elders nodded and gave their assent. But not without a caveat. “Neal must understand that what comes next cannot be stolen, it can only be earned.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter scrubbed his eyes; they were bleary and refused to focus. He ran his hand down his face – the scruff on his cheeks was an unpleasant sensation. It felt like he hadn’t showered or shaved in a month. He felt grimy, dried out and used up. “How much longer are we going to keep at this?”
“You don’t like being on the other side of the interrogation table, do you?”
Peter glared at the OPR agent, Garrett Fowler. He’d been grilling him for what seemed like days. “No, I don’t.”
“Then the sooner you answer my questions, the sooner we can all go home.” Fowler gave him a twisted smile.
“I’ve been answering your questions.”
“But I haven’t found your answers satisfactory, Burke. Let’s start from the top, okay?”
Peter tried not to sigh in disgust. They’d been through this a dozen times and he knew that they’d go through it a dozen more times, and maybe even a dozen more times after that. Fowler was trying to break him, trying to crack his story, to trip him up with inconsistencies.
“When did you first meet Senator Terrance Pratt?”
“He came to the office about twelve weeks ago, at my request.”
“Why did you ask a U.S. Senator to visit the FBI?”
“As I’ve already told you, Senator Pratt was part of a paper trail authorizing the transfer of a prisoner from Federal custody over to the New York City prison system. The man was killed on the trip from the Metropolitan Correctional Center to Rikers.”
“And you thought, what, that the senator was involved?” Fowler scoffed.
“His name was linked to someone who had interfered with the focus of a Federal investigation, and I thought it was a line that needed pursuing. His office told me that he was coming to New York for a meeting and I requested that he stop by the office if it was convenient. I would have made the trip to DC if he hadn’t come to see me.”
“Explain how you tied Senator Pratt to your prisoner’s transfer.”
Peter told himself not to lose his patience, to just explain again – as if it was the first time – that someone from Pratt’s office had contacted the Manhattan Correctional Center to arrange the transfer.
“Someone? Not the Senator himself?”
“The records show that the fax originated from a number assigned to his office at the Dirksen Senate Office Building.”
“But you couldn’t prove that the Senator himself ordered the transfer?”
“No, his signature was not on the paperwork.”
“Whose signature was on the paperwork?”
“That’s not clear.”
“So, you spent your time chasing after a U.S. Senator instead of investigating why the jail transferred the prisoner without proper authorizations.”
“I wouldn’t say I was chasing after Senator Pratt. His office said he’d be in New York and I asked if it was possible to talk with him. Nothing more than that – no demands were made. It was a courteous request for a meeting. And with regards to investigating the decision to make the transfer, my team had been interviewing the prison personnel who signed off on their end of the transfer, but they’ve been shut out. The Bureau of Prisons has taken over the investigation.”
Fowler’s aide, a man introduced only as Maurice, whispered something in his boss’ ear. Fowler finally asked a question that he hadn’t already asked a dozen other ways. “Did you consider that someone might have spoofed the header on the fax that was sent?”
Peter laughed; he had to at the arrant stupidity of the question. “Yes, of course we did. The telephone records from the Dirksen Office Building confirmed that there was a fax transmission from the Senator’s office to the Metropolitan Correctional Center that matches the timestamp on the fax’s header.”
Fowler shot a look of annoyance at Maurice. This effort to trip him up had failed. “Back to your investigation of Senator Pratt. At what point did you decide to make him a target of a Federal investigation?”
“A CI had provided us with information that linked Pratt’s early career in the D.C. police department to the family of the man who was murdered during the transfer.”
“A CI?” Fowler flipped through a case file. “That information is surprisingly absent from your reports. Why?”
“I was worried about a leak from inside the Bureau.”
“Yet you didn’t contact OPR.”
“No, I didn’t.” Peter didn’t need to elaborate. Fowler would make the connection without him having to hold his hand and lead him to the obvious conclusion.
“Care to give me the name of your CI?” The question was casually asked, but the interest behind it was far from casual.
“No.” On this, Peter was adamant.
“Seriously, Burke – you’re not helping your own case. You have suspicions about a leak at the FBI and you don’t report it to the people who are responsible for handling internal corruption issues. You open an investigation based on the word of a CI, a CI who doesn’t seem to exist outside of your word. A U.S. Senator was killed by a bullet fired from your gun and I’m supposed to believe that you weren’t in some way responsible?”
Peter knew he was responsible for Pratt’s death, even though he didn’t kill him. But he certainly wasn’t going to admit that. “Believe what you want, Fowler.”
“That’s a stretch, even for you. There are too many connections between you and Pratt that I can’t explain unless you help me.” Fowler was the voice of reason now. “I’m trying to keep you out of jail, Burke.”
“Really? It seems like you’re the one trying to put me there.” This time, Peter let his irritation show.
Fowler leaned back in his chair, a look of smug satisfaction on his face. “I’m here to do a job. I have no axe to grind.”
Peter didn’t believe that. Garrett Fowler was someone’s tool and he was an effective one at that. But he had no badge, no authority, and no way to find out who was pulling the strings.
The questioning went on, hour after hour after hour. Fowler started digging through his past, his record from his earliest years with the Bureau.
“This isn’t the first time someone was killed with a bullet from your gun, was it, Burke?”
Peter finally called a halt. “This is getting abusive. I agreed to this interview because I want to clear my name, but unless you plan to charge me and read me my rights, we’re done.”
“We’re done when I say we’re done, Burke. And not a moment before.”
“Seriously? You are seriously trying to play the heavy here?” Peter had to laugh. “If you want to go that route, I’ll call my attorney and you’ll get nothing further from me without her present. I’ve cooperated and I’ll continue to cooperate, but for tonight, I’m done.”
“You call this cooperating when you won’t name your CI?”
“I have told you over and over, the name of my confidential informant isn’t relevant to the investigation into Senator Pratt’s death. But if you want to challenge the propriety of my own investigation, then you’re going to have a fight on your hands.” Peter stood up and went to the door.
“This is far from over, Burke.”
Peter paused and turned. “I don’t doubt that.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal watched the soul that was called Peter Burke in this life. He watched and grieved. And in his grief, he spun out the inevitable arguments that the Elders would make.
“Soon, your vigilance will be unnecessary. You will need to choose another to care for.”
“No.” As he uttered the word, Neal knew that the simple denial would not have the force to change the inevitable. “I do not want to watch over anyone else.” Neal's whole being rang with purpose. “When Peter ends, so do I.”
He could imagine the shocked, horrified tones of the Elders, their wings rustling in agitation, in rare anger. “You know that is forbidden. You cannot make that choice. You go on, you are eternal.”
“He was supposed to be eternal, too.”
“We never know the complete destiny of a soul. Some souls are eternal, some are finite.”
He didn’t want to accept that. It seemed too easy, to facile an explanation. And no matter how understanding, how sympathetic the Elders were, they could not ease his grief. There were rules and laws. The chief of which was, “You cannot interfere.”
“And what if I do?” Neal had to test the limits, he needed to know. There were legends and myths. And there were truths.
“Then it is over – for you and for him. Forever. You cannot do this, Neal. You cannot interfere and you cannot change what will happen.”
Neal continued his imaginary argument. “The future is mutable. If it isn’t, then we have no point in our own existence.”
His imaginary interlocutor had no answer.
Neal continued that thought. “We are creatures of free will, just as those we watch over.”
“And that is why you cannot interfere.”
“That is the paradox of life, is it not?” Neal said, more to himself.
“Do not do this, Neal. You need to accept the inevitable.”
“How can I?” Heartsick, Neal didn’t want to continue this argument, even just in the confines of his mind. He had plans to set into motion.
Falling wasn’t going be easy. He first had to discover how.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter let himself into the house, and the stillness hit him like a fist. Five years and he still couldn’t get used to the emptiness. The place was clean, but slightly disorganized. It was the house of a man who lived alone after too many years of living with someone.
After it happened, they came through and cleaned up, took care of things. Her shoes with their ridiculous high heels that always seemed to accumulate on the steps, her makeup scattered on the dressing table because she’d been in too much of a rush that morning to put it away. Her towel, still damp from the shower that morning, draped across the foot of their bed.
It was all gone. And it sometimes felt as if she’d never been there at all.
No, not she. Elizabeth.
He relived the worst moments of his life every time he walked through the front door. That night was like every other night, just like that one fateful night years ago when he had come home, calling out, “Hon, I’m home.” But his wife hadn't been upstairs – at least not his wife as he had known her. He’d wasted precious moments going through the mail piled on the front table, checking the machine for messages. Nothing had seemed out of the ordinary until Peter whistled for Satchmo. The dog, to his surprise, hadn’t come running like he normally did.
There had been a bowl still half-filled with kibble and that had worried Peter. Satchmo was a Labrador retriever, and the only thing he loved more than playing fetch was eating; nothing ever distracted him from his dinner. Peter had called for the dog again and listened carefully. There had been a slight whimper.
Peter had run upstairs, finding Satchmo at the master bedroom door, crying and pawing at the closed door. Peter had rushed inside.
Elizabeth had been on the floor, her eyes wide open, arms awkwardly flung outwards, half dressed and with her suit jacket clutched in her hand.
There hadn't been a mark on her.
The coroner’s report had said that Elizabeth had suffered a massive heart attack, and likely had died before she’d hit the floor. She hadn’t suffered, they said – as if Peter could take comfort from that. His wife was dead. The best part of his life was gone and Peter couldn’t help but wonder if the life he had with Elizabeth had been simply a dream, a fantasy spun out by the electrochemical process in his brain. That his reality was a singularity of loneliness.
Out of habit, he put his keys into the brass bowl on the front table and picked the mail up from the floor. There was nothing of importance – a few bills, a bunch of menus from takeout places in the neighborhood, an offer from the cable company to switch services.
Peter tossed out everything but the bills – those he’d take care of over the weekend. He headed into the kitchen with the vague idea of having something more nutritious than microwave Chinese food for dinner. But there was nothing in the fridge except two bottles of beer, a bag of coffee, a half a jar of mayo, some ancient ketchup, and a single sprouted onion.
He took one of the bottles and ignored the contents of the freezer. It was a nice night, probably one of the last before autumn truly set in. He could go sit out on the front stoop and watch the world go by or head into the backyard and try to find some peace for his unquiet soul.
Peter did neither. He sat down on the couch and stared into nothingness. The bottle of beer warmed in his grip. He might have sat there for hours, letting the events of the past six weeks play out in his head, but the doorbell rang, breaking his reverie. He wondered if it was someone from Fowler’s crew at OPR coming to arrest him, on god only knew what trumped-up charges.
But it wasn’t Maurice or Fisher or Castle. It was an old friend, someone he once trusted with his life, someone he cared for in ways too complex to explain. Someone whose appearance now sent sour notes through his gut.
Peter opened the door, but didn’t let his visitor come in. “Reese? What brings you to Brooklyn?”
“Would you believe me if I said I was in the area?”
Peter just stared at his former boss and mentor. His friend. “No I wouldn’t. Who sent you?”
“No one sent me.” Reese shook his head. “Don’t be an idiot, Peter. Can I come in?”
He wasn’t willing to let the man in just yet. “When did you start wearing a Rolex?” Peter noted the heavy steel timepiece on Reese’s wrist.
“It was a retirement present from David.”
Peter just raised an eyebrow at that obvious lie. Reese’s partner was not the sentimental type. Besides, he’d seen and used too many of those “Rolexes” to be fooled by the one on Reese's wrist.
Reese made a face and sighed in exasperation. “What? Do you want me to take it off and leave it in my car?”
Peter sighed, realizing how ridiculous his behavior was. “No, what I really want to know is why you’re here.”
“Can’t I pay a visit to a friend I’m worried about?”
“You can, but your timing’s very convenient. Did Fowler send you?”
Reese’s eyebrows went soaring. “Fowler? That incompetent jackass? I wouldn’t take orders from him if he was appointed Director. You know me better than that.”
Peter certainly did. But he wasn’t giving an inch. “But who are you taking orders from?” He still barred the door with his arm.
“No one. I’m here as your friend.” Reese gave him a level look. “We go back too far and know each other too well. I care about you, Peter.”
Peter didn’t think for a moment that he hadn’t been sent by anyone, but he did accept Reese’s contempt for Fowler. And he knew that Reese cared about him – he’d helped him survive the early months after Elizabeth’s death. He took his arm down and gestured for the man to come in. “I can offer you a beer, that’s it.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Peter picked up his untouched bottle, retrieved the last long-neck from the refrigerator and went out to the tiny patio. Even though it was early October and the mosquitos had long since died, he turned on the bug zapper. He’d learned that the small device did a nice job of interfering with radio transmissions and digital recordings. If his friend had gone old school and was wearing a tape recorder, there was nothing he could do about that. Not that he was going to say anything useful to anyone.
“You don’t trust me, Peter?”
“I trust no one, not even you.” That was the truth these days.
Reese took a sip of beer and stared at him over the bottle. “Wise, but no one sent me. It’s been a long time since I’ve done the Bureau’s bidding. There’s not a lot of love left between us.” He’d been forced into retirement a second time when their Section Chief decided to play politics.
“But the Bureau was never really your first love, was it?”
Reese’s lips turned up in a slight grin. “I’ll give you that.”
It hit Peter like the proverbial ton of bricks and he wondered how he could have been so damn clueless not to realize why his friend was paying him a visit. It had nothing to do with gathering intelligence for OPR and everything to do with his future. Reese Hughes was an old, cold warrior – a relic of a time when threats spoke in Slavic languages. He might have carried an FBI agent’s gold shield, but he’d once worked for another agency, too. He probably still worked for them. As far as Peter knew, the NSA had no mandatory retirement age. Reese was recruiting and Peter was having none of it. “No.”
“No, what?” It might have been phrased as a question, but Reese clearly didn’t need an answer.
“You know what I mean. That’s not the path for me.”
“Are you certain?” The question was gently asked; a testing of the waters.
Peter nodded, unwilling to verbalize his feelings on the subject.
Reese didn’t give up, though. “You would fit right in. It wouldn’t be that much of a change, really. You’d be brilliant.”
“Don’t tell me you’re operating under the delusion that one government bureaucracy is the same as another. They aren’t. You owe your allegiance to a different set of rules. I can’t live my life under those strictures.”
“Why not?” Now Reese seemed puzzled.
“What do you mean, why not?”
Reese’s voice went soft. “Who would you need to tell?”
Peter closed his eyes. The answer to that question was a shot through the heart. He had no wife to share that secret with. His friends were mostly ones that had he’d made because of Elizabeth and they’d drifted away after her death. He didn’t really socialize with his colleagues. His monthly poker games were a relic of a happier past. Reese and his partner David were his only real friends.
Truth was, he had no one in his life, even casually. He worked, came home, ate and slept and repeated the cycle again the next day. Weekends that he wasn’t working meant he didn’t have to talk to anyone.
“I’m an FBI agent. It’s all I really ever wanted to be.”
Reese didn’t answer, but the compassion in his eyes spoke volumes.
Peter sighed, hearing what wasn’t being said. “What do you know?”
A lot, apparently. His old friend shook his head. “I’m sorry, Peter.”
“I’m not getting my badge back, right?”
Reese apologized again. “I am sorry. I know how much this hurts.”
“So, no matter what I say, the outcome of the OPR investigation is a foregone conclusion, right? They’re going to hang me for Pratt’s death, even though the shooter is in custody.”
Reese just nodded. “Unless you give them the source of the information you had on Pratt and Bennett and the Flynns.”
“I won’t do that. I can’t do that.”
“Then they’ll take your badge, Peter. Pratt’s death opened up a can of worms and the Bureau is looking for someone to blame.”
“If I resign, then what? Will they accept a sacrifice instead?”
Hughes’ answer was just what he expected. “If you retire, the case will be dropped. And like all retirees, you’ll get a notice of commendation from the Director and a letter from the President thanking you for your service. There won’t be any negative marks on your record from the Pratt debacle. You have your twenty, your pension’s secured and you’ll have the rest of your life in front of you.”
“So, if I play nice and resign, the Bureau will sweep Pratt’s death under the rug. But that won’t wipe away the stain of his murder on my soul.”
“You didn’t kill him, Peter.”
“But my gun did. He was there because I was investigating him.”
“No, Peter. Pratt was there trying to interfere with your investigation because he was tipped off by Calloway. She put this into play. Your evidence was solid.”
Peter shrugged. It was, but he wasn’t going to talk about it. He still had some sense of self-preservation left. “I’ll think about what you’ve told me.” That was all he could say.
“And think about the other thing, too. Promise me?” Reese placed a hand over his, a rare physical gesture these days.
He gave Reese a wry smile, reached over and turned off the bug zapper. He didn’t care who was listening. Nothing mattered anymore.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Falling wasn’t going to be easy. Neal didn’t have the slightest idea how to accomplish this near-mythical action. All he knew was that it required a sacrifice. His immortality, at the very least.
And his wings, for certain.
It made sense that it was difficult and secret, because if it wasn't, “heaven” would be empty of its “angels.” Neal smiled at that thought. This place – call it a realm, a dimension, a sphere if you wanted to be poetical – was not heaven, as if such a place existed. And “angel” was a mortal concept, born of accidental sightings of his kind, the Archons. It had been millennia since those sightings, but those stories were infamy to the Elders, one of the greatest breaches of their law.
Neal wandered through his aerie, the cavernous space where he had made his home. He was restless, worried. For the past few days, the Elders had been keeping too close a watch on him, lest he take the forbidden step. It was his own fault, for so vocally championing his charge’s existence in the face of an inevitable end.
But the Elders’ vigilance seemed to wane at last. The eyes that had been on him were now focused elsewhere.
Neal went over to his mirror pool, the point of focus he’d been using for so many human generations to watch over the soul now called Peter.
Most of his kind took on the responsibility for several souls, watching over them with casual intent. Neal, however, had elected guardianship of just one soul. Maybe that was why the idea of Peter’s ending was cutting into him.
Even if the Elders didn’t tell him, soon enough there would be a new soul that needed his guardianship. Neal didn’t want a new soul, he wanted Peter. And after so many generations, so many births and deaths and rebirths, so much watching and gently influencing, wanting was more than a cold and intellectual exercise. This wanting was hot, it was perverse, it made his blood sing, his wings shiver in the still air.
It made him reckless.
Neal knew that this wanting was wrong. Not that his kind didn’t want like this – he had a cock and balls and the will to use them, but congress between human and Archon was expressly forbidden. Unless he Fell.
With a wave of his hand, Peter appeared in the clear, still surface. Neal’s wings snapped back and his whole body quivered. Peter was naked, wet from a shower. The mirror pool in his aerie was a portal that linked to glass in the mortal realm, and while Neal could watch his charge through any reflective surface, his favorite was a mirror in Peter’s bathroom.
In this cycle, he’d observed Peter as he grew from an infant to a child to a well-built young man to this mature specimen. It hadn’t always been like this. Sometimes Peter was female, sometimes disease or disaster or bad luck took him from the living before he could grow into the promise of his soul. It wasn’t his responsibility to keep Peter alive, but to provide some subtle influence over the choices he made. Neal had grieved for each life cut off before it reached its potential.
He couldn’t articulate why Peter, in this particular life, drew him, why he made him feel things he shouldn’t, have thoughts that were contrary to the very nature of his kind. Neal knew of only one other Archon who had crossed the very bright line and had taken a mortal, his own charge, as a lover. He did not Fall, he did not make a sacrifice, and the results had been devastating.
The woman had lived, but she had been broken in mind, her soul bleeding and spent from the damage her Archon had inflicted. When she died, madness overtaking her, raving about angels and demons and the babies that had been stolen from her – babies with black wings and gold eyes – her soul ended. The bright spark that had been sustained in life and reborn from age to age had guttered and extinguished.
The perpetrator of this horror did not go unpunished. Matthew was brought back and kept chained in one of the highest caverns in the highest mountains. And as if the chains weren’t enough to keep him confined, his flight feathers had been pulled and the follicles cauterized so they’d never grow back.
In the time before they’d taken on souls to guard, Neal had once called Matthew friend. They had ridden thermals together, flying higher and higher, pressing through layers of the atmosphere until there was almost no air – almost. Matthew used to ask, ‘what is the point of immortality if you never challenge life itself?’ He’d laugh; his black wings and blacker eyes taunting Neal. It was always a competition between them, Matthew pushing him to ride the edge. They’d fly until ice crystalized on the edges of their wings, their blood started to boil in the near-vacuum of space.
Then he’d fold his wings and plunge back into the world, Neal right behind him – a hand outstretched as if he were trying to catch Matthew to keep him from falling.
Now, countless centuries later, the irony of that didn’t escape Neal.
Matthew’s prison wasn’t hard to reach, nor was it particularly well-guarded. A few Archons patrolled the cliff, their sole purpose to make sure that Matthew didn’t leave, not to keep anyone from entering.
Neal nodded to one of the guards and made his way into the cavern where Matthew had lived for centuries.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my old friend, Neal.” Matthew paced out the length of his chain. “It’s been a while.”
Neal tried to hide his shock at Matthew’s appearance. He was fit and trim – that would never change – but tattoos decorated his upper body like dark stains. “Yes, it has.”
“I’ve lost track of the years, but I think this is your first visit in, what, forever?”
Neal could almost taste the bitterness in Matthew’s words. “I’ve been busy.”
“Busy, yes … watching over your lone charge. Spending every moment of every day watching that soul through the mirror pools, trying to force your will into it.”
“You, of all of us, should know that’s not how it works.”
“Aww, Neal – still so naive.” Matthew’s look was one of contempt. “What brings you here?”
On the flight, Neal had thought about disguising his reasons for this visit, but Matthew was smart and he’d exploit any lie. Neal knew Matthew well enough to expect that an appeal to his old friend’s sense of superiority might just work.
It also helped that he didn’t come empty handed.
“I need your help.”
Matthew rocked back on his heels. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“No.”
“You forget about me. I’m consigned to this flightless, soulless hell and you have the nerve to come here and ask for my assistance? You haven’t even spoken my name.” Matthew’s wings flexed with barely controlled rage, brushing against the polished walls.
“I never forgot about you, Matthew.” Neal’s voice was quiet, but those last two syllables rang out like thunder.
Matthew settled down on a bench, his wings folded against his back. He stared at Neal, unblinking. Neal tried not to flinch under that dark gaze.
“Tell me about the world. My view, now, is … limited.”
Neal didn’t think his friend was talking about their fellow Archons; little changed from millennia to millennia. He looked around; there was no mirror pool, no glass, nothing transparent through which Matthew could see the mortal realm. “Chaos still reigns. They struggle for peace but commit horrific acts of war. As a species, they are without hope, but as a collection of individuals, they are triumphant.”
“And so, nothing has changed.” Matthew gave him a level look. “And your charge? How is it?”
Neal looked away, but apparently not quick enough. Matthew saw the grief in his eyes. “Peter, the soul’s name this cycle is Peter. And his time is ending. This is his last cycle. That soul will not be reborn.”
Matthew leaned back in shock. “No, no – that’s not supposed to happen.”
Neal slumped, wings dragging in grief as he heard his own words. “But it is – I can feel his ending with every heartbeat. This is his last cycle.”
Matthew reached out and placed a hand over his. Neal almost broke from the unexpected compassion. “They taught us not to love, but how can we not?”
“Others manage.” Neal took a deep breath and tried to steady himself. “Maybe this is my fault, maybe if I’d been less stubborn, if I’d done as the Elders asked...”
“You? Follow orders? Not likely.” A smile curved Matthew’s lips, and from the look of it, that was a rare expression.
They sat companionably and Neal gave into a sudden need. He rested his head against his friend’s shoulder, only to be pushed away violently. He fell to the floor. It wasn’t his ass that hurt, but his cheek, where it had touched Matthew’s skin.
“Matthew?” Neal rubbed his face, not understanding the pain.
“You’re an idiot.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you think these marks are meaningless?” Matthew stood over him, wings flared. He gestured at the tattoos on his torso, his shoulder. “They are poison, they are my punishment. My torment.”
Neal was horrified.
“But it’s nothing less than I deserve.” Matthew turned away, resting his head against the wall. “This chain –” He shook his foot and the silver rattled almost musically, “is just for show. If I leave, I won’t have access to the antidote. These marks will complete themselves and my immortality will end.”
Neal got up and went over to him. He carefully rested his hand on unstained skin. “Matthew – I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
“No. I’d say that your asking is enough, but that’s pointless.” Matthew’s feathers rustled, flicking lightly against Neal. The sensation sent a shiver through him. Neal took a liberty and stroked the black plumage, tracing the arc where wing met skin.
Their breathing synchronized and Neal let the peace that was the wellspring of his being flow out of him, trying to ease the other’s torment. He said his name again, an inhalation and exhalation. “Matthew.”
“Neal, don’t.” But Matthew made no move to shake him off.
“Can I give you this?” Neal pressed a kiss where his fingers had traced. Matthew’s skin was warm, but the feathers were cool against his lips.
“Neal – “
“Please, Matthew. Let me.”
“I don’t need your pity.” Matthew growled.
“I don’t pity you. I grieve with you.” Neal kissed him again, just above a tattoo stain on his neck, then on a patch of clear skin behind his ear. “And I want to earn your forgiveness.”
Matthew didn’t respond to that, but he pushed his hips back a little, his ass brushing against Neal’s groin.
Neal kept kissing Matthew, trailing kisses along unstained skin. “Remember when you’d try to fly away; try to leave this place, this time?”
“You were always one wing beat behind me, Neal.”
“I know. Sometimes I wish we’d managed to escape.” Neal bit down on Matthew’s bicep, leaving teeth marks at the edge of one ugly stain. His fingers trailed across Matthew’s belly; they burned when he touched a tattoo, but he didn’t stop, he didn’t shy away.
“There’s no escape, Neal. I’ve learned that, to my sorrow. To my shame.”
“Unless we Fall.” Neal rocked his hips into Matthew’s ass, his cock growing hard.
“I didn’t want to make the sacrifice.” That last word was a sob and Matthew’s wings fluttered around Neal, almost encasing him.
Neal reveled in the silky coolness, the darkness that was so essentially Matthew. “I know.” His fingers found the closure on Matthew’s trousers, pulling the tie loose. His hand snaked under the waistband, burning a little as his wrist brushed against one of those poisonous stains. But there was no burn as he wrapped his hand around Matthew’s dick. It throbbed and leaped at his touch and those dark wings fluttered again.
“Neal, please…” Matthew turned his face towards him and Neal captured his mouth. The position was awkward, uncomfortable, but Neal wouldn’t be deterred. Matthew tasted like bitterness, like thwarted joy, like aching loneliness, and Neal almost cried.
He broke the kiss to whisper, “Forgive me.”
This time, Matthew replied, “Always.”
Neal wrapped his free arm around Matthew’s waist and pulled him from the wall, down to the floor. He undid his own trousers and nestled his cock between the other man’s buttocks. It had been a long time since they’d done this and Neal needed to go slowly, to give Matthew as much pleasure as he could.
Matthew rocked back against him, sweat providing just enough lubrication to offset the friction. “Fuck me, Neal. Just fuck me.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You can’t – nothing you can do can hurt me.”
Neal knew that wasn’t the whole truth. Matthew meant that there was nothing he could do that could hurt him more than what was already killing him.
Matthew was on his hands and knees, his wings outstretched, thighs parted. “Do it, Neal. I need you.”
He hesitated, and Matthew repeated the demand. Neal spat into his palm and rubbed his cock before pressing it against Matthew’s hole. The contact sent a jolt through him, a bright memory of old pleasures, and he pushed forward. The path was slow, but he was relentless, inexorable. Matthew whined and pushed back, taking the last inch.
Neal paused, relishing the heat surrounding his cock and the coolness of feathers along his torso as he leaned against Matthew’s back. He rocked his hips, a teasing motion, and Matthew grunted, a sound of purest pleasure.
Neal reared back, his own wings snapping open, beating in time with his thrusts. His hands burned as they gripped flesh marked by Matthew’s torment. He didn’t know if the poison could transfer to him, but he didn’t care. This was Matthew, his friend and wing mate for so many years. His wings churned the air, lifting them aloft. Matthew’s wings beat, too, and their feathers tangled – bright and dark - and the pleasure was too much for Neal. He climaxed in Matthew, shouting his joy. Matthew’s cries followed soon after and they both collapsed to the cold, polished stone floor.
Neal pulled out of Matthew, hissing in painful pleasure. It wasn’t easy, but he managed to turn him over so they faced each other. Neal wanted to hold Matthew, he didn’t care about the pain that would bring, but Matthew held him at arm’s length. They lay there, staring at each other.
Matthew’s lips curled in a half-smile – a smirk, but his eyes were gentle, the anger that had glowed so hotly when Neal had first arrived was replaced by patient resignation. “You wanted something from me, and somehow I don’t think it was just my ass.”
“But your ass is so splendid.” Neal leaned in and kissed him, his tongue licking, questing – finding not the tang of bitterness, but the sharp sweetness of remembered joy.
Matthew kissed him back and Neal wondered what he tasted in him.
And despite Matthew’s arm holding him at a slight distance, Neal was pressing against him from shoulder to hip. The tattoos burned like fire, but he didn’t let Matthew pull away. He could bear this torment for a few more heartbeats.
Matthew finally bit his lip hard enough and Neal let go.
“You really are an idiot.”
Neal looked down at himself – his skin was red and would probably blister. When he looked at Matthew’s chest, he gasped. One of the tattoos, the one that had covered the left side of his chest, from collar bone to nipple, had retreated by two finger-widths.
Matthew touched the now-clear skin and shook his head. “Don’t read anything into this, Neal. It means nothing. I’m still damned.” He stood up and tied the closure on his trousers before holding out a hand to Neal.
As Neal redid his own clothing, he remembered that he had brought something for Matthew – he’d intended it as a bargaining tool but now realized how cruel that would be.
“What are you thinking?”
Neal looked up, abashed. “I have a gift for you, but I don’t know if you should have it.”
Matthew gave a huff of laughter. “You’re really something. As well as an idiot. Give it to me and I’ll give you what you came here for.”
Neal pulled a small mirror-like disc from his pocket. It was the size of his thumbnail, a piece of ancient technology that was so unnecessary elsewhere in a world where any transparent surface could access their other world – the world they watched over. But such surfaces were prohibited in Matthew’s cloister.
So, he brought this one thing – a small bit of storage – something to be used once and then spent in that usage. It wasn’t forbidden, not precisely.
“Neal?” Matthew looked at the disc in Neal’s palm. His fingers closed around the disc, but Matthew reached out and grabbed Neal’s wrist, forcing his fingers open.
He took the disc and held it up to the light.
“It was a mistake to bring it – “
Matthew gave him a sharp look, as if he suddenly realized what that disc held.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
Matthew didn’t say anything; he put the disc on a small ledge cut out of the stone wall and murmured a word.
Music filled the cavern, a brief glissando of harp strings before a single, plaintive voice began:
The singer was young, but her voice had the power to reach into the soul.
A sweet choir of sopranos wove in difficult harmony, supporting the soloist, never overpowering her. Neal watched Matthew, watched as grief overwhelmed him. The bass choir erupted in a burst of dissonance and Matthew fell to his knees, pounding his fists against the stone floor.
Neal knew he couldn’t go to his friend, that there was nothing he could do that would bring solace to him right now.
The music played on, the choirs battling between light and dark, between peace and war, and over everything, the soloist’s voice rose, a voice of hope and innocence.
The soprano’s voice faded, the timpani darkly echoing the martial line, and the piece ended. Silence reigned briefly, breaking under Matthew’s harsh sob.
“Of everything you could have given me, you had to give me this. Kate’s voice.” Matthew beat his fist against the floor again.
Neal swallowed and went to his friend, this time not knowing how to give comfort. “I’m sorry, Matthew. I’m so sorry.”
Matthew sobbed again and Neal rested his hand on the man’s shoulders – repeating the touch he’d given earlier, but with far different intent. “Tell me, if you can, tell me.”
Matthew shook out his wings, pushing Neal away in a wash of cool darkness. He didn’t retreat far, just to the wall where he’d placed the disc – now dissolved into a small pile of bright dust. He blew on it and it scattered, catching the light before falling into invisibility.
Neal joined him and they sat down again. Matthew sighed and shook his head. “This is what you came for, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Why do you need to know what happened?”
“Peter – “
“Your charge, that lone soul you’ve been watching over?”
“Yes.”
“Name. Names.” That was all Matthew said.
“As I said, this is his final turn. He ends with this cycle.” Neal didn’t hide his grief. “I can’t bear the thought of losing him.”
Matthew jumped up, wings arching back, the chain around his ankle clanking against the stone. He paced the length of the cavern once, twice. Neal watched and worried. But he said nothing.
Matthew returned to his side but didn’t sit down again. He stared at Neal, a wildness in his eyes. “You want to Fall?”
Neal nodded. “I can’t continue without him. They will want me to take on a new soul. Maybe more than one, but I can’t. Can you understand that?”
Matthew licked his lips. “You’re braver than I was. I didn’t want to Fall. I didn’t want to end everything. I wanted Kate and I wanted to live forever, too.”
“I know. You broke the Law.”
“But that’s not why I’m kept here.” Matthew shook his chain. “The Law you’re thinking of is meaningless. We’ve walked amongst the humans far more often than you’d imagine. Without penalty.”
“The Elders – “
“They have their reasons, some good, some unutterably stupid, for perpetuating the lie. But living amongst our charges without making the sacrifice and Falling isn’t the real crime.”
Neal felt himself shaking. “What did you do, Matthew?” Once again, the name rang with purpose through the stone.
“It isn’t sex, either. The Elders tell us that joining with the mortals will bring disaster – but that is a lie, too.”
“Then what is it?” Neal swallowed. He was, for the first time, afraid.
“We cannot speak their names, Neal.” His own name fell from Matthew’s lips and the sound was like a bright bell.
Neal felt a hint of understanding; it was there, but just beyond his grasp.
“When we say our charge’s name – the name they carry in their mortal life, we’re not just saying their name in this life. We are speaking the true name of their soul and when they hear it, it awakes every memory of every life they’ve ever lived, and every life they are supposed to live. Therein lies the madness. When I called her ‘Kate’, it was as if I was saying her true name in the Eternal tongue. If you call your charge ‘Peter,’ you will destroy him.”
Comprehension was devastating. “We speak their name and time shatters.”
“Yes, and nothing can repair that rift. All of their lives bleed through into a single instant and they are too frail, too fragile to cope with that.” Matthew gripped Neal's shoulders, his eyes pleading. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t. If I had, I wouldn’t have … Kate was everything to me. I couldn’t stay away from her, but if I’d known, if I’d known … “
He released Neal and paced back and forth, wings stirring the air. As Neal watched, the darkness on Matthew’s skin grew – the places where it had receded after Neal had touched him were again black. He screamed in agony, he screamed “Kate” and his wings beat the air in a futile attempt at flight.
An Archon, wearing the green tunic of a healer, entered the chamber. She injected something into Matthew’s belly and the blackness stopped growing, but it didn’t shrink back either. She turned to Neal. “You need to leave. Deep emotions empower the toxin. If he stays calm, he will have more time.” At that, she left as quietly as she arrived.
Rage turned Neal’s vision black. Whatever Matthew’s crimes were, this wasn’t a punishment he deserved.
Matthew stood there, panting and defeated. Neal didn’t want to leave, but clearly, he couldn’t stay. Slowly, deliberately, he placed his bare palm along the black stain on Matthew’s arm. He held it there despite the acid bite of pain.
Matthew reached up and gripped his wrist, holding him there for just a moment longer. “Thank you, Neal. For everything.”
Continue to Part II
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Artist:
kanarek13Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, June Ellington, Garrett Fowler, Reese Hughes, Matthew Keller, Mozzie, Clinton Jones, Diana Berrigan, mention of Kate Moreau, mention of Elizabeth Burke, mention of Satchmo, mention of Terrance Pratt, mention of James Bennett, original characters
Pairings: Pre-story Peter/Elizabeth, pre-story Peter/Hughes; Neal/Keller, Peter/Neal
Spoilers: Mention of canon events at the end of In the Wind (S4.16)
Warnings : Non-canon deaths of canon characters (all off-camera and pre-story): Elizabeth Burke, Satchmo, Kate Moreau, OMC
Word Count: Total ~50,000 / Part I - 8,500
Beta Credit:
coffeethyme4me, sinfulslasher Summary: Neal is an Archon, a ‘guardian angel’, who has been watching over the soul of Peter Burke for millennia. He’s learned that Peter’s soul will not be reborn into a new life, and cannot bear the thought that he will continue for eternity without Peter. So he decides to take the forbidden path: become mortal and spend the rest of his days watching over Peter and caring for him.
But he will need to make a sacrifice, and he will need to learn how to Fall.
A/N: The artwork that
kanarek13 has created has so blown past my wildest hopes and expectations. I am humbled by her generosity and awed by her creativity. Please don’t forget to go to her artwork post and look at all of the amazing pieces she’s created for this story and let her know just how wonderful she is.Carefully perched over the mirror pool, wings outspread to give balance, Neal viewed the lone soul he’d been caring for its entire existence. He watched as the soul – this time around, a man – hurried about his business, unaware that he was being observed. Or maybe he was aware? The man’s pace slowed and then stopped. He looked up and Neal was struck by the terrible weariness in the man’s eyes. But beyond the weariness was something else, a hunger, a need, his loneliness so bitter it was hard to comprehend. The man shook his head and shrugged, looking back at the ground as he moved on.
Neal watched and grieved, understanding that this soul’s time – in this body and forever after – was nearly up.
What he didn’t know was that he was being watched, too. The Elders of his kind, Archons, were monitoring his every moment.
They argued gently amongst themselves, as was their habit. “He does not know that his grief is unnecessary.”
“He has guarded that lone soul for an eternity. His grief is already too much to bear.”
“Is it? If he does not grieve, then the sacrifice is meaningless.”
The Elders sighed collectively and continued their debate.
“The time is almost up.”
“Almost, but not yet. The cycle is not yet complete.”
“No, but it is not really a cycle, is it? This soul is approaching its endpoint – it has become tangled, impaired. There will be no rebirth, no new flowering into that life. He knows that.”
“But he does not know all of it. He does not remember what he did. He does not know why this is happening.”
One of the Elders noted, “And that is only part of the price he is paying for his repeated interference.”
Another replied, “He has always been too attached to that soul. Maybe if he had been required to watch over others, this tragedy might not have happened. It would be better if he had been able to keep some distance, some perspective.”
The Elder called June spoke for the first time. “Better for whom? Not for his charge, not for the greater good of us all. It is Neal’s grief that makes you uncomfortable."
The other Elders’ wings fluttered; a sign of reluctant agreement. “Yes. It feels … unnatural.”
June replied, “It is not unnatural. Merely unfamiliar. It has been a long time since this happened. And it has been a very long time since you have allowed yourself to feel so strongly about anything.”
“It is a mistake. It should not have been allowed to flourish.”
“Since when is a new life a mistake?” June’s words, though softly spoken, rang like bells through the stone chamber.
None of the other Elders answered.
“I will guide him.”
“You cannot interfere. Foreknowledge will destroy him.”
“I know.” The rustle of wings punctuated June's irritation. “It will be his choice. And when he makes that choice – of his own free will – he will need to know what to do. He will need guidance.”
The other Elders nodded and gave their assent. But not without a caveat. “Neal must understand that what comes next cannot be stolen, it can only be earned.”
Peter scrubbed his eyes; they were bleary and refused to focus. He ran his hand down his face – the scruff on his cheeks was an unpleasant sensation. It felt like he hadn’t showered or shaved in a month. He felt grimy, dried out and used up. “How much longer are we going to keep at this?”
“You don’t like being on the other side of the interrogation table, do you?”
Peter glared at the OPR agent, Garrett Fowler. He’d been grilling him for what seemed like days. “No, I don’t.”
“Then the sooner you answer my questions, the sooner we can all go home.” Fowler gave him a twisted smile.
“I’ve been answering your questions.”
“But I haven’t found your answers satisfactory, Burke. Let’s start from the top, okay?”
Peter tried not to sigh in disgust. They’d been through this a dozen times and he knew that they’d go through it a dozen more times, and maybe even a dozen more times after that. Fowler was trying to break him, trying to crack his story, to trip him up with inconsistencies.
“When did you first meet Senator Terrance Pratt?”
“He came to the office about twelve weeks ago, at my request.”
“Why did you ask a U.S. Senator to visit the FBI?”
“As I’ve already told you, Senator Pratt was part of a paper trail authorizing the transfer of a prisoner from Federal custody over to the New York City prison system. The man was killed on the trip from the Metropolitan Correctional Center to Rikers.”
“And you thought, what, that the senator was involved?” Fowler scoffed.
“His name was linked to someone who had interfered with the focus of a Federal investigation, and I thought it was a line that needed pursuing. His office told me that he was coming to New York for a meeting and I requested that he stop by the office if it was convenient. I would have made the trip to DC if he hadn’t come to see me.”
“Explain how you tied Senator Pratt to your prisoner’s transfer.”
Peter told himself not to lose his patience, to just explain again – as if it was the first time – that someone from Pratt’s office had contacted the Manhattan Correctional Center to arrange the transfer.
“Someone? Not the Senator himself?”
“The records show that the fax originated from a number assigned to his office at the Dirksen Senate Office Building.”
“But you couldn’t prove that the Senator himself ordered the transfer?”
“No, his signature was not on the paperwork.”
“Whose signature was on the paperwork?”
“That’s not clear.”
“So, you spent your time chasing after a U.S. Senator instead of investigating why the jail transferred the prisoner without proper authorizations.”
“I wouldn’t say I was chasing after Senator Pratt. His office said he’d be in New York and I asked if it was possible to talk with him. Nothing more than that – no demands were made. It was a courteous request for a meeting. And with regards to investigating the decision to make the transfer, my team had been interviewing the prison personnel who signed off on their end of the transfer, but they’ve been shut out. The Bureau of Prisons has taken over the investigation.”
Fowler’s aide, a man introduced only as Maurice, whispered something in his boss’ ear. Fowler finally asked a question that he hadn’t already asked a dozen other ways. “Did you consider that someone might have spoofed the header on the fax that was sent?”
Peter laughed; he had to at the arrant stupidity of the question. “Yes, of course we did. The telephone records from the Dirksen Office Building confirmed that there was a fax transmission from the Senator’s office to the Metropolitan Correctional Center that matches the timestamp on the fax’s header.”
Fowler shot a look of annoyance at Maurice. This effort to trip him up had failed. “Back to your investigation of Senator Pratt. At what point did you decide to make him a target of a Federal investigation?”
“A CI had provided us with information that linked Pratt’s early career in the D.C. police department to the family of the man who was murdered during the transfer.”
“A CI?” Fowler flipped through a case file. “That information is surprisingly absent from your reports. Why?”
“I was worried about a leak from inside the Bureau.”
“Yet you didn’t contact OPR.”
“No, I didn’t.” Peter didn’t need to elaborate. Fowler would make the connection without him having to hold his hand and lead him to the obvious conclusion.
“Care to give me the name of your CI?” The question was casually asked, but the interest behind it was far from casual.
“No.” On this, Peter was adamant.
“Seriously, Burke – you’re not helping your own case. You have suspicions about a leak at the FBI and you don’t report it to the people who are responsible for handling internal corruption issues. You open an investigation based on the word of a CI, a CI who doesn’t seem to exist outside of your word. A U.S. Senator was killed by a bullet fired from your gun and I’m supposed to believe that you weren’t in some way responsible?”
Peter knew he was responsible for Pratt’s death, even though he didn’t kill him. But he certainly wasn’t going to admit that. “Believe what you want, Fowler.”
“That’s a stretch, even for you. There are too many connections between you and Pratt that I can’t explain unless you help me.” Fowler was the voice of reason now. “I’m trying to keep you out of jail, Burke.”
“Really? It seems like you’re the one trying to put me there.” This time, Peter let his irritation show.
Fowler leaned back in his chair, a look of smug satisfaction on his face. “I’m here to do a job. I have no axe to grind.”
Peter didn’t believe that. Garrett Fowler was someone’s tool and he was an effective one at that. But he had no badge, no authority, and no way to find out who was pulling the strings.
The questioning went on, hour after hour after hour. Fowler started digging through his past, his record from his earliest years with the Bureau.
“This isn’t the first time someone was killed with a bullet from your gun, was it, Burke?”
Peter finally called a halt. “This is getting abusive. I agreed to this interview because I want to clear my name, but unless you plan to charge me and read me my rights, we’re done.”
“We’re done when I say we’re done, Burke. And not a moment before.”
“Seriously? You are seriously trying to play the heavy here?” Peter had to laugh. “If you want to go that route, I’ll call my attorney and you’ll get nothing further from me without her present. I’ve cooperated and I’ll continue to cooperate, but for tonight, I’m done.”
“You call this cooperating when you won’t name your CI?”
“I have told you over and over, the name of my confidential informant isn’t relevant to the investigation into Senator Pratt’s death. But if you want to challenge the propriety of my own investigation, then you’re going to have a fight on your hands.” Peter stood up and went to the door.
“This is far from over, Burke.”
Peter paused and turned. “I don’t doubt that.”
Neal watched the soul that was called Peter Burke in this life. He watched and grieved. And in his grief, he spun out the inevitable arguments that the Elders would make.
“Soon, your vigilance will be unnecessary. You will need to choose another to care for.”
“No.” As he uttered the word, Neal knew that the simple denial would not have the force to change the inevitable. “I do not want to watch over anyone else.” Neal's whole being rang with purpose. “When Peter ends, so do I.”
He could imagine the shocked, horrified tones of the Elders, their wings rustling in agitation, in rare anger. “You know that is forbidden. You cannot make that choice. You go on, you are eternal.”
“He was supposed to be eternal, too.”
“We never know the complete destiny of a soul. Some souls are eternal, some are finite.”
He didn’t want to accept that. It seemed too easy, to facile an explanation. And no matter how understanding, how sympathetic the Elders were, they could not ease his grief. There were rules and laws. The chief of which was, “You cannot interfere.”
“And what if I do?” Neal had to test the limits, he needed to know. There were legends and myths. And there were truths.
“Then it is over – for you and for him. Forever. You cannot do this, Neal. You cannot interfere and you cannot change what will happen.”
Neal continued his imaginary argument. “The future is mutable. If it isn’t, then we have no point in our own existence.”
His imaginary interlocutor had no answer.
Neal continued that thought. “We are creatures of free will, just as those we watch over.”
“And that is why you cannot interfere.”
“That is the paradox of life, is it not?” Neal said, more to himself.
“Do not do this, Neal. You need to accept the inevitable.”
“How can I?” Heartsick, Neal didn’t want to continue this argument, even just in the confines of his mind. He had plans to set into motion.
Falling wasn’t going be easy. He first had to discover how.
Peter let himself into the house, and the stillness hit him like a fist. Five years and he still couldn’t get used to the emptiness. The place was clean, but slightly disorganized. It was the house of a man who lived alone after too many years of living with someone.
After it happened, they came through and cleaned up, took care of things. Her shoes with their ridiculous high heels that always seemed to accumulate on the steps, her makeup scattered on the dressing table because she’d been in too much of a rush that morning to put it away. Her towel, still damp from the shower that morning, draped across the foot of their bed.
It was all gone. And it sometimes felt as if she’d never been there at all.
No, not she. Elizabeth.
He relived the worst moments of his life every time he walked through the front door. That night was like every other night, just like that one fateful night years ago when he had come home, calling out, “Hon, I’m home.” But his wife hadn't been upstairs – at least not his wife as he had known her. He’d wasted precious moments going through the mail piled on the front table, checking the machine for messages. Nothing had seemed out of the ordinary until Peter whistled for Satchmo. The dog, to his surprise, hadn’t come running like he normally did.
There had been a bowl still half-filled with kibble and that had worried Peter. Satchmo was a Labrador retriever, and the only thing he loved more than playing fetch was eating; nothing ever distracted him from his dinner. Peter had called for the dog again and listened carefully. There had been a slight whimper.
Peter had run upstairs, finding Satchmo at the master bedroom door, crying and pawing at the closed door. Peter had rushed inside.
Elizabeth had been on the floor, her eyes wide open, arms awkwardly flung outwards, half dressed and with her suit jacket clutched in her hand.
There hadn't been a mark on her.
The coroner’s report had said that Elizabeth had suffered a massive heart attack, and likely had died before she’d hit the floor. She hadn’t suffered, they said – as if Peter could take comfort from that. His wife was dead. The best part of his life was gone and Peter couldn’t help but wonder if the life he had with Elizabeth had been simply a dream, a fantasy spun out by the electrochemical process in his brain. That his reality was a singularity of loneliness.
Out of habit, he put his keys into the brass bowl on the front table and picked the mail up from the floor. There was nothing of importance – a few bills, a bunch of menus from takeout places in the neighborhood, an offer from the cable company to switch services.
Peter tossed out everything but the bills – those he’d take care of over the weekend. He headed into the kitchen with the vague idea of having something more nutritious than microwave Chinese food for dinner. But there was nothing in the fridge except two bottles of beer, a bag of coffee, a half a jar of mayo, some ancient ketchup, and a single sprouted onion.
He took one of the bottles and ignored the contents of the freezer. It was a nice night, probably one of the last before autumn truly set in. He could go sit out on the front stoop and watch the world go by or head into the backyard and try to find some peace for his unquiet soul.
Peter did neither. He sat down on the couch and stared into nothingness. The bottle of beer warmed in his grip. He might have sat there for hours, letting the events of the past six weeks play out in his head, but the doorbell rang, breaking his reverie. He wondered if it was someone from Fowler’s crew at OPR coming to arrest him, on god only knew what trumped-up charges.
But it wasn’t Maurice or Fisher or Castle. It was an old friend, someone he once trusted with his life, someone he cared for in ways too complex to explain. Someone whose appearance now sent sour notes through his gut.
Peter opened the door, but didn’t let his visitor come in. “Reese? What brings you to Brooklyn?”
“Would you believe me if I said I was in the area?”
Peter just stared at his former boss and mentor. His friend. “No I wouldn’t. Who sent you?”
“No one sent me.” Reese shook his head. “Don’t be an idiot, Peter. Can I come in?”
He wasn’t willing to let the man in just yet. “When did you start wearing a Rolex?” Peter noted the heavy steel timepiece on Reese’s wrist.
“It was a retirement present from David.”
Peter just raised an eyebrow at that obvious lie. Reese’s partner was not the sentimental type. Besides, he’d seen and used too many of those “Rolexes” to be fooled by the one on Reese's wrist.
Reese made a face and sighed in exasperation. “What? Do you want me to take it off and leave it in my car?”
Peter sighed, realizing how ridiculous his behavior was. “No, what I really want to know is why you’re here.”
“Can’t I pay a visit to a friend I’m worried about?”
“You can, but your timing’s very convenient. Did Fowler send you?”
Reese’s eyebrows went soaring. “Fowler? That incompetent jackass? I wouldn’t take orders from him if he was appointed Director. You know me better than that.”
Peter certainly did. But he wasn’t giving an inch. “But who are you taking orders from?” He still barred the door with his arm.
“No one. I’m here as your friend.” Reese gave him a level look. “We go back too far and know each other too well. I care about you, Peter.”
Peter didn’t think for a moment that he hadn’t been sent by anyone, but he did accept Reese’s contempt for Fowler. And he knew that Reese cared about him – he’d helped him survive the early months after Elizabeth’s death. He took his arm down and gestured for the man to come in. “I can offer you a beer, that’s it.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Peter picked up his untouched bottle, retrieved the last long-neck from the refrigerator and went out to the tiny patio. Even though it was early October and the mosquitos had long since died, he turned on the bug zapper. He’d learned that the small device did a nice job of interfering with radio transmissions and digital recordings. If his friend had gone old school and was wearing a tape recorder, there was nothing he could do about that. Not that he was going to say anything useful to anyone.
“You don’t trust me, Peter?”
“I trust no one, not even you.” That was the truth these days.
Reese took a sip of beer and stared at him over the bottle. “Wise, but no one sent me. It’s been a long time since I’ve done the Bureau’s bidding. There’s not a lot of love left between us.” He’d been forced into retirement a second time when their Section Chief decided to play politics.
“But the Bureau was never really your first love, was it?”
Reese’s lips turned up in a slight grin. “I’ll give you that.”
It hit Peter like the proverbial ton of bricks and he wondered how he could have been so damn clueless not to realize why his friend was paying him a visit. It had nothing to do with gathering intelligence for OPR and everything to do with his future. Reese Hughes was an old, cold warrior – a relic of a time when threats spoke in Slavic languages. He might have carried an FBI agent’s gold shield, but he’d once worked for another agency, too. He probably still worked for them. As far as Peter knew, the NSA had no mandatory retirement age. Reese was recruiting and Peter was having none of it. “No.”
“No, what?” It might have been phrased as a question, but Reese clearly didn’t need an answer.
“You know what I mean. That’s not the path for me.”
“Are you certain?” The question was gently asked; a testing of the waters.
Peter nodded, unwilling to verbalize his feelings on the subject.
Reese didn’t give up, though. “You would fit right in. It wouldn’t be that much of a change, really. You’d be brilliant.”
“Don’t tell me you’re operating under the delusion that one government bureaucracy is the same as another. They aren’t. You owe your allegiance to a different set of rules. I can’t live my life under those strictures.”
“Why not?” Now Reese seemed puzzled.
“What do you mean, why not?”
Reese’s voice went soft. “Who would you need to tell?”
Peter closed his eyes. The answer to that question was a shot through the heart. He had no wife to share that secret with. His friends were mostly ones that had he’d made because of Elizabeth and they’d drifted away after her death. He didn’t really socialize with his colleagues. His monthly poker games were a relic of a happier past. Reese and his partner David were his only real friends.
Truth was, he had no one in his life, even casually. He worked, came home, ate and slept and repeated the cycle again the next day. Weekends that he wasn’t working meant he didn’t have to talk to anyone.
“I’m an FBI agent. It’s all I really ever wanted to be.”
Reese didn’t answer, but the compassion in his eyes spoke volumes.
Peter sighed, hearing what wasn’t being said. “What do you know?”
A lot, apparently. His old friend shook his head. “I’m sorry, Peter.”
“I’m not getting my badge back, right?”
Reese apologized again. “I am sorry. I know how much this hurts.”
“So, no matter what I say, the outcome of the OPR investigation is a foregone conclusion, right? They’re going to hang me for Pratt’s death, even though the shooter is in custody.”
Reese just nodded. “Unless you give them the source of the information you had on Pratt and Bennett and the Flynns.”
“I won’t do that. I can’t do that.”
“Then they’ll take your badge, Peter. Pratt’s death opened up a can of worms and the Bureau is looking for someone to blame.”
“If I resign, then what? Will they accept a sacrifice instead?”
Hughes’ answer was just what he expected. “If you retire, the case will be dropped. And like all retirees, you’ll get a notice of commendation from the Director and a letter from the President thanking you for your service. There won’t be any negative marks on your record from the Pratt debacle. You have your twenty, your pension’s secured and you’ll have the rest of your life in front of you.”
“So, if I play nice and resign, the Bureau will sweep Pratt’s death under the rug. But that won’t wipe away the stain of his murder on my soul.”
“You didn’t kill him, Peter.”
“But my gun did. He was there because I was investigating him.”
“No, Peter. Pratt was there trying to interfere with your investigation because he was tipped off by Calloway. She put this into play. Your evidence was solid.”
Peter shrugged. It was, but he wasn’t going to talk about it. He still had some sense of self-preservation left. “I’ll think about what you’ve told me.” That was all he could say.
“And think about the other thing, too. Promise me?” Reese placed a hand over his, a rare physical gesture these days.
He gave Reese a wry smile, reached over and turned off the bug zapper. He didn’t care who was listening. Nothing mattered anymore.
Falling wasn’t going to be easy. Neal didn’t have the slightest idea how to accomplish this near-mythical action. All he knew was that it required a sacrifice. His immortality, at the very least.
And his wings, for certain.
It made sense that it was difficult and secret, because if it wasn't, “heaven” would be empty of its “angels.” Neal smiled at that thought. This place – call it a realm, a dimension, a sphere if you wanted to be poetical – was not heaven, as if such a place existed. And “angel” was a mortal concept, born of accidental sightings of his kind, the Archons. It had been millennia since those sightings, but those stories were infamy to the Elders, one of the greatest breaches of their law.
Neal wandered through his aerie, the cavernous space where he had made his home. He was restless, worried. For the past few days, the Elders had been keeping too close a watch on him, lest he take the forbidden step. It was his own fault, for so vocally championing his charge’s existence in the face of an inevitable end.
But the Elders’ vigilance seemed to wane at last. The eyes that had been on him were now focused elsewhere.
Neal went over to his mirror pool, the point of focus he’d been using for so many human generations to watch over the soul now called Peter.
Most of his kind took on the responsibility for several souls, watching over them with casual intent. Neal, however, had elected guardianship of just one soul. Maybe that was why the idea of Peter’s ending was cutting into him.
Even if the Elders didn’t tell him, soon enough there would be a new soul that needed his guardianship. Neal didn’t want a new soul, he wanted Peter. And after so many generations, so many births and deaths and rebirths, so much watching and gently influencing, wanting was more than a cold and intellectual exercise. This wanting was hot, it was perverse, it made his blood sing, his wings shiver in the still air.
It made him reckless.
Neal knew that this wanting was wrong. Not that his kind didn’t want like this – he had a cock and balls and the will to use them, but congress between human and Archon was expressly forbidden. Unless he Fell.
With a wave of his hand, Peter appeared in the clear, still surface. Neal’s wings snapped back and his whole body quivered. Peter was naked, wet from a shower. The mirror pool in his aerie was a portal that linked to glass in the mortal realm, and while Neal could watch his charge through any reflective surface, his favorite was a mirror in Peter’s bathroom.
In this cycle, he’d observed Peter as he grew from an infant to a child to a well-built young man to this mature specimen. It hadn’t always been like this. Sometimes Peter was female, sometimes disease or disaster or bad luck took him from the living before he could grow into the promise of his soul. It wasn’t his responsibility to keep Peter alive, but to provide some subtle influence over the choices he made. Neal had grieved for each life cut off before it reached its potential.
He couldn’t articulate why Peter, in this particular life, drew him, why he made him feel things he shouldn’t, have thoughts that were contrary to the very nature of his kind. Neal knew of only one other Archon who had crossed the very bright line and had taken a mortal, his own charge, as a lover. He did not Fall, he did not make a sacrifice, and the results had been devastating.
The woman had lived, but she had been broken in mind, her soul bleeding and spent from the damage her Archon had inflicted. When she died, madness overtaking her, raving about angels and demons and the babies that had been stolen from her – babies with black wings and gold eyes – her soul ended. The bright spark that had been sustained in life and reborn from age to age had guttered and extinguished.
The perpetrator of this horror did not go unpunished. Matthew was brought back and kept chained in one of the highest caverns in the highest mountains. And as if the chains weren’t enough to keep him confined, his flight feathers had been pulled and the follicles cauterized so they’d never grow back.
In the time before they’d taken on souls to guard, Neal had once called Matthew friend. They had ridden thermals together, flying higher and higher, pressing through layers of the atmosphere until there was almost no air – almost. Matthew used to ask, ‘what is the point of immortality if you never challenge life itself?’ He’d laugh; his black wings and blacker eyes taunting Neal. It was always a competition between them, Matthew pushing him to ride the edge. They’d fly until ice crystalized on the edges of their wings, their blood started to boil in the near-vacuum of space.
Then he’d fold his wings and plunge back into the world, Neal right behind him – a hand outstretched as if he were trying to catch Matthew to keep him from falling.
Now, countless centuries later, the irony of that didn’t escape Neal.
Matthew’s prison wasn’t hard to reach, nor was it particularly well-guarded. A few Archons patrolled the cliff, their sole purpose to make sure that Matthew didn’t leave, not to keep anyone from entering.
Neal nodded to one of the guards and made his way into the cavern where Matthew had lived for centuries.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my old friend, Neal.” Matthew paced out the length of his chain. “It’s been a while.”
Neal tried to hide his shock at Matthew’s appearance. He was fit and trim – that would never change – but tattoos decorated his upper body like dark stains. “Yes, it has.”
“I’ve lost track of the years, but I think this is your first visit in, what, forever?”
Neal could almost taste the bitterness in Matthew’s words. “I’ve been busy.”
“Busy, yes … watching over your lone charge. Spending every moment of every day watching that soul through the mirror pools, trying to force your will into it.”
“You, of all of us, should know that’s not how it works.”
“Aww, Neal – still so naive.” Matthew’s look was one of contempt. “What brings you here?”
On the flight, Neal had thought about disguising his reasons for this visit, but Matthew was smart and he’d exploit any lie. Neal knew Matthew well enough to expect that an appeal to his old friend’s sense of superiority might just work.
It also helped that he didn’t come empty handed.
“I need your help.”
Matthew rocked back on his heels. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“No.”
“You forget about me. I’m consigned to this flightless, soulless hell and you have the nerve to come here and ask for my assistance? You haven’t even spoken my name.” Matthew’s wings flexed with barely controlled rage, brushing against the polished walls.
“I never forgot about you, Matthew.” Neal’s voice was quiet, but those last two syllables rang out like thunder.
Matthew settled down on a bench, his wings folded against his back. He stared at Neal, unblinking. Neal tried not to flinch under that dark gaze.
“Tell me about the world. My view, now, is … limited.”
Neal didn’t think his friend was talking about their fellow Archons; little changed from millennia to millennia. He looked around; there was no mirror pool, no glass, nothing transparent through which Matthew could see the mortal realm. “Chaos still reigns. They struggle for peace but commit horrific acts of war. As a species, they are without hope, but as a collection of individuals, they are triumphant.”
“And so, nothing has changed.” Matthew gave him a level look. “And your charge? How is it?”
Neal looked away, but apparently not quick enough. Matthew saw the grief in his eyes. “Peter, the soul’s name this cycle is Peter. And his time is ending. This is his last cycle. That soul will not be reborn.”
Matthew leaned back in shock. “No, no – that’s not supposed to happen.”
Neal slumped, wings dragging in grief as he heard his own words. “But it is – I can feel his ending with every heartbeat. This is his last cycle.”
Matthew reached out and placed a hand over his. Neal almost broke from the unexpected compassion. “They taught us not to love, but how can we not?”
“Others manage.” Neal took a deep breath and tried to steady himself. “Maybe this is my fault, maybe if I’d been less stubborn, if I’d done as the Elders asked...”
“You? Follow orders? Not likely.” A smile curved Matthew’s lips, and from the look of it, that was a rare expression.
They sat companionably and Neal gave into a sudden need. He rested his head against his friend’s shoulder, only to be pushed away violently. He fell to the floor. It wasn’t his ass that hurt, but his cheek, where it had touched Matthew’s skin.
“Matthew?” Neal rubbed his face, not understanding the pain.
“You’re an idiot.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you think these marks are meaningless?” Matthew stood over him, wings flared. He gestured at the tattoos on his torso, his shoulder. “They are poison, they are my punishment. My torment.”
Neal was horrified.
“But it’s nothing less than I deserve.” Matthew turned away, resting his head against the wall. “This chain –” He shook his foot and the silver rattled almost musically, “is just for show. If I leave, I won’t have access to the antidote. These marks will complete themselves and my immortality will end.”
Neal got up and went over to him. He carefully rested his hand on unstained skin. “Matthew – I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
“No. I’d say that your asking is enough, but that’s pointless.” Matthew’s feathers rustled, flicking lightly against Neal. The sensation sent a shiver through him. Neal took a liberty and stroked the black plumage, tracing the arc where wing met skin.
Their breathing synchronized and Neal let the peace that was the wellspring of his being flow out of him, trying to ease the other’s torment. He said his name again, an inhalation and exhalation. “Matthew.”
“Neal, don’t.” But Matthew made no move to shake him off.
“Can I give you this?” Neal pressed a kiss where his fingers had traced. Matthew’s skin was warm, but the feathers were cool against his lips.
“Neal – “
“Please, Matthew. Let me.”
“I don’t need your pity.” Matthew growled.
“I don’t pity you. I grieve with you.” Neal kissed him again, just above a tattoo stain on his neck, then on a patch of clear skin behind his ear. “And I want to earn your forgiveness.”
Matthew didn’t respond to that, but he pushed his hips back a little, his ass brushing against Neal’s groin.
Neal kept kissing Matthew, trailing kisses along unstained skin. “Remember when you’d try to fly away; try to leave this place, this time?”
“You were always one wing beat behind me, Neal.”
“I know. Sometimes I wish we’d managed to escape.” Neal bit down on Matthew’s bicep, leaving teeth marks at the edge of one ugly stain. His fingers trailed across Matthew’s belly; they burned when he touched a tattoo, but he didn’t stop, he didn’t shy away.
“There’s no escape, Neal. I’ve learned that, to my sorrow. To my shame.”
“Unless we Fall.” Neal rocked his hips into Matthew’s ass, his cock growing hard.
“I didn’t want to make the sacrifice.” That last word was a sob and Matthew’s wings fluttered around Neal, almost encasing him.
Neal reveled in the silky coolness, the darkness that was so essentially Matthew. “I know.” His fingers found the closure on Matthew’s trousers, pulling the tie loose. His hand snaked under the waistband, burning a little as his wrist brushed against one of those poisonous stains. But there was no burn as he wrapped his hand around Matthew’s dick. It throbbed and leaped at his touch and those dark wings fluttered again.
“Neal, please…” Matthew turned his face towards him and Neal captured his mouth. The position was awkward, uncomfortable, but Neal wouldn’t be deterred. Matthew tasted like bitterness, like thwarted joy, like aching loneliness, and Neal almost cried.
He broke the kiss to whisper, “Forgive me.”
This time, Matthew replied, “Always.”
Neal wrapped his free arm around Matthew’s waist and pulled him from the wall, down to the floor. He undid his own trousers and nestled his cock between the other man’s buttocks. It had been a long time since they’d done this and Neal needed to go slowly, to give Matthew as much pleasure as he could.
Matthew rocked back against him, sweat providing just enough lubrication to offset the friction. “Fuck me, Neal. Just fuck me.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You can’t – nothing you can do can hurt me.”
Neal knew that wasn’t the whole truth. Matthew meant that there was nothing he could do that could hurt him more than what was already killing him.
Matthew was on his hands and knees, his wings outstretched, thighs parted. “Do it, Neal. I need you.”
He hesitated, and Matthew repeated the demand. Neal spat into his palm and rubbed his cock before pressing it against Matthew’s hole. The contact sent a jolt through him, a bright memory of old pleasures, and he pushed forward. The path was slow, but he was relentless, inexorable. Matthew whined and pushed back, taking the last inch.
Neal paused, relishing the heat surrounding his cock and the coolness of feathers along his torso as he leaned against Matthew’s back. He rocked his hips, a teasing motion, and Matthew grunted, a sound of purest pleasure.
Neal reared back, his own wings snapping open, beating in time with his thrusts. His hands burned as they gripped flesh marked by Matthew’s torment. He didn’t know if the poison could transfer to him, but he didn’t care. This was Matthew, his friend and wing mate for so many years. His wings churned the air, lifting them aloft. Matthew’s wings beat, too, and their feathers tangled – bright and dark - and the pleasure was too much for Neal. He climaxed in Matthew, shouting his joy. Matthew’s cries followed soon after and they both collapsed to the cold, polished stone floor.
Neal pulled out of Matthew, hissing in painful pleasure. It wasn’t easy, but he managed to turn him over so they faced each other. Neal wanted to hold Matthew, he didn’t care about the pain that would bring, but Matthew held him at arm’s length. They lay there, staring at each other.
Matthew’s lips curled in a half-smile – a smirk, but his eyes were gentle, the anger that had glowed so hotly when Neal had first arrived was replaced by patient resignation. “You wanted something from me, and somehow I don’t think it was just my ass.”
“But your ass is so splendid.” Neal leaned in and kissed him, his tongue licking, questing – finding not the tang of bitterness, but the sharp sweetness of remembered joy.
Matthew kissed him back and Neal wondered what he tasted in him.
And despite Matthew’s arm holding him at a slight distance, Neal was pressing against him from shoulder to hip. The tattoos burned like fire, but he didn’t let Matthew pull away. He could bear this torment for a few more heartbeats.
Matthew finally bit his lip hard enough and Neal let go.
“You really are an idiot.”
Neal looked down at himself – his skin was red and would probably blister. When he looked at Matthew’s chest, he gasped. One of the tattoos, the one that had covered the left side of his chest, from collar bone to nipple, had retreated by two finger-widths.
Matthew touched the now-clear skin and shook his head. “Don’t read anything into this, Neal. It means nothing. I’m still damned.” He stood up and tied the closure on his trousers before holding out a hand to Neal.
As Neal redid his own clothing, he remembered that he had brought something for Matthew – he’d intended it as a bargaining tool but now realized how cruel that would be.
“What are you thinking?”
Neal looked up, abashed. “I have a gift for you, but I don’t know if you should have it.”
Matthew gave a huff of laughter. “You’re really something. As well as an idiot. Give it to me and I’ll give you what you came here for.”
Neal pulled a small mirror-like disc from his pocket. It was the size of his thumbnail, a piece of ancient technology that was so unnecessary elsewhere in a world where any transparent surface could access their other world – the world they watched over. But such surfaces were prohibited in Matthew’s cloister.
So, he brought this one thing – a small bit of storage – something to be used once and then spent in that usage. It wasn’t forbidden, not precisely.
“Neal?” Matthew looked at the disc in Neal’s palm. His fingers closed around the disc, but Matthew reached out and grabbed Neal’s wrist, forcing his fingers open.
He took the disc and held it up to the light.
“It was a mistake to bring it – “
Matthew gave him a sharp look, as if he suddenly realized what that disc held.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
Matthew didn’t say anything; he put the disc on a small ledge cut out of the stone wall and murmured a word.
Music filled the cavern, a brief glissando of harp strings before a single, plaintive voice began:
Adonai ro-i, lo eḥsar.
Bin’ot deshe yarbitseini,
Al mei m’nuḥot y’nahaleini,
Naf’shi y’shovev,
Yan’ḥeini b’ma’aglei tsedek,
L’ma’an sh’mo.
Bin’ot deshe yarbitseini,
Al mei m’nuḥot y’nahaleini,
Naf’shi y’shovev,
Yan’ḥeini b’ma’aglei tsedek,
L’ma’an sh’mo.
The singer was young, but her voice had the power to reach into the soul.
A sweet choir of sopranos wove in difficult harmony, supporting the soloist, never overpowering her. Neal watched Matthew, watched as grief overwhelmed him. The bass choir erupted in a burst of dissonance and Matthew fell to his knees, pounding his fists against the stone floor.
Neal knew he couldn’t go to his friend, that there was nothing he could do that would bring solace to him right now.
The music played on, the choirs battling between light and dark, between peace and war, and over everything, the soloist’s voice rose, a voice of hope and innocence.
Ach tov vaḥesed
Yird’funi kol y’mei ḥayai
V’shav’ti b’veit Adonai
L’orech yamim
Yird’funi kol y’mei ḥayai
V’shav’ti b’veit Adonai
L’orech yamim
The soprano’s voice faded, the timpani darkly echoing the martial line, and the piece ended. Silence reigned briefly, breaking under Matthew’s harsh sob.
“Of everything you could have given me, you had to give me this. Kate’s voice.” Matthew beat his fist against the floor again.
Neal swallowed and went to his friend, this time not knowing how to give comfort. “I’m sorry, Matthew. I’m so sorry.”
Matthew sobbed again and Neal rested his hand on the man’s shoulders – repeating the touch he’d given earlier, but with far different intent. “Tell me, if you can, tell me.”
Matthew shook out his wings, pushing Neal away in a wash of cool darkness. He didn’t retreat far, just to the wall where he’d placed the disc – now dissolved into a small pile of bright dust. He blew on it and it scattered, catching the light before falling into invisibility.
Neal joined him and they sat down again. Matthew sighed and shook his head. “This is what you came for, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Why do you need to know what happened?”
“Peter – “
“Your charge, that lone soul you’ve been watching over?”
“Yes.”
“Name. Names.” That was all Matthew said.
“As I said, this is his final turn. He ends with this cycle.” Neal didn’t hide his grief. “I can’t bear the thought of losing him.”
Matthew jumped up, wings arching back, the chain around his ankle clanking against the stone. He paced the length of the cavern once, twice. Neal watched and worried. But he said nothing.
Matthew returned to his side but didn’t sit down again. He stared at Neal, a wildness in his eyes. “You want to Fall?”
Neal nodded. “I can’t continue without him. They will want me to take on a new soul. Maybe more than one, but I can’t. Can you understand that?”
Matthew licked his lips. “You’re braver than I was. I didn’t want to Fall. I didn’t want to end everything. I wanted Kate and I wanted to live forever, too.”
“I know. You broke the Law.”
“But that’s not why I’m kept here.” Matthew shook his chain. “The Law you’re thinking of is meaningless. We’ve walked amongst the humans far more often than you’d imagine. Without penalty.”
“The Elders – “
“They have their reasons, some good, some unutterably stupid, for perpetuating the lie. But living amongst our charges without making the sacrifice and Falling isn’t the real crime.”
Neal felt himself shaking. “What did you do, Matthew?” Once again, the name rang with purpose through the stone.
“It isn’t sex, either. The Elders tell us that joining with the mortals will bring disaster – but that is a lie, too.”
“Then what is it?” Neal swallowed. He was, for the first time, afraid.
“We cannot speak their names, Neal.” His own name fell from Matthew’s lips and the sound was like a bright bell.
Neal felt a hint of understanding; it was there, but just beyond his grasp.
“When we say our charge’s name – the name they carry in their mortal life, we’re not just saying their name in this life. We are speaking the true name of their soul and when they hear it, it awakes every memory of every life they’ve ever lived, and every life they are supposed to live. Therein lies the madness. When I called her ‘Kate’, it was as if I was saying her true name in the Eternal tongue. If you call your charge ‘Peter,’ you will destroy him.”
Comprehension was devastating. “We speak their name and time shatters.”
“Yes, and nothing can repair that rift. All of their lives bleed through into a single instant and they are too frail, too fragile to cope with that.” Matthew gripped Neal's shoulders, his eyes pleading. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t. If I had, I wouldn’t have … Kate was everything to me. I couldn’t stay away from her, but if I’d known, if I’d known … “
He released Neal and paced back and forth, wings stirring the air. As Neal watched, the darkness on Matthew’s skin grew – the places where it had receded after Neal had touched him were again black. He screamed in agony, he screamed “Kate” and his wings beat the air in a futile attempt at flight.
An Archon, wearing the green tunic of a healer, entered the chamber. She injected something into Matthew’s belly and the blackness stopped growing, but it didn’t shrink back either. She turned to Neal. “You need to leave. Deep emotions empower the toxin. If he stays calm, he will have more time.” At that, she left as quietly as she arrived.
Rage turned Neal’s vision black. Whatever Matthew’s crimes were, this wasn’t a punishment he deserved.
Matthew stood there, panting and defeated. Neal didn’t want to leave, but clearly, he couldn’t stay. Slowly, deliberately, he placed his bare palm along the black stain on Matthew’s arm. He held it there despite the acid bite of pain.
Matthew reached up and gripped his wrist, holding him there for just a moment longer. “Thank you, Neal. For everything.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Tags:
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: garrett fowler,
- character: james bennett,
- character: june ellington,
- character: kate moreau,
- character: matthew keller,
- character: mozzie,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: peter burke,
- character: reese hughes,
- character: satchmo,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: backstory,
- genre: domesticity,
- genre: emotional trauma,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: transformation,
- genre: wing fic,
- kanarek13 warms my heart,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- wc verse: just one life,
- white collar,
- written for: wcrbb,
- year: 2014
