elrhiarhodan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elrhiarhodan) wrote2014-05-20 08:06 pm
elrhiarhodan) wrote2014-05-20 08:06 pm
Entry 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
White Collar Fic - If the Soul Doesn't Sing (Just One Life) Part III (White Collar Reverse Big Bang)
Title: If the Soul Doesn’t Sing (Just One Life) – Part III
Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kanarek13, Artwork Post
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 III – 7,900
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.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Of all the improbable things that he might have imagined, having a convivial dinner with a mute stranger who fell out of the sky was not even on the list. It might barely have made a list of impossible things, landing somewhere between walking barefoot across the Kalahari Desert and tongue-kissing the Queen of England.
El had often teased him that he was a professional paranoid, and he hadn’t disagreed. He told her never to accept packages delivered at the house unless she knew she’d ordered something. He had put blocks on the home phone to restrict unknown or unidentifiable callers. He’d even had the postal carrier vetted and asked her to let them know when there would be a substitute.
Peter supposed he could have blamed Reese for much of this paranoia – after all, he had just been implementing his mentor’s mildly offered suggestions. Of course he hadn’t known at the time that Reese had a real reason for his own paranoia.
The need to protect Elizabeth justified his precautions – he’d be damned if someone harmed his wife in order to get to him. And in the end, none of that mattered. She just died.
Sitting across from Neal – if that really was his name – in his own home, seemed the very height of insanity. But Peter couldn’t bring himself to worry. He wasn’t an FBI agent anymore; and he had no family to protect. And that smile, the light in Neal’s eyes, the happiness that radiated off of the man, made all of his paranoia like so much dust swirling in the sunlight.
The pizza smelled delicious and Peter couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an appetite for anything. Months, certainly – at least since Pratt’s murder. Maybe years, even. He almost wanted to dive into the pie; he was that hungry, but he could actually hear El saying “manners”. He paused, realizing that for the first time ever, her memory didn’t bring a surge of dark grief, but a soft echo of joy.
He opened the box and pulled a slice free, handing it to Neal, who juggled it. Peter had to smile as the strings of cheese got tangled in the other man’s fingers, and to his shock, he heard himself laugh at the almost hurt look on Neal’s face.
But that hurt melted back into a smile quickly enough. Peter took his own slice and remembered the beer. He held a bottle and asked, “Glass?”
There was an infinitely slight moment of confusion on Neal’s face, then he shook his head. Peter twisted the cap off and handed him the bottle before doing the same to his own. For some reason, he offered a toast – and not one he’d normally make – “L’chaim. To life.”
Neal lifted his bottle and touched it against Peter’s. Peter could almost swear he heard the response echoing in the hard click of the glass. But all thoughts of the mystical faded as he ate. He thought about questioning Neal, asking if he needed a doctor, if he needed to contact anyone. But he couldn't seem to form the questions in the face of watching Neal eat. The pizza was so damn good, the beer perfectly cold, and the hole inside him felt – at least at this moment – a little smaller, a little less dark.
One bottle of beer and two slices of pizza later, Peter thought about reaching for a third slice and fetching a second bottle. But Neal took matters out of his hands, getting up and taking the pizza box with him. Peter shifted around and watched the man make himself perfectly at home in his kitchen. The remaining slices were efficiently wrapped in foil, bagged and stored in the freezer. The box was somehow folded into a small, neat square and tucked into the recycling bin. The two empty beer bottles were rinsed and put into the container for beverage returns.
Peter’s jaw dropped as Neal reached into the fridge and came up with a bag of coffee. He had no idea how long it had been in there, having a vague memory of Diana giving it to him after coming back from a trip to Hawaii. It could have been six months ago – maybe a year.
Neal opened the bag and sniffed, making a bit of a grimace before sniffing again and nodding. Peter wasn’t sure what Neal was going to do with the coffee until he pushed aside a stack of papers and pulled out an espresso machine.
Suddenly, Peter wanted to chase Neal out of the kitchen, out of the house, out of his life. That machine had been an anniversary present – the last gift El had given him. Not that he’d ever really used it. The morning after their anniversary celebration, he’d made them each one tiny cup of coffee and they’d both tried to reassure each other that the coffee was delicious. It wasn’t. It had been horrible.
He’d realized, afterwards, that there was an art to preparing the coffee and had promised to look at the machine-maker’s instructional videos before attempting to make another cup. But Peter had never gotten around to it. And then it was too late anyway.
He couldn’t bear to get rid of the gift, nor could he bear to use it. And yet he sat there, watching a stranger use it like it was something he’d done a thousand times, like he had every right to use it.
The rush of anger receded and Peter realized how foolish he was. It was just a thing – yes, a thing given in love – but it was still only an inanimate object. He got up and went over to Neal, not to stop him, but to watch. It all seemed sort of ridiculous.
Neal, for his part, seemed utterly baffled by the espresso maker. He sniffed the coffee again, then looked back at the machine, brows furrowed.
Peter took pity on the other man. “Yeah, that’s just the way I felt.” He pulled the bag of coffee out of Neal’s hands and closed it before putting it back in the fridge. “It’s a little late for coffee, anyway.”
Neal seemed fascinated by the machine, though, and Peter actually had to tug him out of the kitchen. He wasn’t sure what to do with his guest, now that they’d eaten.
“Don’t suppose you’d like to watch the Knicks lose?”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“Sleep well, see you in the morning.” Peter left and Neal stared at the closed door, bemused.
In truth, he’d never planned beyond the Fall. He’d heard June’s warnings – how Peter could reject him, leave him to make his own way in the world. He heard the warnings and rejected them, because his heart told him that Peter – that the soul he’d been watching over for so long – wouldn’t do that. But his brain, the rational part of him, knew that Peter Burke was not a man who opened his home up to strangers, who took in strays and fed them and gave them shelter.
Neal sat on the edge of the bed, stared at the closed door, and wondered at the change in this man.
Then he yawned. His jaw almost popped as he filled his lungs with air and he felt a wave of exhaustion overtake him. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation. Archons might be immortal, but they ate and slept and dreamed, just like the humans they watched over.
He stripped off the sweatshirt, folded it and put it on top of the pillow – it was too soft to give up, but too warm to sleep in. He took off his pants, noting the green stains on the seat from where he’d landed. There were many practical matters he was going to have to deal with in this world. Clothing, money, staying alive from day to day. He’d watched this world for too long not to know the dangers that were out there. The day might come – and it could very well be tomorrow – when Peter would tire of his company and send him away.
Neal got into the bed and put all thoughts of tomorrow out of his mind. Better to think about more pleasing things, like sitting next to Peter on the couch downstairs and watching very tall men run across a wooden floor, throwing a round orange ball at each other before trying to get it through a hoop.
The game would be a lot more interesting if the men had wings.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter tried hard not to think about the man in the bedroom across the hall. It was one thing to give a stranger – one handicapped by the lack of a voice – a shirt, a meal, a few hours of his time. It was another thing to give him a bed. Peter was struck by an almost irresistible urge to drag Neal out of the guest bedroom and make him sleep here, in this room – in this bed – so he could keep an eye on him. At that thought, Peter physically shook himself and his brain settled back into its usual and vaguely paranoid patterns.
But still, it had been years since he’d gone to sleep knowing that another heart was beating under his roof. And there was a special joy in knowing that.
He didn’t date, and even if he did, there would be no way he’d bring another woman, even another man, into the house. Intellectually, he knew it wouldn’t be cheating. He knew that El would have wanted him to find happiness, to live a full life and find love again. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bear the thought of kissing, of making love to someone who wasn’t Elizabeth. And even if he could, his body was dead. He had no desire for anyone.
Peter put on the old pair of shorts he normally slept in and got into bed, figuring that he’d toss and turn all night long, listening for the sound of his guest rummaging through the house, looking for valuables to steal.
He didn’t expect he’d drop off into a deep sleep moments after his head hit the pillow.
The dream, when it came, was brilliantly vivid, like a Technicolor movie.
Peter tossed and turned against his pillow. The dream, which had been so pleasant, turned dark.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter wasn’t the only one who dreamed.
When he first got into bed, Neal had tossed in restless agitation. He was accustomed to sleeping on his side in a vast round platform – to accommodate a wingspan twice his height. The bed in Peter’s guest room was small and a little saggy. The sheets and pillows had a slightly stale smell from the lack of use, which didn’t surprise Neal. He knew that Peter hadn’t had an overnight guest since his wife’s funeral.
And truthfully, it wasn’t just the bedding that was keeping Neal from sleep. It was everything. Falling, landing, being here, with Peter, being the object of Peter’s curiosity, and even better, his concern. That was perhaps the most unusual thing of all. It felt good, like coming home after a long flight.
Neal wrapped himself in that feeling and he relaxed, drifting into sleep. He dreamed of an unremembered memory.
Neal woke with a start and pushed the covers aside, not bothering to fight the need to get up, to move around. He couldn’t remember the dream – no, the nightmare – but he couldn’t shake the feeling of impending disaster.
The clock read 3:29 AM, and there were hours to go before the dawn. He paced around the small room, wishing there was someone he could talk to, someone to help him make sense of this dream.
On a whim, Neal went to the bathroom and looked into the mirror above the sink. He’d watched Peter through this glass many times. It didn’t have the clarity of the mirror pool, but he had always felt he could see deeper into the man’s feelings, ease the pain in those vulnerable moments when Peter stared at himself and wondered where the years had gone, where his life had gone.
Neal looked into that mirror now and all he saw was his own reflection. It was a foolish, foolish hope that there would be someone on the other side.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“All is as it is supposed to be.” June walked away from the mirror pool, content in all that Neal had achieved in such a short space of human time. As an Elder, she could watch over anyone, not just the souls given into her care. She’d make her report to the others, let them know that Neal had survived his Fall, that he’d made the essential connection. It was only a matter of time before events would overtake him and the soul called Peter.
Nothing could stop the future.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter woke, the fog of his dreams burning away under the anticipation of a new day. He couldn’t remember the last time he woke feeling like this. Feeling happy, expecting that only good things would happen.
He pushed aside the covers and got out of bed, scratching at his beard. A new day, a new life. He should be angry, he should be despondent of the loss of a career that had defined him for more than half a lifetime, but he wasn’t. He knew that a psychiatrist would tell him that grief doesn’t have a timeline, something he knew all too well, but Peter couldn’t even summon an echo of the disjointed agony he’d felt yesterday, before the abrupt entry of Neal into his life.
Neal.
Peter shook his head, still bemused by his ready acceptance of a total stranger falling out of the sky. And then decided not to worry about it anymore. In all likelihood, the man was probably gone, taking whatever valuables he could find – which wasn’t much. It wasn’t like he had family silver or expensive art. El had decorated their home in an eclectic and joyful fashion, with little concern as to value. Anything meaningful was here in the bedroom, carefully packed away.
And again, the thought of Elizabeth didn’t bring the usual tidal wave of grief. It wasn’t that he was numb, it was that the memory of his wife was something that brought a sense of warmth and well-being.
Peter didn’t let himself dwell on this sea-change, like he wasn’t going to dwell on why he’d given his guest room to a total stranger. It was done and he’d deal with the consequences.
But that didn’t stop him from checking the guest room after he finished with the bathroom. To his surprise, the bed was perfectly made, the covers as undisturbed as they’d been for the past five years. Maybe last night had been merely a drunken fantasy? How much scotch did he really have?
Except that on top of the comforter were three large white feathers. Peter blinked, expecting them to disappear, but they were still there when he opened his eyes. The plumage glistened in the early morning sunshine and he picked them up, surprised at how heavy they were.
From downstairs, he heard the rumble of something. It sounded like a grinder and he smiled. It seemed like Neal was able to get the espresso machine working.
Peter headed back to his bedroom and put the feathers into a drawer. They were a puzzle, and there was nothing he liked so much as having a good mystery to solve. And at that thought, he laughed. Maybe that was why he wasn’t questioning Neal’s sudden appearance in his life.
Five minutes later, he was dressed and on his way downstairs. The scent of perfectly brewed coffee enticed him into the kitchen. Neal had figured out how to get the recalcitrant machine to work. Right now, though, he was standing in front of the open refrigerator, a frustrated look on his face.
“Good morning.” The sound of his voice was odd as it echoed through the kitchen. Peter wasn’t accustomed to hearing it in this environment.
Neal turned to him, a startled expression giving way to pleasure at seeing him. He gestured to the refrigerator’s barren interior.
“Yeah, yeah – I know. Just call me ‘Old Mother Hubbard’.”
Neal closed the fridge and went back to the espresso machine, which again made those startling grinding noises, and this time it was followed by the whoosh of steam and then a shockingly loud gurgle as the brew emerged. Peter accepted the cup Neal handed to him and took a sip. It tasted like nothing he’d ever had before – at least from his own kitchen. He took another sip, savoring the complex brew, and for a moment, he was flung back in time, back to his honeymoon. He’d taken El to Venice, and every afternoon they had stopped at Caffè Florian for espresso and biscotti. It was shocking how much this cup – made from a year-old bag of coffee – tasted like his memory.
Peter finished the coffee and smiled at Neal. The man smiled back and Peter had the bizarre thought that the room seemed brighter. “I guess you’re hungry?”
Neal nodded.
“Can I persuade you that left-over pizza is the breakfast of champions?”
This time, Neal shook his head, but he was still smiling.
“No, of course not. You have too much common sense.” He patted his hip pocket; double checking that he had his wallet. “Come on – we’ll go out for breakfast and then see about getting some groceries.”
Neal grimaced and lifted up his left foot. His bare left foot.
“Ah, yes. That could be a problem.” Peter pried off one of the sneakers he was wearing. “Try this – maybe we’ll get lucky and you can wear a pair of mine.”
Neal put the sneaker on and Peter watched intently as he hobbled around the room.
“Well?”
Neal made that face people make when something is okay, but not perfect.
“Too big?”
Neal nodded.
“That we can fix. Give me my shoe back.”
Neal did and Peter went back upstairs, grabbing a pair of sweat socks and an extra pair of sneakers. He apparently had signed up for clothing Neal as well as feeding him and giving him shelter.
“Here you go. We’ll stop someplace and get you some stuff.” Neal frowned, and Peter didn’t understand the expression. “What’s the matter?”
Neal repeated the gesture that Peter himself had made earlier: patting his hip, as if to remind him that he had no money.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Neal frowned again and Peter just tugged him towards the door, his skin electrified by that careless touch. “You got the espresso machine working – that’s payment enough.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
This wasn’t what he was expecting – to be so completely taken over, to be tugged and pulled along like he was caught in a turbulent stream of air. It wasn’t that he’d never observed this behavior in Peter. Peter was a man with a deeply dominant streak. He always had been, throughout his many lives. It was just disconcerting to be the target of such dominance, since Neal had never been someone to bow his head and just go along because it was easier.
“You okay?” Peter stopped and looked at him, his face drawn into lines of concern.
Neal nodded. There was no point in doing otherwise. After all, what did he have to complain about? He now had clothes, shoes, a warm coat. He had eaten; there would be more food to satisfy his hunger and the promise of shelter from the cold in the very near future. He felt like an ungrateful bastard for resenting Peter and his generosity.
“You’re not used to this, are you?”
Neal stopped and stared at Peter, not sure what the man meant.
Peter gave him a wry smile. “You’re not used to anyone doing this for you – taking care of you?”
Conflicting emotions roiled through him – gratitude that this man was so perceptive, and anger, too. Was he that transparent?
Apparently so.
“Don’t worry, we all need help sometimes. And sometimes the hardest thing to do is accept that.” Peter stopped and shook his head. “And that is a lesson a hell of a lot easier to teach than to learn. I can barely remember the last time I let someone help me.” A spasm of grief crossed Peter’s face.
Neal swallowed, wishing he could say something, anything, to make that grief go away. He wanted to touch Peter, sometimes it was hard not to, but he just kept his hands to himself.
“Ah, it’s okay. I’m okay.” Peter hefted the shopping bag and started walking again, leaving Neal to wonder anew at his ability to read him.
It was mid-afternoon when they finally got home. Home – such a strange place for him now. Neal didn’t regret Falling. He relished every moment spent with Peter, but it was odd having no purpose. The lack of direction was worse than the loss of his wings.
And truthfully, he wasn’t sure that he actually missed them. Maybe that was a by-product of Falling into the mortal world. Remembering the tattoo on his back, Neal wondered if they had burned into his body during his passage. He flexed his shoulders, trying to remember the muscle and weight of those vast appendages, but he couldn’t.
“What’s the matter?”
Neal hadn’t realized that Peter was looking at him. He shook his head.
“Nothing? You sure?”
He sighed, annoyed at the realization that his vocabulary was limited to body expressions.
But that didn’t seem to occur to Peter, who said, “If you need anything, let me know,” before heading back to the kitchen to put the groceries away.
For lack of anything better to do, Neal took off his borrowed shoes and socks, preferring the feel of the floor against his bare feet. He removed a book from one of the overcrowded build-in bookcases – a sturdy volume on the Metropolitan Museum of Art – to peruse. Neal had always found the human drive to create beauty such a dichotomy with their need to destroy. As he flipped through the glossy pages, Neal became almost intoxicated by humanity's endless creativity.
Of course he’d seen the contents of the Met – and most of the other great and not-so-great museums in the mortal realm – but for some reason, sitting here and holding this book was more powerful, more real. He wondered if it was because he was that much closer to the real thing, that the photographs themselves represented their own creative effort.
He paused at a photograph and had to grin. Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss was certainly a masterpiece – even as a plaster casting – but poor Cupid was certainly doomed to a flightless existence with such inadequate wings. And poor Psyche was just as doomed to a lack of satisfaction, given the god's very inadequate penis.
“What’s so funny?”
Neal hadn’t heard Peter approach. The man was hovering over his shoulder.
“Hmmm, Cupid and Psyche? Not a favorite of mine, though I guess if you like the myth, it’s an interesting piece. Always thought the guy’s wings were way too small. No way could those little things get a fully grown man airborne.”
Peter walked away and Neal just stared. What was going on here? This wasn’t the first time it seemed like Peter was reading his mind.
<
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter was surprised at how easily he fell into the rhythm of ‘retirement’.
He didn’t sleep late, but he didn’t rush to get up, either, just letting his body adapt to a more natural pattern of rising with the sun. If it wasn’t raining, he’d go for a run, almost always with Neal at his side. They’d get home, clean up and have breakfast, usually accompanied by a few tiny cups of that excellent espresso. The rest of the day was spent working on various projects he decided to tackle. Since Elizabeth’s death, he’d let things slide. He didn’t lie to himself anymore – he’d neglected things not because of a lack of time, but from apathy.
Neal, a silent and still puzzling presence in his life, was also a splendid partner. They worked side-by-side on whatever project he’d decided to do that day – from reorganizing and cleaning up the book cases, to going through a dozen years of personal papers, to transforming the third floor into something other than a junk depository.
Each project was filled with deep emotional crevices, pits he couldn’t avoid falling into. But Neal was there, catching him and holding him tight until he made some kind of emotional landing.
Days became weeks, and a whole month had passed without Peter realizing that he’d finally stopped questioning Neal’s presence in his life. He woke up each morning, knowing that there was someone waiting for him, taking joy in that friendship.
His feelings for the other man were strange and complex. He couldn’t deny that there was a spark of sexual attraction. Before he met Elizabeth, he’d been with more men than women. People were people – some were attractive to him, some weren’t. But when he’d met Elizabeth, he’d lost interest in anyone else. She was everything he ever wanted. After she died, desire had become as much of a stranger as hope and happiness. Then Neal landed in the middle of his life and he started to feel things he hadn’t felt in so long.
It should have bothered him, to want that happiness again, but it didn’t.
Not that he did anything about it. He was – at least for the moment – content in the simple pleasure of sharing his life again. He found himself opening up to Neal about his life, his dreams, his failures, his losses. He did what he’d thought impossible. He talked about his life with Elizabeth, what she’d meant to him, how much he loved her and how much he still missed her.
Neal, though silent, didn’t lack for compassion or empathy. He understood grief and loss. Maybe that’s what made the difference. Peter had loathed the idea of therapy, of grief counseling. Talking to a well-educated stranger with a clock ticking in the background was not his way of dealing with things, but Neal, sitting there and unable to say a word, but speaking volumes through those expressive eyes, was the perfect sounding board.
By the time that Thanksgiving was visible on the calendar, Peter felt better than he had since El had died, physically and emotionally.
And Peter welcomed Neal’s presence in his life. The mystery of the man’s presence in his backyard was still a tantalizing puzzle that he wanted to solve. That – and the feathers he found in random places around the house. Sometimes they were on Neal’s bed – which was always pristinely made each morning – sometimes a handful of them were on top of the latest load of laundry, and sometimes they turned up in the strangest of places – like the pocket of his winter coat.
And like those three feathers he had found that first morning, the plumage certainly didn’t come from a bird. They were too dense, too heavy – almost crystalline, as if they’d been dipped in liquid diamonds – but still soft like normal feathers.
It was an odd thing, but these discoveries evoked a childhood memory, a fascination with feathers that he didn’t remember until now.
In a fanciful moment, he thought about asking Neal to take his shirt off – he was wondering if the feathers were coming off of that incredible tattoo on his back. And strangest of all, Neal was never in the room when he found them.
Peter was careful not to lose any of the feathers – each about the size of his palm – and kept all of them in an old wooden cigar box, a relic of his childhood. It only seemed right to keep them there. Beneath the old baseball cards and other long-forgotten scraps of his happy boyhood was a crumpled, dirty feather. He didn’t remember how he got it or why he kept it, but he couldn’t bring himself to discard it, even as he tossed away the other bits of his childhood
He’d just found another clump of plumage – this time in the cutlery drawer – when the doorbell rang. He wrapped the feathers in a napkin and tucked it in his back pocket before going to answer the door.
It was Reese, and unlike the last visit, Peter welcomed his old friend with a happy smile, holding the door open and gesturing him to come in.
They’d talked a few times since his own retirement, but their conversations had been filled with difficult pauses and unasked questions. For his part, Peter had found it impossible to tell his old friend about his new friend, but since Neal was upstairs and at some point would come down and investigate, Peter figured that he was going to have to make some awkward introductions.
“Peter?” Reese seemed puzzled at his behavior and entered with obvious trepidation. “Everything all right?”
Peter knew that his smiles and easy, relaxed manner was out of character for a man forced into early retirement. He didn’t care. “Yeah, everything is fine.”
“You’ve been busy, I see.” Reese was looking around the living room, which still carried the faint odor of fresh paint. Much of the accumulated clutter had been disposed of or packed away. There was a simplicity to the room now, although it still felt like a home – not a showplace.
“Yeah, I’m just getting some things in order.”
“You’re going to sell the place?” Reese sounded shocked.
“No, I don’t think so. But I’ve been living with the past for so long that it’s been getting in the way of finding my future.”
Reese blinked. “That sounds remarkably … healthy.”
“Yeah, I know. Kind of strange, coming from me.” Peter smiled. “I bet you’re probably wondering where the bitter, grieving widower went.”
“Maybe – we’ve talked and I could hear how much better you sounded since the last time I came over. I’ve been reluctant to intrude, but I’ve been worried, too. This – ” Reese made an expansive gesture, “is unexpected.”
Peter herded Reese towards the kitchen. “Beer or coffee?”
“Well, since I’ve had your coffee, please make it a beer.”
Peter handed him a long-neck and took one for himself. “I’m happy, Reese. I don’t really know how to explain it, but I am.”
The other man stared at him over the lip of the bottle. “You don’t have to justify your happiness, Peter. And I do understand. Sometimes you can find the light at the end of the tunnel. Sometimes it’s just there and all you need to do is turn around.” Reese’s lips curled into a smile.
“How’s David?”
“As much of a cantankerous son of a bitch as I am. He also wants to know why you haven’t been by since, well, forever.”
Peter shrugged. “It was kind of hard to socialize with a senior member of the U.S. Attorney’s office when I was under investigation by the U.S. Attorney’s office.”
“But it’s been over a month since they closed the investigation. What’s your excuse now?”
Peter thought about the man working on the endless cartons of books up on the third floor. He shrugged. “I’ve been busy – and kind of focused.”
“Well, I don’t see why you can’t take a night off. Thanksgiving’s in a few weeks. David and I expect you to be there. This year, it’ll be just the three of us and David’s niece – she’s at Columbia Medical School and doesn’t have the time to fly home. Catherine and Michael are taking the grandchildren to D.C.” Catherine was David’s daughter.
Peter opened and closed his mouth, feeling like a guppy. He should have expected the invitation. He’d been going to Reese and David’s for the holiday since Elizabeth had died.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you want to come this year?”
Peter could hear the hurt in his old friend’s voice. “No, I do – it’s just …” He rubbed the back of his neck and felt a flush burning across his face.
“Peter?” Reese’s smile broadened. “You’ve met someone?”
Peter nodded, feeling ten kinds of sheepish. It was too much to hope that Reese would let the matter drop.
And of course he didn’t. The man looked around, clearly casting the changes to the place in a different light. “You can bring her or him – unless you have plans.”
Peter was touched by the happiness he heard in Reese's voice – happiness for him. And he just couldn’t let that be ruined by a lie. He licked his lips. “It’s not what you think, okay?”
Reese put his bottle down with a thunk and looked at him with curiosity. “Oh? What are you saying?”
“Neal’s just a friend – a good friend, though. We sort of met by chance.”
“Do you think that I – of all people – care that you’re seeing a man? I know you, remember?”
“Yeah, of course you do.” Peter shook his head. “But I don’t think you can call my relationship with Neal ‘seeing’ – we’re not romantically involved.” At least, not yet.
Reese looked troubled now. “And you said you just met him by chance?”
“He kind of dropped into my life.” Peter took a sip of his own beer and gave Reese a hard stare. “And stop being such a paranoid bastard. Neal’s …” He huffed a sigh, unable to package Neal into a convenient description.
“Inappropriate?” Reese was clearly trying to salvage the moment.
“No, of course not. He’s a friend, Reese.” But to his own ears, it sounded like he was trying to make himself believe that.
“Okay.” Reese picked up his beer and took a drink. “And there’s no reason why he can’t join us for Thanksgiving. Friends are welcome, too.”
Peter couldn’t believe how neatly he’d been boxed into a corner. “How about if I talk to Neal and then let you and David know?”
“Fair enough. Now – have you given any thought to my suggestion?”
Peter knew just which suggestion Reese was talking about. “Yes, and I do appreciate that you haven’t pressed...” Reese hadn’t brought up the job offer with the NSA since the last time he was at the house.
“I’m not insensitive, Peter.”
“And you’re also too smart to discuss company business on an open line.”
“That, too. You’re going to turn it down, aren’t you?”
“I have to.”
“Is it this Neal?” Clearly Reese wasn’t taking Peter’s demurral about his lack of romantic intentions seriously.
“No. I’m done with the government and all that bureaucracy. I loved being an FBI agent and there will always be a part of me that will regret leaving the Bureau, but I just can’t see myself going into the clandestine services. It’s not a life I’d ever want for myself.”
Reese nodded slowly. “And what do you want to do with the rest of your life? Private industry? Consulting?”
Peter shrugged. “I was thinking about going back to school, maybe getting a teaching degree.” In truth, this was the first time he even thought about it, but as the words left his mouth, they sounded like the perfect plan.
“I thought you wanted to get away from bureaucracy. Being a teacher requires dealing with bureaucracy every damn day.”
“Look, teaching’s just an idea. But I kind of like the idea of going back to school – studying something I want to study, for the pleasure of learning – not to find a career.”
Reese let out a sigh. “Well, they do say that youth is wasted on the young.” He put down his bottle. “I should be going. You talk to Neal and get back to me about Thanksgiving, okay? David’s going to be seriously pissed off if you don’t make it and honestly, I don’t need to deal with his bad attitude and a dry, stringy turkey on the same day.”
Peter laughed. “Will do.” He walked Reese towards the front door, grateful that Neal hadn’t decided to come downstairs. “I’ll talk with Neal tonight and let you know.”
Just as Peter was opening the door, he heard footsteps. Of course Reese heard them too. He stopped and looked up the staircase. Neal, barefoot and beautiful, carrying a carton of papers, was on his way down.
“You didn’t tell me he was here.” Reese took in Neal’s very casual attire, especially the bare feet. “He’s living with you?”
Peter nodded.
Neal didn’t seem at all fazed by the visitor. He put the carton down and held out his hand, his ever-present smile undimmed.
Peter stifled a sigh and made the introductions. “Neal – this is my old friend, Reese. Reese, Neal.”
Reese gave the other man a slightly suspicious look before taking his hand. “Good to meet you, Neal.”
Neal, of course, didn’t say anything and just nodded. Peter, of course, needed to explain. “Neal is mute – he can hear, but he can’t speak.”
That seemed to only heighten Reese’s suspicions and he continued to stare at Neal. Neal continued to smile, looking more and more like the Cheshire Cat. There seemed to be something else going on, too. Reese hadn’t let go of Neal’s hand, and Neal didn’t let go of Reese’s. Both men stood there and Peter could see the muscles in Neal’s forearm flexing. He looked to his old friend’s face and was shocked by the sweat popping out on his forehead.
Peter found himself getting annoyed at both men. “Whoever started this macho stupidity needs to stop it right now.”
Reese let go and stepped away, shaking his hand. Neal flexed his fingers before shoving his hand into his pants pocket.
Anxious to get his friend out the door, Peter said, “Reese – I’ll call you next week about Thanksgiving. Unless the invitation is rescinded?”
Reese shook his head and continued to stare at Neal. “No, of course not. David and I will be delighted to have you and … Neal for dinner.” At that, he turned and left the house, the door closing emphatically behind him.
“What the hell was that about?”
Neal’s smile returned to its usual wattage and he shrugged before picking up the box of papers he’d put down earlier.
Peter sighed, annoyance giving way to something deeper, something harder to define. “I suppose you want to know about me and Reese, right?”
Continue to Part IV
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Artist:
kanarek13, Artwork PostAuthor:
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 III – 7,900
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.
Of all the improbable things that he might have imagined, having a convivial dinner with a mute stranger who fell out of the sky was not even on the list. It might barely have made a list of impossible things, landing somewhere between walking barefoot across the Kalahari Desert and tongue-kissing the Queen of England.
El had often teased him that he was a professional paranoid, and he hadn’t disagreed. He told her never to accept packages delivered at the house unless she knew she’d ordered something. He had put blocks on the home phone to restrict unknown or unidentifiable callers. He’d even had the postal carrier vetted and asked her to let them know when there would be a substitute.
Peter supposed he could have blamed Reese for much of this paranoia – after all, he had just been implementing his mentor’s mildly offered suggestions. Of course he hadn’t known at the time that Reese had a real reason for his own paranoia.
The need to protect Elizabeth justified his precautions – he’d be damned if someone harmed his wife in order to get to him. And in the end, none of that mattered. She just died.
Sitting across from Neal – if that really was his name – in his own home, seemed the very height of insanity. But Peter couldn’t bring himself to worry. He wasn’t an FBI agent anymore; and he had no family to protect. And that smile, the light in Neal’s eyes, the happiness that radiated off of the man, made all of his paranoia like so much dust swirling in the sunlight.
The pizza smelled delicious and Peter couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an appetite for anything. Months, certainly – at least since Pratt’s murder. Maybe years, even. He almost wanted to dive into the pie; he was that hungry, but he could actually hear El saying “manners”. He paused, realizing that for the first time ever, her memory didn’t bring a surge of dark grief, but a soft echo of joy.
He opened the box and pulled a slice free, handing it to Neal, who juggled it. Peter had to smile as the strings of cheese got tangled in the other man’s fingers, and to his shock, he heard himself laugh at the almost hurt look on Neal’s face.
But that hurt melted back into a smile quickly enough. Peter took his own slice and remembered the beer. He held a bottle and asked, “Glass?”
There was an infinitely slight moment of confusion on Neal’s face, then he shook his head. Peter twisted the cap off and handed him the bottle before doing the same to his own. For some reason, he offered a toast – and not one he’d normally make – “L’chaim. To life.”
Neal lifted his bottle and touched it against Peter’s. Peter could almost swear he heard the response echoing in the hard click of the glass. But all thoughts of the mystical faded as he ate. He thought about questioning Neal, asking if he needed a doctor, if he needed to contact anyone. But he couldn't seem to form the questions in the face of watching Neal eat. The pizza was so damn good, the beer perfectly cold, and the hole inside him felt – at least at this moment – a little smaller, a little less dark.
One bottle of beer and two slices of pizza later, Peter thought about reaching for a third slice and fetching a second bottle. But Neal took matters out of his hands, getting up and taking the pizza box with him. Peter shifted around and watched the man make himself perfectly at home in his kitchen. The remaining slices were efficiently wrapped in foil, bagged and stored in the freezer. The box was somehow folded into a small, neat square and tucked into the recycling bin. The two empty beer bottles were rinsed and put into the container for beverage returns.
Peter’s jaw dropped as Neal reached into the fridge and came up with a bag of coffee. He had no idea how long it had been in there, having a vague memory of Diana giving it to him after coming back from a trip to Hawaii. It could have been six months ago – maybe a year.
Neal opened the bag and sniffed, making a bit of a grimace before sniffing again and nodding. Peter wasn’t sure what Neal was going to do with the coffee until he pushed aside a stack of papers and pulled out an espresso machine.
Suddenly, Peter wanted to chase Neal out of the kitchen, out of the house, out of his life. That machine had been an anniversary present – the last gift El had given him. Not that he’d ever really used it. The morning after their anniversary celebration, he’d made them each one tiny cup of coffee and they’d both tried to reassure each other that the coffee was delicious. It wasn’t. It had been horrible.
He’d realized, afterwards, that there was an art to preparing the coffee and had promised to look at the machine-maker’s instructional videos before attempting to make another cup. But Peter had never gotten around to it. And then it was too late anyway.
He couldn’t bear to get rid of the gift, nor could he bear to use it. And yet he sat there, watching a stranger use it like it was something he’d done a thousand times, like he had every right to use it.
The rush of anger receded and Peter realized how foolish he was. It was just a thing – yes, a thing given in love – but it was still only an inanimate object. He got up and went over to Neal, not to stop him, but to watch. It all seemed sort of ridiculous.
Neal, for his part, seemed utterly baffled by the espresso maker. He sniffed the coffee again, then looked back at the machine, brows furrowed.
Peter took pity on the other man. “Yeah, that’s just the way I felt.” He pulled the bag of coffee out of Neal’s hands and closed it before putting it back in the fridge. “It’s a little late for coffee, anyway.”
Neal seemed fascinated by the machine, though, and Peter actually had to tug him out of the kitchen. He wasn’t sure what to do with his guest, now that they’d eaten.
“Don’t suppose you’d like to watch the Knicks lose?”
“Sleep well, see you in the morning.” Peter left and Neal stared at the closed door, bemused.
In truth, he’d never planned beyond the Fall. He’d heard June’s warnings – how Peter could reject him, leave him to make his own way in the world. He heard the warnings and rejected them, because his heart told him that Peter – that the soul he’d been watching over for so long – wouldn’t do that. But his brain, the rational part of him, knew that Peter Burke was not a man who opened his home up to strangers, who took in strays and fed them and gave them shelter.
Neal sat on the edge of the bed, stared at the closed door, and wondered at the change in this man.
Then he yawned. His jaw almost popped as he filled his lungs with air and he felt a wave of exhaustion overtake him. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation. Archons might be immortal, but they ate and slept and dreamed, just like the humans they watched over.
He stripped off the sweatshirt, folded it and put it on top of the pillow – it was too soft to give up, but too warm to sleep in. He took off his pants, noting the green stains on the seat from where he’d landed. There were many practical matters he was going to have to deal with in this world. Clothing, money, staying alive from day to day. He’d watched this world for too long not to know the dangers that were out there. The day might come – and it could very well be tomorrow – when Peter would tire of his company and send him away.
Neal got into the bed and put all thoughts of tomorrow out of his mind. Better to think about more pleasing things, like sitting next to Peter on the couch downstairs and watching very tall men run across a wooden floor, throwing a round orange ball at each other before trying to get it through a hoop.
The game would be a lot more interesting if the men had wings.
Peter tried hard not to think about the man in the bedroom across the hall. It was one thing to give a stranger – one handicapped by the lack of a voice – a shirt, a meal, a few hours of his time. It was another thing to give him a bed. Peter was struck by an almost irresistible urge to drag Neal out of the guest bedroom and make him sleep here, in this room – in this bed – so he could keep an eye on him. At that thought, Peter physically shook himself and his brain settled back into its usual and vaguely paranoid patterns.
But still, it had been years since he’d gone to sleep knowing that another heart was beating under his roof. And there was a special joy in knowing that.
He didn’t date, and even if he did, there would be no way he’d bring another woman, even another man, into the house. Intellectually, he knew it wouldn’t be cheating. He knew that El would have wanted him to find happiness, to live a full life and find love again. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bear the thought of kissing, of making love to someone who wasn’t Elizabeth. And even if he could, his body was dead. He had no desire for anyone.
Peter put on the old pair of shorts he normally slept in and got into bed, figuring that he’d toss and turn all night long, listening for the sound of his guest rummaging through the house, looking for valuables to steal.
He didn’t expect he’d drop off into a deep sleep moments after his head hit the pillow.
The dream, when it came, was brilliantly vivid, like a Technicolor movie.
“MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY! WATCH ME!”
Peter was four years old and he was waiting at the top of the slide in his favorite playground. He wanted his mother to watch him slide all the way down by himself, without any help, without anyone catching him when he made it all the way to the bottom. Well, actually, it would be nice if his mommy caught him, but he was a big boy now and he could go on the slide all by himself.
But his mommy wasn’t looking. She was talking with Tommy Davidson’s mommy. So he screamed, “MOMMY” at the top of his lungs.
This time she looked up and smiled at him.
He pushed off and let gravity take him to the bottom. He landed in the pile of sand in a great whooshing rush and it was the best ever. He ran over to his mommy and tugged at her coat. “Did you see, did you see, Mommy? I did it all by myself!”
“Yes, sweetie, of course I saw you. You went down all by yourself.” She ran her hand over his hair and plucked out a leaf before brushing the sand off his bottom. “I think you’re going to take home half the dirt in the playground, though.”
“Can I go again? Please, please?”
She looked at her watch and made a face. “Well, I think we have time for you to play a little while longer. Then we have to go so I can get dinner started. Your daddy will want to eat as soon as he gets home.”
“Okay, Mommy, just one more time.” Peter ran back to the jungle gym, bouncing a bit as he waited for his turn to climb up the ladder. There were a lot of other kids on the playground today. Tommy, of course, and some of the bigger kids from the neighborhood. It was Columbus Day and school was closed. There had been a parade in town and he’d gone with his mommy and watched people march down Main Street. He had held onto Mommy’s hand and bounced with excitement as the fire trucks passed. When he grew up, he wanted to be a fireman. Or maybe a policeman.
“Hey kid, get out of my way!” One of the older boys pushed at him. Peter stumbled and the kid took his place in the line.
“You cut! That’s not fair!” Peter wanted to push the big kid away, but his daddy told him never to start a fight that he couldn’t win.
“What are you going to do about it, brat?” The boy loomed over him, fists clenched.
The kid had his friends with him and all of a sudden, Peter was surrounded. He was scared. “Nothing.” He wandered away from the jungle gym and spotted a free swing. Quickly, before another kid could grab it, he ran over and got on. He probably should have gone back to his mommy, but she was still talking to Mrs. Davidson. Besides, she said he could play a little while longer.
It took some effort to get going. Usually, when he went on the swings, his daddy was there to give him a push, but not today. Peter held onto the chains and pumped his legs, swinging back and forth. It was hard work, but he finally got going and it was better than the slide. He felt like a great big bird flying through the sky.
Peter’s hands gripped the chains as he pushed and pumped his legs and the swing went back and forth, ever higher. All he could hear was the wind.
Peter was four years old and he was waiting at the top of the slide in his favorite playground. He wanted his mother to watch him slide all the way down by himself, without any help, without anyone catching him when he made it all the way to the bottom. Well, actually, it would be nice if his mommy caught him, but he was a big boy now and he could go on the slide all by himself.
But his mommy wasn’t looking. She was talking with Tommy Davidson’s mommy. So he screamed, “MOMMY” at the top of his lungs.
This time she looked up and smiled at him.
He pushed off and let gravity take him to the bottom. He landed in the pile of sand in a great whooshing rush and it was the best ever. He ran over to his mommy and tugged at her coat. “Did you see, did you see, Mommy? I did it all by myself!”
“Yes, sweetie, of course I saw you. You went down all by yourself.” She ran her hand over his hair and plucked out a leaf before brushing the sand off his bottom. “I think you’re going to take home half the dirt in the playground, though.”
“Can I go again? Please, please?”
She looked at her watch and made a face. “Well, I think we have time for you to play a little while longer. Then we have to go so I can get dinner started. Your daddy will want to eat as soon as he gets home.”
“Okay, Mommy, just one more time.” Peter ran back to the jungle gym, bouncing a bit as he waited for his turn to climb up the ladder. There were a lot of other kids on the playground today. Tommy, of course, and some of the bigger kids from the neighborhood. It was Columbus Day and school was closed. There had been a parade in town and he’d gone with his mommy and watched people march down Main Street. He had held onto Mommy’s hand and bounced with excitement as the fire trucks passed. When he grew up, he wanted to be a fireman. Or maybe a policeman.
“Hey kid, get out of my way!” One of the older boys pushed at him. Peter stumbled and the kid took his place in the line.
“You cut! That’s not fair!” Peter wanted to push the big kid away, but his daddy told him never to start a fight that he couldn’t win.
“What are you going to do about it, brat?” The boy loomed over him, fists clenched.
The kid had his friends with him and all of a sudden, Peter was surrounded. He was scared. “Nothing.” He wandered away from the jungle gym and spotted a free swing. Quickly, before another kid could grab it, he ran over and got on. He probably should have gone back to his mommy, but she was still talking to Mrs. Davidson. Besides, she said he could play a little while longer.
It took some effort to get going. Usually, when he went on the swings, his daddy was there to give him a push, but not today. Peter held onto the chains and pumped his legs, swinging back and forth. It was hard work, but he finally got going and it was better than the slide. He felt like a great big bird flying through the sky.
Peter’s hands gripped the chains as he pushed and pumped his legs and the swing went back and forth, ever higher. All he could hear was the wind.
Peter tossed and turned against his pillow. The dream, which had been so pleasant, turned dark.
He flew back and forth, higher and higher, the ground rushing past him. He didn’t feel the swing set shake or hear the chains whine and creak and squeal. He kept swinging and wishing that he was a bird or an airplane. Back and forth one more time, then another, and another and then he really was flying.
The chain snapped and he was airborne – no rubber seat against his bottom, his hands were hurting and the ground and the sky were all confused. It was almost like being on the slide again, but much faster. Too much faster. He closed his eyes tightly and screamed.
Then everything slowed down. Someone caught him and carried him almost all the way to the ground. He was scared and crying but he felt safe, too. Peter opened his eyes and all he saw was shining white wings and the blue, blue sky.
Then his mommy came and picked him up, brushing a feather off his forehead. It went flying. Peter grabbed it and wouldn’t let it go. His mommy was holding onto him too tightly. She was crying, too, hugging him and saying his name over and over.
It hurt to talk, but he asked her, “Did you see, Mommy? Did you see me fly?”
The chain snapped and he was airborne – no rubber seat against his bottom, his hands were hurting and the ground and the sky were all confused. It was almost like being on the slide again, but much faster. Too much faster. He closed his eyes tightly and screamed.
Then everything slowed down. Someone caught him and carried him almost all the way to the ground. He was scared and crying but he felt safe, too. Peter opened his eyes and all he saw was shining white wings and the blue, blue sky.
Then his mommy came and picked him up, brushing a feather off his forehead. It went flying. Peter grabbed it and wouldn’t let it go. His mommy was holding onto him too tightly. She was crying, too, hugging him and saying his name over and over.
It hurt to talk, but he asked her, “Did you see, Mommy? Did you see me fly?”
Peter wasn’t the only one who dreamed.
When he first got into bed, Neal had tossed in restless agitation. He was accustomed to sleeping on his side in a vast round platform – to accommodate a wingspan twice his height. The bed in Peter’s guest room was small and a little saggy. The sheets and pillows had a slightly stale smell from the lack of use, which didn’t surprise Neal. He knew that Peter hadn’t had an overnight guest since his wife’s funeral.
And truthfully, it wasn’t just the bedding that was keeping Neal from sleep. It was everything. Falling, landing, being here, with Peter, being the object of Peter’s curiosity, and even better, his concern. That was perhaps the most unusual thing of all. It felt good, like coming home after a long flight.
Neal wrapped himself in that feeling and he relaxed, drifting into sleep. He dreamed of an unremembered memory.
Peter was a small, sturdy boy and Neal was charmed. He’d lost count of the childhoods he had watched this soul live through and grow out of and there was nothing remarkable about this one. But he was charmed, nonetheless. As his friend Matthew had pointed out, humanity had made great strides – not only had the humans invented ways to slaughter each other with greater efficiency, they had found ways to keep the most common diseases from killing off their young. Perhaps in an effort to make certain they grew to adulthood and found even more ways to kill.
Neal didn’t care about those problems. He was concerned only with Peter, taking great joy in watching him grow into his soul. There was something about this particular life that called to Neal, that made his watching all the more intent.
He knelt beside the mirror pool, observing the boy as he ran around a playground, doing all the same things that the other children were doing. Peter seemed keenly interested in having his mother watch him. For some reason, that struck Neal as sad. He couldn’t remember his mother or his father. No Archon could. He couldn’t remember feeling the lack of parents before, even though he’d watched this soul grow from an infant to an adult many, many times – almost always in the care of loving parents.
Neal stretched his wings, enjoying the pull of feather and cartilage and skin against muscle, and made himself forget about his unknown progenitors as he turned his attention back to the scene in the mirror pool.
Peter was surrounded by other boys, not that much older, but certainly bigger. They looked to be threatening his charge and Neal worried. Not that there was anything he could do to help the little boy. Interference was both forbidden and impossible. Matthew, always the trouble-maker, had asked him why, if interference in the course of a human life was impossible, was it also taboo?
Neal has told him that yes, it was an interesting conundrum. Certainly a question to ask the Elders, if he dared. Of course Matthew backed down. No one, especially not a fledgling with just a single soul to watch over, would dare question the edicts that ruled their kind.
Neal watched and was relieved when Peter walked away from the bullies. Not that they’d really hurt him, but Neal didn’t want even the slightest harm to come to the little boy.
Ah, good. He went over to the swing set and no one interfered.
Neal was charmed as he watched Peter work his little body, trying to gain speed and height. Of course, in his world, there were no such things as swings and slides, but Neal understood their purpose. And it looked like a lot of fun, simple and pure and uncomplicated.
As Peter swung high, Neal could suddenly see the impending disaster. At the top of the swing set, a link in one of the chains had rusted through and was giving way. When the chain snapped – and it would – it would hit Peter, maiming or killing him. And the fall would kill the little boy too – the velocity of the swing as it broke would send Peter flying through the air. In a millisecond, Neal could see the tragedy. Peter lying on the ground, broken and mangled.
Dead.
He had to stop it. Without thinking, without considering anything more than the need to save this life, Neal reached through the mirror pool to grab the child.
The agony was excruciating, but Neal held on for the seconds he needed to carry the child to safety. A scant few feet from the ground, he had to let go.
He pulled himself back through the mirror pool, his arms and wings burning. The agony was so intense, he passed out.
Neal didn’t care about those problems. He was concerned only with Peter, taking great joy in watching him grow into his soul. There was something about this particular life that called to Neal, that made his watching all the more intent.
He knelt beside the mirror pool, observing the boy as he ran around a playground, doing all the same things that the other children were doing. Peter seemed keenly interested in having his mother watch him. For some reason, that struck Neal as sad. He couldn’t remember his mother or his father. No Archon could. He couldn’t remember feeling the lack of parents before, even though he’d watched this soul grow from an infant to an adult many, many times – almost always in the care of loving parents.
Neal stretched his wings, enjoying the pull of feather and cartilage and skin against muscle, and made himself forget about his unknown progenitors as he turned his attention back to the scene in the mirror pool.
Peter was surrounded by other boys, not that much older, but certainly bigger. They looked to be threatening his charge and Neal worried. Not that there was anything he could do to help the little boy. Interference was both forbidden and impossible. Matthew, always the trouble-maker, had asked him why, if interference in the course of a human life was impossible, was it also taboo?
Neal has told him that yes, it was an interesting conundrum. Certainly a question to ask the Elders, if he dared. Of course Matthew backed down. No one, especially not a fledgling with just a single soul to watch over, would dare question the edicts that ruled their kind.
Neal watched and was relieved when Peter walked away from the bullies. Not that they’d really hurt him, but Neal didn’t want even the slightest harm to come to the little boy.
Ah, good. He went over to the swing set and no one interfered.
Neal was charmed as he watched Peter work his little body, trying to gain speed and height. Of course, in his world, there were no such things as swings and slides, but Neal understood their purpose. And it looked like a lot of fun, simple and pure and uncomplicated.
As Peter swung high, Neal could suddenly see the impending disaster. At the top of the swing set, a link in one of the chains had rusted through and was giving way. When the chain snapped – and it would – it would hit Peter, maiming or killing him. And the fall would kill the little boy too – the velocity of the swing as it broke would send Peter flying through the air. In a millisecond, Neal could see the tragedy. Peter lying on the ground, broken and mangled.
Dead.
He had to stop it. Without thinking, without considering anything more than the need to save this life, Neal reached through the mirror pool to grab the child.
The agony was excruciating, but Neal held on for the seconds he needed to carry the child to safety. A scant few feet from the ground, he had to let go.
He pulled himself back through the mirror pool, his arms and wings burning. The agony was so intense, he passed out.
Neal woke with a start and pushed the covers aside, not bothering to fight the need to get up, to move around. He couldn’t remember the dream – no, the nightmare – but he couldn’t shake the feeling of impending disaster.
The clock read 3:29 AM, and there were hours to go before the dawn. He paced around the small room, wishing there was someone he could talk to, someone to help him make sense of this dream.
On a whim, Neal went to the bathroom and looked into the mirror above the sink. He’d watched Peter through this glass many times. It didn’t have the clarity of the mirror pool, but he had always felt he could see deeper into the man’s feelings, ease the pain in those vulnerable moments when Peter stared at himself and wondered where the years had gone, where his life had gone.
Neal looked into that mirror now and all he saw was his own reflection. It was a foolish, foolish hope that there would be someone on the other side.
“All is as it is supposed to be.” June walked away from the mirror pool, content in all that Neal had achieved in such a short space of human time. As an Elder, she could watch over anyone, not just the souls given into her care. She’d make her report to the others, let them know that Neal had survived his Fall, that he’d made the essential connection. It was only a matter of time before events would overtake him and the soul called Peter.
Nothing could stop the future.
Peter woke, the fog of his dreams burning away under the anticipation of a new day. He couldn’t remember the last time he woke feeling like this. Feeling happy, expecting that only good things would happen.
He pushed aside the covers and got out of bed, scratching at his beard. A new day, a new life. He should be angry, he should be despondent of the loss of a career that had defined him for more than half a lifetime, but he wasn’t. He knew that a psychiatrist would tell him that grief doesn’t have a timeline, something he knew all too well, but Peter couldn’t even summon an echo of the disjointed agony he’d felt yesterday, before the abrupt entry of Neal into his life.
Neal.
Peter shook his head, still bemused by his ready acceptance of a total stranger falling out of the sky. And then decided not to worry about it anymore. In all likelihood, the man was probably gone, taking whatever valuables he could find – which wasn’t much. It wasn’t like he had family silver or expensive art. El had decorated their home in an eclectic and joyful fashion, with little concern as to value. Anything meaningful was here in the bedroom, carefully packed away.
And again, the thought of Elizabeth didn’t bring the usual tidal wave of grief. It wasn’t that he was numb, it was that the memory of his wife was something that brought a sense of warmth and well-being.
Peter didn’t let himself dwell on this sea-change, like he wasn’t going to dwell on why he’d given his guest room to a total stranger. It was done and he’d deal with the consequences.
But that didn’t stop him from checking the guest room after he finished with the bathroom. To his surprise, the bed was perfectly made, the covers as undisturbed as they’d been for the past five years. Maybe last night had been merely a drunken fantasy? How much scotch did he really have?
Except that on top of the comforter were three large white feathers. Peter blinked, expecting them to disappear, but they were still there when he opened his eyes. The plumage glistened in the early morning sunshine and he picked them up, surprised at how heavy they were.
From downstairs, he heard the rumble of something. It sounded like a grinder and he smiled. It seemed like Neal was able to get the espresso machine working.
Peter headed back to his bedroom and put the feathers into a drawer. They were a puzzle, and there was nothing he liked so much as having a good mystery to solve. And at that thought, he laughed. Maybe that was why he wasn’t questioning Neal’s sudden appearance in his life.
Five minutes later, he was dressed and on his way downstairs. The scent of perfectly brewed coffee enticed him into the kitchen. Neal had figured out how to get the recalcitrant machine to work. Right now, though, he was standing in front of the open refrigerator, a frustrated look on his face.
“Good morning.” The sound of his voice was odd as it echoed through the kitchen. Peter wasn’t accustomed to hearing it in this environment.
Neal turned to him, a startled expression giving way to pleasure at seeing him. He gestured to the refrigerator’s barren interior.
“Yeah, yeah – I know. Just call me ‘Old Mother Hubbard’.”
Neal closed the fridge and went back to the espresso machine, which again made those startling grinding noises, and this time it was followed by the whoosh of steam and then a shockingly loud gurgle as the brew emerged. Peter accepted the cup Neal handed to him and took a sip. It tasted like nothing he’d ever had before – at least from his own kitchen. He took another sip, savoring the complex brew, and for a moment, he was flung back in time, back to his honeymoon. He’d taken El to Venice, and every afternoon they had stopped at Caffè Florian for espresso and biscotti. It was shocking how much this cup – made from a year-old bag of coffee – tasted like his memory.
Peter finished the coffee and smiled at Neal. The man smiled back and Peter had the bizarre thought that the room seemed brighter. “I guess you’re hungry?”
Neal nodded.
“Can I persuade you that left-over pizza is the breakfast of champions?”
This time, Neal shook his head, but he was still smiling.
“No, of course not. You have too much common sense.” He patted his hip pocket; double checking that he had his wallet. “Come on – we’ll go out for breakfast and then see about getting some groceries.”
Neal grimaced and lifted up his left foot. His bare left foot.
“Ah, yes. That could be a problem.” Peter pried off one of the sneakers he was wearing. “Try this – maybe we’ll get lucky and you can wear a pair of mine.”
Neal put the sneaker on and Peter watched intently as he hobbled around the room.
“Well?”
Neal made that face people make when something is okay, but not perfect.
“Too big?”
Neal nodded.
“That we can fix. Give me my shoe back.”
Neal did and Peter went back upstairs, grabbing a pair of sweat socks and an extra pair of sneakers. He apparently had signed up for clothing Neal as well as feeding him and giving him shelter.
“Here you go. We’ll stop someplace and get you some stuff.” Neal frowned, and Peter didn’t understand the expression. “What’s the matter?”
Neal repeated the gesture that Peter himself had made earlier: patting his hip, as if to remind him that he had no money.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Neal frowned again and Peter just tugged him towards the door, his skin electrified by that careless touch. “You got the espresso machine working – that’s payment enough.”
This wasn’t what he was expecting – to be so completely taken over, to be tugged and pulled along like he was caught in a turbulent stream of air. It wasn’t that he’d never observed this behavior in Peter. Peter was a man with a deeply dominant streak. He always had been, throughout his many lives. It was just disconcerting to be the target of such dominance, since Neal had never been someone to bow his head and just go along because it was easier.
“You okay?” Peter stopped and looked at him, his face drawn into lines of concern.
Neal nodded. There was no point in doing otherwise. After all, what did he have to complain about? He now had clothes, shoes, a warm coat. He had eaten; there would be more food to satisfy his hunger and the promise of shelter from the cold in the very near future. He felt like an ungrateful bastard for resenting Peter and his generosity.
“You’re not used to this, are you?”
Neal stopped and stared at Peter, not sure what the man meant.
Peter gave him a wry smile. “You’re not used to anyone doing this for you – taking care of you?”
Conflicting emotions roiled through him – gratitude that this man was so perceptive, and anger, too. Was he that transparent?
Apparently so.
“Don’t worry, we all need help sometimes. And sometimes the hardest thing to do is accept that.” Peter stopped and shook his head. “And that is a lesson a hell of a lot easier to teach than to learn. I can barely remember the last time I let someone help me.” A spasm of grief crossed Peter’s face.
Neal swallowed, wishing he could say something, anything, to make that grief go away. He wanted to touch Peter, sometimes it was hard not to, but he just kept his hands to himself.
“Ah, it’s okay. I’m okay.” Peter hefted the shopping bag and started walking again, leaving Neal to wonder anew at his ability to read him.
It was mid-afternoon when they finally got home. Home – such a strange place for him now. Neal didn’t regret Falling. He relished every moment spent with Peter, but it was odd having no purpose. The lack of direction was worse than the loss of his wings.
And truthfully, he wasn’t sure that he actually missed them. Maybe that was a by-product of Falling into the mortal world. Remembering the tattoo on his back, Neal wondered if they had burned into his body during his passage. He flexed his shoulders, trying to remember the muscle and weight of those vast appendages, but he couldn’t.
“What’s the matter?”
Neal hadn’t realized that Peter was looking at him. He shook his head.
“Nothing? You sure?”
He sighed, annoyed at the realization that his vocabulary was limited to body expressions.
But that didn’t seem to occur to Peter, who said, “If you need anything, let me know,” before heading back to the kitchen to put the groceries away.
For lack of anything better to do, Neal took off his borrowed shoes and socks, preferring the feel of the floor against his bare feet. He removed a book from one of the overcrowded build-in bookcases – a sturdy volume on the Metropolitan Museum of Art – to peruse. Neal had always found the human drive to create beauty such a dichotomy with their need to destroy. As he flipped through the glossy pages, Neal became almost intoxicated by humanity's endless creativity.
Of course he’d seen the contents of the Met – and most of the other great and not-so-great museums in the mortal realm – but for some reason, sitting here and holding this book was more powerful, more real. He wondered if it was because he was that much closer to the real thing, that the photographs themselves represented their own creative effort.
He paused at a photograph and had to grin. Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss was certainly a masterpiece – even as a plaster casting – but poor Cupid was certainly doomed to a flightless existence with such inadequate wings. And poor Psyche was just as doomed to a lack of satisfaction, given the god's very inadequate penis.
“What’s so funny?”
Neal hadn’t heard Peter approach. The man was hovering over his shoulder.
“Hmmm, Cupid and Psyche? Not a favorite of mine, though I guess if you like the myth, it’s an interesting piece. Always thought the guy’s wings were way too small. No way could those little things get a fully grown man airborne.”
Peter walked away and Neal just stared. What was going on here? This wasn’t the first time it seemed like Peter was reading his mind.
<
Peter was surprised at how easily he fell into the rhythm of ‘retirement’.
He didn’t sleep late, but he didn’t rush to get up, either, just letting his body adapt to a more natural pattern of rising with the sun. If it wasn’t raining, he’d go for a run, almost always with Neal at his side. They’d get home, clean up and have breakfast, usually accompanied by a few tiny cups of that excellent espresso. The rest of the day was spent working on various projects he decided to tackle. Since Elizabeth’s death, he’d let things slide. He didn’t lie to himself anymore – he’d neglected things not because of a lack of time, but from apathy.
Neal, a silent and still puzzling presence in his life, was also a splendid partner. They worked side-by-side on whatever project he’d decided to do that day – from reorganizing and cleaning up the book cases, to going through a dozen years of personal papers, to transforming the third floor into something other than a junk depository.
Each project was filled with deep emotional crevices, pits he couldn’t avoid falling into. But Neal was there, catching him and holding him tight until he made some kind of emotional landing.
Days became weeks, and a whole month had passed without Peter realizing that he’d finally stopped questioning Neal’s presence in his life. He woke up each morning, knowing that there was someone waiting for him, taking joy in that friendship.
His feelings for the other man were strange and complex. He couldn’t deny that there was a spark of sexual attraction. Before he met Elizabeth, he’d been with more men than women. People were people – some were attractive to him, some weren’t. But when he’d met Elizabeth, he’d lost interest in anyone else. She was everything he ever wanted. After she died, desire had become as much of a stranger as hope and happiness. Then Neal landed in the middle of his life and he started to feel things he hadn’t felt in so long.
It should have bothered him, to want that happiness again, but it didn’t.
Not that he did anything about it. He was – at least for the moment – content in the simple pleasure of sharing his life again. He found himself opening up to Neal about his life, his dreams, his failures, his losses. He did what he’d thought impossible. He talked about his life with Elizabeth, what she’d meant to him, how much he loved her and how much he still missed her.
Neal, though silent, didn’t lack for compassion or empathy. He understood grief and loss. Maybe that’s what made the difference. Peter had loathed the idea of therapy, of grief counseling. Talking to a well-educated stranger with a clock ticking in the background was not his way of dealing with things, but Neal, sitting there and unable to say a word, but speaking volumes through those expressive eyes, was the perfect sounding board.
By the time that Thanksgiving was visible on the calendar, Peter felt better than he had since El had died, physically and emotionally.
And Peter welcomed Neal’s presence in his life. The mystery of the man’s presence in his backyard was still a tantalizing puzzle that he wanted to solve. That – and the feathers he found in random places around the house. Sometimes they were on Neal’s bed – which was always pristinely made each morning – sometimes a handful of them were on top of the latest load of laundry, and sometimes they turned up in the strangest of places – like the pocket of his winter coat.
And like those three feathers he had found that first morning, the plumage certainly didn’t come from a bird. They were too dense, too heavy – almost crystalline, as if they’d been dipped in liquid diamonds – but still soft like normal feathers.
It was an odd thing, but these discoveries evoked a childhood memory, a fascination with feathers that he didn’t remember until now.
In a fanciful moment, he thought about asking Neal to take his shirt off – he was wondering if the feathers were coming off of that incredible tattoo on his back. And strangest of all, Neal was never in the room when he found them.
Peter was careful not to lose any of the feathers – each about the size of his palm – and kept all of them in an old wooden cigar box, a relic of his childhood. It only seemed right to keep them there. Beneath the old baseball cards and other long-forgotten scraps of his happy boyhood was a crumpled, dirty feather. He didn’t remember how he got it or why he kept it, but he couldn’t bring himself to discard it, even as he tossed away the other bits of his childhood
He’d just found another clump of plumage – this time in the cutlery drawer – when the doorbell rang. He wrapped the feathers in a napkin and tucked it in his back pocket before going to answer the door.
It was Reese, and unlike the last visit, Peter welcomed his old friend with a happy smile, holding the door open and gesturing him to come in.
They’d talked a few times since his own retirement, but their conversations had been filled with difficult pauses and unasked questions. For his part, Peter had found it impossible to tell his old friend about his new friend, but since Neal was upstairs and at some point would come down and investigate, Peter figured that he was going to have to make some awkward introductions.
“Peter?” Reese seemed puzzled at his behavior and entered with obvious trepidation. “Everything all right?”
Peter knew that his smiles and easy, relaxed manner was out of character for a man forced into early retirement. He didn’t care. “Yeah, everything is fine.”
“You’ve been busy, I see.” Reese was looking around the living room, which still carried the faint odor of fresh paint. Much of the accumulated clutter had been disposed of or packed away. There was a simplicity to the room now, although it still felt like a home – not a showplace.
“Yeah, I’m just getting some things in order.”
“You’re going to sell the place?” Reese sounded shocked.
“No, I don’t think so. But I’ve been living with the past for so long that it’s been getting in the way of finding my future.”
Reese blinked. “That sounds remarkably … healthy.”
“Yeah, I know. Kind of strange, coming from me.” Peter smiled. “I bet you’re probably wondering where the bitter, grieving widower went.”
“Maybe – we’ve talked and I could hear how much better you sounded since the last time I came over. I’ve been reluctant to intrude, but I’ve been worried, too. This – ” Reese made an expansive gesture, “is unexpected.”
Peter herded Reese towards the kitchen. “Beer or coffee?”
“Well, since I’ve had your coffee, please make it a beer.”
Peter handed him a long-neck and took one for himself. “I’m happy, Reese. I don’t really know how to explain it, but I am.”
The other man stared at him over the lip of the bottle. “You don’t have to justify your happiness, Peter. And I do understand. Sometimes you can find the light at the end of the tunnel. Sometimes it’s just there and all you need to do is turn around.” Reese’s lips curled into a smile.
“How’s David?”
“As much of a cantankerous son of a bitch as I am. He also wants to know why you haven’t been by since, well, forever.”
Peter shrugged. “It was kind of hard to socialize with a senior member of the U.S. Attorney’s office when I was under investigation by the U.S. Attorney’s office.”
“But it’s been over a month since they closed the investigation. What’s your excuse now?”
Peter thought about the man working on the endless cartons of books up on the third floor. He shrugged. “I’ve been busy – and kind of focused.”
“Well, I don’t see why you can’t take a night off. Thanksgiving’s in a few weeks. David and I expect you to be there. This year, it’ll be just the three of us and David’s niece – she’s at Columbia Medical School and doesn’t have the time to fly home. Catherine and Michael are taking the grandchildren to D.C.” Catherine was David’s daughter.
Peter opened and closed his mouth, feeling like a guppy. He should have expected the invitation. He’d been going to Reese and David’s for the holiday since Elizabeth had died.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you want to come this year?”
Peter could hear the hurt in his old friend’s voice. “No, I do – it’s just …” He rubbed the back of his neck and felt a flush burning across his face.
“Peter?” Reese’s smile broadened. “You’ve met someone?”
Peter nodded, feeling ten kinds of sheepish. It was too much to hope that Reese would let the matter drop.
And of course he didn’t. The man looked around, clearly casting the changes to the place in a different light. “You can bring her or him – unless you have plans.”
Peter was touched by the happiness he heard in Reese's voice – happiness for him. And he just couldn’t let that be ruined by a lie. He licked his lips. “It’s not what you think, okay?”
Reese put his bottle down with a thunk and looked at him with curiosity. “Oh? What are you saying?”
“Neal’s just a friend – a good friend, though. We sort of met by chance.”
“Do you think that I – of all people – care that you’re seeing a man? I know you, remember?”
“Yeah, of course you do.” Peter shook his head. “But I don’t think you can call my relationship with Neal ‘seeing’ – we’re not romantically involved.” At least, not yet.
Reese looked troubled now. “And you said you just met him by chance?”
“He kind of dropped into my life.” Peter took a sip of his own beer and gave Reese a hard stare. “And stop being such a paranoid bastard. Neal’s …” He huffed a sigh, unable to package Neal into a convenient description.
“Inappropriate?” Reese was clearly trying to salvage the moment.
“No, of course not. He’s a friend, Reese.” But to his own ears, it sounded like he was trying to make himself believe that.
“Okay.” Reese picked up his beer and took a drink. “And there’s no reason why he can’t join us for Thanksgiving. Friends are welcome, too.”
Peter couldn’t believe how neatly he’d been boxed into a corner. “How about if I talk to Neal and then let you and David know?”
“Fair enough. Now – have you given any thought to my suggestion?”
Peter knew just which suggestion Reese was talking about. “Yes, and I do appreciate that you haven’t pressed...” Reese hadn’t brought up the job offer with the NSA since the last time he was at the house.
“I’m not insensitive, Peter.”
“And you’re also too smart to discuss company business on an open line.”
“That, too. You’re going to turn it down, aren’t you?”
“I have to.”
“Is it this Neal?” Clearly Reese wasn’t taking Peter’s demurral about his lack of romantic intentions seriously.
“No. I’m done with the government and all that bureaucracy. I loved being an FBI agent and there will always be a part of me that will regret leaving the Bureau, but I just can’t see myself going into the clandestine services. It’s not a life I’d ever want for myself.”
Reese nodded slowly. “And what do you want to do with the rest of your life? Private industry? Consulting?”
Peter shrugged. “I was thinking about going back to school, maybe getting a teaching degree.” In truth, this was the first time he even thought about it, but as the words left his mouth, they sounded like the perfect plan.
“I thought you wanted to get away from bureaucracy. Being a teacher requires dealing with bureaucracy every damn day.”
“Look, teaching’s just an idea. But I kind of like the idea of going back to school – studying something I want to study, for the pleasure of learning – not to find a career.”
Reese let out a sigh. “Well, they do say that youth is wasted on the young.” He put down his bottle. “I should be going. You talk to Neal and get back to me about Thanksgiving, okay? David’s going to be seriously pissed off if you don’t make it and honestly, I don’t need to deal with his bad attitude and a dry, stringy turkey on the same day.”
Peter laughed. “Will do.” He walked Reese towards the front door, grateful that Neal hadn’t decided to come downstairs. “I’ll talk with Neal tonight and let you know.”
Just as Peter was opening the door, he heard footsteps. Of course Reese heard them too. He stopped and looked up the staircase. Neal, barefoot and beautiful, carrying a carton of papers, was on his way down.
“You didn’t tell me he was here.” Reese took in Neal’s very casual attire, especially the bare feet. “He’s living with you?”
Peter nodded.
Neal didn’t seem at all fazed by the visitor. He put the carton down and held out his hand, his ever-present smile undimmed.
Peter stifled a sigh and made the introductions. “Neal – this is my old friend, Reese. Reese, Neal.”
Reese gave the other man a slightly suspicious look before taking his hand. “Good to meet you, Neal.”
Neal, of course, didn’t say anything and just nodded. Peter, of course, needed to explain. “Neal is mute – he can hear, but he can’t speak.”
That seemed to only heighten Reese’s suspicions and he continued to stare at Neal. Neal continued to smile, looking more and more like the Cheshire Cat. There seemed to be something else going on, too. Reese hadn’t let go of Neal’s hand, and Neal didn’t let go of Reese’s. Both men stood there and Peter could see the muscles in Neal’s forearm flexing. He looked to his old friend’s face and was shocked by the sweat popping out on his forehead.
Peter found himself getting annoyed at both men. “Whoever started this macho stupidity needs to stop it right now.”
Reese let go and stepped away, shaking his hand. Neal flexed his fingers before shoving his hand into his pants pocket.
Anxious to get his friend out the door, Peter said, “Reese – I’ll call you next week about Thanksgiving. Unless the invitation is rescinded?”
Reese shook his head and continued to stare at Neal. “No, of course not. David and I will be delighted to have you and … Neal for dinner.” At that, he turned and left the house, the door closing emphatically behind him.
“What the hell was that about?”
Neal’s smile returned to its usual wattage and he shrugged before picking up the box of papers he’d put down earlier.
Peter sighed, annoyance giving way to something deeper, something harder to define. “I suppose you want to know about me and Reese, right?”