![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: If the Soul Doesn’t Sing (Just One Life) – Part V
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 V – 7,600
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.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal wanted to weep.
He’d seen the tragedy as it happened, but in Peter’s retelling, Neal could see it unfold again. He remembered reaching out, wanting desperately to reach through the mirror pool and stop everything, to reset the players and start time running again only when Peter was safe.
The story, as Peter told it, was terrifying. When Peter mentioned a feather drifting across his field of vision; when he said that in his dream he’d been covered in white feathers, Neal couldn’t shake the feeling that something had happened that shouldn’t have. He now wondered and worried that in his watching, he’d somehow changed the course of events – that Peter should not have lived.
That he’d interfered and as a result, he’d damaged the soul that he’d watched over and cared for. That he loved.
“Hey – you okay?”
Peter was kneeling in front of him, a worried look on his face.
Neal nodded and gave him a small smile, still distracted by his thoughts.
“You’re not disgusted that Reese and I …”
That brought Neal’s attention back to Peter. Over the past month, he’d come to terms with the loss of his voice – they seemed to communicate perfectly without it. Neal was certain there were times that Peter was reading his thoughts. And even when he wasn’t, Peter seemed particularly attuned to his emotions. It was a constant source of wonder to Neal; he hadn’t expected their connection to work both ways.
But this wasn’t one of those times and Peter had completely misread Neal’s thoughts. He was far from disgusted and he couldn’t seem to find a way to let Peter know that. A smile and a shrug wouldn’t do.
As the moments passed, Peter’s expression darkened, perhaps remembering other slights. Neal smiled and shook his head. Peter didn’t seem mollified.
So Neal did the only thing he could think of. He pressed a hand over his own heart, then his head. But Peter was getting stubborn in his anger and he stalked away. Neal reached out and grabbed him, holding his wrist tightly; ignoring the bright, almost painful surge of electricity he always felt when he was the one to initiate physical contact.
Peter stopped, but Neal wasn’t sure if he felt the same shock that he did. This time, Neal put his hand over Peter’s heart, and he kept his movement slow and careful. The spark came again, but it was deeper, richer. To Neal, it evoked the memory of tangling plumage with another Archon.
Peter gasped at the contact, but it wasn’t one of pain. Neal could read a flicker of desire, an echo of what he, himself, had just felt. But this wasn’t why he touched Peter. Neal needed him to realize that he understood what Reese meant to him – at that moment and now. He pressed his hand a little harder against Peter’s chest, and then slid his palm up to his temple, trying to tell Peter that neither the head nor the heart needs to be justified. Love just is.
He seemed to get the message and Neal reluctantly let go, but kept his eyes glued to Peter’s, watching for any sign of anger, that there was still a miscommunication between them. There wasn’t. Peter smiled and Neal felt his own lips curving up in answer.
“Sorry – it’s not something I’ve talked about and, well, there’s the age difference and …” Peter shook his head. “Sorry – I don’t need to justify anything, do I?”
Neal did something he rarely did; he mouthed the word “no.”
“You’re right, I don’t. Reese and I – well, it happened just that one time. And to be honest, it wasn’t very good. The sex, I mean. I think we both just needed the comfort, to know that we weren’t alone. And it wasn’t like we pretended it never happened. Hell, when I told him I was dating a woman, he asked me if he’d turned me off men.”
Neal felt the laughter bubble up, an emotion reflected in Peter’s eyes.
“Yeah – so that’s the story of me and Reese Hughes, warts and all.”
At that moment, Neal envied Peter. He envied the close bond he had with the other man, a friendship that was so rare amongst the Archons, but common between mortals. And for all its commonness, it was still something to be treasured.
Maybe his relationship with Matthew came close – there was affection between them, but it was still a shadow of what Peter had with Reese. It lacked that essential element of trust that humans shared, which was only right. Few Archons bonded with each other; such relationships would interfere with their responsibilities to the souls they watched over.
“Reese wants us to come for Thanksgiving. Do you want to go?”
He nodded, thinking why not. Listening to Peter talk about his friend made him want to know the man better. Then the reality of the invitation hit Neal, hard and joyfully – like a massed chorus of voices raised in song. Peter was expecting him to stay forever, that he was truly a part of his life.
This time, Peter had no awareness of Neal’s epiphany. He just went into the kitchen and started the mundane task of fixing dinner.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
A little before three, just a week after Reese’s visit, Peter received a text message from the place where he kept that post office box letting him know he had a letter. It was worth the added expense to get the alerts, freeing him from the need to check the box every few days.
Peter wondered what Mozzie was up to, and for the first time since – well, since Neal had dropped into his life – he felt a little nostalgic for his badge and gun. Despite the mess that had resulted from the last time Moz had shared information, which ended with a dead U.S. Senator and his own forced retirement, the leads he’d provided had always been solid, contributing to Peter's enviable conviction record. It would be hard to cut the little guy loose, but it had to be done. He had to tell Moz that he was no longer in the Suit business.
Maybe he’d give Moz contact information for Clinton or Diana. No, not Diana. She’d eat him alive. But Clinton would be good with him; he’d indulge the man’s craziness up to a point.
But first, he needed to retrieve the contents from his private post office box. Since it was mid-November, Peter expected that he’d find the inevitable tickets to a Christmas-themed concert. Or maybe not. Mozzie had eclectic tastes, and as long as the music was sacred and being performed in New York City, it was fair game. Remembering some of the concerts he’d sat through for the sake of a solid lead, Peter figured it was just as likely that he’d be going to a concert of sacred Kagura music and dance, or a public display of Zoroastrian rites, as it was to the season’s first recital of Handel’s Messiah. Regardless, he’d bring Neal with him – both to the mailbox and the concert. The man loved music and it would be a treat to watch him enjoy a live performance.
Neal was at the dining room table, sketching something. Peter was insatiably curious, but he couldn’t bring himself to peek inside Neal’s sketchbook. It seemed too personal, too private, and he feared that if he looked without an invitation, he’d irreparably damage something between them.
In the week since Reese’s visit, Peter felt the attraction between him and Neal grow. It was almost palpable in the silence between them. Peter found himself dreaming about Neal, vividly sexual dreams, the likes of which he hadn’t had since he’d been a teenager, but far darker than his boyhood fantasies. He dreamed of fucking Neal on every surface in the house, of dragging him out to the back yard, putting him on his knees in the very spot where he’d landed and fucking him until he found his voice, until he screamed. And some of his fantasies were tender, too. He dreamed of the art that decorated Neal’s back and wanted to trace those feathers with his tongue and lips, to count them, name them.
Almost every night, Peter woke with his cock hard enough to break stone, mere heartbeats from orgasm, dreams of him and Neal barely fading from consciousness. Just this morning, he’d gotten up and was at Neal’s bedroom door before he’d fully realized what he was about to do. Instead of invading Neal’s privacy, he went into the bathroom and beat off under a hot shower.
And despite his caution, Peter was almost certain that if he made a move towards Neal, if he expressed any of this pent up longing, it would be welcomed and joyously reciprocated. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to make that first move. It wasn’t the memory of Elizabeth stopping him. He’d come to truly believe that she’d want him to be happy, to live his life to the fullest.
Peter couldn’t seem to figure out what was stopping him. He knew that if Neal made the first move, he’d accept it eagerly, and they’d be beautiful together. But for some reason, he couldn’t take that first step, cross the line from an unlikely and inexplicable friendship to something else entirely.
Neal was working intently, unaware that he had a smudge of charcoal on his cheek and another across his lips. Peter wondered if there was a more beautiful man in the world. In a way, that thought bothered him. He’d never considered himself bound by convention, requiring physical perfection from his partners – male or female. But he couldn’t deny that Neal’s almost unearthly grace and beauty was an irresistible magnet.
That might explain why, on one of the very few times he’d left the house without Neal, he’d stopped at the drugstore and bought condoms and lube. The thought of those sundries, tucked away in his night table drawer made him blush.
At that moment, Neal looked up; his ever-present smile a touch secretive. It was almost as if he knew just what he’d been thinking. Peter felt himself blush even harder and looked back at the Sunday Times crossword puzzle; there were still a few clues left to solve. Except that Neal wasn’t making it easy. He’d put down his sketchbook and pencil and joined him at the kitchen island, leaning over him, getting deep into his space – yet carefully not touching him.
Peter edged away, uncomfortable at his body’s sudden and intense reaction. Neal stepped back, a hurt expression on his face, and Peter felt like a heel. Instead of apologizing – because nothing he’d done needed an apology – he asked Neal if he’d like to go for a walk. “I need to check on something, and it’s a nice day. We can get some fresh air.”
Neal’s smile turned wry. He probably knew just what he, Peter, was doing: deflecting both of them away from the elephant in the room. Peter watched as Neal retrieved his socks and shoes and put them on, wondering again at the other man’s insistence on remaining barefoot as much as possible, despite the sinking temperatures and the undoubtedly cold floor.
It was a nice day and the walk to the UPS store on Baltic Street and Fourth Avenue took about fifteen minutes. Or should have, except that Neal needed to stop and pet every dog they passed along the way. The dogs, including the normally dyspeptic Afghan hound that lived a few doors away, were ecstatic at the attention, and all but yanked their walkers off their feet to get to Neal.
Peter sighed and tried not to show any irritation when both a Cavalier King Charles spaniel and the spaniel’s owner tried to hump Neal’s leg. The dog’s owner, a girl – who looked no more than seventeen – kept pulling her already low-cut shirt down, exposing the tops of her nipples. Peter was about to tell her that she’d get pneumonia when Neal did the unthinkable. He took Peter’s gloved hand in his and lifted it to his lips, pressing a kiss against the back of his fingers, a very clear declaration of something. Of course, Peter felt that spark – the one that always zinged through his blood whenever Neal touched him. At first, it was muted through the layers of wool and leather, but the electricity almost burned through his glove when Neal touched his lips to his hand.
The girl sniffed, yanked on the spaniel’s leash and pulled him away. The dog whimpered, gave Neal a sad look and trotted off after his mistress.
Peter didn’t want to talk about that kiss, although he was dying to pull Neal back to the house and see if his own kisses could create such electricity. Instead, he asked, “What is it with you and dogs?”
Neal just shoved his hands in his coat pockets and shrugged. Peter could almost hear him say, “I like dogs, they like me. Is that a problem?”
And Peter found himself answering that unspoken question, “No, of course not. I like dogs, too. I still miss Satchmo.”
Neal’s look of surprise at Peter’s response turned to one of shared grief and compassion and he wondered, not for the first time, just who Neal had lost.
The brisk November day turned brisker and a stiff wind propelled them up Baltic Street and practically into the small UPS store where Peter kept the mailbox. As promised, there was something in his box – a single white envelope, addressed, as always, to ‘P. Suit’. Mozzie did have a quirky sense of humor.
The tickets inside were a pleasant surprise – a performance of one of Antonio Vivaldi’s Glorias. Actually the Vivaldi Gloria. He’d never thought of himself as an aficionado of classical music, but his association with Mozzie had given him both an education and an appreciation for the stuff. And the venue for the performance was especially fine: the Fuentidueña Chapel at the Cloisters. He’d been there once or twice and enjoyed it immensely.
Neal looked over his shoulder at the tickets.
“You’ll enjoy this. It’s for tomorrow afternoon. We could meet Reese and David for dinner after the concert. They live only a few minutes’ walk away from the Cloisters. ”
Neal seemed confused and held up two fingers, pointing once at Peter and once in the general direction of elsewhere.
“I’ll get you a ticket, don’t worry. I’m not leaving you behind.” Peter was about to wonder why Neal was worried about only two tickets – he’d not yet explained Moz’s quirky requirements. But Neal smiled and he forgot everything. At that moment, Peter felt himself drowning in the warm blueness of Neal’s gaze. Something settled inside him. The existential anxiety and indecision about his desire faded. All he wanted to do was go home. In the quiet space of his own head, Peter thought with increasing certainty, make love to him.
The walk back to the house seemed to take twice as long, fighting a stiff headwind. At least the dogs and their walkers left Neal alone.
As they turned the corner onto Warren Street, with the house just a half-block away, Peter was looking forward to getting inside, lighting a fire, relaxing with a glass of wine and getting Neal into his arms.
Except that two old friends were sitting on his front steps, waiting for him.
“Diana, Clinton – what brings you here?” He hoped he didn’t sound as annoyed as he felt.
Clinton answered, “Something’s come up. We need to talk to you.”
“Okay – then let’s get out of the wind.” As Peter climbed his front steps, the cold evening air suddenly felt twice as cold. He looked back, and Neal was waiting at the bottom of the steps, hands in his pockets, looking like he was about to stand there for the rest of the night. “Neal?”
He waited patiently for Neal to get his ass in gear and go inside. Except that Neal wasn’t moving. His gaze kept flickering from him to the two agents.
Peter wasn’t at all sure what was going on inside Neal’s head, but whatever it was, it needed to stop. He sighed and made the formal introductions. “Clinton, Diana – this is my good friend, Neal. Neal, this is Diana Berrigan and Clinton Jones. They used to work for me. Now, please, can we all go inside before we freeze to death?”
Neal still seemed reluctant.
“Oh, for crying out loud.” He grabbed Neal’s hand and pulled him inside.
Neal looked from him to Clinton and then to Diana, and if Peter didn’t know better, he’d think that the other man was terrified. Rather than make a big deal of it, he ignored Neal’s odd behavior. But that meant ignoring the weird looks from Clinton and Diana, and to be honest, they deserved some kind of explanation.
“Look, Neal’s mute. He doesn’t talk but he hears just fine.” Peter knew he was behaving like a bear with a bad tooth as he stomped into the kitchen, fetched four bottles of beer and passed them around. He smiled and apologized to Neal as he gave him a bottle but Neal didn’t take it. He didn’t smile; he just kept staring at Diana and Clinton with unnerving intensity. Peter still couldn’t figure out what was going on inside his head.
He turned back to Clinton and Diana. “You said something came up and you needed to see me?” He hoped they weren’t going to ask him about a case. He had made a choice and left that life behind him.
Clinton reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “This came for you this afternoon. It’s from the Bureau of Prisons. I opened it.”
Peter took the envelope, which was neatly slit open. “I get these all of the time. You do, too. Why are you making such a big deal of it?”
Diana answered this time. “Take a look, Peter.”
Peter pulled the single sheet of paper out and read it. “Please be advised that Rachel Turner has completed the full term of her twenty-year sentence in the matter of U.S. v. Rachel Turner, et al., and has been released from Alderson Federal Prison Camp.” He blinked, surprised to see that name. “It’s really been twenty years?”
“Peter – she made death threats against you.” Diana actually seemed worried.
“How do you know that?”
“I looked up the trial. You never mentioned this case.”
Peter shrugged, uncomfortable with the memory. “If you looked up the case, you know what happened.”
“Yeah, you killed her brother after he took Agent Hughes hostage. You were still a probie when it happened.”
“Which means it was a very long time ago, guys. You really don’t think she’s going to come after me?”
“You killed her brother, Peter. She made some pretty specific threats when they took her into custody. She said that she’d make you pay if it took her the rest of her life. She’s been out of prison for a week – she could be here in New York.”
“Guys, look, I appreciate the concern, but I’m sure that there’s nothing to worry about.”
Neither of his friends looked convinced, and Clinton got that stubborn look that Peter knew all too well. That doggedness was one of the qualities that made him such an excellent agent. It was also annoying as hell. “Okay, okay. What do you think I should do?”
Clinton suggested, “Let us talk to the local precinct. You’re a retired FBI agent; they’ll look out for you. We can have them send a car around every night and you should think about upgrading your security system. Also, you should carry your gun when you leave your house.”
That was something he didn’t want to do. “I’m retired, guys. I don’t wear a badge anymore.”
Diana, of course, corrected him. “As a retired law enforcement officer, you have a permanent concealed carry license. It’s Federal law.”
Peter sighed, giving in because it was easier than arguing. “Look, you can let the precinct know, but I honestly don’t think they’re going to do a damned thing. The police have better things to do than watch my house.”
Clinton and Diana nodded – not so much in agreement. They also kept sneaking glances over at Neal, who hadn’t moved from the corner of the dining room. It was pretty clear that they wanted to know who he was and why he was here, but Peter was in no mood to explain. He wanted them gone; he wanted to regain the joyful anticipation of spending the evening with Neal. He didn’t want to think about a killing that had happened twenty years ago. He’d already thought about it too much over the past few weeks.
The moment descended into awkwardness. Diana and Clinton left their beer untouched and tried to make small talk. Peter tried to get them out the door without being too obvious. When they finally left, after securing his promise to take all possible precautions, Peter locked the door behind them with no small amount of relief and turned to Neal, wanting answers that the man was unable to give him.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal was struck with dread the moment he saw the two FBI agents waiting in front of Peter’s house. He was familiar with fear, but this cold, paralyzing terror was not something he’d ever experienced before.
Peter’s colleagues looked like decent people. The woman almost glowed with the new life inside her, a life she didn’t yet realize she carried. The man was strong, honorable, and had a soul that had been watched over for hundreds of lives. Neal wondered if, had he shaken this man’s hand, he’d have learned which Archon was looking out for him.
But he was overwhelmed by the sense of impending doom. He didn’t understand it – these were good people, they meant no harm to Peter. But when the man – Clinton – handed Peter the letter and Peter read it, the dread grew.
This woman, the sister of the man Peter had killed so long ago, was going to be the instrument of Peter’s death. Neal was certain of it. He was also certain that there was nothing he could do to prevent it.
“Neal?” Peter was standing in front of him, worry clouding his eyes. “What’s the matter?”
He cursed his muteness, he cursed the bindings that kept him silent, and he cursed the knowledge that there was nothing he could say to Peter that would make him believe that his life was in danger.
Instead, he forced a lie of a smile to his lips and gave the man his usual shrug. It didn’t work. Peter was still concerned.
Neal picked up his sketchpad and pencil and drew the image that was imprinted in his brain – a woman with a gun standing over Peter’s dead body.
Peter didn’t laugh, but he didn’t seem to take Neal’s vision seriously. “There’s nothing to worry about. She’s not coming here. If the authorities thought she was a threat, I would have been told. What Clinton and Diana brought was strictly pro forma. The Bureau of Prisons always sends those letters to the arresting officer when the prisoner is released.”
Neal knew that, but he also knew – beyond reason – that Rachel Turner was going to kill Peter.
“Hey, hey – it’s okay. If you’re that worried, I’ll do what Di and Clinton suggested. I’ll carry my gun when we go out, I’ll have the alarm company come in and upgrade the system. Hell, I’ll even ask the local PD to keep an eye out for her. Nothing will happen to me, okay?” He touched Neal, cupping his hand around his cheek, comforting him. His palm was so warm, so wonderful against his skin.
Peter was so earnest, so willing to appease his fears. But it was all going to be for nothing. He was going to die.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter didn’t know what was going on with Neal. To be so frightened by nothing. For all the contradictions of Neal’s presence in his life – his sudden and bizarre entry, his muteness, his almost supernatural ability to comprehend his emotions – Peter always believed that Neal had a very firm grounding in reality.
But Neal seemed far too shaken by something completely irrational. And remembering Neal’s reluctance to interact with Diana and Clinton, he had to wonder. If it was anyone else, he’d say that they were afraid of the law, but Neal knew he was a recently retired FBI agent.
It had been one of the things he’d told Neal, that first morning. They’d gone for breakfast and Peter had laid out the law, trying like hell not to be charmed by the man’s silence and his smile. He’d explained that, although he was retired, he wouldn’t hesitate to have him arrested if he did anything hinky. Neal had kept on smiling, he nodded and pulled out a pencil from his pocket, turned over the diner placemat and made a quick sketch of himself in handcuffs, behind bars. Peter had laughed and said “Exactly, so behave.”
And to be honest, he didn’t actually seem afraid of Clinton or Diana in the way that someone with a guilty conscience might be. He didn’t try to run; he wasn’t really trying to hide. Neal was just not behaving like he’d come to expect.
And for all that he told his friends that he was retired, Peter knew that he’d never stop looking at problems as if he was still an agent. It was more than that, too. He was worried.
Neal mattered to him. He mattered greatly and seeing him so troubled, so frightened, hurt.
“Stop worrying, okay?”
Neal just kept looking at him, his mouth grave, his eyes so wide it seemed like Peter could drown in them.
He wrapped his arms around Neal and brought him close, until they were connected from shoulder to hip, until their foreheads rested against each other. He could feel the licks of fire on his back as Neal’s hands gripped his shoulders.
“Please, please don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen, I promise.”
Neal leaned into him for a second, maybe two, and Peter held his breath as he felt Neal’s lips brush his cheek, then his own lips. The spark was burned bright, hotter than he’d ever felt - and then it was muted. Neal stepped away, gently, emphatically breaking his hold. Peter watched Neal leave and he wanted to weep. This was not how the evening was supposed to end.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
As much as he needed to stay close to Peter, Neal needed to escape more - he needed to find a balance, because becoming a panicking wreck wouldn’t help Peter at all. Ignoring the hurt expression on the other man’s face, Neal fled upstairs and tried to find some peace within the solitude of the small bedroom. He paced, counting off the length in a half-dozen steps forward, then back. For the first time since he’d landed, Neal truly missed his wings – or more to the point, he missed being able to take flight, to soar through the clouds and forget the world and its problems.
And worse, he missed his companions. Matthew, for all his wickedness. June and her love and unyielding wisdom.
He needed them, he needed his own kind.
But you made the sacrifice, you knew what you were doing. You wanted this.
Yes, he wanted Peter, he wanted this life and until an hour ago, he was content with his limitations.
Not anymore. Those limitations were now a prison and there was no escape.
He was shaking from the terrible emotions. This was worse than learning that the soul he loved was going to end with this life, that Peter, in all his wonderful variations and permutations, would be no more.
Neal went into the bathroom and stared into the mirror, wishing with everything he had that there was someone on the other side, someone watching. That there was someone who would see and mark the passage and loss of this soul, someone who would remember and carry the memory for eternity.
He gripped the mirror’s frame and mouthed a single word. Please.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
June watched through her mirror pool. Her satisfaction at the unfolding events was tempered by Neal’s visible pain.
Her hand hovered over his reflection, as if to caress it. She whispered, “Hold on, Neal, just hold on.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter sat in the living room. It was full dark, but he didn’t turn on a light. From the couch, he could see the barest illumination spilling out from under the guest room door and down the stairs. It was broken every few moments, as if someone was passing between the lamp and the door.
Neal was pacing and Peter was lost. The afternoon had held such promise.
He picked up the letter from the Bureau of Prisons, turned it over in his hands a few times before tossing it back onto the coffee table. He didn’t need to read it again. It was truly nothing more than the usual courtesy notice. He wondered if Reese had gotten the same letter, if he was concerned about the vengeance Rachel Turner had promised so long ago.
It was strange, but if he hadn’t just told Neal about his relationship with Reese, he might not have even recognized the name. Which was really a terrible thing to have forgotten. He had killed her brother, and as bad a man as he had been, he deserved better than to be a footnote in his service record.
Not that there was anything Peter could do about it. As he promised Neal, he’d take the precautions that Diana and Clinton suggested, he’d watch the shadows, but he couldn’t make himself believe that there was any real danger. His gut – almost always reliable – was silent.
Peter tried not to think about the last time his gut failed to warn him, the night he came home and found Elizabeth. But that was different, wasn’t it?
The thoughts spiraled around in his mind, dark and dangerous. He hadn’t felt like this since …
Since Neal dropped into his life. Neal, who literally fell out of the sky, smiled at him and made him remember that his life was worth something.
Sitting in the darkness, Peter couldn’t help but remember that it wasn’t the first time someone smiled at him and his life changed. Twelve years ago, he’d been assigned to investigate a suspected tax fraud case at a downtown art gallery. The assistant manager, a pretty and pert brunette – and most likely the anonymous whistleblower – looked up from her computer, smiled at him and he all but forgot how to breathe.
It might have taken him three weeks to get up the nerve to ask her out, but from their very first date, Peter knew that she was the one woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. The one person.
Peter looked up at the staircase. The thin line of light had disappeared. Neal wasn’t coming back down tonight. Maybe that was for the best, for now. Because in remembering Elizabeth and the love he had for her, the love he’d always feel, he realized something else.
He loved Neal.
It wasn’t an epiphany; it didn’t hit him out of the blue and steal his breath away. It was like sliding that final puzzle piece into place. He wondered if this was how Reese had felt with David.
To go from grief to acceptance to love felt strange, but also very right.
Peter wasn’t sure what he was going to do about it. The physical relationship he had been looking forward to this afternoon was going to happen – there was no question about that. But love brought other complications. He was a man who needed permanence, commitment, fidelity.
He didn’t think Neal would have a problem with any of those needs, but Peter didn’t want to make assumptions, either.
And then there was the greater issue of the mystery that was Neal himself. Peter couldn’t help but wonder how he could tie himself to a man without a last name, without an identity. He wasn’t the kind of person who picked up strays and lost souls, but that’s what he had done with Neal, and he never let himself question it. Reese would probably tell him that he was nuts, Diana and Clinton would try to run his prints.
But Peter couldn’t bring himself to worry about the mystery. Neal was Neal.
Amor vincit Omnia Was that all he needed to know? Was that all that mattered?
He pondered the question that was Neal for a few more moments and just decided to ignore it. Neal was here and the most important part of his life, and that didn’t need any further examination.
It wasn’t that late, but he was kind of tired. Might as well make it an early night. Peter snapped on the lights and blinked at the sudden brightness. He checked the lock on the back door and considering the warnings from Diana and Clinton and Neal’s desperate fears, he went to each window and checked the latches.
And found a small pile of shining white feathers on the floor.
Other than the times he found feathers atop Neal’s bed – always perfectly made – this was the first time he’d found them in a place where he knew that Neal had recently been. When he was talking with Diana and Clinton, Neal had all but retreated to this far corner of the dining room, between the window and the built-in bookcase, not really a place where anyone would normally hang out. In fact, until very recently, a large faux ficus tree occupied that corner. He and Neal had disposed of it (and the excessive amount of dust that decorated the tree) before they’d painted the room a few weeks ago.
He picked up the feathers and marveled at their unusual weight – for all they were as soft and downy as normal feathers. The plumage gleamed in his hand and he stared at it for countless minutes, getting lost in the rainbow shine that seemed to gather all of the light in the room.
The heavy rumble of a truck heading down the street distracted him. He tucked the feathers into a napkin and into his pocket, checked the rest of the windows and the front door, set the alarm and turned off the light before heading upstairs. He paused for a moment in front of Neal’s door, but didn’t knock.
Before getting undressed, Peter pulled out the old cigar box, which was overflowing with the mysterious plumage, and sat down on his bed. He took out the feathers he’d just found and, in a little ritual, he dropped them one by one into the box. Instead of slowly drifting down like flakes of snow, each feather dropped with a soft musical chime, like the ringing of a crystal bell.
Peter wasn’t a man given to flights of fantasy, but as he looked at the box, he saw the feathers settle and shift against each other like living creatures, and it seemed that they were speaking to each other, welcoming the new additions home.
He didn’t want to delve into this mystery any further, he didn’t want to lose the magic. It was enough to know that somehow, these feathers came from Neal.
Peter closed the box and put it back where it belonged, where it was safe.
He stripped, not bothering with his usual shorts and tee shirt, climbed into bed and turned off the light. Tomorrow would be here soon enough.
He couldn’t wait.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
He heard Peter come up the stairs, he heard him pause at the closed door before continuing down the hall to his bedroom.
Neal longed for Peter, but he could find no peace, no answers. He’d paced and planned and discarded those plans with every turn, until he couldn’t think anymore.
As much as he longed for a familiar face, he really couldn’t feel lost. He had Peter, and he could find no regrets for the choice he had made. What he lost – his voice, his wings, his immortality – was recompensed by the love he felt for this man, the love that Peter had for him. Because how could it be anything but love?
He’d never been a creature who understood the need for caution. The Elders, particularly June, had tried to teach him the value of prudence, but the lessons never really took. Maybe the one lesson he had learned was from Matthew, who was still paying the price for his own imprudence.
Neal realized that the price of his own headstrong need was going to be his life, but it was worth paying just to have this brief time with Peter, to feel the completeness of his own self in that soul’s presence.
No, that man’s presence.
Neal sat down on the edge of the bed; head buried in his hands, and came to a decision. He stripped off his shirt and undershirt, took off his pants and was about to take off his briefs, but changed his mind. If Peter turned him away, it would be a bit less humiliating if he wasn’t completely naked.
There was no light bleeding out from under Peter’s door, but Neal didn’t let the darkness stop him.
He opened the door and with a deep breath, stepped across the threshold. This was the first time he entered Peter’s bedroom – he’d considered it a sanctuary for the other man, off limits. But tonight, he was breaking all of the boundaries.
Peter heard him enter and turned on the light next to the bed.
Neal loved how he looked, chest bare, hair mussed from the pillow, concern in his eyes. He wanted to apologize for waking Peter, but that would be a lie.
The concern faded from Peter’s eyes as he smiled. “You didn’t wake me.” He shifted under the covers and sat up. “Are you okay?”
Neal nodded, took one step forward, then another, before stopping, as he was suddenly filled with doubt. Peter’s smile widened and he flipped back the covers, but made no move to get up. The invitation was clear.
“Neal.”
His name, spoken with such deep affection, broke the spell holding him in place and he all but flew across the room.
He paused for a moment at the edge of the bed. Peter reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling him onto the bed.
Neal gasped. Peter’s hand on his wrist felt like fire, but it was nothing compared to the burn of Peter’s mouth against his, of his hands threading through his hair, cupping the back of his skull, holding him with such assurance.
The fire licked down his spine as he arched against Peter, needing to feel skin and heat.
One of Peter’s hands left the back of his head, started tracing along his shoulder, and flames followed. His skin seemed hypersensitive – especially along the path were his wings used to be. Neal wondered at what Peter was feeling – if the sparks that were burning his fingertips, his lips, everywhere they touched were just as pleasurable.
Peter’s mouth left his lips and Neal moaned, or at least his breath left his mouth in a sorrowful rush, but he made no sound. Peter didn’t notice as he kissed his jaw, then his cheek, then his lips found his earlobe. That he didn’t kiss – that he bit and nibbled and sucked and Neal went weak.
Peter stopped and looked at him, love and grave concern darkening his eyes. “Am I going too fast?”
Neal smiled and shook his head, reaching up to bring him close again, to feel his mouth on him.
They were connected from shoulder to thigh and Peter’s skin was hot against his, hotter than he’d ever experienced. Neal felt consumed. The night, the world could burn down around him and he wouldn’t care.
Continue to Part VI
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
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 V – 7,600
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.
Neal wanted to weep.
He’d seen the tragedy as it happened, but in Peter’s retelling, Neal could see it unfold again. He remembered reaching out, wanting desperately to reach through the mirror pool and stop everything, to reset the players and start time running again only when Peter was safe.
The story, as Peter told it, was terrifying. When Peter mentioned a feather drifting across his field of vision; when he said that in his dream he’d been covered in white feathers, Neal couldn’t shake the feeling that something had happened that shouldn’t have. He now wondered and worried that in his watching, he’d somehow changed the course of events – that Peter should not have lived.
That he’d interfered and as a result, he’d damaged the soul that he’d watched over and cared for. That he loved.
“Hey – you okay?”
Peter was kneeling in front of him, a worried look on his face.
Neal nodded and gave him a small smile, still distracted by his thoughts.
“You’re not disgusted that Reese and I …”
That brought Neal’s attention back to Peter. Over the past month, he’d come to terms with the loss of his voice – they seemed to communicate perfectly without it. Neal was certain there were times that Peter was reading his thoughts. And even when he wasn’t, Peter seemed particularly attuned to his emotions. It was a constant source of wonder to Neal; he hadn’t expected their connection to work both ways.
But this wasn’t one of those times and Peter had completely misread Neal’s thoughts. He was far from disgusted and he couldn’t seem to find a way to let Peter know that. A smile and a shrug wouldn’t do.
As the moments passed, Peter’s expression darkened, perhaps remembering other slights. Neal smiled and shook his head. Peter didn’t seem mollified.
So Neal did the only thing he could think of. He pressed a hand over his own heart, then his head. But Peter was getting stubborn in his anger and he stalked away. Neal reached out and grabbed him, holding his wrist tightly; ignoring the bright, almost painful surge of electricity he always felt when he was the one to initiate physical contact.
Peter stopped, but Neal wasn’t sure if he felt the same shock that he did. This time, Neal put his hand over Peter’s heart, and he kept his movement slow and careful. The spark came again, but it was deeper, richer. To Neal, it evoked the memory of tangling plumage with another Archon.
Peter gasped at the contact, but it wasn’t one of pain. Neal could read a flicker of desire, an echo of what he, himself, had just felt. But this wasn’t why he touched Peter. Neal needed him to realize that he understood what Reese meant to him – at that moment and now. He pressed his hand a little harder against Peter’s chest, and then slid his palm up to his temple, trying to tell Peter that neither the head nor the heart needs to be justified. Love just is.
He seemed to get the message and Neal reluctantly let go, but kept his eyes glued to Peter’s, watching for any sign of anger, that there was still a miscommunication between them. There wasn’t. Peter smiled and Neal felt his own lips curving up in answer.
“Sorry – it’s not something I’ve talked about and, well, there’s the age difference and …” Peter shook his head. “Sorry – I don’t need to justify anything, do I?”
Neal did something he rarely did; he mouthed the word “no.”
“You’re right, I don’t. Reese and I – well, it happened just that one time. And to be honest, it wasn’t very good. The sex, I mean. I think we both just needed the comfort, to know that we weren’t alone. And it wasn’t like we pretended it never happened. Hell, when I told him I was dating a woman, he asked me if he’d turned me off men.”
Neal felt the laughter bubble up, an emotion reflected in Peter’s eyes.
“Yeah – so that’s the story of me and Reese Hughes, warts and all.”
At that moment, Neal envied Peter. He envied the close bond he had with the other man, a friendship that was so rare amongst the Archons, but common between mortals. And for all its commonness, it was still something to be treasured.
Maybe his relationship with Matthew came close – there was affection between them, but it was still a shadow of what Peter had with Reese. It lacked that essential element of trust that humans shared, which was only right. Few Archons bonded with each other; such relationships would interfere with their responsibilities to the souls they watched over.
“Reese wants us to come for Thanksgiving. Do you want to go?”
He nodded, thinking why not. Listening to Peter talk about his friend made him want to know the man better. Then the reality of the invitation hit Neal, hard and joyfully – like a massed chorus of voices raised in song. Peter was expecting him to stay forever, that he was truly a part of his life.
This time, Peter had no awareness of Neal’s epiphany. He just went into the kitchen and started the mundane task of fixing dinner.
A little before three, just a week after Reese’s visit, Peter received a text message from the place where he kept that post office box letting him know he had a letter. It was worth the added expense to get the alerts, freeing him from the need to check the box every few days.
Peter wondered what Mozzie was up to, and for the first time since – well, since Neal had dropped into his life – he felt a little nostalgic for his badge and gun. Despite the mess that had resulted from the last time Moz had shared information, which ended with a dead U.S. Senator and his own forced retirement, the leads he’d provided had always been solid, contributing to Peter's enviable conviction record. It would be hard to cut the little guy loose, but it had to be done. He had to tell Moz that he was no longer in the Suit business.
Maybe he’d give Moz contact information for Clinton or Diana. No, not Diana. She’d eat him alive. But Clinton would be good with him; he’d indulge the man’s craziness up to a point.
But first, he needed to retrieve the contents from his private post office box. Since it was mid-November, Peter expected that he’d find the inevitable tickets to a Christmas-themed concert. Or maybe not. Mozzie had eclectic tastes, and as long as the music was sacred and being performed in New York City, it was fair game. Remembering some of the concerts he’d sat through for the sake of a solid lead, Peter figured it was just as likely that he’d be going to a concert of sacred Kagura music and dance, or a public display of Zoroastrian rites, as it was to the season’s first recital of Handel’s Messiah. Regardless, he’d bring Neal with him – both to the mailbox and the concert. The man loved music and it would be a treat to watch him enjoy a live performance.
Neal was at the dining room table, sketching something. Peter was insatiably curious, but he couldn’t bring himself to peek inside Neal’s sketchbook. It seemed too personal, too private, and he feared that if he looked without an invitation, he’d irreparably damage something between them.
In the week since Reese’s visit, Peter felt the attraction between him and Neal grow. It was almost palpable in the silence between them. Peter found himself dreaming about Neal, vividly sexual dreams, the likes of which he hadn’t had since he’d been a teenager, but far darker than his boyhood fantasies. He dreamed of fucking Neal on every surface in the house, of dragging him out to the back yard, putting him on his knees in the very spot where he’d landed and fucking him until he found his voice, until he screamed. And some of his fantasies were tender, too. He dreamed of the art that decorated Neal’s back and wanted to trace those feathers with his tongue and lips, to count them, name them.
Almost every night, Peter woke with his cock hard enough to break stone, mere heartbeats from orgasm, dreams of him and Neal barely fading from consciousness. Just this morning, he’d gotten up and was at Neal’s bedroom door before he’d fully realized what he was about to do. Instead of invading Neal’s privacy, he went into the bathroom and beat off under a hot shower.
And despite his caution, Peter was almost certain that if he made a move towards Neal, if he expressed any of this pent up longing, it would be welcomed and joyously reciprocated. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to make that first move. It wasn’t the memory of Elizabeth stopping him. He’d come to truly believe that she’d want him to be happy, to live his life to the fullest.
Peter couldn’t seem to figure out what was stopping him. He knew that if Neal made the first move, he’d accept it eagerly, and they’d be beautiful together. But for some reason, he couldn’t take that first step, cross the line from an unlikely and inexplicable friendship to something else entirely.
Neal was working intently, unaware that he had a smudge of charcoal on his cheek and another across his lips. Peter wondered if there was a more beautiful man in the world. In a way, that thought bothered him. He’d never considered himself bound by convention, requiring physical perfection from his partners – male or female. But he couldn’t deny that Neal’s almost unearthly grace and beauty was an irresistible magnet.
That might explain why, on one of the very few times he’d left the house without Neal, he’d stopped at the drugstore and bought condoms and lube. The thought of those sundries, tucked away in his night table drawer made him blush.
At that moment, Neal looked up; his ever-present smile a touch secretive. It was almost as if he knew just what he’d been thinking. Peter felt himself blush even harder and looked back at the Sunday Times crossword puzzle; there were still a few clues left to solve. Except that Neal wasn’t making it easy. He’d put down his sketchbook and pencil and joined him at the kitchen island, leaning over him, getting deep into his space – yet carefully not touching him.
Peter edged away, uncomfortable at his body’s sudden and intense reaction. Neal stepped back, a hurt expression on his face, and Peter felt like a heel. Instead of apologizing – because nothing he’d done needed an apology – he asked Neal if he’d like to go for a walk. “I need to check on something, and it’s a nice day. We can get some fresh air.”
Neal’s smile turned wry. He probably knew just what he, Peter, was doing: deflecting both of them away from the elephant in the room. Peter watched as Neal retrieved his socks and shoes and put them on, wondering again at the other man’s insistence on remaining barefoot as much as possible, despite the sinking temperatures and the undoubtedly cold floor.
It was a nice day and the walk to the UPS store on Baltic Street and Fourth Avenue took about fifteen minutes. Or should have, except that Neal needed to stop and pet every dog they passed along the way. The dogs, including the normally dyspeptic Afghan hound that lived a few doors away, were ecstatic at the attention, and all but yanked their walkers off their feet to get to Neal.
Peter sighed and tried not to show any irritation when both a Cavalier King Charles spaniel and the spaniel’s owner tried to hump Neal’s leg. The dog’s owner, a girl – who looked no more than seventeen – kept pulling her already low-cut shirt down, exposing the tops of her nipples. Peter was about to tell her that she’d get pneumonia when Neal did the unthinkable. He took Peter’s gloved hand in his and lifted it to his lips, pressing a kiss against the back of his fingers, a very clear declaration of something. Of course, Peter felt that spark – the one that always zinged through his blood whenever Neal touched him. At first, it was muted through the layers of wool and leather, but the electricity almost burned through his glove when Neal touched his lips to his hand.
The girl sniffed, yanked on the spaniel’s leash and pulled him away. The dog whimpered, gave Neal a sad look and trotted off after his mistress.
Peter didn’t want to talk about that kiss, although he was dying to pull Neal back to the house and see if his own kisses could create such electricity. Instead, he asked, “What is it with you and dogs?”
Neal just shoved his hands in his coat pockets and shrugged. Peter could almost hear him say, “I like dogs, they like me. Is that a problem?”
And Peter found himself answering that unspoken question, “No, of course not. I like dogs, too. I still miss Satchmo.”
Neal’s look of surprise at Peter’s response turned to one of shared grief and compassion and he wondered, not for the first time, just who Neal had lost.
The brisk November day turned brisker and a stiff wind propelled them up Baltic Street and practically into the small UPS store where Peter kept the mailbox. As promised, there was something in his box – a single white envelope, addressed, as always, to ‘P. Suit’. Mozzie did have a quirky sense of humor.
The tickets inside were a pleasant surprise – a performance of one of Antonio Vivaldi’s Glorias. Actually the Vivaldi Gloria. He’d never thought of himself as an aficionado of classical music, but his association with Mozzie had given him both an education and an appreciation for the stuff. And the venue for the performance was especially fine: the Fuentidueña Chapel at the Cloisters. He’d been there once or twice and enjoyed it immensely.
Neal looked over his shoulder at the tickets.
“You’ll enjoy this. It’s for tomorrow afternoon. We could meet Reese and David for dinner after the concert. They live only a few minutes’ walk away from the Cloisters. ”
Neal seemed confused and held up two fingers, pointing once at Peter and once in the general direction of elsewhere.
“I’ll get you a ticket, don’t worry. I’m not leaving you behind.” Peter was about to wonder why Neal was worried about only two tickets – he’d not yet explained Moz’s quirky requirements. But Neal smiled and he forgot everything. At that moment, Peter felt himself drowning in the warm blueness of Neal’s gaze. Something settled inside him. The existential anxiety and indecision about his desire faded. All he wanted to do was go home. In the quiet space of his own head, Peter thought with increasing certainty, make love to him.
The walk back to the house seemed to take twice as long, fighting a stiff headwind. At least the dogs and their walkers left Neal alone.
As they turned the corner onto Warren Street, with the house just a half-block away, Peter was looking forward to getting inside, lighting a fire, relaxing with a glass of wine and getting Neal into his arms.
Except that two old friends were sitting on his front steps, waiting for him.
“Diana, Clinton – what brings you here?” He hoped he didn’t sound as annoyed as he felt.
Clinton answered, “Something’s come up. We need to talk to you.”
“Okay – then let’s get out of the wind.” As Peter climbed his front steps, the cold evening air suddenly felt twice as cold. He looked back, and Neal was waiting at the bottom of the steps, hands in his pockets, looking like he was about to stand there for the rest of the night. “Neal?”
He waited patiently for Neal to get his ass in gear and go inside. Except that Neal wasn’t moving. His gaze kept flickering from him to the two agents.
Peter wasn’t at all sure what was going on inside Neal’s head, but whatever it was, it needed to stop. He sighed and made the formal introductions. “Clinton, Diana – this is my good friend, Neal. Neal, this is Diana Berrigan and Clinton Jones. They used to work for me. Now, please, can we all go inside before we freeze to death?”
Neal still seemed reluctant.
“Oh, for crying out loud.” He grabbed Neal’s hand and pulled him inside.
Neal looked from him to Clinton and then to Diana, and if Peter didn’t know better, he’d think that the other man was terrified. Rather than make a big deal of it, he ignored Neal’s odd behavior. But that meant ignoring the weird looks from Clinton and Diana, and to be honest, they deserved some kind of explanation.
“Look, Neal’s mute. He doesn’t talk but he hears just fine.” Peter knew he was behaving like a bear with a bad tooth as he stomped into the kitchen, fetched four bottles of beer and passed them around. He smiled and apologized to Neal as he gave him a bottle but Neal didn’t take it. He didn’t smile; he just kept staring at Diana and Clinton with unnerving intensity. Peter still couldn’t figure out what was going on inside his head.
He turned back to Clinton and Diana. “You said something came up and you needed to see me?” He hoped they weren’t going to ask him about a case. He had made a choice and left that life behind him.
Clinton reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “This came for you this afternoon. It’s from the Bureau of Prisons. I opened it.”
Peter took the envelope, which was neatly slit open. “I get these all of the time. You do, too. Why are you making such a big deal of it?”
Diana answered this time. “Take a look, Peter.”
Peter pulled the single sheet of paper out and read it. “Please be advised that Rachel Turner has completed the full term of her twenty-year sentence in the matter of U.S. v. Rachel Turner, et al., and has been released from Alderson Federal Prison Camp.” He blinked, surprised to see that name. “It’s really been twenty years?”
“Peter – she made death threats against you.” Diana actually seemed worried.
“How do you know that?”
“I looked up the trial. You never mentioned this case.”
Peter shrugged, uncomfortable with the memory. “If you looked up the case, you know what happened.”
“Yeah, you killed her brother after he took Agent Hughes hostage. You were still a probie when it happened.”
“Which means it was a very long time ago, guys. You really don’t think she’s going to come after me?”
“You killed her brother, Peter. She made some pretty specific threats when they took her into custody. She said that she’d make you pay if it took her the rest of her life. She’s been out of prison for a week – she could be here in New York.”
“Guys, look, I appreciate the concern, but I’m sure that there’s nothing to worry about.”
Neither of his friends looked convinced, and Clinton got that stubborn look that Peter knew all too well. That doggedness was one of the qualities that made him such an excellent agent. It was also annoying as hell. “Okay, okay. What do you think I should do?”
Clinton suggested, “Let us talk to the local precinct. You’re a retired FBI agent; they’ll look out for you. We can have them send a car around every night and you should think about upgrading your security system. Also, you should carry your gun when you leave your house.”
That was something he didn’t want to do. “I’m retired, guys. I don’t wear a badge anymore.”
Diana, of course, corrected him. “As a retired law enforcement officer, you have a permanent concealed carry license. It’s Federal law.”
Peter sighed, giving in because it was easier than arguing. “Look, you can let the precinct know, but I honestly don’t think they’re going to do a damned thing. The police have better things to do than watch my house.”
Clinton and Diana nodded – not so much in agreement. They also kept sneaking glances over at Neal, who hadn’t moved from the corner of the dining room. It was pretty clear that they wanted to know who he was and why he was here, but Peter was in no mood to explain. He wanted them gone; he wanted to regain the joyful anticipation of spending the evening with Neal. He didn’t want to think about a killing that had happened twenty years ago. He’d already thought about it too much over the past few weeks.
The moment descended into awkwardness. Diana and Clinton left their beer untouched and tried to make small talk. Peter tried to get them out the door without being too obvious. When they finally left, after securing his promise to take all possible precautions, Peter locked the door behind them with no small amount of relief and turned to Neal, wanting answers that the man was unable to give him.
Neal was struck with dread the moment he saw the two FBI agents waiting in front of Peter’s house. He was familiar with fear, but this cold, paralyzing terror was not something he’d ever experienced before.
Peter’s colleagues looked like decent people. The woman almost glowed with the new life inside her, a life she didn’t yet realize she carried. The man was strong, honorable, and had a soul that had been watched over for hundreds of lives. Neal wondered if, had he shaken this man’s hand, he’d have learned which Archon was looking out for him.
But he was overwhelmed by the sense of impending doom. He didn’t understand it – these were good people, they meant no harm to Peter. But when the man – Clinton – handed Peter the letter and Peter read it, the dread grew.
This woman, the sister of the man Peter had killed so long ago, was going to be the instrument of Peter’s death. Neal was certain of it. He was also certain that there was nothing he could do to prevent it.
“Neal?” Peter was standing in front of him, worry clouding his eyes. “What’s the matter?”
He cursed his muteness, he cursed the bindings that kept him silent, and he cursed the knowledge that there was nothing he could say to Peter that would make him believe that his life was in danger.
Instead, he forced a lie of a smile to his lips and gave the man his usual shrug. It didn’t work. Peter was still concerned.
Neal picked up his sketchpad and pencil and drew the image that was imprinted in his brain – a woman with a gun standing over Peter’s dead body.
Peter didn’t laugh, but he didn’t seem to take Neal’s vision seriously. “There’s nothing to worry about. She’s not coming here. If the authorities thought she was a threat, I would have been told. What Clinton and Diana brought was strictly pro forma. The Bureau of Prisons always sends those letters to the arresting officer when the prisoner is released.”
Neal knew that, but he also knew – beyond reason – that Rachel Turner was going to kill Peter.
“Hey, hey – it’s okay. If you’re that worried, I’ll do what Di and Clinton suggested. I’ll carry my gun when we go out, I’ll have the alarm company come in and upgrade the system. Hell, I’ll even ask the local PD to keep an eye out for her. Nothing will happen to me, okay?” He touched Neal, cupping his hand around his cheek, comforting him. His palm was so warm, so wonderful against his skin.
Peter was so earnest, so willing to appease his fears. But it was all going to be for nothing. He was going to die.
Peter didn’t know what was going on with Neal. To be so frightened by nothing. For all the contradictions of Neal’s presence in his life – his sudden and bizarre entry, his muteness, his almost supernatural ability to comprehend his emotions – Peter always believed that Neal had a very firm grounding in reality.
But Neal seemed far too shaken by something completely irrational. And remembering Neal’s reluctance to interact with Diana and Clinton, he had to wonder. If it was anyone else, he’d say that they were afraid of the law, but Neal knew he was a recently retired FBI agent.
It had been one of the things he’d told Neal, that first morning. They’d gone for breakfast and Peter had laid out the law, trying like hell not to be charmed by the man’s silence and his smile. He’d explained that, although he was retired, he wouldn’t hesitate to have him arrested if he did anything hinky. Neal had kept on smiling, he nodded and pulled out a pencil from his pocket, turned over the diner placemat and made a quick sketch of himself in handcuffs, behind bars. Peter had laughed and said “Exactly, so behave.”
And to be honest, he didn’t actually seem afraid of Clinton or Diana in the way that someone with a guilty conscience might be. He didn’t try to run; he wasn’t really trying to hide. Neal was just not behaving like he’d come to expect.
And for all that he told his friends that he was retired, Peter knew that he’d never stop looking at problems as if he was still an agent. It was more than that, too. He was worried.
Neal mattered to him. He mattered greatly and seeing him so troubled, so frightened, hurt.
“Stop worrying, okay?”
Neal just kept looking at him, his mouth grave, his eyes so wide it seemed like Peter could drown in them.
He wrapped his arms around Neal and brought him close, until they were connected from shoulder to hip, until their foreheads rested against each other. He could feel the licks of fire on his back as Neal’s hands gripped his shoulders.
“Please, please don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen, I promise.”
Neal leaned into him for a second, maybe two, and Peter held his breath as he felt Neal’s lips brush his cheek, then his own lips. The spark was burned bright, hotter than he’d ever felt - and then it was muted. Neal stepped away, gently, emphatically breaking his hold. Peter watched Neal leave and he wanted to weep. This was not how the evening was supposed to end.
As much as he needed to stay close to Peter, Neal needed to escape more - he needed to find a balance, because becoming a panicking wreck wouldn’t help Peter at all. Ignoring the hurt expression on the other man’s face, Neal fled upstairs and tried to find some peace within the solitude of the small bedroom. He paced, counting off the length in a half-dozen steps forward, then back. For the first time since he’d landed, Neal truly missed his wings – or more to the point, he missed being able to take flight, to soar through the clouds and forget the world and its problems.
And worse, he missed his companions. Matthew, for all his wickedness. June and her love and unyielding wisdom.
He needed them, he needed his own kind.
But you made the sacrifice, you knew what you were doing. You wanted this.
Yes, he wanted Peter, he wanted this life and until an hour ago, he was content with his limitations.
Not anymore. Those limitations were now a prison and there was no escape.
He was shaking from the terrible emotions. This was worse than learning that the soul he loved was going to end with this life, that Peter, in all his wonderful variations and permutations, would be no more.
Neal went into the bathroom and stared into the mirror, wishing with everything he had that there was someone on the other side, someone watching. That there was someone who would see and mark the passage and loss of this soul, someone who would remember and carry the memory for eternity.
He gripped the mirror’s frame and mouthed a single word. Please.
June watched through her mirror pool. Her satisfaction at the unfolding events was tempered by Neal’s visible pain.
Her hand hovered over his reflection, as if to caress it. She whispered, “Hold on, Neal, just hold on.”
Peter sat in the living room. It was full dark, but he didn’t turn on a light. From the couch, he could see the barest illumination spilling out from under the guest room door and down the stairs. It was broken every few moments, as if someone was passing between the lamp and the door.
Neal was pacing and Peter was lost. The afternoon had held such promise.
He picked up the letter from the Bureau of Prisons, turned it over in his hands a few times before tossing it back onto the coffee table. He didn’t need to read it again. It was truly nothing more than the usual courtesy notice. He wondered if Reese had gotten the same letter, if he was concerned about the vengeance Rachel Turner had promised so long ago.
It was strange, but if he hadn’t just told Neal about his relationship with Reese, he might not have even recognized the name. Which was really a terrible thing to have forgotten. He had killed her brother, and as bad a man as he had been, he deserved better than to be a footnote in his service record.
Not that there was anything Peter could do about it. As he promised Neal, he’d take the precautions that Diana and Clinton suggested, he’d watch the shadows, but he couldn’t make himself believe that there was any real danger. His gut – almost always reliable – was silent.
Peter tried not to think about the last time his gut failed to warn him, the night he came home and found Elizabeth. But that was different, wasn’t it?
The thoughts spiraled around in his mind, dark and dangerous. He hadn’t felt like this since …
Since Neal dropped into his life. Neal, who literally fell out of the sky, smiled at him and made him remember that his life was worth something.
Sitting in the darkness, Peter couldn’t help but remember that it wasn’t the first time someone smiled at him and his life changed. Twelve years ago, he’d been assigned to investigate a suspected tax fraud case at a downtown art gallery. The assistant manager, a pretty and pert brunette – and most likely the anonymous whistleblower – looked up from her computer, smiled at him and he all but forgot how to breathe.
It might have taken him three weeks to get up the nerve to ask her out, but from their very first date, Peter knew that she was the one woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. The one person.
“There’s something you need to know about me, El.”
They were having dinner at their favorite Italian restaurant in the East Village, and sharing a tiramisu for dessert. Elizabeth was licking her spoon and driving him crazy. She swiped her tongue against the back of the utensil and Peter was very glad he was wearing a suit and not tight fitting jeans.
She looked up from her pseudo-fellatio and smiled. “I know.”
“Huh? You know what?” His heart was pounding.
“You like men, too.” She bit her bottom lip and gave him an up-from-under look that made his heart race for completely different reasons.
“El – ”
“Am I wrong?”
He took a deep breath. “No, you’re not. And I’m not with you because I’m covering or I want a beard or I’m trying to pretend that I’m something I’m not.”
“I know that. You’re a god between the sheets, Peter Burke. You couldn’t make me feel the way you do if you were only pretending.”
Peter looked down. His hands were shaking – he’d been dreading this conversation and she made it so damn easy for him. “Some people say that there’s no such thing as a true bisexual.” He took a sip of his wine, hoping he sounded casual, as if his life didn’t depend on her answer.
“And people also say that the ivory-billed woodpecker is extinct, too, but there have been sightings.” El’s smile was full of mischief.
And that wine nearly went spraying all over her.
“Peter, relax. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with liking boys and liking girls.”
“So, you don’t mind that I’ve had relationships with men?”
“No, of course not. But I have to know, will you want to be with a man when you’re with me? I mean, I know it’s really not just about the equipment. But if it is – or you want something I don’t have – we can improvise.”
Peter closed his eyes and wondered just how he got so lucky. “El – I know this may sound crazy and a little scary, but from the moment we met, I realized I wanted no one but you.” He held his breath, waiting for her reaction. They’d been dating for almost a year, and she’d moved in with him three months ago. He put his hand, still shaking, into his jacket pocket and fiddled with the ring box.
El scraped the bottom of the dessert bowl, did that thing with her tongue again and grinned. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, Peter Burke, will you marry me?”
They were having dinner at their favorite Italian restaurant in the East Village, and sharing a tiramisu for dessert. Elizabeth was licking her spoon and driving him crazy. She swiped her tongue against the back of the utensil and Peter was very glad he was wearing a suit and not tight fitting jeans.
She looked up from her pseudo-fellatio and smiled. “I know.”
“Huh? You know what?” His heart was pounding.
“You like men, too.” She bit her bottom lip and gave him an up-from-under look that made his heart race for completely different reasons.
“El – ”
“Am I wrong?”
He took a deep breath. “No, you’re not. And I’m not with you because I’m covering or I want a beard or I’m trying to pretend that I’m something I’m not.”
“I know that. You’re a god between the sheets, Peter Burke. You couldn’t make me feel the way you do if you were only pretending.”
Peter looked down. His hands were shaking – he’d been dreading this conversation and she made it so damn easy for him. “Some people say that there’s no such thing as a true bisexual.” He took a sip of his wine, hoping he sounded casual, as if his life didn’t depend on her answer.
“And people also say that the ivory-billed woodpecker is extinct, too, but there have been sightings.” El’s smile was full of mischief.
And that wine nearly went spraying all over her.
“Peter, relax. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with liking boys and liking girls.”
“So, you don’t mind that I’ve had relationships with men?”
“No, of course not. But I have to know, will you want to be with a man when you’re with me? I mean, I know it’s really not just about the equipment. But if it is – or you want something I don’t have – we can improvise.”
Peter closed his eyes and wondered just how he got so lucky. “El – I know this may sound crazy and a little scary, but from the moment we met, I realized I wanted no one but you.” He held his breath, waiting for her reaction. They’d been dating for almost a year, and she’d moved in with him three months ago. He put his hand, still shaking, into his jacket pocket and fiddled with the ring box.
El scraped the bottom of the dessert bowl, did that thing with her tongue again and grinned. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, Peter Burke, will you marry me?”
Peter looked up at the staircase. The thin line of light had disappeared. Neal wasn’t coming back down tonight. Maybe that was for the best, for now. Because in remembering Elizabeth and the love he had for her, the love he’d always feel, he realized something else.
He loved Neal.
It wasn’t an epiphany; it didn’t hit him out of the blue and steal his breath away. It was like sliding that final puzzle piece into place. He wondered if this was how Reese had felt with David.
To go from grief to acceptance to love felt strange, but also very right.
Peter wasn’t sure what he was going to do about it. The physical relationship he had been looking forward to this afternoon was going to happen – there was no question about that. But love brought other complications. He was a man who needed permanence, commitment, fidelity.
He didn’t think Neal would have a problem with any of those needs, but Peter didn’t want to make assumptions, either.
And then there was the greater issue of the mystery that was Neal himself. Peter couldn’t help but wonder how he could tie himself to a man without a last name, without an identity. He wasn’t the kind of person who picked up strays and lost souls, but that’s what he had done with Neal, and he never let himself question it. Reese would probably tell him that he was nuts, Diana and Clinton would try to run his prints.
But Peter couldn’t bring himself to worry about the mystery. Neal was Neal.
Amor vincit Omnia Was that all he needed to know? Was that all that mattered?
He pondered the question that was Neal for a few more moments and just decided to ignore it. Neal was here and the most important part of his life, and that didn’t need any further examination.
It wasn’t that late, but he was kind of tired. Might as well make it an early night. Peter snapped on the lights and blinked at the sudden brightness. He checked the lock on the back door and considering the warnings from Diana and Clinton and Neal’s desperate fears, he went to each window and checked the latches.
And found a small pile of shining white feathers on the floor.
Other than the times he found feathers atop Neal’s bed – always perfectly made – this was the first time he’d found them in a place where he knew that Neal had recently been. When he was talking with Diana and Clinton, Neal had all but retreated to this far corner of the dining room, between the window and the built-in bookcase, not really a place where anyone would normally hang out. In fact, until very recently, a large faux ficus tree occupied that corner. He and Neal had disposed of it (and the excessive amount of dust that decorated the tree) before they’d painted the room a few weeks ago.
He picked up the feathers and marveled at their unusual weight – for all they were as soft and downy as normal feathers. The plumage gleamed in his hand and he stared at it for countless minutes, getting lost in the rainbow shine that seemed to gather all of the light in the room.
The heavy rumble of a truck heading down the street distracted him. He tucked the feathers into a napkin and into his pocket, checked the rest of the windows and the front door, set the alarm and turned off the light before heading upstairs. He paused for a moment in front of Neal’s door, but didn’t knock.
Before getting undressed, Peter pulled out the old cigar box, which was overflowing with the mysterious plumage, and sat down on his bed. He took out the feathers he’d just found and, in a little ritual, he dropped them one by one into the box. Instead of slowly drifting down like flakes of snow, each feather dropped with a soft musical chime, like the ringing of a crystal bell.
Peter wasn’t a man given to flights of fantasy, but as he looked at the box, he saw the feathers settle and shift against each other like living creatures, and it seemed that they were speaking to each other, welcoming the new additions home.
He didn’t want to delve into this mystery any further, he didn’t want to lose the magic. It was enough to know that somehow, these feathers came from Neal.
Peter closed the box and put it back where it belonged, where it was safe.
He stripped, not bothering with his usual shorts and tee shirt, climbed into bed and turned off the light. Tomorrow would be here soon enough.
He couldn’t wait.
He heard Peter come up the stairs, he heard him pause at the closed door before continuing down the hall to his bedroom.
Neal longed for Peter, but he could find no peace, no answers. He’d paced and planned and discarded those plans with every turn, until he couldn’t think anymore.
As much as he longed for a familiar face, he really couldn’t feel lost. He had Peter, and he could find no regrets for the choice he had made. What he lost – his voice, his wings, his immortality – was recompensed by the love he felt for this man, the love that Peter had for him. Because how could it be anything but love?
He’d never been a creature who understood the need for caution. The Elders, particularly June, had tried to teach him the value of prudence, but the lessons never really took. Maybe the one lesson he had learned was from Matthew, who was still paying the price for his own imprudence.
Neal realized that the price of his own headstrong need was going to be his life, but it was worth paying just to have this brief time with Peter, to feel the completeness of his own self in that soul’s presence.
No, that man’s presence.
Neal sat down on the edge of the bed; head buried in his hands, and came to a decision. He stripped off his shirt and undershirt, took off his pants and was about to take off his briefs, but changed his mind. If Peter turned him away, it would be a bit less humiliating if he wasn’t completely naked.
There was no light bleeding out from under Peter’s door, but Neal didn’t let the darkness stop him.
He opened the door and with a deep breath, stepped across the threshold. This was the first time he entered Peter’s bedroom – he’d considered it a sanctuary for the other man, off limits. But tonight, he was breaking all of the boundaries.
Peter heard him enter and turned on the light next to the bed.
Neal loved how he looked, chest bare, hair mussed from the pillow, concern in his eyes. He wanted to apologize for waking Peter, but that would be a lie.
The concern faded from Peter’s eyes as he smiled. “You didn’t wake me.” He shifted under the covers and sat up. “Are you okay?”
Neal nodded, took one step forward, then another, before stopping, as he was suddenly filled with doubt. Peter’s smile widened and he flipped back the covers, but made no move to get up. The invitation was clear.
“Neal.”
His name, spoken with such deep affection, broke the spell holding him in place and he all but flew across the room.
He paused for a moment at the edge of the bed. Peter reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling him onto the bed.
Neal gasped. Peter’s hand on his wrist felt like fire, but it was nothing compared to the burn of Peter’s mouth against his, of his hands threading through his hair, cupping the back of his skull, holding him with such assurance.
The fire licked down his spine as he arched against Peter, needing to feel skin and heat.
One of Peter’s hands left the back of his head, started tracing along his shoulder, and flames followed. His skin seemed hypersensitive – especially along the path were his wings used to be. Neal wondered at what Peter was feeling – if the sparks that were burning his fingertips, his lips, everywhere they touched were just as pleasurable.
Peter’s mouth left his lips and Neal moaned, or at least his breath left his mouth in a sorrowful rush, but he made no sound. Peter didn’t notice as he kissed his jaw, then his cheek, then his lips found his earlobe. That he didn’t kiss – that he bit and nibbled and sucked and Neal went weak.
Peter stopped and looked at him, love and grave concern darkening his eyes. “Am I going too fast?”
Neal smiled and shook his head, reaching up to bring him close again, to feel his mouth on him.
They were connected from shoulder to thigh and Peter’s skin was hot against his, hotter than he’d ever experienced. Neal felt consumed. The night, the world could burn down around him and he wouldn’t care.
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
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2014-05-23 04:03 am (UTC)The impending doom of Peter's potential death --- no!
I'm on an emotional roller coaster between your two ongoing stories