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elrhiarhodanTitle: If the Soul Doesn’t Sing (Just One Life) – Part VI
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 VI – ~9,800
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.
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Neal rolled over, away from the bright sunshine that filled the room, and met Peter’s smiling face.
“Hey there.”
Neal blinked and returned Peter’s smile.
“Sleep well?”
Neal nodded and sighed deeply. He’d fallen into a dreamless sleep, his mind quiet and his body satiated. In the clear morning light, the happiness and peace shining from Peter’s eyes, Neal couldn’t bring himself to stir the anxieties that had driven him last night.
He brushed his fingers against Peter’s lips – the spark was not so much muted, but transformed. The contact felt like the vibration from a ringing bell. Peter kissed his fingers, then leaned over to kiss his mouth. Neal tried but failed to keep his nose from wrinkling at the smell of Peter’s morning breath.
“Yours is as equally fragrant.” Peter laughed, kissed the tip of his nose and rolled him over so they were nestled like spoons. “Better?”
Neal didn’t answer, but Peter understood anyway. This was nice, though. Not just having Peter’s cock nestled between his ass, but the easy, comfortable closeness, as if they’d woken up together every morning for years.
Peter, for his part, wasn’t content to just cuddle. He seemed intent on exploring the tattoo that covered his back and shoulders. Neal rolled onto his stomach to give Peter greater access. For all his time here, with Peter, he’d avoided looking at the markings on his back – just as he avoided looking at his face in the mirror. The images reflected back were unnerving. But Peter seemed to have an endless fascination with them; the few times he’d walked around the house shirtless, Peter watched him like a cat stalking its prey.
Now, with an unfettered view of the tattoo, Peter indulged his fascination. His fingers and lips trailed along the lines on his back, leaving fire in their wake – a different kind of fire. Neal shifted restlessly against the mattress as Peter deliberately teased him.
“So beautiful – you look like you could just unfurl these wings and take flight.”
Neal shivered uneasily. He was never going to fly again.
“Hey, hey – it’s all right. I’m sorry.” Peter sounded worried and repentant, although there was no way he could know what was in his head.
Neal rolled over onto his back, doing his best to ignore the disappointed look in Peter’s eyes. He curved his hand around Peter’s neck and brought him close for a kiss. He kissed Peter with all of the love and the longing he’d carried with him for so long.
He kissed Peter and tasted his soul.
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Peter was of half a mind to ignore the concert tickets in his wallet. He’d much prefer to spend the day alone with Neal. But he couldn’t – he needed to see Moz and tell him in person that their ‘professional’ association was at an end, but if he was interested in continuing to work with the FBI, he’d point him towards Clinton Jones.
He owed Moz that much. And maybe a little more. The guy had been sort of a friend, and although the information he’d provided about the Flynns and James Bennett had turned into a clusterfuck of epic proportions, the intel itself had been good. That it cost him his badge was certainly not Mozzie’s fault.
Neal was, per usual, sitting at the dining room table, working on a sketch. This time, Peter had a feeling that he knew what the subject of the drawing was. Or more likely, who. Neal kept looking up at him every few minutes. Maybe later, after they got home, he’d ask to see the sketch.
In the meantime, he had two phone calls to make, the first to secure a third ticket for the performance, and the second to see if Reese and David were free for dinner.
The first task took five minutes and seventy-five dollars, but when he hung up, there was a ticket waiting for “Dante Havisham” at the Will-Call box. Peter really couldn’t complain about the cost. Moz had never asked him for a dime in all the years they’d been working together.
Before he called Reese, it would probably be best to see if his post-concert plans were acceptable. “Neal?”
Neal looked up.
“You okay for dinner with Reese and his husband tonight?”
Neal smiled and shook out his right hand, reminding Peter of Reese’s unnecessary exercise in machismo when they had first met.
“I promise he won’t do that again. So, okay?”
Neal nodded. There was laughter in his eyes.
Peter called Reese, who picked up on the first ring. He didn’t even give him a chance to make small talk. “Listen, Peter – I’m glad you called. I was planning on talking to you today, anyway. There’s something you need to know.”
He absolutely hated when people did that, he hated the sudden rush of fear, the cold sweat those words brought. “What?”
“Rachel Turner’s been released from Alderton.”
Peter sighed in relief. “You had me scared there for a moment. I know about that. Clinton and Diana came to see me yesterday. The BoP notice arrived at the office.”
“You haven’t forgotten what she said at her sentencing.”
“Reese – you really can’t think, after twenty years, she’s going to come after me?”
“I can and I do.”
“Well, if you’re worried about me – then I’m going to worry about you. She has just as much cause to go after your ass as mine.” Peter knew he was sounding mean and petty, but the whole subject was annoying him.
“I know that, and I’m taking precautions. So is David.”
“I know you never go anywhere without your gun.”
“We’re not going out without protection, Peter. We both are wearing vests when we go out.”
“You’re not serious?”
“Peter, I’m absolutely serious. And you should be, too. My contacts haven’t been able to trace her and that worries me. She walked out of Alderton Fed and disappeared.”
For the first time since Diana and Clinton had brought him the news, Peter was worried. He glanced over at Neal, who had that same terrified look that he’d had yesterday afternoon.
Peter still hadn’t gotten to his reason for the call, and now he didn’t know if he wanted to. “Is there any chance that you and David want to have dinner with Neal and me tonight? We have tickets to a concert at the Cloisters this afternoon, and should be done around five-thirty.”
Of course Reese couldn’t leave the issue alone. “I don’t think you should be going out until you get some protection for yourself and Neal.”
“Reese, please.”
“Okay, I’ve said my piece.”
“What about dinner tonight?”
“Let me check with David.”
In the background, Peter could hear Reese asking his husband if he was up for company this evening. He couldn’t, however, hear David’s answer.
Reese picked the phone back up. “You’re in luck. David’s in the mood for Chinese food, and there’s a new delivery place that opened up on 187th Street that’s pretty decent. You and Neal can stop by after the concert and we’ll order in.”
Peter wasn’t particularly interested in having take-out Chinese, but he couldn’t cancel their dinner plans because the menu didn’t appeal. “Okay, then we’ll see you at half-past five or thereabouts.” Peter ended the call and checked the time. It was a little before two and they needed to leave soon – the concert started at four. But first, before anything else, he needed to reassure Neal that nothing was going to happen. He didn’t like the idea that Neal was so terrified.
Instead of sitting down next to him and trying to explain, again, that this worry was pointless, he pulled Neal out of the chair and into his arms. “I am a man who does his best to never break a promise, and I promise you this: I won’t let anything happen to either of us. Can you believe me?”
Neal stared at him, eyes wide, all of his fears painfully obvious.
“Please, Neal – I need for you to believe that I’ll keep us safe.”
Neal sighed and nodded, but Peter wasn’t sure that he was convinced. Peter tightened his hold and Neal relaxed into him, resting his head on his shoulder. Peter breathed deep, not satisfied, but willing to accept Neal’s partial surrender.
“We’ll be fine, just trust me.”
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Neal was exhausted by the need for vigilance. He remembered what Rachel Turner looked like – fair skin, dark hair, light colored eyes, medium height. She bore the typical features of her family’s heritage in the shape of her eyes, the angles of her cheeks and chin. But humans age, and in prison, they age badly. He couldn’t form a picture of what Rachel Turner would look like now, so he found himself staring at every middle-aged woman in his vicinity.
He knew he was unnerving Peter, who had at least taken some precaution and was carrying his gun. Not that Neal liked guns – he’d seen humans use them to kill from the very moment of their invention. They disgusted him, but in this case, he was reconciled to his hypocrisy. Not that he could shake the feeling that death and disaster were imminent.
They changed subway lines at Penn Station and Neal’s head felt like it was on a swivel. There were too many people around them and so many women who could be Rachel Turner, intent on killing Peter.
But the trip between subway lines was made without incident. Peter, thank goodness, was vigilant, too. Neal had observed that hawk-like stare for many years, through too many lives, not to recognize it. The trip uptown seemed endless, the lights in the car flickering at times. Neal wanted to wrap himself around Peter, to shield him from attack. Instead, he sat next to him, holding his hand like a lost child.
A half-hour after they left Penn Station, the subway pulled into the 190th Street station. Peter tugged him up and out of his seat. “We get out here.”
At least there weren’t as many people in this station, and no one who remotely resembled Rachel Turner.
At nearly four PM in late November, it was almost full dark and the moon was rising as they walked through Fort Tryon Park, towards the Cloisters.
Peter realized what Neal was doing and wrapped an arm around him, drawing him close. “You don’t need to stare at everyone like they’re about to attack me.”
Neal gritted his teeth and ignored the admonition. There was no way he could make Peter understand the dread he was feeling. They should have stayed home.
“Come on, this way.” Peter herded him up the well-lit path leading to the front of the museum. Peter presented the tickets and was given directions to the chapel where the concert would be performed. Under different circumstances, Neal would have enjoyed wandering through the ancient halls and galleries, revisiting the past.
“Pity we don’t have time, I’d like to introduce you to the Unicorn Tapestries – I have a feeling you have much in common with that creature.”
Neal understood, but didn’t appreciate the joke. He was not a mythical creature attracted to virgins.
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Peter was surprised to see Mozzie waiting for him just outside the doors to the Fuentiduena Chapel. In all the years of their association, Moz had never shown up early. He was pacing back and forth like a cat, stopping to scan the crowd – presumably looking for him – before pacing again. Given the man’s predilection for secrecy and paranoid behavior, Peter couldn’t imagine what information he had that would drive him to such a public display.
He held onto Neal’s hand and moved through the concert goers, finally catching Mozzie’s eye. He stopped pacing, pulled off his glasses and frantically wiped them, put them back on and pulled them off yet again. Neal had stopped moving, his hand suddenly tight in his. Peter turned to look at Neal, wondering if he was having the same reaction he did yesterday, when they’d found Diana and Clinton waiting at the front door.
But instead of fear, there was something very much like joy in Neal’s face. He was smiling and his eyes were wide with wonder, and Peter couldn’t help but feel that Neal somehow knew Mozzie.
And given how little he knew about either man, it was just possible.
Mozzie, for his part, was staring at Neal – not like he was a long-lost friend, but like he’d just been made by the cops but didn’t want to run in case he was wrong.
Peter was about to make his usual, ham-handed introductions, but Neal did the unexpected and wrapped Moz in a bear hug before planting a kiss on his bald pate.
Moz pulled himself free, wiped his head and glared at Neal before deliberately turning his back on him. Peter thought he heard Moz mutter something that sounded like “wingless idiot” but he wasn’t sure.
“Listen, Suit. I’m here – ”
Peter cut him off. “I’m not a ‘suit’ anymore, I retired.” He’d planned to break the news to Mozzie a little more gently, but he was unnerved by Neal’s apparent friendship with this man.
“I know that you retired – you think I don’t hear about these things?”
“Then you know that I can’t use your information anymore, Moz – I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but we can’t work together.”
“Work? We’ve never worked together!” Mozzie’s voice went up several notches in pitch and volume.
“Well, then we’ve been ‘associates’ – do you prefer that term?”
Moz looked around, grimaced and just shook his head. “Look, it doesn’t matter what you call it – not anymore. And besides, you’ll still want the information I have for you.”
Peter had a feeling that he knew just what information Moz had for him. “Which is?”
Moz looked over his shoulder at Neal, who was still grinning, then dragged Peter a little ways away. “I have friends … of the Russian persuasion –”
His gut was right. “I know that Rachel Turner was released from Alderton a few days ago.”
“And she’s coming for you, Suit. She told some people I know that she’s waited twenty years, but she’s going to take out the Fed who murdered her brother.”
This time, Peter couldn’t disregard the warnings; Mozzie’s information was too reliable. “What else do you know?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. She’s not working with her family – the old man’s long gone, the rest of the Petrov clan wants nothing to do with her. Her father washed his hands of her before she went to prison. He’s a law abiding citizen – if you call being a Wall Street banker a law-abiding profession. He has no quarrel with the FBI.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Yeah – I’ve done some digging. He made it clear he wants nothing to do with her.”
“But I did kill his son.”
“He was never really considered part of the family. The old man might have had a soft spot for the girl, but her brother was too erratic. He ran with some of the more violent gangs and brought too much attention down on them. Even his grandfather, though he’d never admit it, thought you did them a favor.”
That seemed painfully cold, but it fit the man he’d briefly met two decades ago. “Do you know where she is?” Peter started scanning the crowd, almost expecting her to appear amongst the well-dressed concert goers heading into the sanctuary.
“No – and that’s what worries me. I heard just enough to give you the heads-up, but not enough to really help you. But this might.” Mozzie handed him a photograph of a dark-haired woman who vaguely looked like the young woman he’d arrested twenty years ago.
“How in the world did you get her prison ID picture?”
Moz shrugged. “I told you, I have friends. And well, you’ve always been decent to me – for a Suit. And I’m morally opposed to murder, especially of my friends.” Moz looked down at his feet.
“Well, thank you.” Peter was touched. He liked the guy – but never really figured that there was any affection returned.
Moz got on his tiptoes to look over Peter’s shoulder.
Peter turned to see that Neal was leaning against the wall, still smiling.
“You’ve got an interesting friend there.”
“You know him?”
“Nah – I know his type. Good people, very loyal – not very talkative, though.”
Peter had to grin. “I’ve discovered that.”
“Well, I’d better be off. Watch your back, Peter, and take care of yourself. I’ll be in touch, okay? Oh, and enjoy the concert.”
Peter nodded, pleased that Moz wasn’t planning on disappearing out of his life. Next time they talked, he’d point him in Clinton’s direction.
Moz looked over at Neal again, gave a little sigh and a smile and walked away.
Neal didn’t wait and came back over – worry and pleasure apparent. Peter, of course, had to ask, “You know Mozzie?”
Neal shook his head.
“That was some greeting for a man you don’t know.”
Neal just gave him one of those inexplicable shrugs. Then he gestured – making a gun out of his finger and thumb – before looking around.
Not wanting to talk about it, Peter just said “Later,” and Neal seemed to accept that. The house lights flickered, signaling last call before the chapel doors closed for the concert. Peter put a hand at the small of Neal’s back, guiding him. Of course, that was absolutely unnecessary, but he liked touching Neal and really didn’t need an excuse to do it. Not after last night.
Neal, for his part, leaned into him and Peter enjoyed the warmth that the contact brought and tried to ignore, for a little while, the message his gut was sending him.
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Before he’d Fallen, June had told him that he would be powerless in this mortal realm, but she had been wrong. He might have lost his wings, he had certainly surrendered his voice, but he was far from powerless. He saw things – burgeoning new life, ancient souls – that he never perceived as an Archon.
And now, in this strange place – a concatenation of ancient holy places – he found another Archon. He’d seen him before, through the mirror pool, but he hadn’t recognized him as an Archon. The presence of him – it – clearly in disguise, but just as clearly unFallen, filled him with elation. Neal’s mind buzzed with a million questions. How did he come to be here? Was he an outcast or was he here of his own will? And if that was so, did he break the barriers and the Law, like Matthew?
The Archon, who Peter called ‘Mozzie’, didn’t really want to have anything to do with him, and maybe he was worried that Neal would expose him. But more importantly, he seemed worried about Peter. Neal didn’t need to listen to their conversation to know what they were talking about – the woman who wanted to kill Peter.
Neal tried to obey Peter, he tried not to worry, he tried to believe that Peter would take all the right precautions and they’d be fine.
But as hard as he tried, he couldn’t manage to shake the dread he’d sensed since last night. He couldn’t see when and how it would happen, he just knew that Peter’s time was ending soon, and it would end in blood and violence.
Mozzie disappeared and Neal wanted to know what he’d told Peter, but of course Peter put him off. “Come on, the concert’s about to start.”
The chapel was lovely, and despite his fears, he was looking forward to the music. Peter took his hand and Neal squeezed it, enjoying the warmth and the spark. His heart and his brain battled, reveling in the very public display of affection, but knowing that this happiness was not going to last.
Then the music began and Neal forgot everything. The opening measure sent his heart racing, but it was the massed choir, with its emphatic, joyous sound that broke something open in him.
Glória in excélsis Deo…
The words were simple, the Latin prayer exalting god and announcing the birth of his son. The words were beautiful, the musical setting even more so. Neal lost himself in the soaring harmonies, the counterpoint between human voice and the accompanying instruments and the third voice – the acoustics of the chapel itself.
The music served its purpose, creating powerful feelings in the listener, in Neal. He found himself on the verge of something – an emotion he couldn’t name or place.
Grátias ágimus tibi propter magnam glóriam tuam…
Listening to the soloist, a soprano with a voice of outstanding purity, Neal felt as if he were cradled and cared for, as if the singer was a mere conduit for all the love in the universe. He drifted amongst the harmonies and counterpoints until the choir burst forth again, stunning him into pleasure.
Quóniam tu solus Sanctus, tu solus Dóminus, tu solus Altíssimus, Iesu Christe
The shock continued as the singers and musicians reached ever greater heights. It seemed as if his sundered wings could just burst forth and he’d take flight in answer to that praise.
Cum Sancto Spíritu, in glória Dei Patris. Amen
At the final, triumphant Amen, filled with unnamable emotions, Neal felt something break in him.
Not something … the bindings that kept him silent, kept Peter safe from him. Under the cloud of noise from the audience, the clapping and the bravas for the singers, Neal cleared his throat, bent his head and cupped a hand around his ear. He said two words: “Please, no.”
And he heard the syllables echo in his head, the first sounds from his own mouth since June had bound him to silence.
Neal didn’t know what this meant, but he was shaken, terrified. He remembered Matthew’s story, what had happened to his lover, Kate, and Neal wanted to run, to disappear from Peter’s life before he destroyed him.
The applause died down and the singers and musicians exited. The audience followed suit, but Neal didn’t move. He sat, stunned, head buried in his hands, paralyzed by the magnitude of the disaster facing him. How could he – even for a day – keep from saying Peter’s name when all he longed to do was say it?
“Neal?”
He bent over, hunching away from Peter.
“What’s the matter?”
He shook his head, trying to escape the concern, the love. Despite his behavior, Peter didn’t get annoyed. He just ran a soothing hand up and down his back. “It’s okay – the music is very powerful.”
Neal shuddered and thought, You have no idea..
They sat there as the chapel emptied out. A few patrons lingered up front and seemed to be chatting with the conductor, but they left and an usher finally approached.
“Gentlemen, you are going to have to exit the chapel now.”
Peter held him off. “Just give us a moment, okay? My friend is unwell.”
The usher nodded and backed off.
Peter continued to stroke his back. “We are going to have to leave. Reese and David are waiting for us.”
Neal looked up and gritted his teeth, trying to hold back the words that were about to spill out. He stood and looked at everything but Peter. He couldn’t bear the love and concern in the man’s eyes – no, he relished and reveled in them, he couldn’t bear to let that love go unanswered. But if he gave in, he’d destroy Peter far quicker and more thoroughly than any bullet ever could.
“Come.” Peter took his hand and led him out of the chapel. The passage back to the front of the museum passed through a Romanesque hall, and just beyond that, the interior courtyard garden. The hallway was dark, the museum galleries were closing, and it seemed that he and Peter were going to be the last visitors to leave.
Neal’s thoughts were obsessed with the broken bindings and the need for silence fighting against the need to speak. Maybe that was why he didn’t notice the woman step from behind one of the stone pillars the lined the hallway and point a gun at them.
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“It’s a good thing I’m a patient woman.”
Peter was so caught up in his worry about Neal that he forgot his own life was under threat. And in that lapse, they walked into an ambush.
Rachel Turner – tall and lean and hard – stood there, holding a gun. It was pointed right at his heart. “I’ve waited twenty years for this. Peter Burke – hands up, and you – whoever the fuck you are – hands up, too.”
Peter tried to push Neal behind him but Neal wasn’t cooperating.
“If you don’t want anyone else to get hurt, move into the garden.” Turner didn’t make the amateur’s mistake of gesturing with her gun, but she tilted her head towards the courtyard garden.
Peter knew that cooperating – at least for the moment – might be the best way to come out of this alive. “You have no quarrel with my friend. He’s done nothing to you, let him go.”
She seemed to consider it, then shook her head. “No – no. Both of you, into the garden.”
“Please,” Peter begged.
Turner got angry at that. “You didn’t show any mercy to my brother when you executed him.”
“I did, Rachel – I told him to drop his weapon, to let Agent Hughes go. He didn’t. He was going to kill my friend.”
The courtyard was barely lit, but Peter could still read her face. He could see the muscles in her jaw clench, her eyes narrow. He knew that there was nothing he could say that would keep her from shooting him. His only hope was to get her to let Neal go.
“My brother was protecting the family.”
“And I was protecting my family. I’m protecting my family now. Let my friend go.” He backed up towards the center of the garden, almost tripping on a piece of paving. Neal caught him, his hand sliding into his jacket. Peter froze. Neal had his hand wrapped around his gun.
Hoping that it was too dark for Turner to see, he stumbled again and Neal pulled the Glock out of the holster.
This was going to end badly, Peter could feel it.
Neal stepped back, the gun pointed at Turner. He looked terrified, desperate.
The woman laughed. “So much for your friend not being involved.” She shifted her aim and shot Neal in the chest, the sound obscenely loud in that sacred place.
Peter heard the scream rip from his mouth, he watched Neal touch his chest and lift his fingers away. In the half-light, the blood looked black. He fell to his knees and collapsed. Peter could hear Neal struggling to breathe as liquid filled his lung.
Turner’s voice was replete with icy satisfaction. “My revenge just became that much sweeter. You are going to watch someone you love die and then I’m going to kill you, too.”
Peter didn’t even think about retrieving the weapon that Neal had dropped as he rushed to his side.
“Don’t – don’t, oh god, please don’t …” Peter’s hands shook as he touched the wound. Hot blood poured out and the stench of iron burned his nostrils. He couldn’t stop it, he couldn’t do a damn thing to keep Neal alive. Neal, who had fallen into his life and given him joy, was dying for no reason.
Peter bent his head over Neal, brushing his lips against his cheek – the skin growing cold from the shock. “I love you, I love you. I love you, Neal.” He whispered those words like a prayer, but prayer was pointless.
Neal turned his head, his mouth moving, and Peter thought he heard a sound coming from Neal’s lips. He bent lower, trying to hear the impossible.
“Always loved you, Peter…”
Neal said his name and it was as if the universe shattered. Thoughts and ideas, memories of people that he didn’t know, lives he never lived, flooded through his brain. He saw the past through eyes he knew, somehow, to be his own, but the past was a broken mosaic. He was a monk, a lady, a soldier, a wife and mother, a man dying, a child at the moment of birth. Every moment of every life was relived between one heartbeat and the next. He stared at Neal, drowning in the blueness of his eyes and suddenly, there were feathers everywhere, drifting around him, cushioning and protecting him. The memories slowed, the inexorable cascade halted.
He was four years old again. The sky was blue and he was soaring and then he was flying and falling and someone caught him, a man with eyes like the sky and great white wings. He had clung to the man until he was near the ground. The man had finally let him go and he dropped on his bottom and it hurt. He wanted the man back, he wanted to be held in those arms and soar among the clouds again.
Neal’s eyes were the same shade of blue as his memory – pale and bright like the midday sky – but that brightness was fading too quickly. Peter clung to that childhood memory; it drove back the madness of all those other lives.
“Now you know how it feels to lose someone you love. Maybe I should let you live and suffer just like I’ve lived and suffered.”
Peter looked up. Rachel Turner was standing over him, her gun pointed at his head. From the corner of his eye, he could see people rushing towards them, lights flashing. He could hear shouting in the distance.
“No, maybe not. Time to die, Peter Burke.”
Nothing was going to stop the future, though. Peter focused on the woman and the gun and waited to die. He watched her squeeze the trigger and time slowed – he could see the bullet spinning down the gun’s muzzle, the point emerging from the barrel. He waited for the bullet to speed through his brain. He longed for it.
But the bullet never came. He was again enveloped by feathers, by wings, and the world and all its pain just disappeared.
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Neal wasn’t sure where he was.
But he knew where he was not. He was not in the cloistered garden where he should have died. It was not the guest bedroom in Peter’s home, where he had slept for so many nights. Nor was it Peter’s own bedroom, where he’d woken up to a smile and a kiss.
He kept his eyes closed, too afraid to look. Too afraid to see his fate.
“Neal, open your eyes.”
He knew that voice, the stern and loving tones terrifying him as much as they filled him with elation.
“Neal.”
His name was followed by a caress, and he gave into his need to see a face he’d longed for. “June.”
She was standing over him, smiling.
Neal tried to reconcile her visible pleasure with the terrible punishment he had earned.
“Welcome home, Neal.”
He was home – this was, of all places – his aerie. He was back amongst his kind. “What happened?”
“Everything that needed to happen.”
“I do not understand.”
June’s smile broadened. “Of course you do not understand. You were not supposed to.”
His confusion increased and Neal shifted against the bedding, trying to sit up. But he was dragged back by an unfamiliar weight. He looked over his shoulder and was shocked to see the mass of white plumage – his wings. “How?”
“All will be explained in good time, my dear.” June helped him into a sitting position. “Do you not want to know about your beloved?”
Neal’s heart raced and he went cold with dread. “Peter?” The syllables rang pure and sweet against the stone walls of his aerie.
“Yes, that is his name.”
He swallowed, fear thick and painful in his throat. “Yes, please – is he all right?” Such a simple question when what he wanted to ask was, Is he still amongst the living? Is he sane?
June ran her fingers through his curls. “Peter is fine. He is sleeping and healing, but he will be fine.”
Neal stood up and regretted the motion. His legs where shaking and he felt weighed down by his wings, and there was, unbelievably, a bandage across his chest. He looked down, shocked.
“You were wounded, Neal.”
He touched the bandage, pressing lightly. It hurt. “So it did happen?”
“Yes, and we nearly lost you.”
He wondered if that might have been better, in the long run.
June handed him a pair of trousers. “It is a little chilly to walk around naked.” He put them on, becoming breathless from the minor exertion. “Come.” June tucked her arm under his, as if they were just going for a stroll, but it was all too clear that she was keeping him upright.
Neal headed for the mirror pool, wondering how he would be able to just watch Peter, never being able to touch him again, never feel the warmth of that body against him. The pain was almost too much to bear.
June tugged at his arm. “Where are you going?”
“I – uh -” He looked helplessly at the mirror pool, its surface perfectly still and waiting for him to call up the image of Peter from its depths. Neal wondered if it would be possible to Fall again, if he could get June to renew the bindings.
“You will not find him there, Neal.”
His confusion increased, but there was something mysterious in her smile, something that gave him hope. Neal tried not to lean on June, to stand on his own, but she just held on tighter, gently leading him out of his chambers.
There was another aerie on this level, one that had not been used since before Neal had claimed his space. It had been part of the reason why he wanted that particular aerie. He liked the privacy, it suited his needs. But now, there was an Archon at the door, her tunic the traditional healer’s green. She smiled as they approached.
The hope was now colored with wonder. “June?”
Of course, she did not answer him. But she did ask the healer a question. “How is your patient?”
“He still sleeps, but he will wake soon.” The Archon pulled open the doors.
Neal was frozen, almost terrified at what he would find.
June pulled him forward. “Come, Neal, all is well.”
Her words did not reassure him and he dug in his heels. Except June was stronger and she propelled forward, into the newly opened aerie.
It was not all that dissimilar to his own – a mirror pool dominated the center of the space and, like his, it was quiescent. June walked past the pool, over to the sleeping area. The bed was also like Neal’s – like every other Archon’s – large and round, a platform that could accommodate a creature with vast wings.
And the bed was occupied. By Peter.
If not for June’s steadying arm, Neal might have collapsed.
She pulled him the last few steps forward and any doubts that Neal had were banished. It was Peter; he was sleeping. Not the sleep of someone ill or dying, but a restful sleep – his chest rising and falling in a deep, healthy rhythm. He was stretched out, on his side, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting under his cheek.
He was sleeping on his side because Archons cannot sleep comfortably on their backs. Their wings make that position too uncomfortable.
This time Neal did collapse, falling to his knees at the side of the bed. Peter’s wings were deep bronze, tipped with silver and gold. And to Neal, they were the most beautiful he had ever seen. He reached out, wanting to touch but too afraid this was merely an illusion.
June brushed her fingertips against his shoulder, drawing his attention away for just a few moments. “When Peter wakes, I will explain everything. All of your questions will be answered.”
She left him kneeling next to the bed. He ached, physically, but the discomfort was minor compared to his happiness. Neal did not understand how Peter could be an Archon, how this transformation could happen, but he couldn’t deny the evidence in front of him. And he trusted June, he trusted the healer, when she said that Peter was well.
Which meant that Neal’s careless utterance had not destroyed Peter. He knelt and watched his beloved sleeping and he tried to reconcile what he knew with what he’d been told. Matthew didn’t lie when he warned him what would happen, June had bound him to silence to keep him from destroying Peter, and yet, Peter was here and whole. More than whole.
Neal reached out; this time he did not stop himself from caressing Peter’s cheek. He brushed his fingertips against the warm skin and felt the spark, the living connection between them, echo through him. The pain from his wound, the weakness caused by that injury or maybe by the transit back from the mortal realm, from the reemergence of his wings, was gone. He felt strong, energized. And most oddly enough, complete.
Until the very moment, Neal had not realized that there was a part of himself that was missing.
And then all such thoughts left him. Peter opened his eyes and smiled.
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Peter’s first thought upon wakening and seeing Neal was that he’d had the most terrible dream. But the man before him was surrounded by light. No, not light, by bright white feathers – wings arching over him.
He’d never been much of a believer. Even as a child, he’d been skeptical of the stories of angels in heaven. There had always been something in him that scoffed at the thought of the virtuous dead being given wings and a halo at the Pearly Gates, wearing white robes and doing nothing but being even more virtuous. And yet, Neal was in front of him, great white wings sprouting from his back, his whole being shining.
Because Neal had, in fact, died.
And that meant that he must have died, too.
But that didn’t feel right. He sorted through his memories – they seemed muddled, confused. Rachel Turner was pointing a gun at his head, but there was another woman, holding a knife to his throat. He was an infant and an old man, a warrior with a sword and shield and a monk with little more than a robe and sandals.
He was a child soaring through the sky heading for certain death when he’d been caught by someone, something with great white wings and sky-blue eyes, and carried to safety.
Neal.
He must have spoken, because the man he knew as “Neal” smiled and leaned forward, his wings rustling. His lips moved and Peter heard him speak.
“How are you?”
Such a simple, banal question. He didn’t know if he could answer it – he didn’t know if he believed his ears. The man he knew couldn’t speak – or maybe he could? Peter remembered that horrible last moment, Neal dying in his arms, whispering his name, telling him he loved him. “Who are you?”
“You know me.”
“The man I knew was mute. Or was he?”
“I was – for a time. It was part of the price I had to pay.”
“I don’t understand.”
Neal – or whoever he was – smiled. “To tell you the truth, I do not really understand, either.”
Peter wasn’t having this conversation while he was prone. He tried to sit up but something was holding him back. Neal stood and wrapped his arms around him, helping him into a sitting position. But something was still holding him back. He tried to straighten himself up and there was still something tangled in the bedding. He leaned forward, stretching, and he was suddenly surrounded by masses of feathers. Not white like Neal’s, but bronze and silver and gold.
“What the – ?” He rolled forward, trying to escape, except the feathers followed him. He had … wings. All sorts of curses came to his lips, but he stopped himself, afraid to blaspheme in what might be a holy place.
“I do not know how it happened, but you are one of us, now.”
“An angel?”
“No. We are not angels – not by mortal definition.”
“Okay, then what are we?”
Neal smiled at the subtle emphasis. “We call ourselves ‘Archons’.”
“And I’m an Archon now, too?”
Neal shrugged, that familiar gesture made more elegant by the shifting pattern of his wings. “Yes, it seems so.”
Peter had a million questions, but his stomach rumbled and that answered at least one of them. “We eat?”
“Yes, but I am afraid I cannot order pizza with mushrooms and sausage for us.”
Peter had to smile at the memory of their first meal together. “Then what do we eat?” He tried to stand but lost his balance. Neal wrapped an arm around his waist and helped him get upright. He managed to stand on his own, then took a step, and then another. It was a matter of balance. His wings were heavy.
And he was naked. “Umm, pants?”
Neal smiled and Peter had to smile too. It was like that first night all over again. Only this time, he was the stranger in a very strange land.
Neal opened a chest of drawers and came back with a pair of trousers that looked much like the ones he was wearing. The fabric was grayish-white, and heavy – like denim. They had a drawstring instead of zippers and buttons, and of course they were a little short for his long legs. But it was better than being naked. Peter assumed that shirts were a different matter altogether – with the wings. But Neal handed him something else – it looked like three rectangles of fabric sewn together.
“Let me help you.” It took a little maneuvering, but the fabric somehow became a tunic and he felt a little less disoriented, more normal.
“Now what?”
“Now we eat, then we get answers to our questions.”
Peter followed Neal out of the bedroom into a vast, open cavern dominated by a pool of still water and a window out onto a world he’d never imagined.
“Those aren’t birds, are they?”
“No, they are not.”
At least the scents coming from a small table seemed familiar. Warm bread, melted cheese, something that could have been red sauce. But the plates didn’t hold pizza, more like grilled cheese and tomato soup.
Neal sat down across from him and for the first time, Peter noticed the bandage across his midsection.
“She did shoot you.”
Neal nodded, then seemed to remember he had a voice. “Yes, she did.”
“But you lived.”
“Yes – we both did.”
Peter picked up the sandwich and took a bite. It was delicious, though not as familiar as he’d thought it would be. He had to ask, “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you come into my life?” And yet, as he asked, he knew the answer. “You’ve always been there, haven’t you?”
Neal nodded slowly, his eyes grave, and there was something akin to fear in them. “What do you remember?”
“A lot of fragments, except for this one moment. I was a child – something happened and you saved me.” He swallowed against a suddenly dry mouth. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“No, he does not, Peter.” A woman entered the chamber, also winged. The walls seemed to ring as she said his name.
Neal stood. “June, you promised. You promised to tell me what has happened.”
“And so I did.” She turned back to him. “I am – as Neal has said – June. Welcome to our world.”
She offered her hand, a strangely human-like gesture. Peter took it, steeling himself for a shock or spark, but there was none. Just the warmth of living flesh. “June, a pleasure.” Peter couldn’t help but notice the unusual way the room echoed when he said her name.
She sat down gracefully and fixed him with an intent gaze. “What has Neal told you?”
“Not all that much. That he is an Archon, and so am I – now. He said he doesn’t understand what happened, and I’m guessing that it’s some mystery that only you can solve.”
She tilted her head regally. “Yes, you are correct.”
Peter wanted to lean back, take control of the conversation, but he was afraid he’d fall over. The wings were still an unaccustomed burden. So he waited.
June looked from him to Neal and back to him. “This is always the most difficult part – trying to find the right place to begin.”
Peter tried for a small joke. “The beginning is always a good place to start.”
June seemed to appreciate the humor. “Then so we shall. Humans have immortal souls. We – the Archons – watch over some of them. Not all, just ones that seem to reach out and seek our guidance. We watch over these souls through all of their mortal births and lives and deaths, and continue watching as they are reborn, cycle after cycle – through eternity. Some Archons watch over many souls, some tend to just one.”
“So – you are guardian angels?” Peter spoke without thinking, then remembered what Neal had said.
“No – we are not. Human mythology has intersected with our kind, but our role is much less – and much more – than the stories tell. We are guardians in a way, but we rarely interfere with the course of a human life.”
“Then what is the point?”
June, like Neal, conveyed so much with an elegant shrug of her shoulders. Her wings rustled. “That is our great mystery. We have always watched over human souls – that is just the way it is.”
“How?” Peter was intensely interested in the mechanics.
“We can see into your world through any reflective surface. The mirror pools – ” She gestured to the one in the center of the room, “are our preferred portals, but any still pool of water, a filled glass, even a droplet of rain can be a window. We see the mortal world – your former world – through its own reflective surfaces.”
Peter looked from June to Neal, making the connection that now seemed so obvious. “Neal has been watching over me.”
Neal nodded. “It has been my grace, my pleasure.”
“What happened?” Peter knew that something had to have gone wrong. “Why did you come to me?”
June didn’t answer, leaving it up to Neal to explain. “Your soul was – ” Neal seemed to struggle with the words. “Was ending.”
“Ending?”
“Yes. You were supposed to be immortal, but then you were not. The life you lived as Peter Burke was to be your last. I could not bear that.”
Peter grew cold at the thought. “Why?”
This time, June answered. “Neal interfered. He does not remember what happened, but what he did changed you.”
This Peter understood, this was what he kept remembering. “That time, on the swings.”
“Yes. You would have been killed when the chain snapped, but Neal reached through a mirror pool and saved you. At great cost to himself. We are immortal, but we can be killed – and transit through the mirror pools is … destructive.”
Neal shook his head, as if to deny the story. “I do not remember this. I do not remember this happening.” Neal hugged himself, his wings quivering in distress.
June tried to soothe Neal. “You were not supposed to. You acted without thinking and you paid the price for that.”
“Peter’s soul – that was my price.” Neal sounded so traumatized that it was all Peter could do from wrapping his arms – his wings even – around him, to give him some comfort.
“No – not in the least.” June was parceling out the answers too slowly. “When you crossed through the barrier, you opened yourself up; you made yourself too vulnerable to the mortal world. When you carried Peter to safety, you left part of yourself behind.”
“The feather.” Peter blinked. “There was a feather, I remember grabbing it. Neal left a feather behind. I still have it. I had it.” He remembered that those feathers were in a box in a night table drawer in a world no longer his own.
June shook her head. “Yes, Neal did leave a feather behind, but that was not what wrought the change. He left part of his own soul in you.”
Neal stood up abruptly, his wings flaring. Peter was reminded of a hawk about to dive for its prey.
“I did not mean to do that.”
“No, of course not, my dear. And please sit back down.”
Neal obediently settled on the stool, looking chastened.
“Such things happen. We grow attached to a soul – too attached some might claim. We reach a point where it becomes impossible not to interfere.”
Peter wasn’t sure what June was saying, but Neal seemed to understand. He was glad that someone did. “Archons – this is how new Archons are made.”
“Yes. And it has been a very long time since we have welcomed new life into our midst.” She put her hand over Peter’s, squeezing gently. “You are an unusual case. Of all the Archons that have been made, you are one of the few who came to us as an adult, with your adult memories intact. What I have told you is rarely shared with fledglings. The knowledge is too dangerous.”
At that, June stood. “Gentlemen, I will make my farewells. At least for the moment. You are both healing and need your rest. And I think you need to spend some time getting reacquainted with each other. ”
Neal stopped her. “Before you go, I have one more question.”
“Yes?”
“Matthew told me what happened to Kate when he said her name. That was why you bound my voice, so I would not make that mistake. So I would not destroy –” Neal paused and swallowed, “Peter. Was Matthew mistaken?”
Peter wasn’t sure just what Neal was getting at, and he wondered about this Matthew – another Archon, maybe?
June nodded. “No, he was not. The danger is real to souls that are not ready. When you gave part of yourself to Peter, you gave him a shield from those consequences. He was able to anchor himself to that moment. When the bindings broke and you said his name, we were able to retrieve you.”
At that, June swept out of the room, as regally as she’d entered.
Neal seemed to accept June’s explanation, even though Peter had no clue what any of this meant. All he knew was that he was his life was irrevocably changed.
“Are you angry?” Neal was nervous, his wings fluttered.
“Why?”
“I interfered with your life.”
“I would have died if you hadn’t.”
“But you would have been reborn into another life.”
Peter thought for a moment and shook his head. “No, I had a good life. I can remember all of it. I was loved and cherished by my parents. They encouraged me to be the best I could be.” He had no misgivings, everything felt right – that it all was as it needed to be. “I wouldn’t change anything. Not losing El, not anything that came after that. I liked the man I was. I like the man I am now. I had good friends and a wife I loved, a life that meant something, and for a while, I had you.”
Neal blinked, his face pale, his eyes huge. “You can still have me. If you still want me.” The paleness was overtaken by a bright blush.
Peter’s heart raced and it seemed like he’d developed goose bumps on his wings – every feather was ruffled. He wanted to make sure he understood. “We can … be together? As we were?”
Neal’s smile was like the rising dawn. “Of course we can. I told you, we are not angels.”
Peter laughed and the sound echoed around the chamber like a brightly ringing bell.
Continue to Epilogue
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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 VI – ~9,800
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.
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Neal rolled over, away from the bright sunshine that filled the room, and met Peter’s smiling face.
“Hey there.”
Neal blinked and returned Peter’s smile.
“Sleep well?”
Neal nodded and sighed deeply. He’d fallen into a dreamless sleep, his mind quiet and his body satiated. In the clear morning light, the happiness and peace shining from Peter’s eyes, Neal couldn’t bring himself to stir the anxieties that had driven him last night.
He brushed his fingers against Peter’s lips – the spark was not so much muted, but transformed. The contact felt like the vibration from a ringing bell. Peter kissed his fingers, then leaned over to kiss his mouth. Neal tried but failed to keep his nose from wrinkling at the smell of Peter’s morning breath.
“Yours is as equally fragrant.” Peter laughed, kissed the tip of his nose and rolled him over so they were nestled like spoons. “Better?”
Neal didn’t answer, but Peter understood anyway. This was nice, though. Not just having Peter’s cock nestled between his ass, but the easy, comfortable closeness, as if they’d woken up together every morning for years.
Peter, for his part, wasn’t content to just cuddle. He seemed intent on exploring the tattoo that covered his back and shoulders. Neal rolled onto his stomach to give Peter greater access. For all his time here, with Peter, he’d avoided looking at the markings on his back – just as he avoided looking at his face in the mirror. The images reflected back were unnerving. But Peter seemed to have an endless fascination with them; the few times he’d walked around the house shirtless, Peter watched him like a cat stalking its prey.
Now, with an unfettered view of the tattoo, Peter indulged his fascination. His fingers and lips trailed along the lines on his back, leaving fire in their wake – a different kind of fire. Neal shifted restlessly against the mattress as Peter deliberately teased him.
“So beautiful – you look like you could just unfurl these wings and take flight.”
Neal shivered uneasily. He was never going to fly again.
“Hey, hey – it’s all right. I’m sorry.” Peter sounded worried and repentant, although there was no way he could know what was in his head.
Neal rolled over onto his back, doing his best to ignore the disappointed look in Peter’s eyes. He curved his hand around Peter’s neck and brought him close for a kiss. He kissed Peter with all of the love and the longing he’d carried with him for so long.
He kissed Peter and tasted his soul.
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Peter was of half a mind to ignore the concert tickets in his wallet. He’d much prefer to spend the day alone with Neal. But he couldn’t – he needed to see Moz and tell him in person that their ‘professional’ association was at an end, but if he was interested in continuing to work with the FBI, he’d point him towards Clinton Jones.
He owed Moz that much. And maybe a little more. The guy had been sort of a friend, and although the information he’d provided about the Flynns and James Bennett had turned into a clusterfuck of epic proportions, the intel itself had been good. That it cost him his badge was certainly not Mozzie’s fault.
Neal was, per usual, sitting at the dining room table, working on a sketch. This time, Peter had a feeling that he knew what the subject of the drawing was. Or more likely, who. Neal kept looking up at him every few minutes. Maybe later, after they got home, he’d ask to see the sketch.
In the meantime, he had two phone calls to make, the first to secure a third ticket for the performance, and the second to see if Reese and David were free for dinner.
The first task took five minutes and seventy-five dollars, but when he hung up, there was a ticket waiting for “Dante Havisham” at the Will-Call box. Peter really couldn’t complain about the cost. Moz had never asked him for a dime in all the years they’d been working together.
Before he called Reese, it would probably be best to see if his post-concert plans were acceptable. “Neal?”
Neal looked up.
“You okay for dinner with Reese and his husband tonight?”
Neal smiled and shook out his right hand, reminding Peter of Reese’s unnecessary exercise in machismo when they had first met.
“I promise he won’t do that again. So, okay?”
Neal nodded. There was laughter in his eyes.
Peter called Reese, who picked up on the first ring. He didn’t even give him a chance to make small talk. “Listen, Peter – I’m glad you called. I was planning on talking to you today, anyway. There’s something you need to know.”
He absolutely hated when people did that, he hated the sudden rush of fear, the cold sweat those words brought. “What?”
“Rachel Turner’s been released from Alderton.”
Peter sighed in relief. “You had me scared there for a moment. I know about that. Clinton and Diana came to see me yesterday. The BoP notice arrived at the office.”
“You haven’t forgotten what she said at her sentencing.”
“Reese – you really can’t think, after twenty years, she’s going to come after me?”
“I can and I do.”
“Well, if you’re worried about me – then I’m going to worry about you. She has just as much cause to go after your ass as mine.” Peter knew he was sounding mean and petty, but the whole subject was annoying him.
“I know that, and I’m taking precautions. So is David.”
“I know you never go anywhere without your gun.”
“We’re not going out without protection, Peter. We both are wearing vests when we go out.”
“You’re not serious?”
“Peter, I’m absolutely serious. And you should be, too. My contacts haven’t been able to trace her and that worries me. She walked out of Alderton Fed and disappeared.”
For the first time since Diana and Clinton had brought him the news, Peter was worried. He glanced over at Neal, who had that same terrified look that he’d had yesterday afternoon.
Peter still hadn’t gotten to his reason for the call, and now he didn’t know if he wanted to. “Is there any chance that you and David want to have dinner with Neal and me tonight? We have tickets to a concert at the Cloisters this afternoon, and should be done around five-thirty.”
Of course Reese couldn’t leave the issue alone. “I don’t think you should be going out until you get some protection for yourself and Neal.”
“Reese, please.”
“Okay, I’ve said my piece.”
“What about dinner tonight?”
“Let me check with David.”
In the background, Peter could hear Reese asking his husband if he was up for company this evening. He couldn’t, however, hear David’s answer.
Reese picked the phone back up. “You’re in luck. David’s in the mood for Chinese food, and there’s a new delivery place that opened up on 187th Street that’s pretty decent. You and Neal can stop by after the concert and we’ll order in.”
Peter wasn’t particularly interested in having take-out Chinese, but he couldn’t cancel their dinner plans because the menu didn’t appeal. “Okay, then we’ll see you at half-past five or thereabouts.” Peter ended the call and checked the time. It was a little before two and they needed to leave soon – the concert started at four. But first, before anything else, he needed to reassure Neal that nothing was going to happen. He didn’t like the idea that Neal was so terrified.
Instead of sitting down next to him and trying to explain, again, that this worry was pointless, he pulled Neal out of the chair and into his arms. “I am a man who does his best to never break a promise, and I promise you this: I won’t let anything happen to either of us. Can you believe me?”
Neal stared at him, eyes wide, all of his fears painfully obvious.
“Please, Neal – I need for you to believe that I’ll keep us safe.”
Neal sighed and nodded, but Peter wasn’t sure that he was convinced. Peter tightened his hold and Neal relaxed into him, resting his head on his shoulder. Peter breathed deep, not satisfied, but willing to accept Neal’s partial surrender.
“We’ll be fine, just trust me.”
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Neal was exhausted by the need for vigilance. He remembered what Rachel Turner looked like – fair skin, dark hair, light colored eyes, medium height. She bore the typical features of her family’s heritage in the shape of her eyes, the angles of her cheeks and chin. But humans age, and in prison, they age badly. He couldn’t form a picture of what Rachel Turner would look like now, so he found himself staring at every middle-aged woman in his vicinity.
He knew he was unnerving Peter, who had at least taken some precaution and was carrying his gun. Not that Neal liked guns – he’d seen humans use them to kill from the very moment of their invention. They disgusted him, but in this case, he was reconciled to his hypocrisy. Not that he could shake the feeling that death and disaster were imminent.
They changed subway lines at Penn Station and Neal’s head felt like it was on a swivel. There were too many people around them and so many women who could be Rachel Turner, intent on killing Peter.
But the trip between subway lines was made without incident. Peter, thank goodness, was vigilant, too. Neal had observed that hawk-like stare for many years, through too many lives, not to recognize it. The trip uptown seemed endless, the lights in the car flickering at times. Neal wanted to wrap himself around Peter, to shield him from attack. Instead, he sat next to him, holding his hand like a lost child.
A half-hour after they left Penn Station, the subway pulled into the 190th Street station. Peter tugged him up and out of his seat. “We get out here.”
At least there weren’t as many people in this station, and no one who remotely resembled Rachel Turner.
At nearly four PM in late November, it was almost full dark and the moon was rising as they walked through Fort Tryon Park, towards the Cloisters.
Peter realized what Neal was doing and wrapped an arm around him, drawing him close. “You don’t need to stare at everyone like they’re about to attack me.”
Neal gritted his teeth and ignored the admonition. There was no way he could make Peter understand the dread he was feeling. They should have stayed home.
“Come on, this way.” Peter herded him up the well-lit path leading to the front of the museum. Peter presented the tickets and was given directions to the chapel where the concert would be performed. Under different circumstances, Neal would have enjoyed wandering through the ancient halls and galleries, revisiting the past.
“Pity we don’t have time, I’d like to introduce you to the Unicorn Tapestries – I have a feeling you have much in common with that creature.”
Neal understood, but didn’t appreciate the joke. He was not a mythical creature attracted to virgins.
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Peter was surprised to see Mozzie waiting for him just outside the doors to the Fuentiduena Chapel. In all the years of their association, Moz had never shown up early. He was pacing back and forth like a cat, stopping to scan the crowd – presumably looking for him – before pacing again. Given the man’s predilection for secrecy and paranoid behavior, Peter couldn’t imagine what information he had that would drive him to such a public display.
He held onto Neal’s hand and moved through the concert goers, finally catching Mozzie’s eye. He stopped pacing, pulled off his glasses and frantically wiped them, put them back on and pulled them off yet again. Neal had stopped moving, his hand suddenly tight in his. Peter turned to look at Neal, wondering if he was having the same reaction he did yesterday, when they’d found Diana and Clinton waiting at the front door.
But instead of fear, there was something very much like joy in Neal’s face. He was smiling and his eyes were wide with wonder, and Peter couldn’t help but feel that Neal somehow knew Mozzie.
And given how little he knew about either man, it was just possible.
Mozzie, for his part, was staring at Neal – not like he was a long-lost friend, but like he’d just been made by the cops but didn’t want to run in case he was wrong.
Peter was about to make his usual, ham-handed introductions, but Neal did the unexpected and wrapped Moz in a bear hug before planting a kiss on his bald pate.
Moz pulled himself free, wiped his head and glared at Neal before deliberately turning his back on him. Peter thought he heard Moz mutter something that sounded like “wingless idiot” but he wasn’t sure.
“Listen, Suit. I’m here – ”
Peter cut him off. “I’m not a ‘suit’ anymore, I retired.” He’d planned to break the news to Mozzie a little more gently, but he was unnerved by Neal’s apparent friendship with this man.
“I know that you retired – you think I don’t hear about these things?”
“Then you know that I can’t use your information anymore, Moz – I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but we can’t work together.”
“Work? We’ve never worked together!” Mozzie’s voice went up several notches in pitch and volume.
“Well, then we’ve been ‘associates’ – do you prefer that term?”
Moz looked around, grimaced and just shook his head. “Look, it doesn’t matter what you call it – not anymore. And besides, you’ll still want the information I have for you.”
Peter had a feeling that he knew just what information Moz had for him. “Which is?”
Moz looked over his shoulder at Neal, who was still grinning, then dragged Peter a little ways away. “I have friends … of the Russian persuasion –”
His gut was right. “I know that Rachel Turner was released from Alderton a few days ago.”
“And she’s coming for you, Suit. She told some people I know that she’s waited twenty years, but she’s going to take out the Fed who murdered her brother.”
This time, Peter couldn’t disregard the warnings; Mozzie’s information was too reliable. “What else do you know?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. She’s not working with her family – the old man’s long gone, the rest of the Petrov clan wants nothing to do with her. Her father washed his hands of her before she went to prison. He’s a law abiding citizen – if you call being a Wall Street banker a law-abiding profession. He has no quarrel with the FBI.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Yeah – I’ve done some digging. He made it clear he wants nothing to do with her.”
“But I did kill his son.”
“He was never really considered part of the family. The old man might have had a soft spot for the girl, but her brother was too erratic. He ran with some of the more violent gangs and brought too much attention down on them. Even his grandfather, though he’d never admit it, thought you did them a favor.”
That seemed painfully cold, but it fit the man he’d briefly met two decades ago. “Do you know where she is?” Peter started scanning the crowd, almost expecting her to appear amongst the well-dressed concert goers heading into the sanctuary.
“No – and that’s what worries me. I heard just enough to give you the heads-up, but not enough to really help you. But this might.” Mozzie handed him a photograph of a dark-haired woman who vaguely looked like the young woman he’d arrested twenty years ago.
“How in the world did you get her prison ID picture?”
Moz shrugged. “I told you, I have friends. And well, you’ve always been decent to me – for a Suit. And I’m morally opposed to murder, especially of my friends.” Moz looked down at his feet.
“Well, thank you.” Peter was touched. He liked the guy – but never really figured that there was any affection returned.
Moz got on his tiptoes to look over Peter’s shoulder.
Peter turned to see that Neal was leaning against the wall, still smiling.
“You’ve got an interesting friend there.”
“You know him?”
“Nah – I know his type. Good people, very loyal – not very talkative, though.”
Peter had to grin. “I’ve discovered that.”
“Well, I’d better be off. Watch your back, Peter, and take care of yourself. I’ll be in touch, okay? Oh, and enjoy the concert.”
Peter nodded, pleased that Moz wasn’t planning on disappearing out of his life. Next time they talked, he’d point him in Clinton’s direction.
Moz looked over at Neal again, gave a little sigh and a smile and walked away.
Neal didn’t wait and came back over – worry and pleasure apparent. Peter, of course, had to ask, “You know Mozzie?”
Neal shook his head.
“That was some greeting for a man you don’t know.”
Neal just gave him one of those inexplicable shrugs. Then he gestured – making a gun out of his finger and thumb – before looking around.
Not wanting to talk about it, Peter just said “Later,” and Neal seemed to accept that. The house lights flickered, signaling last call before the chapel doors closed for the concert. Peter put a hand at the small of Neal’s back, guiding him. Of course, that was absolutely unnecessary, but he liked touching Neal and really didn’t need an excuse to do it. Not after last night.
Neal, for his part, leaned into him and Peter enjoyed the warmth that the contact brought and tried to ignore, for a little while, the message his gut was sending him.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Before he’d Fallen, June had told him that he would be powerless in this mortal realm, but she had been wrong. He might have lost his wings, he had certainly surrendered his voice, but he was far from powerless. He saw things – burgeoning new life, ancient souls – that he never perceived as an Archon.
And now, in this strange place – a concatenation of ancient holy places – he found another Archon. He’d seen him before, through the mirror pool, but he hadn’t recognized him as an Archon. The presence of him – it – clearly in disguise, but just as clearly unFallen, filled him with elation. Neal’s mind buzzed with a million questions. How did he come to be here? Was he an outcast or was he here of his own will? And if that was so, did he break the barriers and the Law, like Matthew?
The Archon, who Peter called ‘Mozzie’, didn’t really want to have anything to do with him, and maybe he was worried that Neal would expose him. But more importantly, he seemed worried about Peter. Neal didn’t need to listen to their conversation to know what they were talking about – the woman who wanted to kill Peter.
Neal tried to obey Peter, he tried not to worry, he tried to believe that Peter would take all the right precautions and they’d be fine.
But as hard as he tried, he couldn’t manage to shake the dread he’d sensed since last night. He couldn’t see when and how it would happen, he just knew that Peter’s time was ending soon, and it would end in blood and violence.
Mozzie disappeared and Neal wanted to know what he’d told Peter, but of course Peter put him off. “Come on, the concert’s about to start.”
The chapel was lovely, and despite his fears, he was looking forward to the music. Peter took his hand and Neal squeezed it, enjoying the warmth and the spark. His heart and his brain battled, reveling in the very public display of affection, but knowing that this happiness was not going to last.
Then the music began and Neal forgot everything. The opening measure sent his heart racing, but it was the massed choir, with its emphatic, joyous sound that broke something open in him.
Glória in excélsis Deo…
The words were simple, the Latin prayer exalting god and announcing the birth of his son. The words were beautiful, the musical setting even more so. Neal lost himself in the soaring harmonies, the counterpoint between human voice and the accompanying instruments and the third voice – the acoustics of the chapel itself.
The music served its purpose, creating powerful feelings in the listener, in Neal. He found himself on the verge of something – an emotion he couldn’t name or place.
Grátias ágimus tibi propter magnam glóriam tuam…
Listening to the soloist, a soprano with a voice of outstanding purity, Neal felt as if he were cradled and cared for, as if the singer was a mere conduit for all the love in the universe. He drifted amongst the harmonies and counterpoints until the choir burst forth again, stunning him into pleasure.
Quóniam tu solus Sanctus, tu solus Dóminus, tu solus Altíssimus, Iesu Christe
The shock continued as the singers and musicians reached ever greater heights. It seemed as if his sundered wings could just burst forth and he’d take flight in answer to that praise.
Cum Sancto Spíritu, in glória Dei Patris. Amen
At the final, triumphant Amen, filled with unnamable emotions, Neal felt something break in him.
Not something … the bindings that kept him silent, kept Peter safe from him. Under the cloud of noise from the audience, the clapping and the bravas for the singers, Neal cleared his throat, bent his head and cupped a hand around his ear. He said two words: “Please, no.”
And he heard the syllables echo in his head, the first sounds from his own mouth since June had bound him to silence.
Neal didn’t know what this meant, but he was shaken, terrified. He remembered Matthew’s story, what had happened to his lover, Kate, and Neal wanted to run, to disappear from Peter’s life before he destroyed him.
The applause died down and the singers and musicians exited. The audience followed suit, but Neal didn’t move. He sat, stunned, head buried in his hands, paralyzed by the magnitude of the disaster facing him. How could he – even for a day – keep from saying Peter’s name when all he longed to do was say it?
“Neal?”
He bent over, hunching away from Peter.
“What’s the matter?”
He shook his head, trying to escape the concern, the love. Despite his behavior, Peter didn’t get annoyed. He just ran a soothing hand up and down his back. “It’s okay – the music is very powerful.”
Neal shuddered and thought, You have no idea..
They sat there as the chapel emptied out. A few patrons lingered up front and seemed to be chatting with the conductor, but they left and an usher finally approached.
“Gentlemen, you are going to have to exit the chapel now.”
Peter held him off. “Just give us a moment, okay? My friend is unwell.”
The usher nodded and backed off.
Peter continued to stroke his back. “We are going to have to leave. Reese and David are waiting for us.”
Neal looked up and gritted his teeth, trying to hold back the words that were about to spill out. He stood and looked at everything but Peter. He couldn’t bear the love and concern in the man’s eyes – no, he relished and reveled in them, he couldn’t bear to let that love go unanswered. But if he gave in, he’d destroy Peter far quicker and more thoroughly than any bullet ever could.
“Come.” Peter took his hand and led him out of the chapel. The passage back to the front of the museum passed through a Romanesque hall, and just beyond that, the interior courtyard garden. The hallway was dark, the museum galleries were closing, and it seemed that he and Peter were going to be the last visitors to leave.
Neal’s thoughts were obsessed with the broken bindings and the need for silence fighting against the need to speak. Maybe that was why he didn’t notice the woman step from behind one of the stone pillars the lined the hallway and point a gun at them.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“It’s a good thing I’m a patient woman.”
Peter was so caught up in his worry about Neal that he forgot his own life was under threat. And in that lapse, they walked into an ambush.
Rachel Turner – tall and lean and hard – stood there, holding a gun. It was pointed right at his heart. “I’ve waited twenty years for this. Peter Burke – hands up, and you – whoever the fuck you are – hands up, too.”
Peter tried to push Neal behind him but Neal wasn’t cooperating.
“If you don’t want anyone else to get hurt, move into the garden.” Turner didn’t make the amateur’s mistake of gesturing with her gun, but she tilted her head towards the courtyard garden.
Peter knew that cooperating – at least for the moment – might be the best way to come out of this alive. “You have no quarrel with my friend. He’s done nothing to you, let him go.”
She seemed to consider it, then shook her head. “No – no. Both of you, into the garden.”
“Please,” Peter begged.
Turner got angry at that. “You didn’t show any mercy to my brother when you executed him.”
“I did, Rachel – I told him to drop his weapon, to let Agent Hughes go. He didn’t. He was going to kill my friend.”
The courtyard was barely lit, but Peter could still read her face. He could see the muscles in her jaw clench, her eyes narrow. He knew that there was nothing he could say that would keep her from shooting him. His only hope was to get her to let Neal go.
“My brother was protecting the family.”
“And I was protecting my family. I’m protecting my family now. Let my friend go.” He backed up towards the center of the garden, almost tripping on a piece of paving. Neal caught him, his hand sliding into his jacket. Peter froze. Neal had his hand wrapped around his gun.
Hoping that it was too dark for Turner to see, he stumbled again and Neal pulled the Glock out of the holster.
This was going to end badly, Peter could feel it.
Neal stepped back, the gun pointed at Turner. He looked terrified, desperate.
The woman laughed. “So much for your friend not being involved.” She shifted her aim and shot Neal in the chest, the sound obscenely loud in that sacred place.
Peter heard the scream rip from his mouth, he watched Neal touch his chest and lift his fingers away. In the half-light, the blood looked black. He fell to his knees and collapsed. Peter could hear Neal struggling to breathe as liquid filled his lung.
Turner’s voice was replete with icy satisfaction. “My revenge just became that much sweeter. You are going to watch someone you love die and then I’m going to kill you, too.”
Peter didn’t even think about retrieving the weapon that Neal had dropped as he rushed to his side.
“Don’t – don’t, oh god, please don’t …” Peter’s hands shook as he touched the wound. Hot blood poured out and the stench of iron burned his nostrils. He couldn’t stop it, he couldn’t do a damn thing to keep Neal alive. Neal, who had fallen into his life and given him joy, was dying for no reason.
Peter bent his head over Neal, brushing his lips against his cheek – the skin growing cold from the shock. “I love you, I love you. I love you, Neal.” He whispered those words like a prayer, but prayer was pointless.
Neal turned his head, his mouth moving, and Peter thought he heard a sound coming from Neal’s lips. He bent lower, trying to hear the impossible.
“Always loved you, Peter…”
Neal said his name and it was as if the universe shattered. Thoughts and ideas, memories of people that he didn’t know, lives he never lived, flooded through his brain. He saw the past through eyes he knew, somehow, to be his own, but the past was a broken mosaic. He was a monk, a lady, a soldier, a wife and mother, a man dying, a child at the moment of birth. Every moment of every life was relived between one heartbeat and the next. He stared at Neal, drowning in the blueness of his eyes and suddenly, there were feathers everywhere, drifting around him, cushioning and protecting him. The memories slowed, the inexorable cascade halted.
He was four years old again. The sky was blue and he was soaring and then he was flying and falling and someone caught him, a man with eyes like the sky and great white wings. He had clung to the man until he was near the ground. The man had finally let him go and he dropped on his bottom and it hurt. He wanted the man back, he wanted to be held in those arms and soar among the clouds again.
Neal’s eyes were the same shade of blue as his memory – pale and bright like the midday sky – but that brightness was fading too quickly. Peter clung to that childhood memory; it drove back the madness of all those other lives.
“Now you know how it feels to lose someone you love. Maybe I should let you live and suffer just like I’ve lived and suffered.”
Peter looked up. Rachel Turner was standing over him, her gun pointed at his head. From the corner of his eye, he could see people rushing towards them, lights flashing. He could hear shouting in the distance.
“No, maybe not. Time to die, Peter Burke.”
Nothing was going to stop the future, though. Peter focused on the woman and the gun and waited to die. He watched her squeeze the trigger and time slowed – he could see the bullet spinning down the gun’s muzzle, the point emerging from the barrel. He waited for the bullet to speed through his brain. He longed for it.
But the bullet never came. He was again enveloped by feathers, by wings, and the world and all its pain just disappeared.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal wasn’t sure where he was.
But he knew where he was not. He was not in the cloistered garden where he should have died. It was not the guest bedroom in Peter’s home, where he had slept for so many nights. Nor was it Peter’s own bedroom, where he’d woken up to a smile and a kiss.
He kept his eyes closed, too afraid to look. Too afraid to see his fate.
“Neal, open your eyes.”
He knew that voice, the stern and loving tones terrifying him as much as they filled him with elation.
“Neal.”
His name was followed by a caress, and he gave into his need to see a face he’d longed for. “June.”
She was standing over him, smiling.
Neal tried to reconcile her visible pleasure with the terrible punishment he had earned.
“Welcome home, Neal.”
He was home – this was, of all places – his aerie. He was back amongst his kind. “What happened?”
“Everything that needed to happen.”
“I do not understand.”
June’s smile broadened. “Of course you do not understand. You were not supposed to.”
His confusion increased and Neal shifted against the bedding, trying to sit up. But he was dragged back by an unfamiliar weight. He looked over his shoulder and was shocked to see the mass of white plumage – his wings. “How?”
“All will be explained in good time, my dear.” June helped him into a sitting position. “Do you not want to know about your beloved?”
Neal’s heart raced and he went cold with dread. “Peter?” The syllables rang pure and sweet against the stone walls of his aerie.
“Yes, that is his name.”
He swallowed, fear thick and painful in his throat. “Yes, please – is he all right?” Such a simple question when what he wanted to ask was, Is he still amongst the living? Is he sane?
June ran her fingers through his curls. “Peter is fine. He is sleeping and healing, but he will be fine.”
Neal stood up and regretted the motion. His legs where shaking and he felt weighed down by his wings, and there was, unbelievably, a bandage across his chest. He looked down, shocked.
“You were wounded, Neal.”
He touched the bandage, pressing lightly. It hurt. “So it did happen?”
“Yes, and we nearly lost you.”
He wondered if that might have been better, in the long run.
June handed him a pair of trousers. “It is a little chilly to walk around naked.” He put them on, becoming breathless from the minor exertion. “Come.” June tucked her arm under his, as if they were just going for a stroll, but it was all too clear that she was keeping him upright.
Neal headed for the mirror pool, wondering how he would be able to just watch Peter, never being able to touch him again, never feel the warmth of that body against him. The pain was almost too much to bear.
June tugged at his arm. “Where are you going?”
“I – uh -” He looked helplessly at the mirror pool, its surface perfectly still and waiting for him to call up the image of Peter from its depths. Neal wondered if it would be possible to Fall again, if he could get June to renew the bindings.
“You will not find him there, Neal.”
His confusion increased, but there was something mysterious in her smile, something that gave him hope. Neal tried not to lean on June, to stand on his own, but she just held on tighter, gently leading him out of his chambers.
There was another aerie on this level, one that had not been used since before Neal had claimed his space. It had been part of the reason why he wanted that particular aerie. He liked the privacy, it suited his needs. But now, there was an Archon at the door, her tunic the traditional healer’s green. She smiled as they approached.
The hope was now colored with wonder. “June?”
Of course, she did not answer him. But she did ask the healer a question. “How is your patient?”
“He still sleeps, but he will wake soon.” The Archon pulled open the doors.
Neal was frozen, almost terrified at what he would find.
June pulled him forward. “Come, Neal, all is well.”
Her words did not reassure him and he dug in his heels. Except June was stronger and she propelled forward, into the newly opened aerie.
It was not all that dissimilar to his own – a mirror pool dominated the center of the space and, like his, it was quiescent. June walked past the pool, over to the sleeping area. The bed was also like Neal’s – like every other Archon’s – large and round, a platform that could accommodate a creature with vast wings.
And the bed was occupied. By Peter.
If not for June’s steadying arm, Neal might have collapsed.
She pulled him the last few steps forward and any doubts that Neal had were banished. It was Peter; he was sleeping. Not the sleep of someone ill or dying, but a restful sleep – his chest rising and falling in a deep, healthy rhythm. He was stretched out, on his side, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting under his cheek.
He was sleeping on his side because Archons cannot sleep comfortably on their backs. Their wings make that position too uncomfortable.
This time Neal did collapse, falling to his knees at the side of the bed. Peter’s wings were deep bronze, tipped with silver and gold. And to Neal, they were the most beautiful he had ever seen. He reached out, wanting to touch but too afraid this was merely an illusion.
June brushed her fingertips against his shoulder, drawing his attention away for just a few moments. “When Peter wakes, I will explain everything. All of your questions will be answered.”
She left him kneeling next to the bed. He ached, physically, but the discomfort was minor compared to his happiness. Neal did not understand how Peter could be an Archon, how this transformation could happen, but he couldn’t deny the evidence in front of him. And he trusted June, he trusted the healer, when she said that Peter was well.
Which meant that Neal’s careless utterance had not destroyed Peter. He knelt and watched his beloved sleeping and he tried to reconcile what he knew with what he’d been told. Matthew didn’t lie when he warned him what would happen, June had bound him to silence to keep him from destroying Peter, and yet, Peter was here and whole. More than whole.
Neal reached out; this time he did not stop himself from caressing Peter’s cheek. He brushed his fingertips against the warm skin and felt the spark, the living connection between them, echo through him. The pain from his wound, the weakness caused by that injury or maybe by the transit back from the mortal realm, from the reemergence of his wings, was gone. He felt strong, energized. And most oddly enough, complete.
Until the very moment, Neal had not realized that there was a part of himself that was missing.
And then all such thoughts left him. Peter opened his eyes and smiled.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter’s first thought upon wakening and seeing Neal was that he’d had the most terrible dream. But the man before him was surrounded by light. No, not light, by bright white feathers – wings arching over him.
He’d never been much of a believer. Even as a child, he’d been skeptical of the stories of angels in heaven. There had always been something in him that scoffed at the thought of the virtuous dead being given wings and a halo at the Pearly Gates, wearing white robes and doing nothing but being even more virtuous. And yet, Neal was in front of him, great white wings sprouting from his back, his whole being shining.
Because Neal had, in fact, died.
And that meant that he must have died, too.
But that didn’t feel right. He sorted through his memories – they seemed muddled, confused. Rachel Turner was pointing a gun at his head, but there was another woman, holding a knife to his throat. He was an infant and an old man, a warrior with a sword and shield and a monk with little more than a robe and sandals.
He was a child soaring through the sky heading for certain death when he’d been caught by someone, something with great white wings and sky-blue eyes, and carried to safety.
Neal.
He must have spoken, because the man he knew as “Neal” smiled and leaned forward, his wings rustling. His lips moved and Peter heard him speak.
“How are you?”
Such a simple, banal question. He didn’t know if he could answer it – he didn’t know if he believed his ears. The man he knew couldn’t speak – or maybe he could? Peter remembered that horrible last moment, Neal dying in his arms, whispering his name, telling him he loved him. “Who are you?”
“You know me.”
“The man I knew was mute. Or was he?”
“I was – for a time. It was part of the price I had to pay.”
“I don’t understand.”
Neal – or whoever he was – smiled. “To tell you the truth, I do not really understand, either.”
Peter wasn’t having this conversation while he was prone. He tried to sit up but something was holding him back. Neal stood and wrapped his arms around him, helping him into a sitting position. But something was still holding him back. He tried to straighten himself up and there was still something tangled in the bedding. He leaned forward, stretching, and he was suddenly surrounded by masses of feathers. Not white like Neal’s, but bronze and silver and gold.
“What the – ?” He rolled forward, trying to escape, except the feathers followed him. He had … wings. All sorts of curses came to his lips, but he stopped himself, afraid to blaspheme in what might be a holy place.
“I do not know how it happened, but you are one of us, now.”
“An angel?”
“No. We are not angels – not by mortal definition.”
“Okay, then what are we?”
Neal smiled at the subtle emphasis. “We call ourselves ‘Archons’.”
“And I’m an Archon now, too?”
Neal shrugged, that familiar gesture made more elegant by the shifting pattern of his wings. “Yes, it seems so.”
Peter had a million questions, but his stomach rumbled and that answered at least one of them. “We eat?”
“Yes, but I am afraid I cannot order pizza with mushrooms and sausage for us.”
Peter had to smile at the memory of their first meal together. “Then what do we eat?” He tried to stand but lost his balance. Neal wrapped an arm around his waist and helped him get upright. He managed to stand on his own, then took a step, and then another. It was a matter of balance. His wings were heavy.
And he was naked. “Umm, pants?”
Neal smiled and Peter had to smile too. It was like that first night all over again. Only this time, he was the stranger in a very strange land.
Neal opened a chest of drawers and came back with a pair of trousers that looked much like the ones he was wearing. The fabric was grayish-white, and heavy – like denim. They had a drawstring instead of zippers and buttons, and of course they were a little short for his long legs. But it was better than being naked. Peter assumed that shirts were a different matter altogether – with the wings. But Neal handed him something else – it looked like three rectangles of fabric sewn together.
“Let me help you.” It took a little maneuvering, but the fabric somehow became a tunic and he felt a little less disoriented, more normal.
“Now what?”
“Now we eat, then we get answers to our questions.”
Peter followed Neal out of the bedroom into a vast, open cavern dominated by a pool of still water and a window out onto a world he’d never imagined.
“Those aren’t birds, are they?”
“No, they are not.”
At least the scents coming from a small table seemed familiar. Warm bread, melted cheese, something that could have been red sauce. But the plates didn’t hold pizza, more like grilled cheese and tomato soup.
Neal sat down across from him and for the first time, Peter noticed the bandage across his midsection.
“She did shoot you.”
Neal nodded, then seemed to remember he had a voice. “Yes, she did.”
“But you lived.”
“Yes – we both did.”
Peter picked up the sandwich and took a bite. It was delicious, though not as familiar as he’d thought it would be. He had to ask, “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you come into my life?” And yet, as he asked, he knew the answer. “You’ve always been there, haven’t you?”
Neal nodded slowly, his eyes grave, and there was something akin to fear in them. “What do you remember?”
“A lot of fragments, except for this one moment. I was a child – something happened and you saved me.” He swallowed against a suddenly dry mouth. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“No, he does not, Peter.” A woman entered the chamber, also winged. The walls seemed to ring as she said his name.
Neal stood. “June, you promised. You promised to tell me what has happened.”
“And so I did.” She turned back to him. “I am – as Neal has said – June. Welcome to our world.”
She offered her hand, a strangely human-like gesture. Peter took it, steeling himself for a shock or spark, but there was none. Just the warmth of living flesh. “June, a pleasure.” Peter couldn’t help but notice the unusual way the room echoed when he said her name.
She sat down gracefully and fixed him with an intent gaze. “What has Neal told you?”
“Not all that much. That he is an Archon, and so am I – now. He said he doesn’t understand what happened, and I’m guessing that it’s some mystery that only you can solve.”
She tilted her head regally. “Yes, you are correct.”
Peter wanted to lean back, take control of the conversation, but he was afraid he’d fall over. The wings were still an unaccustomed burden. So he waited.
June looked from him to Neal and back to him. “This is always the most difficult part – trying to find the right place to begin.”
Peter tried for a small joke. “The beginning is always a good place to start.”
June seemed to appreciate the humor. “Then so we shall. Humans have immortal souls. We – the Archons – watch over some of them. Not all, just ones that seem to reach out and seek our guidance. We watch over these souls through all of their mortal births and lives and deaths, and continue watching as they are reborn, cycle after cycle – through eternity. Some Archons watch over many souls, some tend to just one.”
“So – you are guardian angels?” Peter spoke without thinking, then remembered what Neal had said.
“No – we are not. Human mythology has intersected with our kind, but our role is much less – and much more – than the stories tell. We are guardians in a way, but we rarely interfere with the course of a human life.”
“Then what is the point?”
June, like Neal, conveyed so much with an elegant shrug of her shoulders. Her wings rustled. “That is our great mystery. We have always watched over human souls – that is just the way it is.”
“How?” Peter was intensely interested in the mechanics.
“We can see into your world through any reflective surface. The mirror pools – ” She gestured to the one in the center of the room, “are our preferred portals, but any still pool of water, a filled glass, even a droplet of rain can be a window. We see the mortal world – your former world – through its own reflective surfaces.”
Peter looked from June to Neal, making the connection that now seemed so obvious. “Neal has been watching over me.”
Neal nodded. “It has been my grace, my pleasure.”
“What happened?” Peter knew that something had to have gone wrong. “Why did you come to me?”
June didn’t answer, leaving it up to Neal to explain. “Your soul was – ” Neal seemed to struggle with the words. “Was ending.”
“Ending?”
“Yes. You were supposed to be immortal, but then you were not. The life you lived as Peter Burke was to be your last. I could not bear that.”
Peter grew cold at the thought. “Why?”
This time, June answered. “Neal interfered. He does not remember what happened, but what he did changed you.”
This Peter understood, this was what he kept remembering. “That time, on the swings.”
“Yes. You would have been killed when the chain snapped, but Neal reached through a mirror pool and saved you. At great cost to himself. We are immortal, but we can be killed – and transit through the mirror pools is … destructive.”
Neal shook his head, as if to deny the story. “I do not remember this. I do not remember this happening.” Neal hugged himself, his wings quivering in distress.
June tried to soothe Neal. “You were not supposed to. You acted without thinking and you paid the price for that.”
“Peter’s soul – that was my price.” Neal sounded so traumatized that it was all Peter could do from wrapping his arms – his wings even – around him, to give him some comfort.
“No – not in the least.” June was parceling out the answers too slowly. “When you crossed through the barrier, you opened yourself up; you made yourself too vulnerable to the mortal world. When you carried Peter to safety, you left part of yourself behind.”
“The feather.” Peter blinked. “There was a feather, I remember grabbing it. Neal left a feather behind. I still have it. I had it.” He remembered that those feathers were in a box in a night table drawer in a world no longer his own.
June shook her head. “Yes, Neal did leave a feather behind, but that was not what wrought the change. He left part of his own soul in you.”
Neal stood up abruptly, his wings flaring. Peter was reminded of a hawk about to dive for its prey.
“I did not mean to do that.”
“No, of course not, my dear. And please sit back down.”
Neal obediently settled on the stool, looking chastened.
“Such things happen. We grow attached to a soul – too attached some might claim. We reach a point where it becomes impossible not to interfere.”
Peter wasn’t sure what June was saying, but Neal seemed to understand. He was glad that someone did. “Archons – this is how new Archons are made.”
“Yes. And it has been a very long time since we have welcomed new life into our midst.” She put her hand over Peter’s, squeezing gently. “You are an unusual case. Of all the Archons that have been made, you are one of the few who came to us as an adult, with your adult memories intact. What I have told you is rarely shared with fledglings. The knowledge is too dangerous.”
At that, June stood. “Gentlemen, I will make my farewells. At least for the moment. You are both healing and need your rest. And I think you need to spend some time getting reacquainted with each other. ”
Neal stopped her. “Before you go, I have one more question.”
“Yes?”
“Matthew told me what happened to Kate when he said her name. That was why you bound my voice, so I would not make that mistake. So I would not destroy –” Neal paused and swallowed, “Peter. Was Matthew mistaken?”
Peter wasn’t sure just what Neal was getting at, and he wondered about this Matthew – another Archon, maybe?
June nodded. “No, he was not. The danger is real to souls that are not ready. When you gave part of yourself to Peter, you gave him a shield from those consequences. He was able to anchor himself to that moment. When the bindings broke and you said his name, we were able to retrieve you.”
At that, June swept out of the room, as regally as she’d entered.
Neal seemed to accept June’s explanation, even though Peter had no clue what any of this meant. All he knew was that he was his life was irrevocably changed.
“Are you angry?” Neal was nervous, his wings fluttered.
“Why?”
“I interfered with your life.”
“I would have died if you hadn’t.”
“But you would have been reborn into another life.”
Peter thought for a moment and shook his head. “No, I had a good life. I can remember all of it. I was loved and cherished by my parents. They encouraged me to be the best I could be.” He had no misgivings, everything felt right – that it all was as it needed to be. “I wouldn’t change anything. Not losing El, not anything that came after that. I liked the man I was. I like the man I am now. I had good friends and a wife I loved, a life that meant something, and for a while, I had you.”
Neal blinked, his face pale, his eyes huge. “You can still have me. If you still want me.” The paleness was overtaken by a bright blush.
Peter’s heart raced and it seemed like he’d developed goose bumps on his wings – every feather was ruffled. He wanted to make sure he understood. “We can … be together? As we were?”
Neal’s smile was like the rising dawn. “Of course we can. I told you, we are not angels.”
Peter laughed and the sound echoed around the chamber like a brightly ringing bell.
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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
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no subject
Date: 2014-05-24 02:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-24 07:58 pm (UTC)But ok, this part has to have the most beautiful and glorious description of music and its power to touch our soul. I really have no words. Such an amazing thing to have Neal get his voice back this way :D
And all of that right before the confrontation with Rachel! I re-read it just now and my heart was once again hammering in my chest. Neal dying in Peter's arms, saying his name and declaring his love - so beautiful and tragic and it wiped the floor with my poor heart!
And OMG! Archon!Peter \o/ You know I loved this twist so much, I just had to make that final piece of art :D All the pieces had finally fallen into place \o/ As I was telling Sinful, Peter's gonna be such a beautiful, perfect Archon, especially with Neal by his side. Lots of tangling of their plumage :P
no subject
Date: 2014-05-27 12:47 am (UTC)I love this.