![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: Let Your Honesty Shine - Part 1 of 5
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Artist:kanarek13
Fandom: White Collar / The Normal Heart
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Diana Berrigan, Satchmo, Ned Weeks; Peter/Neal, Peter/Elizabeth, Peter/Elizabeth/Neal, Ned/Felix (past)
Spoilers: Minor spoilers for the end of WC S5,
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Canon death of canon character (Felix Turner), death of a non-canon White Collar character. Mild public expression of homophobia, self-deprecating use of homophobic slurs.
Word Count: ~40,000
Beta Credit:sinfulslasher
Summary: On a hot June day, one summer in the near future, Ned Weeks finds himself in a West Village coffee shop. When he overhears a fascinating conversation about blackmail, kidnapping and getting shot at, he has to take a look. One of the speakers is definitely a Fed – Ned can tell just by the haircut and the ugly suit. The other man is his lover, Felix. Except that Felix has been dead for thirty years.
Then he remembers…
__________________
Once upon a time, Ned Weeks had been a famously angry man. Once upon a time, he had a lot to be angry about.
He still did.
But he’d mellowed, worn down by time, progress, age, and loneliness. Mostly by loneliness. The disease had mellowed him, too. He was over seventy-five, which even now seemed like an impossible achievement. At fifty, he hadn’t thought he’d live to see fifty-five, and when he made it to that advanced age, he had strongly doubted he’d see sixty. The news magazines published his obituary when he was sixty-four. They were, quite thankfully and quite obviously, wrong. He was still here, and if he wasn’t throwing brickbats at the establishment so frequently anymore, he could still toss an occasional fast one and brush people back from their complacency.
But today wasn’t the day for shouting anyone down, for making his point with big gestures and bigger words. Today, he was tired and not feeling all that great, and despite the promises he’d made, he really didn’t want to attend the massive circus that was Gay Pride Week in New York City. Hell, being gay was practically an industry in New York these days, not so different from law or finance or insurance. Everywhere he looked, he saw pretty people doing pretty things to each other, wearing the rainbow like a fashion statement instead of a political one.
It was only Wednesday, but the route for Sunday’s annual march already looked like a rainbow had vomited on lower Manhattan. Frankly, if Ned was a praying sort of man, he’d pray for some intense tropical storm to drop a few feet of water on Christopher Street, if just to send all those annoyingly beautiful tourists back to their overpriced hotel rooms. He probably shouldn’t have ventured out of his apartment, but he needed to show his face at a few meetings, he needed to harangue a bunch of morons, and worst of all; he needed to actually be nice to some people.
Tasks completed, but not yet ready to go back to his splendid solitude, Ned wandered into a quiet coffee shop on Barrow Street. Of course, it wasn’t completely quiet. There were a few twinks in strategically torn rainbow tie-dye at the counter, loudly gushing about the goings-on at their favorite nightspot (who fucked who on the dance floor, probably). In a booth, a pair of dykes were holding hands and talking intently. Ned figured, with typical sourness, that they were arguing about who was going to wear the strap-on that night.
The only waitress in the place, a woman who looked as old as Ned felt, told him to take a seat anywhere he wanted.
Even though it was the first day of summer according to the calendar, and clearly felt like it, he ordered a cup of hot tea. He was old and sick and the simple pleasure of Lipton’s would make him feel better. The woman came back with his tea, and the water was barely lukewarm. Ned decided not to bitch about it; some battles weren’t that important.
The coffee shop was dimly lit, as if to compensate for the inadequacy of the air conditioning. Ned’s eyes adjusted to the light (or the lack thereof) and he flipped open a copy of the Daily News that someone had left behind. The rag was barely worth the paper it was printed on, but it was better than the Post.
There were the inevitable glowing articles about Bill DeBlasio and family, now well into the second year of his term, not that he really cared. Though, if pressed, he’d have to admit that he had voted for the man. A fake socialist as mayor was certainly better than a real conservative.
Ned was distracted from the so-called news when the coffee shop door opened, flooding the place with too-bright sunlight. He could only make out the silhouettes of two men, but their attire and voices distinctly placed them as professional New Yorkers, although there was a very slight twang to the smaller man’s voice that betrayed a Midwestern origin.
He turned his attention back to the newspaper and his tepid tea, still unwilling to return to the air conditioned solitude of his apartment. If he wasn’t so damn ill all the time, he’d get a dog. He missed having a dog, because at least a dog wouldn’t look at him and think he was too damaged, too old, too Jewish.
The two men took up occupancy at the table next to his, their conversation annoyingly audible.
What the ever-loving fuck? Shot at? Kidnapped? This might be the most fascinating conversation Ned had ever overheard in a coffee shop. Given the laughter in the men’s voices, the affection, he wondered if they were joking. Ned had to turn and sneak a peek.
He did and the first thought that crossed his mind was, so I must have died this morning and no one told me.
Felix was sitting at the table next to him, smiling at a man who wasn’t him, who would never be him. Be-suited and broad shouldered, with a face that screamed WASP, the man smiled back at Felix, and Ned couldn’t hear their words over the pounding of his heart and the buzzing in his ears.
He didn’t even realize he had stood up until his chair clattered to the floor. The two men looked over and Felix got up and righted the chair. He had such worry in his eyes. Felix shouldn’t be worrying about him. But he was also looking at him like he was a stranger. Ned couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe.
“Sir, are you okay?”
He must have said something, or tried to, because Felix – Felix – put a hand on his arm and tried to get him to sit down.
“Peter – maybe we should call 9-1-1, this guy doesn’t look so good.”
No, he wasn’t dead. This man, who looked so much like his partner, wasn’t Felix after all. The resemblance was more than superficial, but there were differences. His voice was wrong. The color of his eyes didn’t match the blue in his memory. The suit and tie and polished smile were all wrong. Worst of all, he was older than Felix would ever be.
Ned threw off that helping hand and though it was altogether unreasonable, he felt as angry as he had in 1981, when his friends started dying and no one seemed to give a shit. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, who the fuck are you?” And why do you so much look like the man I’ve never stopped loving for one second in the past thirty years?
Not-Felix’s companion stood up, but he seemed more concerned than angry, and he pushed Not-Felix aside. “You don’t look too good, is there someone I can call for you?”
Ned closed his eyes and the riptide of memory threatened to pull him out to sea. “I was married. I have a son.”
He opened his eyes and really looked at Not-Felix. Yes, this man was just the right age – mid-to-late thirties. Ned reached out and grabbed his arm. “Your father, is your father’s name Felix Turner?”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter watched Neal shut down. There was little that could kill Neal’s smile. Even when he was angry or frightened, Neal could summon a convincing grin. But mention his father, and Neal’s face turned hard and angry.
“No, my father is James Bennett. Or maybe was James Bennett. The bastard could be dead for all I know.”
The old man, though, wasn’t put off and wouldn’t let the matter go. “No, you’re Felix Turner’s son. You have to be. You look just like him.”
Neal shook off the man’s grip and stepped back. “I don’t know you, I don’t know Felix Turner. Regardless of whom you think I might look like, my father’s name is James Bennett.”
“Are you certain?”
Peter had to give the old man credit for persistence.
Neal wasn’t backing down, either. “Yes, unfortunately, I am. There’s even a DNA test that proves it.” Neal’s tone was clipped, resentment and anger pungent in every syllable. He turned to Peter. “I’ve got an appointment uptown and I’m going to be late. Will I see you tonight?”
Peter nodded, understanding Neal’s need to escape. “Of course.”
Neal spared a glance at the old man, who seemed more sorrowful than angry now, then looked back at Peter. “Can’t wait.” He then gave Peter the surprise of his life as he pressed a hungry kiss on his mouth, his tongue hot and invasive, not allowing any quarter. They rarely indulged in public displays of affection, even though it was a year since Neal had been off the tracking anklet and they’d finally given physical definition to the love that had been there all along.
Peter couldn’t help but respond to the kiss. He was human and there was little need for discretion in this hole-in-the-wall coffee shop in the West Village. He threaded his fingers through the dark silk of Neal’s hair and kissed him back, not caring that his lover’s amorous display was intended to shock the old man.
A minute - or maybe an hour - later, Neal broke their kiss with a nip on Peter’s lower lip and a stage-whispered order. “See you tonight, lover At that, Neal left Peter standing there, aroused and bemused. Light and heat momentarily blinded him as Neal opened the coffee shop door and walked away.
Peter sighed. He really did need to get back to the office, where there was the budget report to submit (without a slot for Neal), plus stacks of staffing requisitions and performance reviews to deal with. Bureaucratic matters that were a hell of a lot less intriguing than the mystery this old man had just handed him.
“If your friend was trying to shock me, he’s got a long way to go. I’ve taken part in orgies that would have put Caligula to shame.”
Peter turned his attention back to the old man, who thankfully looked a little less like a walking corpse. Rather than loom over him, Peter sat down. “Neal doesn’t normally act like such a dick. He has very few vulnerabilities, but somehow, you managed to hit his biggest one – his father.”
“You know his father?”
“To my regret, yes, I’ve met James Bennett.”
“Does he look a lot like your … friend?”
Peter didn’t really have to consider the question, given how “Sam” had played him and Neal for several weeks, how neither of them had any clue that Sam was actually James until Diana handed him that report. “There’s a certain resemblance around the eyes, but I couldn’t have picked him out of a lineup as Neal’s father if you held a gun to my head.”
“And what about this man? Couldn’t he have been your friend’s father?” The guy took out his wallet and removed a well-worn photograph. Peter looked at it and blinked. There were two men in the picture – one might have been the man sitting across from him, maybe thirty years ago. The other man was Neal. Or his doppelgänger.
He turned the photo over and there was something written on the back – Ned and Felix, Montauk, 1981. “May you always be this happy, Tommy.”
“You’re Ned?”
The old man nodded. “Yes, Ned Weeks.”
Ah, that explained some things. Peter knew just who Ned Weeks was; there were few New Yorkers of a certain age who didn’t. But the story of Ned Weeks, gay rights and AIDS activist, was a lot less relevant than the mystery in this photograph. “The man with you is Felix Turner? The man you think could be Neal’s father?”
Ned was blunt. “He was Felix Turner. Felix has been dead a very long time.”
“I’m sorry.” Peter could hear the ache of loss in that simple statement.
“Thank you.” Ned gave a sad sigh. “Felix had a son – I never met him, and Felix only mentioned him once. He said he never saw him and he didn’t fight for visitation rights because he was gay. He thought it would be a foregone conclusion that he’d be denied. His son would be your friend’s age by now.”
“You don’t know the child’s name? His mother’s name?”
Ned shook his head. “No, I don’t. Other … things got in the way and we never talked about it. Then it was too late.”
Peter kept staring at the photograph. The man who could have been Neal appeared to be a hell of a lot younger – in more than just years. He looked a lot more carefree, a lot more innocent. This wasn’t a man who had spent four years in a prison cell. This wasn’t a man who had his life ripped away again and again. But this man probably didn’t live to be as old as Neal was now.
“Don’t you want to know what happened to him?” Ned stuck his jaw out like an aging pugilist.
“I think I can guess,” Peter replied with deliberate gentleness.
The fight went out of the old man and he seemed to collapse in on himself. “Felix died of the plague in 1983, a year before you could even get tested for HIV.”
Again, Peter said, “I’m sorry.” And again, the words seemed so inadequate in the face of the man’s still-fresh grief.
“Thanks.” Ned rested his head in his hands. “I guess this is just one of those freak things – two people who are completely unrelated look exactly alike. It really doesn’t matter, though. If your friend – if Neal’s – father had a DNA test done to prove paternity, then his resemblance to Felix is just an accident. They do say that everyone has a twin somewhere.”
Peter wasn’t ready to surrender this mystery. “Would you mind if I took a picture of this?”
“If you’d like.” Ned shrugged, but Peter could tell that his indifference was only a mask.
He set the picture on a clean napkin, focused the camera on his smartphone and took several shots for good measure, and repeated the process with the message on the back, before handing the precious picture back to Ned.
“Who was Tommy?”
Ned smiled. “Tommy Boatwright, the gentlest and most relentless soul you’d ever have met. I think he would have gotten a good laugh out of this whole situation. Or wept until his heart broke. He’s dead now, too.” Ned didn’t say anything else as he returned the photo to his wallet and they sat there, the silence awkward. Peter wondered if he should help the man get home. He was – despite his still formidable temper – obviously frail.
“You’re married.” The old man reached out and touched Peter’s wedding band.
“Yes.” Peter stifled a sigh. He didn’t want or need to explain his unusual relationship with Neal and with El to a stranger.
“But not to Neal. He wasn’t wearing a ring.”
Remembering the adage about how truth, no matter how difficult, was still easier than a lie, Peter kept the explanation simple. “No, Neal’s not my husband.”
Ned opened his mouth and Peter could all but hear the harangue begin.
“And my wife has welcomed him into our lives with an open heart and open arms. There’s a universe of difference between promiscuity and polyamory, so whatever you're going to say, save it.”
Ned shut his mouth with a snap and chuckled. “You really do know who I am.”
“Yeah. I was in grad school at Harvard in 1988 and attended the first ACT UP rally held there. I heard you give one of your hellfire and brimstone speeches and it scared the shit out of me.”
“Good, it was supposed to.”
This time, the silence was comfortable, but it was getting late and there was something Peter needed to check. He got up. “Can I have a telephone number? To reach you if I find out something.”
Ned gave him an odd, almost hopeful look. “You really think there’s anything to this?”
It was Peter’s turn to shrug. “I don’t know, but there could be. It’s an interesting puzzle and I’d like to try to solve it.”
“Well, since you know who I am, you’ll know where to find me.”
Peter shook his head, “That’s sort of a leap, wouldn’t you say?”
“Don’t screw with me. The FBI probably has a file on me that’s a foot thick. And you’re one of them – I can see your badge. And I also overheard your discussion with Neal, which was fascinating, by the way.”
Peter gritted his teeth. This conversation was sort of like talking with a very angry and rather charmless version of Mozzie.
Ned then relented and gave Peter an email address and a cellphone number. “I’m doing this more out of a sense of morbid curiosity than anything. I also want to know about the kidnappings, the blackmail and the murder attempts.”
Peter laughed. He had to. “Maybe someday you will.” He gave Ned one of his cards and changed the subject. “Should I get a cab for you? It’s brutal out and I don’t think you should be walking around in this heat.”
Ned looked like he was about to argue, but thought better of it. “My apartment’s not that far, but I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”
Neal’s uncanny ability to hail a cab seemed to have rubbed off on Peter, at least for this moment. Outside, in the sweltering heat, he held out his hand just as one of the new minivan-type vehicles cruised down Barrow Street. To his delight, it pulled up. He helped Ned into it and watched as it pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the shimmering haze.
By the time he’d made it back to the office – using his own shoe leather – Peter had sweated through his suit jacket. An overcooked noodle had more life than he did at the moment.
As he passed by, Diana looked up from her work. “You okay, boss?”
Peter glared at her. The relaxed dress code of the modern FBI meant that female agents had a lot more leeway with work-appropriate attire. Diana was wearing a sleeveless tunic and loose fitting trousers. He was stuck in a dress shirt, a damned tie and a jacket. He refrained from telling one of his favorite agents how much he hated her and simply grunted an “I’m okay,” before heading up to his office.
It was close to four on a Wednesday afternoon, and he couldn’t bring himself to care as he dumped his jacket, ripped the tie off, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. At least the office was air conditioned and he slowly felt himself cooling off. He must be getting old because it was only a few dozen blocks from Barrow Street to the office, but it seemed like he’d just walked the length of Manhattan.
And that brought him back to thoughts of his bizarre encounter with Ned Weeks. Before doing anything, he wanted to check on Neal. Contrary to his claim, Peter knew that there was no appointment uptown, unless it was with a glass of lightly chilled Chardonnay and a plate of prosciutto-wrapped melon on the terrace.
He pulled out his phone and sent a text. You okay?
Neal replied almost immediately. Yeah, fine.
You sure?
I'm fine. Don’t want to talk about it. See you tonight?
Yes, probably around 7. Need to pick up Satch. Can’t wait.
Neither can I.
Peter pocketed his phone, fished out his keys, and unlocked the bottom desk drawer. Behind the small gun safe was a file. It contained nothing of earth-shattering importance, just small bits and pieces of information relating to Neal. Copies of his original (and only) conviction, his contract with the FBI and all the amendments, the letter from the Commutation Board after the treasure had been recovered, the notice, two years later, from the Bureau of Prisons and the Justice Department that Neal’s sentence had been commuted (the original was framed and on display at his house). And most relevant right now, the DNA report for one Sam Phelps, also known as James Bennett.
Peter had scanned the report when Diana handed it to him. He had been desperately worried about Neal and his reactions, and hadn’t taken the time to do more than glance at the actual particulars of the document. That night, he’d rushed over to Neal’s apartment; intent on comforting his friend and confronting the man who’d played them both like a violin. The shit had rolled downhill quickly from there. Sam – no, James – had given them a plausible explanation for his disappearance and reappearance in Neal’s life, and Peter hadn’t gone back and read beyond the cover page of the report.
When Reese had been pushed out and Calloway made her entrance, Peter tucked the report into his “Neal” file and locked it away for safe keeping, never having the need to look at it again. He did now, and the information was surprising, to say the least.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sitting in front of his easel, he attempted to execute a half sized reproduction of “An Old Man in Red”. Why he picked this painting to copy was glaringly obvious – there was something about the sadness in the eyes of the man he’d met at the coffee shop, the wary tilt to his head that called this piece to mind.
His laptop was opened and a reference image was on the screen, but Neal didn’t really need it. He’d seen the original in the Hermitage, and it was fixed in his memory. In truth, Neal was tempted to shut down the computer, if to avoid the temptation to do a search for that name.
Felix Turner
He painted but the thoughts kept chasing around his head. Turner wasn’t all that uncommon a name. Hell, the last woman he’d had a serious relationship with – the last woman who tried to kill him – was named Turner. But Felix wasn’t exactly a common name. How many could there be?
Neal kept a firm grip on his paintbrush and did his damnedest to ignore the computer and the temptation it represented. Except that he’d never been all that good at ignoring temptation.
He put down his brush and palette and turned to the computer. But before he could call up a search page, he unceremoniously pressed the power button, listened to the drive spin down, closed the screen and took the thing over to the fireplace and stashed it in one of the compartments in the mantle. Not that that was really getting rid of temptation. He still had his cell phones, plus an iPad. But those weren’t sitting out and staring him in the face.
Task accomplished and feeling a little less disconcerted, Neal returned to his easel and tried to let the art overtake him. The face on the canvas began to take shape, but the sounds of the paintbrush against the taut fabric didn’t do much to drown out the old man’s words. “Your father, was your father’s name Felix Turner?”
At that moment, Neal wished like hell he could have said yes, his father was Felix Turner because being a stranger’s son was a lot better than being a murderer’s. It wasn’t until he’d stalked out of the coffee shop that he considered the ramifications – that ‘Felix Turner’ was an alias that James had used – like Sam Phelps.
But somehow, that didn’t feel right. The urgency in the old man’s eyes, the intensity of his words, the sense of grief in the very question didn’t match with the idea that James had once been this man, this Felix. Not back then, not when he was a child, or even before.
He kept working and kept trying not to think about it, about why a random stranger would ask about his paternity. Eventually, Neal was able to lose himself in the painting. The small air conditioning unit that June had installed for the apartment a few years ago clicked on and off as the temperature rose and fell, but Neal didn’t notice. The light shifted, and even though there was still sunshine pouring through the French doors and the skylights, the shadows in the room began to lengthen and Neal blinked. He looked at his cell phone; it was almost six-thirty. Peter would be here soon.
Neal got a whiff of himself and grimaced. He needed a shower.
Not that Peter would mind his stink. Peter actually liked his stink and often said so. He said he liked knowing that Neal was a real human being, not some perfect mythological creature who didn’t sweat or fart or burp.
But Neal minded, and he minded that he minded. He tried to tell himself that he didn’t have to be perfect for Peter and Elizabeth (well, mostly for Peter). But he wanted to be perfect, anyway.
Which was foolish. After all, they’d seen him at his worst: drunk and drugged, grieving and angry, depressed and distraught, charming and cunning and all of the other shades of Neal Caffrey, con man. But for some reason, now that their relationship had evolved into something that still had the power to stop him in his tracks, he didn’t want Peter finding him messy and sweaty, with paint under fingernails and stale coffee breath.
Time wasn’t going to wait and Peter was a man who believed in promptness. If he said he’d be here at seven, he would be here at seven, no excuses. Neal pulled fresh clothes from the wardrobe and headed for the shower, not bothering to cover up his work in progress. Peter would see it and know just what he was doing. They probably wouldn’t talk about it, at least not right away. But they would get to it, eventually. Even though they’d both learned harsh lessons about not communicating, Peter knew when not to push.
By the time he had showered and shaved and dressed and came back into the apartment, Peter was already there. He had clearly helped himself to one of the bottles of beer Neal kept stocked in the fridge.
Satchmo looked up from the dog bed Neal had gotten when Peter started staying over a few nights a week and gave him a welcoming ‘woof’. Peter, with a smile, greeted him with his own, “Woof.”
“Woof back.” Neal walked over to Peter and kissed him. It was a kiss leagues different from the one he’d given him in the coffee shop. He’d been angry, flustered and needed to do something outrageous. Except he’d been too freaked out, then too aroused, to wait to see if he’d succeeded.
This kiss was gentle and a bit tentative and when Peter touched his cheek, Neal just wanted to melt into his arms.
Peter broke the kiss, his lips smiling, his eyes glowing, his hands resting on Neal's hips and holding him close. “Hey there. Happy Wednesday.”
Neal felt a little goofy, a little giddy, and thoroughly in love. Whatever unease he had felt from the strange encounter with the old man disappeared as if it had never happened. He was probably grinning like a fool because his cheeks hurt. “Hey, happy Wednesday.”
They might have stood there until the sun set, but Peter’s phone rang. It was Elizabeth; Neal knew who it was by the ringtone, “Pretty Woman,” because he’d programmed it into Peter’s phone a few months ago.
He went over to Satchmo and listened to the conversation with half an ear, concentrating more on giving the dog a belly rub. As silly as it seemed, Neal cherished the fact that Peter brought him over when he stayed here on the nights that El was in D.C. The dog wasn’t so young anymore, but was well trained and accustomed to being on his own for lengths of time. Peter could have left Satch with the neighbors (as he’d done many times before) or insisted that Neal come to Brooklyn, which he would have been more than happy to do. But Neal loved having Satchmo here, in his apartment. If asked to explain why it mattered to him, he probably couldn’t.
The dog rolled onto his back. He rumbled and whined with pleasure as Neal found that sweet spot where his belly and ribcage met. He was so involved with pleasing Satchmo that he didn’t hear Peter say good night to El and end the call.
“You know, Neal, you’ve corrupted my dog.”
Neal looked up. “Huh?”
“He’s no longer satisfied with just getting his ears scratched when I come home. He wants the full Caffrey treatment. Every night.” Peter waved his hand at the highly indecorous pose the Labrador had assumed – on his back, legs sprawled, belly displayed, tongue lolling in an undignified but very happy pant. “I say ‘let’s go see Neal’ and he all but fetches his own leash and my car keys.”
“Ah, he just likes the attention.” Neal shifted into a sitting position on the floor; his knees weren’t so young anymore. Satchmo took advantage and rolled into Neal’s lap.
“See what I mean? You’ve started something you’re not going to be able to stop.”
“I’d apologize, if I could figure out what to be sorry for.”
“Oh, when your legs fall asleep and you can’t move and you need me to help you get up, then you’ll figure it out.”
Neal laughed, his happiness rising like a rainbow-colored soap bubble, but a lot less ephemeral. “It’s worth it.”
Peter looked down at him, smiling. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
He continued to service Satchmo’s doggy need for affection and Peter ended up on the couch with the Yankees-Angels game on at a low volume while he worked through some case files. Neal squelched his curiosity. There had been a lot of truth in his admission this afternoon. He did miss working with the FBI, and not just with Peter. He missed the challenges and the opportunity to do something that really mattered. Of course, he’d never admit, even if someone shoved bamboo under his fingernails, that he even missed the stacks of mortgage and securities fraud cases.
If things had been different between him and Peter, he might have taken Peter up on his offer and come back now. It was nearly a year after the tracker had come off, just long enough to reset expectations. After his sentence was commuted, Neal convinced himself that he needed to discover if he could live as an honest man, to stand on his own two feet. At the time, he had thought that staying with the FBI would have been a crutch, and also a trigger point. He couldn’t help but feel that if he stayed, he’d be more tempted to cross the line, just to prove that he could. It seemed counterintuitive, but to him, it made sense. And now, now that he and Peter and El had a life together, going back would just complicate things even more.
It had been a little more than eleven months ago, just a few weeks after Peter had rescued him again, and a few nights after he’d gone to bat for him again. That time; however, Peter had been successful in getting the rest of his sentence commuted, and Neal had been over at the house for a celebratory dinner. He’d felt a little awkward about it; Elizabeth was home only for a few nights, just Friday through Monday, and Neal hadn’t wanted to interfere with date night. But she’d made it clear that they both wanted him over for dinner; with everything they’d all gone through over the past three and a half years, El said that they all damned well deserved a celebratory dinner. And when Elizabeth commanded, Neal obeyed.
That night, he got a little drunk, more due to his emotions than the amount of wine consumed. He was going to leave out of New York, but wasn't sure of his destination. He figured he'd buy a ticket when he got to the airport. Probably Paris for starters. But it still didn’t feel quite real, or even right. He wasn’t exactly teary, but by the end of the meal, melancholy was his primary emotion. Neal gave the Burkes a sad smile. “Gonna miss you guys. You have no idea.” He reached for the wine and was going to empty the rest of the bottle into his glass when Elizabeth snatched it away.
“What makes you think we won’t miss you?” Her tone was pointed, almost harsh.
“All I’ve brought is chaos and complication into your life. You can’t tell me that you haven’t been counting the days until Peter can wash his hands of me.”
Elizabeth put the bottle down hard enough to make the dishes rattle. “No, Neal, I can’t – but apparently you’re too blind and too selfish to see the reason why.”
He blinked, trying to make himself sober by sheer force of will. It didn't work. Instead of trying to figure out what she was saying, why she was so angry at him – right out of the blue – Neal had stood up. “I guess that’s my cue to bid you goodnight. And goodbye.” He didn’t look at Peter once during this exchange, he was too scared, too overwhelmed by Elizabeth’s ire, by his own heartbreak.
He made it as far as the edge of the table when Peter’s hand clamped around his wrist. “You’re going nowhere, Caffrey.”
Neal’s heart stuttered, the way it always did when Peter used that tone – that affectionate growl. He had always avoided thinking about his reaction.
“Sit down.”
Peter’s command demanded obedience. He sat, still looking everywhere but at the Burkes. Then Peter sighed and the unhappiness contained in that exhalation forced Neal’s attention to him. “What? What have I done now?” There was definitely a lot of subtext that he wasn't able to decipher, and actual text, too – with El calling him selfish and blind.
Peter looked at Elizabeth, then at him, and there was a kind of grief in his eyes that Neal had never seen before. “You know, you don’t have to go anywhere. Not if you don’t want to.”
He tried to smile. “Ah, but there’s Paris waiting. And London.”
“To see Sara?” Peter asked.
Neal shrugged; he’d tossed out the city because it seemed expected, not specifically because he’d had any interest in getting back together with Sara again. There was too much water under the bridge, too many broken expectations. But he knew how much Peter hoped he’d find happiness there, and so he added, “Maybe, probably.”
At that Elizabeth got up, briskly collecting the dishes, and in complete incongruity to her earlier behavior, gave him a bright and terribly fake smile. Peter looked away, his jaw clenched, and said, “Ah, okay. Then I guess there’s nothing more to say.”
Neal felt like he was about to fall off the edge of the world. “I don’t understand. Do you want me to stay?” Which was a stupid question; of course Peter wanted him to stay. He’d made him a serious offer about taking a full-time position with the FBI as a paid consultant. Neal had emphatically rejected the idea. But this didn’t seem to have anything to do with the Bureau and a job.
Peter didn't answer the question, leaving the words Neal wanted to hear (“Yes. I want you to stay, we want you to stay. We love you.”) unspoken.
Neal babbled, filling the silence. “But we’ll always be friends, right? Just because I’m leaving New York doesn’t mean that that has to change.” He tried not to sound so desperate.
If anything, the grief in Peter’s eyes got worse, but he smiled – a familiar twist of his lips. “No, Neal – wherever you are, I’ll always be your friend.”
The dishes crashed in the sink and El started to take out her mood on the coffeemaker. Neal watched her with a strange sort of fascination; he’d never seen her behave like this. “Elizabeth? What’s the matter?”
She turned around and stalked back to the table, fury in her eyes. “You don’t get it, do you? For four years, I’ve watched the two of you do your little dance around each other. I’ve let you dance around me, and now you’re going to swan off to someplace halfway around the world, for what? A vague promise, the temptation of a life of pointless luxury. Can’t you see what’s been in front of your face for so damn long?” Tears rolled down her cheeks by the time she finished that extraordinary speech.
“El? Elizabeth?” He wasn't sure he fully understood what she’d tried to tell him. He looked over at Peter, but Peter seemed as wrecked as El.
Finally, though, Peter spoke. “For a smart man, Neal, you’re pretty damn stupid.” Peter got up and loomed over him; the hair on the back of Neal’s neck stood up. But then Peter touched his cheek, his whole expression softening. “I’ll never forgive myself if I destroy our friendship – ” Then his lips twisted and he gave a slight chuckle. “Again.”
Neal held himself very still, as if he was trying to avoid discovery. Peter’s fingers still rested against his cheek.
“But I’ll never forgive myself if I say or do nothing and let you walk away. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ they say, right?”
Over the years, Neal had had dreams about Peter, strange and embarrassing ones. Sometimes they were filled with vague and inchoate longing. Sometimes they were startlingly explicit. Especially after those dreams, he’d wake up, hot and aroused and troubled, fisting his cock like some fifteen year-old boy. Ironically, the more vivid dreams usually presaged some well-planned criminal stupidity, like going after the music box, breaking into the Burkes’ house to find the manifest, BASE jumping off the forty-ninth floor of a downtown apartment building. He tried not to make too much out of them, they didn’t really mean anything, or if they did, dreams weren’t supposed to be taken literally.
But Peter was standing in front of him, over him, touching him like a lover, and Neal didn’t know what to think, what to do. Except wait.
It seemed an eternity, but Peter finally pulled him to his feet and kissed him. And everything in his life at last made sense. The pieces he had always sensed were missing – with Kate, with Alex, with Sara – even with Rebecca for that brief time that he’d thought he’d loved her – they were pieces of himself, pieces he’d given to Peter and never realized it. Peter’s lips on his put those pieces in place, gave, at last, him all the answers to the questions he’d been afraid to ask.
The kiss broke only when he felt a small, hot hand on his back and he looked to see Elizabeth standing next to them, smiling brightly through her tears. “At last, you two. At last.”
He and Peter didn’t make love that night or even the next one. Rather, they kissed until Neal thought he’d die of pleasure, then they negotiated what was certain to be a relationship filled with an almost infinite potential for disaster. Peter loved him and wanted him and he hadn’t been shy about telling him that. Elizabeth loved him, too, and wouldn’t mind welcoming him into her bed on occasion, but really, she mostly just wanted to watch and even more than that, she wanted them both to be happy.
They looked at him like they expected him to freak out. El even said, “We’ve had years to get used to the idea, to plan for this. We weren’t sure that you wouldn’t walk out the door and never look back.”
Neal, for his part, did an admirable job of hiding his freak-out. It wasn’t that he was starting a physical relationship with another man. That didn’t matter in the least. He’d never been completely heterosexual. There was Matthew, of course; Vincent, too; although his memories of both men were unpleasant. Besides, marks had been marks, regardless of sex. And staying whole and healthy in prison had meant compromise.
But this was Peter, the lodestone and pole star of his life, his idée fixe, the goddamned sun and moon and stars, and for the better part of three and a half years, he’d been too afraid to admit that he felt something other than a manly, platonic friendship. That first kiss had changed everything.
They talked and talked. They kissed and talked some more. Peter and Elizabeth kept him close for most of that weekend, but Neal eventually made it clear that he was going back to his apartment on Sunday afternoon. El had to head down to D.C. the next morning and the Burkes deserved some time to themselves. He was waiting for his usual cab ride when Elizabeth tucked her arm in his, pulled him over to her car and told him to get in and buckle up. She was taking him home and they needed to talk, just the two of them.
After the events on Friday night, Neal had sort of been expecting this ambush, although he hadn’t been quite sure what she wanted to say to him. She pulled away from the curb and, keeping her eyes focused on the road, she dropped her own bombshell. “Hurt Peter and they’ll never find you. And if you think I’m kidding, just try me. My sister’s husband is in construction and you know that they still haven’t found Jimmy Hoffa’s body.”
“I never want to hurt him or hurt you, except that it always seems to happen, no matter what I do.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. I think you’re going to do fine not being a criminal. You don’t have anything to prove anymore and I’ll do my best to keep Mozzie from leading you astray. I’m talking about fidelity, Neal. Peter would never say anything, he wouldn’t think it’s fair for you to be monogamous when he’s married. He wants you to have that, too. So he’ll never ask you for any sort of promises. But I am.”
Neal hadn’t really thought about it like that. He was a romantic, he loved and loved deeply – at least for as long as that love lasted or until his heart was broken. He loved Peter, there was no question about that. It was a love that had lasted through lies and bitter accusations, through disaster and betrayal and murder and prison and anger and more lies and more anger. It would probably outlast their lives.
“If you’re asking me to be faithful, I will promise that to you and Peter. I wouldn’t cheat on either of you.”
El surprised him. “No. It’s really not that sort of fidelity I’m talking about. I know you’re not the kind of man who’d cheat like that. What I’m asking for is a different kind of fidelity; that you’ll be honest with us about your feelings and to be faithful to Peter’s heart, to the man he thinks you are. If there’s any point where you feel you need to end this because you want more than what Peter and I can give you, or you need to be something else, you tell us. Don’t pretend, don’t hide what you really what. And most important of all, please don’t walk away without a word, leaving us to wonder what happened. You need to be an adult.” Her words should sting, but they didn't.
Neal understood why she was asking him for this promise. He had a habit of running when things got difficult. “You’re a very pragmatic woman, Elizabeth Burke.”
“I’ve had to be. I know I got all silly and stupid and threatened when Peter’s old girlfriend showed up a few years ago, because I know that there are only two people in this world that Peter truly loves – me and you. Maybe it was because everything was changing. I still can’t figure out my idiotic behavior, so don’t ask me to explain my insecurities.”
Neal had to smile, he understood Elizabeth better than she realized. “No, I won’t dream of it. It’s not like I don’t have a boatload of my own.” Neal thought about his father, the lying, cheating murderer who found it easier to run and let someone else take the fall than to own up to a mistake.
“I’m trusting you with my husband’s heart. Don’t break it.”
It had been almost a year since that first kiss, a year of perfect happiness. Well, not perfect because his experience with perfection was that it didn’t last. But it was pretty damned close.
These days, Peter liked to joke that he was basically a timeshare. Elizabeth got him Saturday through Monday, Neal had him from Wednesday night through Friday morning, and Tuesday was his day to recover. And more often than not, Neal was with them from brunch time on Sunday until El left for DC very early Monday morning. Except that their lives weren’t so precisely scheduled or compartmentalized. Sometimes El worked through the weekends and came back to Brooklyn for a single weeknight. Sometimes Peter went to Washington for a few weeks, working out of the D.C. office, leaving Neal to his own devices. They talked every night, usually by Facetime or Skype, and despite Peter’s absence in his day-to-day routine, Neal didn’t feel the slightest need to go back to being the man – the con – that he used to be.
Moz, of course, still tried to push him “back towards the light” as he liked to say, but had little success. And the man’s own criminal career was on something of a downward slide. Diana had told him he had a choice: either curb his criminal impulses and be a regular feature in little Theo’s life, or continue to indulge those impulses and remain a stranger to his namesake. Moz hemmed and hawed but ultimately gave in. He knew what was really important.
“How are you doing?” Peter interrupted his musings.
Neal tried to get up, but Satch had him pinned like a champion wrestler. And as Peter predicted, his legs were asleep. “I guess I could use a hand.”
Peter put down whatever case file he’d been working on and came over, first enticing Satchmo back onto his dog bed in front of the fireplace, then helping Neal to his feet. “You okay?”
Neal clung to Peter like a heroine on the cover of a romance novel, barely able to stand. His legs and feet were numb, then painful, as circulation was restored. Peter held on to him and helped him limp over to the table. He dropped into the chair in front of his easel and stretched, grimacing as the last of the pins and needles worked their way out of his limbs.
“Interesting new work.” Peter nodded to the painting he was working on. “I didn’t think that Rembrandt was your thing. You usually prefer something lighter, brighter.”
“Like Monet?”
“Yup. Or Degas. Those pretty little dancers seem right up your alley.”
Neal laughed. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
Peter smiled and shrugged. “What can I say?”
Neal turned the chair back towards the easel and looked at the work with a critical eye. The old man’s face was not quite right.
Peter casually pointed out what was wrong with it. “It’s been a while since I’ve been to the Hermitage, but I don’t recall the “The Old Man in Red” wearing wire-rimmed glasses.”
Ah. “No, he doesn’t.”
Peter left it at that. “Hungry?”
Neal kept staring at the painting, doing his best to not see the face of the old man from the coffee shop superimposed over the sixteenth century portrait of a rabbi that he’d been trying to recreate.
“Neal?”
“Hmm, what?” He turned to Peter, who was staring into the fridge. “Oh, dinner. Supper.” He wasn’t really hungry. “I picked up some Parma ham and melon on the way home. You can have that if you want, or we can get a pizza.”
Peter shut the refrigerator door. “Nah. Too hot for pizza, and I’m not really hungry, either. Feel like going for a walk? Maybe get some ice cream?”
“Because it’s summer and the living is easy?” Neal smiled. He knew what Peter was doing and he appreciated it.
“Yup, and because my wife will never know that I’m not having salad and a piece of fish for dinner.”
Neal tossed a sheet over the canvas, and they headed out, leaving Satchmo to guard the apartment, or to sleep. Likely, to sleep.
END PART ONE - GO TO PART TWO
Author:
elrhiarhodanArtist:
kanarek13 Fandom: White Collar / The Normal Heart
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Diana Berrigan, Satchmo, Ned Weeks; Peter/Neal, Peter/Elizabeth, Peter/Elizabeth/Neal, Ned/Felix (past)
Spoilers: Minor spoilers for the end of WC S5,
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Canon death of canon character (Felix Turner), death of a non-canon White Collar character. Mild public expression of homophobia, self-deprecating use of homophobic slurs.
Word Count: ~40,000
Beta Credit:
sinfulslasher Summary: On a hot June day, one summer in the near future, Ned Weeks finds himself in a West Village coffee shop. When he overhears a fascinating conversation about blackmail, kidnapping and getting shot at, he has to take a look. One of the speakers is definitely a Fed – Ned can tell just by the haircut and the ugly suit. The other man is his lover, Felix. Except that Felix has been dead for thirty years.
Then he remembers…
Once upon a time, Ned Weeks had been a famously angry man. Once upon a time, he had a lot to be angry about.
He still did.
But he’d mellowed, worn down by time, progress, age, and loneliness. Mostly by loneliness. The disease had mellowed him, too. He was over seventy-five, which even now seemed like an impossible achievement. At fifty, he hadn’t thought he’d live to see fifty-five, and when he made it to that advanced age, he had strongly doubted he’d see sixty. The news magazines published his obituary when he was sixty-four. They were, quite thankfully and quite obviously, wrong. He was still here, and if he wasn’t throwing brickbats at the establishment so frequently anymore, he could still toss an occasional fast one and brush people back from their complacency.
But today wasn’t the day for shouting anyone down, for making his point with big gestures and bigger words. Today, he was tired and not feeling all that great, and despite the promises he’d made, he really didn’t want to attend the massive circus that was Gay Pride Week in New York City. Hell, being gay was practically an industry in New York these days, not so different from law or finance or insurance. Everywhere he looked, he saw pretty people doing pretty things to each other, wearing the rainbow like a fashion statement instead of a political one.
It was only Wednesday, but the route for Sunday’s annual march already looked like a rainbow had vomited on lower Manhattan. Frankly, if Ned was a praying sort of man, he’d pray for some intense tropical storm to drop a few feet of water on Christopher Street, if just to send all those annoyingly beautiful tourists back to their overpriced hotel rooms. He probably shouldn’t have ventured out of his apartment, but he needed to show his face at a few meetings, he needed to harangue a bunch of morons, and worst of all; he needed to actually be nice to some people.
Tasks completed, but not yet ready to go back to his splendid solitude, Ned wandered into a quiet coffee shop on Barrow Street. Of course, it wasn’t completely quiet. There were a few twinks in strategically torn rainbow tie-dye at the counter, loudly gushing about the goings-on at their favorite nightspot (who fucked who on the dance floor, probably). In a booth, a pair of dykes were holding hands and talking intently. Ned figured, with typical sourness, that they were arguing about who was going to wear the strap-on that night.
The only waitress in the place, a woman who looked as old as Ned felt, told him to take a seat anywhere he wanted.
Even though it was the first day of summer according to the calendar, and clearly felt like it, he ordered a cup of hot tea. He was old and sick and the simple pleasure of Lipton’s would make him feel better. The woman came back with his tea, and the water was barely lukewarm. Ned decided not to bitch about it; some battles weren’t that important.
The coffee shop was dimly lit, as if to compensate for the inadequacy of the air conditioning. Ned’s eyes adjusted to the light (or the lack thereof) and he flipped open a copy of the Daily News that someone had left behind. The rag was barely worth the paper it was printed on, but it was better than the Post.
There were the inevitable glowing articles about Bill DeBlasio and family, now well into the second year of his term, not that he really cared. Though, if pressed, he’d have to admit that he had voted for the man. A fake socialist as mayor was certainly better than a real conservative.
Ned was distracted from the so-called news when the coffee shop door opened, flooding the place with too-bright sunlight. He could only make out the silhouettes of two men, but their attire and voices distinctly placed them as professional New Yorkers, although there was a very slight twang to the smaller man’s voice that betrayed a Midwestern origin.
He turned his attention back to the newspaper and his tepid tea, still unwilling to return to the air conditioned solitude of his apartment. If he wasn’t so damn ill all the time, he’d get a dog. He missed having a dog, because at least a dog wouldn’t look at him and think he was too damaged, too old, too Jewish.
The two men took up occupancy at the table next to his, their conversation annoyingly audible.
“Come on, be honest with me. You miss it, don’t you?”
“Seriously? That’s what you needed to ask me? That’s why I came all the way downtown in the middle of the day? It couldn’t have waited until tonight?”
“Actually, no, it couldn’t. I’ve managed to open up a slot in my budget, which I have to submit by the end of the day, and you’d fit in nicely.”
“Peter, you’ve got to be kidding me. I’m just a slot in your budget?”
“You’re a hell of a lot more than that, Neal, and you know it. But come on, be honest – you still miss it. It’s not like I can’t tell. I’ve seen you sneaking glances at my case files.”
“All right, okay, yeah, I do. I miss it, just a little. Are you satisfied?”
“Your desk is still there. You could come back, you know. Any time, just say the word.”
“For what, a locality-adjusted GS-9 salary, paid vacation and health care?”
“Don’t knock the health care – you’re not getting any younger. And besides, how exciting can art authentication be?”
“It’s exciting enough. I don’t get shot at or kidnapped anymore, and no one’s tried to kill me or blackmail me in the last six months. That’s a benefit worth paying for.”
“Seriously? That’s what you needed to ask me? That’s why I came all the way downtown in the middle of the day? It couldn’t have waited until tonight?”
“Actually, no, it couldn’t. I’ve managed to open up a slot in my budget, which I have to submit by the end of the day, and you’d fit in nicely.”
“Peter, you’ve got to be kidding me. I’m just a slot in your budget?”
“You’re a hell of a lot more than that, Neal, and you know it. But come on, be honest – you still miss it. It’s not like I can’t tell. I’ve seen you sneaking glances at my case files.”
“All right, okay, yeah, I do. I miss it, just a little. Are you satisfied?”
“Your desk is still there. You could come back, you know. Any time, just say the word.”
“For what, a locality-adjusted GS-9 salary, paid vacation and health care?”
“Don’t knock the health care – you’re not getting any younger. And besides, how exciting can art authentication be?”
“It’s exciting enough. I don’t get shot at or kidnapped anymore, and no one’s tried to kill me or blackmail me in the last six months. That’s a benefit worth paying for.”
What the ever-loving fuck? Shot at? Kidnapped? This might be the most fascinating conversation Ned had ever overheard in a coffee shop. Given the laughter in the men’s voices, the affection, he wondered if they were joking. Ned had to turn and sneak a peek.
He did and the first thought that crossed his mind was, so I must have died this morning and no one told me.
Felix was sitting at the table next to him, smiling at a man who wasn’t him, who would never be him. Be-suited and broad shouldered, with a face that screamed WASP, the man smiled back at Felix, and Ned couldn’t hear their words over the pounding of his heart and the buzzing in his ears.
He didn’t even realize he had stood up until his chair clattered to the floor. The two men looked over and Felix got up and righted the chair. He had such worry in his eyes. Felix shouldn’t be worrying about him. But he was also looking at him like he was a stranger. Ned couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe.
“Sir, are you okay?”
He must have said something, or tried to, because Felix – Felix – put a hand on his arm and tried to get him to sit down.
“Peter – maybe we should call 9-1-1, this guy doesn’t look so good.”
No, he wasn’t dead. This man, who looked so much like his partner, wasn’t Felix after all. The resemblance was more than superficial, but there were differences. His voice was wrong. The color of his eyes didn’t match the blue in his memory. The suit and tie and polished smile were all wrong. Worst of all, he was older than Felix would ever be.
Ned threw off that helping hand and though it was altogether unreasonable, he felt as angry as he had in 1981, when his friends started dying and no one seemed to give a shit. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, who the fuck are you?” And why do you so much look like the man I’ve never stopped loving for one second in the past thirty years?
Not-Felix’s companion stood up, but he seemed more concerned than angry, and he pushed Not-Felix aside. “You don’t look too good, is there someone I can call for you?”
Ned closed his eyes and the riptide of memory threatened to pull him out to sea. “I was married. I have a son.”
He opened his eyes and really looked at Not-Felix. Yes, this man was just the right age – mid-to-late thirties. Ned reached out and grabbed his arm. “Your father, is your father’s name Felix Turner?”
Peter watched Neal shut down. There was little that could kill Neal’s smile. Even when he was angry or frightened, Neal could summon a convincing grin. But mention his father, and Neal’s face turned hard and angry.
“No, my father is James Bennett. Or maybe was James Bennett. The bastard could be dead for all I know.”
The old man, though, wasn’t put off and wouldn’t let the matter go. “No, you’re Felix Turner’s son. You have to be. You look just like him.”
Neal shook off the man’s grip and stepped back. “I don’t know you, I don’t know Felix Turner. Regardless of whom you think I might look like, my father’s name is James Bennett.”
“Are you certain?”
Peter had to give the old man credit for persistence.
Neal wasn’t backing down, either. “Yes, unfortunately, I am. There’s even a DNA test that proves it.” Neal’s tone was clipped, resentment and anger pungent in every syllable. He turned to Peter. “I’ve got an appointment uptown and I’m going to be late. Will I see you tonight?”
Peter nodded, understanding Neal’s need to escape. “Of course.”
Neal spared a glance at the old man, who seemed more sorrowful than angry now, then looked back at Peter. “Can’t wait.” He then gave Peter the surprise of his life as he pressed a hungry kiss on his mouth, his tongue hot and invasive, not allowing any quarter. They rarely indulged in public displays of affection, even though it was a year since Neal had been off the tracking anklet and they’d finally given physical definition to the love that had been there all along.
Peter couldn’t help but respond to the kiss. He was human and there was little need for discretion in this hole-in-the-wall coffee shop in the West Village. He threaded his fingers through the dark silk of Neal’s hair and kissed him back, not caring that his lover’s amorous display was intended to shock the old man.
A minute - or maybe an hour - later, Neal broke their kiss with a nip on Peter’s lower lip and a stage-whispered order. “See you tonight, lover At that, Neal left Peter standing there, aroused and bemused. Light and heat momentarily blinded him as Neal opened the coffee shop door and walked away.
Peter sighed. He really did need to get back to the office, where there was the budget report to submit (without a slot for Neal), plus stacks of staffing requisitions and performance reviews to deal with. Bureaucratic matters that were a hell of a lot less intriguing than the mystery this old man had just handed him.
“If your friend was trying to shock me, he’s got a long way to go. I’ve taken part in orgies that would have put Caligula to shame.”
Peter turned his attention back to the old man, who thankfully looked a little less like a walking corpse. Rather than loom over him, Peter sat down. “Neal doesn’t normally act like such a dick. He has very few vulnerabilities, but somehow, you managed to hit his biggest one – his father.”
“You know his father?”
“To my regret, yes, I’ve met James Bennett.”
“Does he look a lot like your … friend?”
Peter didn’t really have to consider the question, given how “Sam” had played him and Neal for several weeks, how neither of them had any clue that Sam was actually James until Diana handed him that report. “There’s a certain resemblance around the eyes, but I couldn’t have picked him out of a lineup as Neal’s father if you held a gun to my head.”
“And what about this man? Couldn’t he have been your friend’s father?” The guy took out his wallet and removed a well-worn photograph. Peter looked at it and blinked. There were two men in the picture – one might have been the man sitting across from him, maybe thirty years ago. The other man was Neal. Or his doppelgänger.
He turned the photo over and there was something written on the back – Ned and Felix, Montauk, 1981. “May you always be this happy, Tommy.”
“You’re Ned?”
The old man nodded. “Yes, Ned Weeks.”
Ah, that explained some things. Peter knew just who Ned Weeks was; there were few New Yorkers of a certain age who didn’t. But the story of Ned Weeks, gay rights and AIDS activist, was a lot less relevant than the mystery in this photograph. “The man with you is Felix Turner? The man you think could be Neal’s father?”
Ned was blunt. “He was Felix Turner. Felix has been dead a very long time.”
“I’m sorry.” Peter could hear the ache of loss in that simple statement.
“Thank you.” Ned gave a sad sigh. “Felix had a son – I never met him, and Felix only mentioned him once. He said he never saw him and he didn’t fight for visitation rights because he was gay. He thought it would be a foregone conclusion that he’d be denied. His son would be your friend’s age by now.”
“You don’t know the child’s name? His mother’s name?”
Ned shook his head. “No, I don’t. Other … things got in the way and we never talked about it. Then it was too late.”
Peter kept staring at the photograph. The man who could have been Neal appeared to be a hell of a lot younger – in more than just years. He looked a lot more carefree, a lot more innocent. This wasn’t a man who had spent four years in a prison cell. This wasn’t a man who had his life ripped away again and again. But this man probably didn’t live to be as old as Neal was now.
“Don’t you want to know what happened to him?” Ned stuck his jaw out like an aging pugilist.
“I think I can guess,” Peter replied with deliberate gentleness.
The fight went out of the old man and he seemed to collapse in on himself. “Felix died of the plague in 1983, a year before you could even get tested for HIV.”
Again, Peter said, “I’m sorry.” And again, the words seemed so inadequate in the face of the man’s still-fresh grief.
“Thanks.” Ned rested his head in his hands. “I guess this is just one of those freak things – two people who are completely unrelated look exactly alike. It really doesn’t matter, though. If your friend – if Neal’s – father had a DNA test done to prove paternity, then his resemblance to Felix is just an accident. They do say that everyone has a twin somewhere.”
Peter wasn’t ready to surrender this mystery. “Would you mind if I took a picture of this?”
“If you’d like.” Ned shrugged, but Peter could tell that his indifference was only a mask.
He set the picture on a clean napkin, focused the camera on his smartphone and took several shots for good measure, and repeated the process with the message on the back, before handing the precious picture back to Ned.
“Who was Tommy?”
Ned smiled. “Tommy Boatwright, the gentlest and most relentless soul you’d ever have met. I think he would have gotten a good laugh out of this whole situation. Or wept until his heart broke. He’s dead now, too.” Ned didn’t say anything else as he returned the photo to his wallet and they sat there, the silence awkward. Peter wondered if he should help the man get home. He was – despite his still formidable temper – obviously frail.
“You’re married.” The old man reached out and touched Peter’s wedding band.
“Yes.” Peter stifled a sigh. He didn’t want or need to explain his unusual relationship with Neal and with El to a stranger.
“But not to Neal. He wasn’t wearing a ring.”
Remembering the adage about how truth, no matter how difficult, was still easier than a lie, Peter kept the explanation simple. “No, Neal’s not my husband.”
Ned opened his mouth and Peter could all but hear the harangue begin.
“And my wife has welcomed him into our lives with an open heart and open arms. There’s a universe of difference between promiscuity and polyamory, so whatever you're going to say, save it.”
Ned shut his mouth with a snap and chuckled. “You really do know who I am.”
“Yeah. I was in grad school at Harvard in 1988 and attended the first ACT UP rally held there. I heard you give one of your hellfire and brimstone speeches and it scared the shit out of me.”
“Good, it was supposed to.”
This time, the silence was comfortable, but it was getting late and there was something Peter needed to check. He got up. “Can I have a telephone number? To reach you if I find out something.”
Ned gave him an odd, almost hopeful look. “You really think there’s anything to this?”
It was Peter’s turn to shrug. “I don’t know, but there could be. It’s an interesting puzzle and I’d like to try to solve it.”
“Well, since you know who I am, you’ll know where to find me.”
Peter shook his head, “That’s sort of a leap, wouldn’t you say?”
“Don’t screw with me. The FBI probably has a file on me that’s a foot thick. And you’re one of them – I can see your badge. And I also overheard your discussion with Neal, which was fascinating, by the way.”
Peter gritted his teeth. This conversation was sort of like talking with a very angry and rather charmless version of Mozzie.
Ned then relented and gave Peter an email address and a cellphone number. “I’m doing this more out of a sense of morbid curiosity than anything. I also want to know about the kidnappings, the blackmail and the murder attempts.”
Peter laughed. He had to. “Maybe someday you will.” He gave Ned one of his cards and changed the subject. “Should I get a cab for you? It’s brutal out and I don’t think you should be walking around in this heat.”
Ned looked like he was about to argue, but thought better of it. “My apartment’s not that far, but I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”
Neal’s uncanny ability to hail a cab seemed to have rubbed off on Peter, at least for this moment. Outside, in the sweltering heat, he held out his hand just as one of the new minivan-type vehicles cruised down Barrow Street. To his delight, it pulled up. He helped Ned into it and watched as it pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the shimmering haze.
By the time he’d made it back to the office – using his own shoe leather – Peter had sweated through his suit jacket. An overcooked noodle had more life than he did at the moment.
As he passed by, Diana looked up from her work. “You okay, boss?”
Peter glared at her. The relaxed dress code of the modern FBI meant that female agents had a lot more leeway with work-appropriate attire. Diana was wearing a sleeveless tunic and loose fitting trousers. He was stuck in a dress shirt, a damned tie and a jacket. He refrained from telling one of his favorite agents how much he hated her and simply grunted an “I’m okay,” before heading up to his office.
It was close to four on a Wednesday afternoon, and he couldn’t bring himself to care as he dumped his jacket, ripped the tie off, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. At least the office was air conditioned and he slowly felt himself cooling off. He must be getting old because it was only a few dozen blocks from Barrow Street to the office, but it seemed like he’d just walked the length of Manhattan.
And that brought him back to thoughts of his bizarre encounter with Ned Weeks. Before doing anything, he wanted to check on Neal. Contrary to his claim, Peter knew that there was no appointment uptown, unless it was with a glass of lightly chilled Chardonnay and a plate of prosciutto-wrapped melon on the terrace.
He pulled out his phone and sent a text. You okay?
Neal replied almost immediately. Yeah, fine.
You sure?
I'm fine. Don’t want to talk about it. See you tonight?
Yes, probably around 7. Need to pick up Satch. Can’t wait.
Neither can I.
Peter pocketed his phone, fished out his keys, and unlocked the bottom desk drawer. Behind the small gun safe was a file. It contained nothing of earth-shattering importance, just small bits and pieces of information relating to Neal. Copies of his original (and only) conviction, his contract with the FBI and all the amendments, the letter from the Commutation Board after the treasure had been recovered, the notice, two years later, from the Bureau of Prisons and the Justice Department that Neal’s sentence had been commuted (the original was framed and on display at his house). And most relevant right now, the DNA report for one Sam Phelps, also known as James Bennett.
Peter had scanned the report when Diana handed it to him. He had been desperately worried about Neal and his reactions, and hadn’t taken the time to do more than glance at the actual particulars of the document. That night, he’d rushed over to Neal’s apartment; intent on comforting his friend and confronting the man who’d played them both like a violin. The shit had rolled downhill quickly from there. Sam – no, James – had given them a plausible explanation for his disappearance and reappearance in Neal’s life, and Peter hadn’t gone back and read beyond the cover page of the report.
When Reese had been pushed out and Calloway made her entrance, Peter tucked the report into his “Neal” file and locked it away for safe keeping, never having the need to look at it again. He did now, and the information was surprising, to say the least.
Sitting in front of his easel, he attempted to execute a half sized reproduction of “An Old Man in Red”. Why he picked this painting to copy was glaringly obvious – there was something about the sadness in the eyes of the man he’d met at the coffee shop, the wary tilt to his head that called this piece to mind.
His laptop was opened and a reference image was on the screen, but Neal didn’t really need it. He’d seen the original in the Hermitage, and it was fixed in his memory. In truth, Neal was tempted to shut down the computer, if to avoid the temptation to do a search for that name.
Felix Turner
He painted but the thoughts kept chasing around his head. Turner wasn’t all that uncommon a name. Hell, the last woman he’d had a serious relationship with – the last woman who tried to kill him – was named Turner. But Felix wasn’t exactly a common name. How many could there be?
Neal kept a firm grip on his paintbrush and did his damnedest to ignore the computer and the temptation it represented. Except that he’d never been all that good at ignoring temptation.
He put down his brush and palette and turned to the computer. But before he could call up a search page, he unceremoniously pressed the power button, listened to the drive spin down, closed the screen and took the thing over to the fireplace and stashed it in one of the compartments in the mantle. Not that that was really getting rid of temptation. He still had his cell phones, plus an iPad. But those weren’t sitting out and staring him in the face.
Task accomplished and feeling a little less disconcerted, Neal returned to his easel and tried to let the art overtake him. The face on the canvas began to take shape, but the sounds of the paintbrush against the taut fabric didn’t do much to drown out the old man’s words. “Your father, was your father’s name Felix Turner?”
At that moment, Neal wished like hell he could have said yes, his father was Felix Turner because being a stranger’s son was a lot better than being a murderer’s. It wasn’t until he’d stalked out of the coffee shop that he considered the ramifications – that ‘Felix Turner’ was an alias that James had used – like Sam Phelps.
But somehow, that didn’t feel right. The urgency in the old man’s eyes, the intensity of his words, the sense of grief in the very question didn’t match with the idea that James had once been this man, this Felix. Not back then, not when he was a child, or even before.
He kept working and kept trying not to think about it, about why a random stranger would ask about his paternity. Eventually, Neal was able to lose himself in the painting. The small air conditioning unit that June had installed for the apartment a few years ago clicked on and off as the temperature rose and fell, but Neal didn’t notice. The light shifted, and even though there was still sunshine pouring through the French doors and the skylights, the shadows in the room began to lengthen and Neal blinked. He looked at his cell phone; it was almost six-thirty. Peter would be here soon.
Neal got a whiff of himself and grimaced. He needed a shower.
Not that Peter would mind his stink. Peter actually liked his stink and often said so. He said he liked knowing that Neal was a real human being, not some perfect mythological creature who didn’t sweat or fart or burp.
But Neal minded, and he minded that he minded. He tried to tell himself that he didn’t have to be perfect for Peter and Elizabeth (well, mostly for Peter). But he wanted to be perfect, anyway.
Which was foolish. After all, they’d seen him at his worst: drunk and drugged, grieving and angry, depressed and distraught, charming and cunning and all of the other shades of Neal Caffrey, con man. But for some reason, now that their relationship had evolved into something that still had the power to stop him in his tracks, he didn’t want Peter finding him messy and sweaty, with paint under fingernails and stale coffee breath.
Time wasn’t going to wait and Peter was a man who believed in promptness. If he said he’d be here at seven, he would be here at seven, no excuses. Neal pulled fresh clothes from the wardrobe and headed for the shower, not bothering to cover up his work in progress. Peter would see it and know just what he was doing. They probably wouldn’t talk about it, at least not right away. But they would get to it, eventually. Even though they’d both learned harsh lessons about not communicating, Peter knew when not to push.
By the time he had showered and shaved and dressed and came back into the apartment, Peter was already there. He had clearly helped himself to one of the bottles of beer Neal kept stocked in the fridge.
Satchmo looked up from the dog bed Neal had gotten when Peter started staying over a few nights a week and gave him a welcoming ‘woof’. Peter, with a smile, greeted him with his own, “Woof.”
“Woof back.” Neal walked over to Peter and kissed him. It was a kiss leagues different from the one he’d given him in the coffee shop. He’d been angry, flustered and needed to do something outrageous. Except he’d been too freaked out, then too aroused, to wait to see if he’d succeeded.
This kiss was gentle and a bit tentative and when Peter touched his cheek, Neal just wanted to melt into his arms.
Peter broke the kiss, his lips smiling, his eyes glowing, his hands resting on Neal's hips and holding him close. “Hey there. Happy Wednesday.”
Neal felt a little goofy, a little giddy, and thoroughly in love. Whatever unease he had felt from the strange encounter with the old man disappeared as if it had never happened. He was probably grinning like a fool because his cheeks hurt. “Hey, happy Wednesday.”
They might have stood there until the sun set, but Peter’s phone rang. It was Elizabeth; Neal knew who it was by the ringtone, “Pretty Woman,” because he’d programmed it into Peter’s phone a few months ago.
He went over to Satchmo and listened to the conversation with half an ear, concentrating more on giving the dog a belly rub. As silly as it seemed, Neal cherished the fact that Peter brought him over when he stayed here on the nights that El was in D.C. The dog wasn’t so young anymore, but was well trained and accustomed to being on his own for lengths of time. Peter could have left Satch with the neighbors (as he’d done many times before) or insisted that Neal come to Brooklyn, which he would have been more than happy to do. But Neal loved having Satchmo here, in his apartment. If asked to explain why it mattered to him, he probably couldn’t.
The dog rolled onto his back. He rumbled and whined with pleasure as Neal found that sweet spot where his belly and ribcage met. He was so involved with pleasing Satchmo that he didn’t hear Peter say good night to El and end the call.
“You know, Neal, you’ve corrupted my dog.”
Neal looked up. “Huh?”
“He’s no longer satisfied with just getting his ears scratched when I come home. He wants the full Caffrey treatment. Every night.” Peter waved his hand at the highly indecorous pose the Labrador had assumed – on his back, legs sprawled, belly displayed, tongue lolling in an undignified but very happy pant. “I say ‘let’s go see Neal’ and he all but fetches his own leash and my car keys.”
“Ah, he just likes the attention.” Neal shifted into a sitting position on the floor; his knees weren’t so young anymore. Satchmo took advantage and rolled into Neal’s lap.
“See what I mean? You’ve started something you’re not going to be able to stop.”
“I’d apologize, if I could figure out what to be sorry for.”
“Oh, when your legs fall asleep and you can’t move and you need me to help you get up, then you’ll figure it out.”
Neal laughed, his happiness rising like a rainbow-colored soap bubble, but a lot less ephemeral. “It’s worth it.”
Peter looked down at him, smiling. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
He continued to service Satchmo’s doggy need for affection and Peter ended up on the couch with the Yankees-Angels game on at a low volume while he worked through some case files. Neal squelched his curiosity. There had been a lot of truth in his admission this afternoon. He did miss working with the FBI, and not just with Peter. He missed the challenges and the opportunity to do something that really mattered. Of course, he’d never admit, even if someone shoved bamboo under his fingernails, that he even missed the stacks of mortgage and securities fraud cases.
If things had been different between him and Peter, he might have taken Peter up on his offer and come back now. It was nearly a year after the tracker had come off, just long enough to reset expectations. After his sentence was commuted, Neal convinced himself that he needed to discover if he could live as an honest man, to stand on his own two feet. At the time, he had thought that staying with the FBI would have been a crutch, and also a trigger point. He couldn’t help but feel that if he stayed, he’d be more tempted to cross the line, just to prove that he could. It seemed counterintuitive, but to him, it made sense. And now, now that he and Peter and El had a life together, going back would just complicate things even more.
It had been a little more than eleven months ago, just a few weeks after Peter had rescued him again, and a few nights after he’d gone to bat for him again. That time; however, Peter had been successful in getting the rest of his sentence commuted, and Neal had been over at the house for a celebratory dinner. He’d felt a little awkward about it; Elizabeth was home only for a few nights, just Friday through Monday, and Neal hadn’t wanted to interfere with date night. But she’d made it clear that they both wanted him over for dinner; with everything they’d all gone through over the past three and a half years, El said that they all damned well deserved a celebratory dinner. And when Elizabeth commanded, Neal obeyed.
That night, he got a little drunk, more due to his emotions than the amount of wine consumed. He was going to leave out of New York, but wasn't sure of his destination. He figured he'd buy a ticket when he got to the airport. Probably Paris for starters. But it still didn’t feel quite real, or even right. He wasn’t exactly teary, but by the end of the meal, melancholy was his primary emotion. Neal gave the Burkes a sad smile. “Gonna miss you guys. You have no idea.” He reached for the wine and was going to empty the rest of the bottle into his glass when Elizabeth snatched it away.
“What makes you think we won’t miss you?” Her tone was pointed, almost harsh.
“All I’ve brought is chaos and complication into your life. You can’t tell me that you haven’t been counting the days until Peter can wash his hands of me.”
Elizabeth put the bottle down hard enough to make the dishes rattle. “No, Neal, I can’t – but apparently you’re too blind and too selfish to see the reason why.”
He blinked, trying to make himself sober by sheer force of will. It didn't work. Instead of trying to figure out what she was saying, why she was so angry at him – right out of the blue – Neal had stood up. “I guess that’s my cue to bid you goodnight. And goodbye.” He didn’t look at Peter once during this exchange, he was too scared, too overwhelmed by Elizabeth’s ire, by his own heartbreak.
He made it as far as the edge of the table when Peter’s hand clamped around his wrist. “You’re going nowhere, Caffrey.”
Neal’s heart stuttered, the way it always did when Peter used that tone – that affectionate growl. He had always avoided thinking about his reaction.
“Sit down.”
Peter’s command demanded obedience. He sat, still looking everywhere but at the Burkes. Then Peter sighed and the unhappiness contained in that exhalation forced Neal’s attention to him. “What? What have I done now?” There was definitely a lot of subtext that he wasn't able to decipher, and actual text, too – with El calling him selfish and blind.
Peter looked at Elizabeth, then at him, and there was a kind of grief in his eyes that Neal had never seen before. “You know, you don’t have to go anywhere. Not if you don’t want to.”
He tried to smile. “Ah, but there’s Paris waiting. And London.”
“To see Sara?” Peter asked.
Neal shrugged; he’d tossed out the city because it seemed expected, not specifically because he’d had any interest in getting back together with Sara again. There was too much water under the bridge, too many broken expectations. But he knew how much Peter hoped he’d find happiness there, and so he added, “Maybe, probably.”
At that Elizabeth got up, briskly collecting the dishes, and in complete incongruity to her earlier behavior, gave him a bright and terribly fake smile. Peter looked away, his jaw clenched, and said, “Ah, okay. Then I guess there’s nothing more to say.”
Neal felt like he was about to fall off the edge of the world. “I don’t understand. Do you want me to stay?” Which was a stupid question; of course Peter wanted him to stay. He’d made him a serious offer about taking a full-time position with the FBI as a paid consultant. Neal had emphatically rejected the idea. But this didn’t seem to have anything to do with the Bureau and a job.
Peter didn't answer the question, leaving the words Neal wanted to hear (“Yes. I want you to stay, we want you to stay. We love you.”) unspoken.
Neal babbled, filling the silence. “But we’ll always be friends, right? Just because I’m leaving New York doesn’t mean that that has to change.” He tried not to sound so desperate.
If anything, the grief in Peter’s eyes got worse, but he smiled – a familiar twist of his lips. “No, Neal – wherever you are, I’ll always be your friend.”
The dishes crashed in the sink and El started to take out her mood on the coffeemaker. Neal watched her with a strange sort of fascination; he’d never seen her behave like this. “Elizabeth? What’s the matter?”
She turned around and stalked back to the table, fury in her eyes. “You don’t get it, do you? For four years, I’ve watched the two of you do your little dance around each other. I’ve let you dance around me, and now you’re going to swan off to someplace halfway around the world, for what? A vague promise, the temptation of a life of pointless luxury. Can’t you see what’s been in front of your face for so damn long?” Tears rolled down her cheeks by the time she finished that extraordinary speech.
“El? Elizabeth?” He wasn't sure he fully understood what she’d tried to tell him. He looked over at Peter, but Peter seemed as wrecked as El.
Finally, though, Peter spoke. “For a smart man, Neal, you’re pretty damn stupid.” Peter got up and loomed over him; the hair on the back of Neal’s neck stood up. But then Peter touched his cheek, his whole expression softening. “I’ll never forgive myself if I destroy our friendship – ” Then his lips twisted and he gave a slight chuckle. “Again.”
Neal held himself very still, as if he was trying to avoid discovery. Peter’s fingers still rested against his cheek.
“But I’ll never forgive myself if I say or do nothing and let you walk away. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ they say, right?”
Over the years, Neal had had dreams about Peter, strange and embarrassing ones. Sometimes they were filled with vague and inchoate longing. Sometimes they were startlingly explicit. Especially after those dreams, he’d wake up, hot and aroused and troubled, fisting his cock like some fifteen year-old boy. Ironically, the more vivid dreams usually presaged some well-planned criminal stupidity, like going after the music box, breaking into the Burkes’ house to find the manifest, BASE jumping off the forty-ninth floor of a downtown apartment building. He tried not to make too much out of them, they didn’t really mean anything, or if they did, dreams weren’t supposed to be taken literally.
But Peter was standing in front of him, over him, touching him like a lover, and Neal didn’t know what to think, what to do. Except wait.
It seemed an eternity, but Peter finally pulled him to his feet and kissed him. And everything in his life at last made sense. The pieces he had always sensed were missing – with Kate, with Alex, with Sara – even with Rebecca for that brief time that he’d thought he’d loved her – they were pieces of himself, pieces he’d given to Peter and never realized it. Peter’s lips on his put those pieces in place, gave, at last, him all the answers to the questions he’d been afraid to ask.
The kiss broke only when he felt a small, hot hand on his back and he looked to see Elizabeth standing next to them, smiling brightly through her tears. “At last, you two. At last.”
He and Peter didn’t make love that night or even the next one. Rather, they kissed until Neal thought he’d die of pleasure, then they negotiated what was certain to be a relationship filled with an almost infinite potential for disaster. Peter loved him and wanted him and he hadn’t been shy about telling him that. Elizabeth loved him, too, and wouldn’t mind welcoming him into her bed on occasion, but really, she mostly just wanted to watch and even more than that, she wanted them both to be happy.
They looked at him like they expected him to freak out. El even said, “We’ve had years to get used to the idea, to plan for this. We weren’t sure that you wouldn’t walk out the door and never look back.”
Neal, for his part, did an admirable job of hiding his freak-out. It wasn’t that he was starting a physical relationship with another man. That didn’t matter in the least. He’d never been completely heterosexual. There was Matthew, of course; Vincent, too; although his memories of both men were unpleasant. Besides, marks had been marks, regardless of sex. And staying whole and healthy in prison had meant compromise.
But this was Peter, the lodestone and pole star of his life, his idée fixe, the goddamned sun and moon and stars, and for the better part of three and a half years, he’d been too afraid to admit that he felt something other than a manly, platonic friendship. That first kiss had changed everything.
They talked and talked. They kissed and talked some more. Peter and Elizabeth kept him close for most of that weekend, but Neal eventually made it clear that he was going back to his apartment on Sunday afternoon. El had to head down to D.C. the next morning and the Burkes deserved some time to themselves. He was waiting for his usual cab ride when Elizabeth tucked her arm in his, pulled him over to her car and told him to get in and buckle up. She was taking him home and they needed to talk, just the two of them.
After the events on Friday night, Neal had sort of been expecting this ambush, although he hadn’t been quite sure what she wanted to say to him. She pulled away from the curb and, keeping her eyes focused on the road, she dropped her own bombshell. “Hurt Peter and they’ll never find you. And if you think I’m kidding, just try me. My sister’s husband is in construction and you know that they still haven’t found Jimmy Hoffa’s body.”
“I never want to hurt him or hurt you, except that it always seems to happen, no matter what I do.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. I think you’re going to do fine not being a criminal. You don’t have anything to prove anymore and I’ll do my best to keep Mozzie from leading you astray. I’m talking about fidelity, Neal. Peter would never say anything, he wouldn’t think it’s fair for you to be monogamous when he’s married. He wants you to have that, too. So he’ll never ask you for any sort of promises. But I am.”
Neal hadn’t really thought about it like that. He was a romantic, he loved and loved deeply – at least for as long as that love lasted or until his heart was broken. He loved Peter, there was no question about that. It was a love that had lasted through lies and bitter accusations, through disaster and betrayal and murder and prison and anger and more lies and more anger. It would probably outlast their lives.
“If you’re asking me to be faithful, I will promise that to you and Peter. I wouldn’t cheat on either of you.”
El surprised him. “No. It’s really not that sort of fidelity I’m talking about. I know you’re not the kind of man who’d cheat like that. What I’m asking for is a different kind of fidelity; that you’ll be honest with us about your feelings and to be faithful to Peter’s heart, to the man he thinks you are. If there’s any point where you feel you need to end this because you want more than what Peter and I can give you, or you need to be something else, you tell us. Don’t pretend, don’t hide what you really what. And most important of all, please don’t walk away without a word, leaving us to wonder what happened. You need to be an adult.” Her words should sting, but they didn't.
Neal understood why she was asking him for this promise. He had a habit of running when things got difficult. “You’re a very pragmatic woman, Elizabeth Burke.”
“I’ve had to be. I know I got all silly and stupid and threatened when Peter’s old girlfriend showed up a few years ago, because I know that there are only two people in this world that Peter truly loves – me and you. Maybe it was because everything was changing. I still can’t figure out my idiotic behavior, so don’t ask me to explain my insecurities.”
Neal had to smile, he understood Elizabeth better than she realized. “No, I won’t dream of it. It’s not like I don’t have a boatload of my own.” Neal thought about his father, the lying, cheating murderer who found it easier to run and let someone else take the fall than to own up to a mistake.
“I’m trusting you with my husband’s heart. Don’t break it.”
It had been almost a year since that first kiss, a year of perfect happiness. Well, not perfect because his experience with perfection was that it didn’t last. But it was pretty damned close.
These days, Peter liked to joke that he was basically a timeshare. Elizabeth got him Saturday through Monday, Neal had him from Wednesday night through Friday morning, and Tuesday was his day to recover. And more often than not, Neal was with them from brunch time on Sunday until El left for DC very early Monday morning. Except that their lives weren’t so precisely scheduled or compartmentalized. Sometimes El worked through the weekends and came back to Brooklyn for a single weeknight. Sometimes Peter went to Washington for a few weeks, working out of the D.C. office, leaving Neal to his own devices. They talked every night, usually by Facetime or Skype, and despite Peter’s absence in his day-to-day routine, Neal didn’t feel the slightest need to go back to being the man – the con – that he used to be.
Moz, of course, still tried to push him “back towards the light” as he liked to say, but had little success. And the man’s own criminal career was on something of a downward slide. Diana had told him he had a choice: either curb his criminal impulses and be a regular feature in little Theo’s life, or continue to indulge those impulses and remain a stranger to his namesake. Moz hemmed and hawed but ultimately gave in. He knew what was really important.
“How are you doing?” Peter interrupted his musings.
Neal tried to get up, but Satch had him pinned like a champion wrestler. And as Peter predicted, his legs were asleep. “I guess I could use a hand.”
Peter put down whatever case file he’d been working on and came over, first enticing Satchmo back onto his dog bed in front of the fireplace, then helping Neal to his feet. “You okay?”
Neal clung to Peter like a heroine on the cover of a romance novel, barely able to stand. His legs and feet were numb, then painful, as circulation was restored. Peter held on to him and helped him limp over to the table. He dropped into the chair in front of his easel and stretched, grimacing as the last of the pins and needles worked their way out of his limbs.
“Interesting new work.” Peter nodded to the painting he was working on. “I didn’t think that Rembrandt was your thing. You usually prefer something lighter, brighter.”
“Like Monet?”
“Yup. Or Degas. Those pretty little dancers seem right up your alley.”
Neal laughed. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
Peter smiled and shrugged. “What can I say?”
Neal turned the chair back towards the easel and looked at the work with a critical eye. The old man’s face was not quite right.
Peter casually pointed out what was wrong with it. “It’s been a while since I’ve been to the Hermitage, but I don’t recall the “The Old Man in Red” wearing wire-rimmed glasses.”
Ah. “No, he doesn’t.”
Peter left it at that. “Hungry?”
Neal kept staring at the painting, doing his best to not see the face of the old man from the coffee shop superimposed over the sixteenth century portrait of a rabbi that he’d been trying to recreate.
“Neal?”
“Hmm, what?” He turned to Peter, who was staring into the fridge. “Oh, dinner. Supper.” He wasn’t really hungry. “I picked up some Parma ham and melon on the way home. You can have that if you want, or we can get a pizza.”
Peter shut the refrigerator door. “Nah. Too hot for pizza, and I’m not really hungry, either. Feel like going for a walk? Maybe get some ice cream?”
“Because it’s summer and the living is easy?” Neal smiled. He knew what Peter was doing and he appreciated it.
“Yup, and because my wife will never know that I’m not having salad and a piece of fish for dinner.”
Neal tossed a sheet over the canvas, and they headed out, leaving Satchmo to guard the apartment, or to sleep. Likely, to sleep.
Tags:
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: ned weeks,
- character: peter burke,
- crossover: the normal heart/white collar,
- genre: angst,
- genre: backstory,
- genre: emotional trauma,
- genre: friendship,
- genre: future fic,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: neal as artist,
- genre: ot3,
- genre: post-anklet,
- genre: romance,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth/neal,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- white collar,
- written for: wcbb,
- year: 2014
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2014-09-30 03:00 pm (UTC)P.S. The link to Part 2 brings one back to Part 1 :)
no subject
Date: 2014-09-30 03:00 pm (UTC)*runs off to fix...*
no subject
Date: 2014-10-01 04:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-10-02 02:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-10-03 03:54 am (UTC)I love this. It's a real delight to read. <3
no subject
Date: 2014-10-03 03:55 am (UTC)THE ART!!!!!!!
*DIES IT'S SO GOOD*
<333
no subject
Date: 2014-10-05 12:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-10-05 12:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-10-03 06:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-10-03 07:53 pm (UTC)I hope you enjoy the rest of the story.