White Collar Fic - Let Your Honesty Shine - Part 2 of 5

[elrhiarhodan]

Title: Let Your Honesty Shine - Part 2 of 5
Author: 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…
__________________



There was an ice cream shop on Broadway near 82nd that Neal loved. It was one of those little shops that had been in business for decades, a place that only the locals knew about and every one of them prayed that it would remain undiscovered by the outside world. Peter got a scoop of pistachio in a waffle cone, and Neal, in the mood for something simple and uncomplicated, got double chocolate fudge.

It was close to ten by the time they started walking back to the house and the day’s oppressive heat had given way to a perfect early summer evening. Just a few days past the solstice, there was still a glimmer of light along the horizon. The haze had blown out to sea, leaving one of those rare, clear nights. The moon and the city lights drowned out even the brightest stars, but Neal didn’t miss them. During his time on the anklet, he’d missed the stars, he’d longed for a different horizon. For three and a half years, he’d dreamed of freedom. Sometimes that freedom meant staying at the Bureau, showing up and doing something meaningful. Sometimes that freedom meant traveling the world, living a life of luxury on other people’s money.

He never dreamed of freedom being as simple as going out for an ice cream cone with his best friend and lover and going home and falling asleep in another man’s – in Peter’s – arms.

Peter had finished his cone a block before they reached June’s front door, but he was oddly quiet. Not that he was the type who felt the need to fill the air with pointless conversation, but Neal had learned over the years that quiet and thoughtful Peter usually meant that there was something he wanted to discuss with him, and he was figuring out the best way to bring up a difficult subject.

Neal didn’t have to work too hard to figure out what that subject was. He waited, though, until they were back upstairs, before saying anything. But in case he was wrong, Neal took the soft approach. “What’s on your mind? Is everything okay?”

Peter gave him a steady look, as if he were assessing Neal’s mood. “I’m not sure.”

“This doesn’t sound good.”

“It depends on your point of view.”

Neal raised an eyebrow at that. “It’s not like you to be so equivocal and Obi-Wan-like, Peter. What’s going on?”

Peter still didn’t say anything; he just stood there, hands in his pockets and a resigned expression on his face.

Neal decided to put both of them out of their misery. “The old man in the coffee shop, right? It has to do with him?”

“Yeah.”

“Kind of crazy, wasn’t it? Maybe he was senile.” Neal could hear his own disbelief. The old man was sick, but he wasn’t senile.

Peter agreed. “No, I don’t think he was.”

“Still, it was really strange how he thought I was this Felix Turner’s son. And while the possibility crossed my mind, I don’t think that James ever went undercover and fathered a child.”

Peter expression was unreadable. “Let me show you something, okay?” He pulled out his phone, called up an app and handed it to Neal. “Take a look.”

It was a picture of a picture, an old photo taken with a cheap camera. The colors were badly faded, but the image was still clear – there were two men, suntanned and happy, their foreheads resting against each other. Even down to the curling lock of hair on his forehead, one of those men had the face he saw in the mirror every morning.

Neal felt himself start to shake. He shoved the phone back into Peter’s hand and all but collapsed into a chair. “Who? How? I don’t understand…”

Peter sat down next to him and put his arm around his shoulder, anchoring him. “The man in the photo, the one who could be your twin – that was Felix Turner.”

Neal grasped at straws. “We must be related, then. Cousins, maybe.”

“Maybe.” Except that Peter didn’t sound convinced.

“He can’t be my father – you’ve seen the results of the DNA test.”

Peter withdrew his arm and got up, leaving Neal chilled. But he didn’t go far – just to the pile of folders on the coffee table. He pulled one out, checked it, and came back. “This is my fault.”

“How could it be your fault? What do you have to do with my freak resemblance to a total stranger?”

Peter signed. “Can you remember that time? Everything was crazy – more than usual. You had been so angry at me, Sam was a troubling enigma. I was worried that you’d go off and do one of your harebrained stunts and get hurt, or worse. When the DNA results came back, I looked at the name on the report and was stunned. I called you – of course – but I needed to get to you, to Sam – James – and I hadn’t look beyond the information on the first page. I never did.”

“Peter, what are you saying?”

Peter handed him the file, but Neal didn’t take it.

“Tell me.”

“The DNA test that was done on the blood you got on your handkerchief wasn’t a kinship analysis, Neal. James was matched on a sample taken when he was in prison. Because it was in D.C., he was under Federal jurisdiction and over the last few decades, there has been a push to do DNA testing of all Federal prisoners, including archived blood samples. The blood from your handkerchief was a perfect match for James Bennett.”

Neal didn’t think he wanted know where this was going, but he had to ask. “What was on the second page of the report?”

“Like I said, DNA from all Federal prisoners is in a database. Including yours. The second page of the report noted that there was no kinship match between James Bennett and any other person in the database. Nor was it a match for the other DNA on the fabric – yours, of course.”

Neal’s brain refused to work. He heard Peter’s words but they didn’t seem to make sense.

“James Bennett isn’t your biological father, Neal.”

“No, no – he said he was my father.” He took a deep breath and tried to get control of himself. “And it’s not as if James hadn’t lied to me before, or since.” Neal wiped his face, surprised to find he was crying.

Peter put his arm around him again and Neal let himself be pulled into a comforting hug. They sat together like that for a while, until Peter broke the silence. “We’ve never really talked about her, but can you ask your mother? She’s the one who could tell you what happened.”

Neal broke loose, now completely agitated. “No, my mother can’t tell me anything. She’s …” He paused and steeled himself against what he needed to tell Peter. “She’s been in a nursing home for a very long time, since before I went to prison. Advanced Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t know her own name. Hell, she probably doesn’t know my name, either.” There was a lot he wasn’t going to talk about, like all the years of mental illness that preceded her final decline. He waited for Peter to say something, to throw a fit about how he’d abandoned his parent to some kind of warehouse facility.

And of course, Peter did just the opposite. “I’m sorry, it must be difficult.” That’s all he said, no questions, no accusations, no censure. Just compassion.

Neal swallowed and looked away. There were too many emotions running too close to the surface. “It has been.” He went outside, needing the night sky. Peter joined him, but didn’t say anything.

“So, if I’m not James Bennett’s son, who am I?” The question all but killed him.

“You are Neal Caffrey. You are my friend and someone I love very much. You are talented and compassionate and smart. You are beautiful and strong. And even though you’ve made some bad choices at times, you are still the best man I know.”

Neal let Peter’s words wash over him like a balm, but they couldn’t quite succor him. “This is the third time I’ve been remade, you know.”

“Yeah, I do. And I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now.”

“At least it’s not as bad as when Ellen dropped her bombshell,” Neal had to admit.

“You were seventeen, you’d just found out that everything you’d been told about your father was a lie.”

“I went off the rails, Peter. I ran away and decided to become a criminal.” Most of the time, Neal didn’t regret the path his life had taken, but there were moments.

“Like I said, you were just a teenager.”

“It might have been excusable then, but what about when I was thirty-five? That the lie I’d been told as a child really wasn’t a lie, and then that it really was a lie? That my father was a liar, a cop killer, a coward?” The months that followed James’ disappearance had been the worst of his life. He had handled everything so badly – the bitterness of Peter’s mistrust, then his own anger, his terribly childish behavior and desperate need to prove that he was nothing more or less than a criminal, compounding the problem.

“You’ve led a very complex life, Neal. Why shouldn’t your origins be equally complex?”

Neal sighed. “I guess you have a point.” He leaned into Peter, never loving him more than he did at this very moment. “You must have spent some time with the old man after I left the coffee shop if you got that picture.”

“Yeah, we talked.” Peter didn’t say anything more.

Neal smiled. “You’re going to make me work for it, aren’t you?”

“I don’t want to dump this on you unless you’re ready to listen.”

“I think, after everything you’ve just told me, holding back might be the worst course of action.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Besides, unless Felix Turner is a mass murderer, he can’t be any worse than James Bennett.”

“No, he wasn’t. A mass murderer, that is.”

“But he might not be any better than James?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But there’s a lot you’re not saying.”

Peter stared out at the skyline and Neal waited. Peter wasn’t being coy or toying with him, he was finding the right words. “Do you know who Ned Weeks is?”

Neal thought for a moment. “The name’s vaguely familiar but I can’t place it. Is that the old man’s name? The man in the photo with the guy who looks like me?”

“Yes. You probably heard of him because he’s a prominent gay rights and AIDS activist. He founded ACT UP, you’ve heard of that?”

Neal was almost a bit insulted. “I might be fifteen years younger than you, but I’ve lived a life. And what does that have to do with anything?” Then the answer came to him. “Ah, Felix Turner was his partner?”

Peter nodded.

“And he died of AIDS?”

“Yes, over thirty years ago."

“And why would this make him worse than James? What if he had died of cancer, or in a car accident?” Neal was outraged. This prejudice seemed so out of character for Peter.

But he was wrong; Peter’s reaction had nothing to do with prejudice and everything to do with understanding his need for a family. “It’s not how he died that might affect your feelings, Neal, but that he never tried to see his son, to be a father.”

“Ned Weeks told you this?”

“Yes, and he said that he didn’t even know the child’s name, that Felix never talked about him.”

Now he understood the point that Peter was trying to make. “So, if I am this unknown child, I guess I didn’t matter to him.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Things were very different thirty years ago. Ned said that Felix didn’t think he’d have any rights to see his son.”

“Being gay, and all.” Neal could see the man’s point. “Still.”

“Still.”

They stood there, shoulder-to-shoulder, watching the moon sink behind the buildings, the lights from passing airplanes as they flickered across the horizon. Neal thought about all the times he’d wished he was on one of those planes, how he could leave everything and never come back. He didn’t feel that way now, though. He never wanted to feel that way again.

Peter draped an arm around him and drew him close. “And who’s to say that this guy, this Felix Turner, is your biological father? It could be a coincidence. He could be simply a distant relation. People do look like other people – there’s that whole ‘separated at birth’ thing you see on the Internet.”

“Anything’s possible.” Neal agreed half-heartedly. “But it doesn’t seem likely, given the DNA report.”

Peter sighed and agreed. “No, it doesn’t. Does it?”




:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

With his permission, Peter told Elizabeth about the question of Neal’s paternity. El’s first reaction was to head over to the apartment and to make sure that Neal was all right. She insisted, though, that Peter stay home. Whatever she and Neal had discussed remained between the two of them, and Peter was content to let it stay that way.

As always, he kept a close eye on Neal, looking for signs that he was troubled or unhappy. He kept watch on Mozzie, too – after all, the man was inclined to encourage Neal’s id. But for now, Neal seemed okay – shaken but not stirred, to use the cliché.

And this time, things were different. Peter didn’t let Neal pretend that everything was the same and Neal didn’t dodge the issue. The question of his paternity wasn’t a frequent topic of conversation, but they talked about it often enough.

A few weeks after the encounter in the coffee shop, Peter casually mentioned, “I’ve gotten a copy of Ned Weeks’ FBI file. It’s redacted, but I can share it with you if you’d like to see it.”

“Redacted?” Neal didn’t look up from the Mary Cassatt he’d just started. Peter thought that the image of mother and child was telling – it was so emblematic of everything Neal must have longed for as a child.

“It’s a fancy, official word for ‘edited’ – some of the surveillance details have been blocked out.”

“Have you read it?”

“Yeah.”

“Anything interesting?”

“You mean ‘relevant’?”

Neal nodded, but he was deliberately keeping his focus on the painting.

“A few lines.”

“Can you share?”

“You don’t want to read them yourself?”

Neal didn’t answer right away. “Hmm, I don’t know.”

Peter pulled the file out of his briefcase; he’d already marked a few of the pages with sticky notes. It was, as Ned had surmised, rather large. “A lot of this is …” Peter didn’t know how to describe it.

“Ugly? Homophobic?”

“Yeah, some of the comments make me ashamed to carry a badge.”

“It was thirty years ago, Peter. The Bureau isn’t the same.”

“You’re trying to comfort me?” Peter had to laugh.

Neal finally turned away from the canvas. “Remember our conversation the very first day? About Diana and the hat?”

Peter did – he remembered everything about that day. “Yeah, of course – you were sniffing after her.”

“Flirting, not sniffing.”

“Whatever.”

“And remember what you told me?”

“Of course. ‘We don’t ask, we don’t care’.”

“And it’s true – the Bureau today is pretty much the model for tolerance and respect among government agencies. So, whatever went on over thirty years ago, as bad as it was, has nothing to do with the badge you wear today.”

Peter had to laugh. Of all the people to give him a lecture about the virtues of the FBI...

“If it makes you uncomfortable, though, you don’t have to read it to me. If you can, leave the file and I’ll read it when I’m ready.”

“Yeah, I’d prefer that. And I requested the information as a private citizen, not as an agent – so I can let you have it.” Peter left the file with Neal and said nothing more on the subject.

About a week later, Neal gave the folder back to him. All he said was “Thanks.”

“Any questions?”

Neal gave him a sad smile. “Not really. It doesn’t say much of anything about Felix Turner. He was a style reporter for the New York Times, he had AIDS. He spent a year and a half in and out of hospitals, had five useless rounds of chemo and died in 1983. I suppose I could dig through the New York Times archives, read some of Felix Turner’s articles – maybe they’d give me a sense of the man.”

“I don’t know if you’ll find what you’re looking for there.”

“You’ve already done that?”

“Yeah, I misused the Bureau’s periodical database and got a full printout of everything ever published by Felix Turner.” Peter had been keeping the file with him, in anticipation of Neal’s request. He pulled it from his briefcase and left it on the table. The articles were typical New York Times reporting from the early Eighties, the tone arch and smart and self-aware. The man who wrote them knew how to make words sing, make his subject sparkle, but he gave nothing of himself away. Peter guessed, in that respect, that the son was like the father. But he didn’t share that impression with Neal, better to let him draw his own conclusions.

“I don’t suppose you’ve dug any deeper into Felix Turner’s life? Misused FBI resources even further?”

“No, but do you want me to?”

“What’s the point?” Neal seemed to be in a mood – dejected, argumentative.

Peter didn’t blame him; that chance encounter a few weeks ago had left them both a little unsettled. “To give you some peace of mind? So you can figure out who you are, where you came from?”

“Haven’t we already been down this road?”

“We have.” Peter knew just where this conversation was heading.

“Isn’t there a saying about those who forget their mistakes are doomed to repeat them?”

And he was right. “Was it really a mistake?”

“Peter, come on, how can you even ask that?”

“Remember what I told you – before everything that happened at the Empire State Building?”

“Of course I do – you said that you had no regrets, yes – but …”

“No buts, Neal. I had no regrets then and I have no regrets now. Definitely not now.” He got up and went over to Neal, who was sitting in front of his easel, still working on the Cassatt reproduction. It seemed important to touch Neal, so he squeezed his shoulders before kissing him, a gentle press of lips against his forehead. “No regrets, ever.”

Neal didn’t seem to take comfort from that, his tension still evident in the tightness of his shoulders, the stiffness in his posture. “I do, though. I have a lot of regrets. I wish … I wish I’d just let things lie. Ellen might still be alive. You never would have been arrested. Everything that happened afterwards – all that pain and mistrust. I regret every moment of that. I hurt you – I tried to help, but I just kept hurting you.” In his agitation, Neal tossed the paintbrush on to the tray, spattering color on the table, the canvas, his hands.

Peter hated seeing Neal like this. He pulled him back against the length of his body, holding him tight. “And I kept hurting you, too. That I regret. The lack of trust, the lack of faith. But everything else, no. I did what I did because you’re my friend and I wanted you to be happy, to have the answers you needed.”

“And maybe you thought if I got those answers, I’d be less inclined to indulge my criminal impulses?” With sharp, almost careless motions, Neal jerked loose, but Peter didn’t release his hold. He wiped the paint off his hands, off the table, but left the spatters on the canvas. Peter didn’t like the sharpness in Neal’s tone.

“Like I said, I wanted you to be happy.” Peter kept his hands on Neal’s shoulders, sliding one under the collar to rest on warm skin. He hoped that the steadiness of his touch, the simple contact would give Neal a little peace. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

To Peter’s relief, Neal changed the subject. “I saw Mozzie today.”

“And how is he?”

“He’s feeling a little constrained. Diana has him on a short leash.”

“He has a choice, Neal.” Peter wondered how this evening was going to end. Neal seemed intent on sharpening the verbal knives. But he didn’t remove his hand and Neal didn’t shrug it off. “Di indulges Mozzie’s paranoia, his conspiracy fetishes, his bizarre taste in children’s literature and pedagogic theory, because she knows that he adores Theo, that he’d protect him with his life and that Theo will be a better child for knowing Moz. But none of that matters if Moz crosses the line and breaks the law. And not because Diana’s an FBI agent, because Theo’s well-being is her top priority.”

Neal finally turned around, finally throwing off Peter’s hold. “Are you trying to tell me something? There seems to be a wealth of hidden subtext in that amazing speech.”

Peter counted to ten before answering. Neal was looking to pick a fight and he wasn’t going to give him one. “No, you were the one who brought up Moz and how ‘constrained’ he was feeling. Is Diana wrong for not wanting Moz to break the law when he’s caring for her son?”

Neal looked up at him and blinked. “You’re really not talking about me, are you?”

“No, sorry, I wasn’t. It’s funny, but sometimes the universe does not revolve around you.”

Neal gave a short, sour laugh. “Sorry – I don’t know what’s going on with me tonight.”

“It’s okay. I can take it. I really prefer you snarking at me than burying everything under one of those fake smiles and telling me it’s fine.”

“Or planning a heist.” Neal gave him a cheeky grin.

"That's okay, too – if all you’re doing is planning…” Peter didn’t know if he should complete that thought. Neal was a great one for taking a mile when inches were given.

Neal seemed to read his mind. “Nah, not even planning. But it’s good to know that I have your permission.”

Peter thought he should make some outraged comment, if just for form’s sake, but decided that shocking Neal might be better. “Hmmm, I always wanted a Monet for the living room. Maybe we can work on that. If Moz is around on Saturday, maybe we can make an afternoon of it? You, Moz, me and El, because she’d never forgive me if I didn’t give her a piece of the action."

This time, Neal’s laugh was filled with the joy Peter had become accustomed to hearing. “We can figure out how to relieve the Met of one of their lesser Monets. Maybe The Manneporte near Étretat?”

“Hell, why settle for a lesser painting. I want one of the Water Lilies – you know, the big one?

“The ‘big one’? Seriously, Peter – if you want to be an art thief, you’ll have to do better than that. You mean the 1919 canvas that was donated by Walter and Leonore Annenberg in 1998, right? The one that hangs in Gallery 822, which is part of the Annenberg Collection?”

“Yeah, that one. I think it would really look nice in the living room. Right over the fireplace. Or maybe in the bedroom?”

“It would clash with your décor, but I’m sure Elizabeth wouldn’t mind changing the wall colors and investing in some new bedding to go with it.” Neal finally relaxed and leaned into Peter. “Or I could just make a copy for her – would be a lot easier than trying to get one of the world’s most famous paintings out of one of the world’s most secure museums.”

“Don’t tell me that Neal Caffrey’s hung up his lock picks and cat burglar clothes for good?”

Neal looked at him, his expression a touch introspective. “You’ve tamed me, Peter.”

Peter wasn’t sure he liked the way Neal put that. “Tamed?”

“Remember what you once told me, I could either be the man or the con – but I couldn't be both?”

He nodded – that speech had left an indelible mark on both of them.

“I can’t have you and Elizabeth and Satchmo and all the happiness that you bring to my life and be the con. The thrill of the heist is so fleeting, a temporary high. When I was young and stupid, I thought I could have both that high and have love. But Kate died and the high was nothing but an illusion. It took me a long time to realize that I could have love, but I’d have to stop chasing the thrill. Nothing comes without cost.”

Peter was moved almost to tears. “And we are worth the cost?”

Neal offered no flowery declarations. His avowal was pure and absolute. “Yes.”




:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

There were many things that Elizabeth could lay at Neal’s feet. Her gray hairs, all the nights spent waiting for Peter to come home, six weeks of endless and soul destroying worry when Peter was in jail for a crime he didn’t commit. The constant chaos that Neal Caffrey – conman, forger and thief, reformed – brought to their lives.

But for every negative, Elizabeth knew there were at least a dozen positives. Neal made Peter a better man in so many indefinable ways. The man she was married to now was more attentive, more loving, more open with his feelings than the one who existed before Neal burst into their lives. Neal had taught Peter the value of living in the present, of valuing the moment, that all the planning for the future was pointless if today was not just as wonderful.

Neal made her two-city marriage possible. She couldn’t see Peter, pre-Neal, able to make it work with her in another city during the week. Not that he’d be jealous of her or her life away from him. No, it would be just the opposite. He’d get so wrapped up in work, in being the big, bad, relentless FBI agent, that he’d forget about her. Peter wouldn’t stop loving her, but the life they lived together would become irrelevant to him.

So she wouldn’t have taken the job in Washington but she would have always regretted the decision. And that might just have poisoned their lives irrevocably. Elizabeth sighed and smiled, happy with her choice and the state of her marriage.

“Hon?” Peter was looking at her, a puzzled but fond expression on his face.

“Yes?”

“Should I ask what you’re thinking?”

“You can.” She gave Peter her best Mona Lisa imitation.

Her husband didn’t fall for it, just raising an eyebrow instead.

“Okay, okay. I was just thinking about us and how we’ve grown.” El didn’t really want to bring Neal into the dialogue.

“For the better, I hope.”

“Yes – absolutely. We’re not the people we were when we met.”

“Thank god!” Peter laughed. “I was a little … ”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘intense’.”

He nodded. “Intense, but in a good way. Right?”

“Of course.” El grinned.

“Are you going to tell me that I’ve mellowed?”

“I don’t know if ‘mellowed’ is really the right term. You’re not a mellow person. Maybe more thoughtful, kinder, less -” El bit her lip. She didn’t want to insult her husband.

“How about ‘intense’ and leave it at that.” Now he was laughing at her.

El reached across the table and squeezed Peter’s hand, rubbing her thumb across the well-worn gold of his wedding band. “I love you more today than I did fifteen years ago, and I didn’t think that was possible. I loved the man you were then and I love the man you are now and I will love the man you will be in another fifteen years.”

Peter took a deep breath and let out a shuddering sigh – the precursor to tears. “Hon.” He picked up her hand and pressed a kiss on the tops of her fingers, then turned it over and kissed her palm. “I love you more than words can say.”

In the background, a violin began to play and El sniffed and smiled. The maître d', Gino, who’d been at La Cucina de Tua Nonna since Peter had taken her here on their first date, must have signaled the violinist to play “their” song – That’s Amore. He’d been doing that every year they came to celebrate the anniversary of their first date, well every year except when Peter’s ex had crashed their dinner. It was a silly piece of music, but it had been playing on the radio that first night and she’d hummed along, enjoying the faux Italian atmosphere.

“Some things change, and some things should never change.” Peter said. “Don’t ever change, El.”

“Ah, but that’s impossible, Peter. We all change – that’s part of life.”

Peter picked up his wine glass and muttered, “You know what I mean.” It surprised El to see Peter so unaccountably flustered.

“Hey – I didn’t mean it like that.”

Peter recovered and gave her a wry smile. “Sorry. Sometimes I’m still that tongue-tied, too-intense guy who was too scared to ask the prettiest, smartest woman he’d ever met out on a date.”

“And that’s the man I fell in love with, the man I still love. I don’t need your eloquence.” This time, when she smiled, she bit her lip and fluttered her lashes like the twenty-two year old girl she once was. And to her delight, it had the same effect. Peter’s cheeks burned bright red and his pupils dilated.

“Shall we get out of here?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

Peter signaled for the check, paid, and all but yanked her out of the restaurant. Gino laughed and told them to come back soon, and maybe next time they should start with dessert – because they never seemed to make it all the way through a meal.

Eager to get home, Peter drove like he was trying out for Formula One, maneuvering the BMW through the canyons of lower Manhattan and across the Brooklyn Bridge. El grinned like a maniac. This, too, was a delight she could lay at Neal Caffrey’s feet and she’d have to send him flowers in the morning to thank him. She was taking a little mini-vacation and so was Peter – using the next three days to resettle their lives together. Come Saturday evening, Neal would be over and their happiness would encompass him, too.

Peter pulled into the first spot he found in the neighborhood, about halfway up the block from the house. They were lucky, getting parking Wednesday nights around eight was always a dicey proposition. Everyone was home and enjoying the Brooklyn version of the American dream on this late August evening.

She held onto Peter’s hand and they sort of skipped up the block, like giddy teenagers going to make out while their parents were away. Only to stop short at the sight of Neal, sitting on their front steps, a small duffle bag next to him, his face cradled in his hands.

“Neal?” She and Peter said the name simultaneously.

He looked up, and El couldn’t remember ever seeing him look quite so wrecked – not even when she’d visited him in prison after Kate had been murdered. Then, he wore one of his typical masks, deflecting her sympathy with a bright and patently false smile. Tonight, though, there was no mask – just raw pain and grief.

“Sorry, guys – I know this is a big night for you, but I – I …” The words tumbled out in a rush. “I need to go out of town for a little while and I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”

They sat down on either side of Neal. El took one of his hands and Peter put an arm around his shoulders. She asked, “Sweetie, what’s going on?”

He took a deep shuddering breath and told them, “My mother died today.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter never pressed Neal about his mother. Over the years, Neal had dropped small hints about her – that she’d been emotionally absent after James had disappeared, that Ellen had been more of a mother figure. He’d never pressed because he’d learned that there was no profit in pressing Neal about something he didn’t want to talk about. Especially something that was such a source of discomfort. It wasn’t fair to Neal and it wasn’t something that Peter needed to know to ensure his health and well-being.

Two months ago, when Neal had dropped the bombshell that his mother was in a nursing home, suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, Peter could see Neal’s pain like it was a toadstool flourishing in some dark corner of his soul. But he still didn’t poke or pry, there were too many other questions, questions that Peter was ambivalent about asking, questions that couldn’t easily be answered.

He’d let Neal set the pace, providing information when he could and remaining attentive to Neal’s moods. If Neal wanted to talk, they talked. If he needed to pretend that nothing had changed, Peter was willing to maintain that facade. Neither of them would deny that that chance meeting in a West Village coffee shop hadn’t altered something. But whatever had changed – it didn’t damage what was between them. They – Peter and Neal, Neal and Peter – remained as strong a unit as they’d always been. If anything, Neal seemed less secretive, less emotionally guarded, and Peter had to wonder if this was the result of learning that James Bennett, murderer and corrupt cop, was really not his father.

But there were always going to be barriers, the no-fly zones – topics that Neal had cordoned off with metaphorical “do not cross” tape – topics like his mother, his early childhood. And tonight, seeing the man he loved barely holding himself together against the tide of grief, Peter resented his own willingness to let Neal keep him out.

“Buddy – how about we go inside?” Peter looked over Neal’s shoulder at El, and she nodded. Neither of them listened to Neal as he fussed about not interrupting their date night, that they had better things to do than coddle him.

“Neal, shut up.” El’s tone was gentle, but firm, firmer than his would have been.

They pulled Neal to his feet and marched him up the stairs. Peter took care of the locks and the alarm while El steered Neal towards the couch. Satch, brilliantly sensitive, heaved himself onto the otherwise forbidden piece of furniture and draped himself over Neal’s lap, effectively imprisoning Neal until someone ordered the dog to get down. Someone being either El or him.

Neal sighed, a teary shudder. “I’m really sorry.”

This time, Peter cut him off. “Neal, you have nothing to be sorry about. We are – ” Peter was about to say ‘your family’ but that was probably a little inappropriate in these circumstances. “We love you. We take care of the people we love, and there’s nothing more important than that.”

Neal blinked and nodded, but Peter wasn’t sure that he’d really heard what he was telling him. Peter forced a practical note into his voice – to give Neal something other than grief to focus on. “What do you want to do?”

“Want to do?”

“Have arrangements been made for your mother?”

“Arrangements?” Neal still seemed confused.

“For her funeral, sweetie.” El wedged herself onto the couch – Satchmo hadn’t left much room for anyone else.

“Oh, oh. No – that’s already been set up. She’s – ” Neal swallowed. “She’s being cremated. But I have to go and get her things and her – Her ashes.” He wiped his mouth. “She’s been in that nursing home for a long time and everything she had is still there. Ellen had made the arrangements originally. She turned over what was left of my father’s…” Neal screwed his eyes shut before correcting himself. “Of James’ pension – or maybe she used some of her own money. I don’t know.”

Peter’s heart ached, Neal was on autopilot, getting through this moment by moment.

“I’ve been sending money too, over the years. Whatever I could spare. Which was a lot, back in the day – before prison.” Neal looked up at him, at El, begging for understanding. “Sending money was a lot easier than being a son.”

Peter sat on the edge of the coffee table and took hold of Neal’s hands. “It’s all right, Neal. You don’t have to explain anything. You don’t have to justify anything. We understand.”

“You do?”

“Yes, we do.” He and El answered simultaneously.

Neal sighed again. “I need to go.” He tried to get up, but Satch shifted and stretched, keeping Neal just where he was.

“Where are you going?”

“She’s – she was – in St. Louis. I have to go there.”

“Have you booked your flight?”

Neal shook his head. “I can get something out of LaGuardia tonight.”

Peter recognized this as Neal’s modus operandi. He didn’t book in advance; he didn’t make plans or reservations. He’d get to the airport and just go. It was okay, though, they could manage for Neal when he couldn’t manage for himself.

“We’re coming with you.” El stole the words right out of his mouth. “Peter, can you book the flight for us?”

“Of course.” He stifled a touch of annoyance at being relegated to travel agent, and immediately felt small and petty. El was a nurturer, and Neal needed that nurturing. He fired up the laptop, and as he started searching for flights, his FBI-issued cellphone buzzed with an incoming call. He looked at the screen – it was Michael Tennyson, from the United States Attorney’s office – and he was worried why the man would be calling him now.

He looked over at Neal and El, snuggling together on the couch. Neal was stroking Satchmo and El was stroking Neal, and for the moment, everything seemed to be okay.

He put his hand over the phone. “Guys, I think I need to take this.”

They both looked at him and nodded. Neal went back to petting Satch and El gave him a wry, understanding smile.

Peter went out onto the patio and answered. “What’s up?”

Tennyson started with an apology. “I know you’re on vacation for the rest of the week, but you’re going to have to come in tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? I’m not due to testify until Monday and I’ve been prepped so much, I could do it in my sleep.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. But Tommy Corelli dropped a bombshell in court today and you’re going to need to address it. I tried to get a postponement, but Judge Mickelstone wouldn’t play ball. She doesn’t care that you’re on vacation, especially since I made the mistake of telling her you weren’t leaving town.”

“This is going to be a problem.”

“No, it won’t. Corelli’s a lying sack of shit and you’ll be able to prove that.”

“No – that’s not the problem. I was about to leave town.” Peter was about to tell Michael that there was a death in the family, but legally, Neal wasn’t family. He knew Judge Eva Mickelstone, and that she lived by her calendar, expected all of the attorneys who appeared before her to do the same. She’d demand nothing less than a death certificate and copies of the cemetery paperwork, notarized and in triplicate, before agreeing to a change. There was no way Peter was going to explain about Neal Caffrey. “There’s been a death – a very close friend’s mother died unexpectedly. El and I were going to St. Louis tomorrow morning to help him get through the funeral.”

“Damn, this is a problem. I’m going to need at least a full day with you – all of tomorrow and part of Friday. There are a lot of loose threads that need to be snipped.”

Peter scrubbed his face and looked inside. Neal and Elizabeth and Satch hadn’t moved. “Look – I’ll come in tomorrow – early, but I have to be done and out the door by five. If we have to pick it up on Sunday, will you be able to accommodate me on this?”

Tennyson didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, I can do that. I’m sorry about your friend’s mom. And I’m sorry for fucking everything up on your days off.”

“It’s all right. We all do what we have to do.” Peter hung up and went back inside.

“Hon? What’s the matter?”

Peter cut right to the heart of the matter. “I’m not going to be able to come with you, Neal. Something’s come up with some testimony and I need to stay in town until tomorrow night.”

Neal nodded. “That’s okay, Peter. I wasn’t expecting that you’d drop everything. I wasn’t expecting you to come with me anyway.”

“No, Neal – you should have expected that. Like we’ve told you before, you’re part of us. You’re family .” This time Peter didn’t hesitate over the word.

“Okay, okay.” Neal nodded. “Look, I really should get going.”

Peter did his best not to laugh as Neal tried to get up, but was stymied by sixty-five pounds of Labrador retriever stretched across his legs like deadweight.

“Sweetie, you’re not going anywhere tonight.” El explained. “The two of us are getting on a plane sometime tomorrow morning, Peter will fly down tomorrow night and we’ll see this through together. Got that?”

“Elizabeth – ”

“No, Neal. This is not negotiable and the quicker you give in, the happier we all will be.”

Neal looked at El, he looked at Peter, comprehension finally dawning. “Guys – ”

Peter nodded, went back to the computer and booked two tickets for a nine AM flight direct from LaGuardia to St. Louis for El and Neal, and a seven PM flight for himself. He made reservations for a car under El’s name, and a two-bedroom suite at a decent hotel near the airport. They could always change the reservation if the hotel wasn’t convenient to Neal’s mother’s nursing home.

Peter finally signaled Satchmo to get off the couch. The dog gave him a dirty look before making an ungainly dismount. Neal winced and Peter wondered if Satch’s claws caught him in a tender place. He sat down and pulled Neal into his arms. “You have to remember that you don’t need to deal with stuff alone.”

“I’ve been trying.” Neal finally relaxed against him.

“I know. We’ve both noticed – but when something bad happens, you don’t go it alone. Not anymore.”

The room grew dark as they sat together, a quiet trio, each lost in thought.

El broke the silence. “We should go to bed, if we’re traveling tomorrow.”

Peter never loved Elizabeth more than when she pulled and tugged and bullied Neal up the stairs and into their bedroom. Between the two of them, they got Neal naked, got themselves naked and under the summer-weight comforter. Peter relaxed behind Neal, an arm draped over his waist. El spooned against Neal’s front.

They rarely slept together, three in a bed, and almost never in this bed, but tonight, this was what Neal needed. It was what they all needed.




END PART TWO - GO TO PART THREE