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elrhiarhodanTitle: Let Your Honesty Shine – Part 4 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…
__________________
The boxes arrived from St. Louis mid-morning Saturday and the postman had given Peter a dirty look as he hauled each of the cartons up the front steps. That dirty look had turned grateful as Peter shook the man’s hand and slipped him twenty bucks.
Following El’s instructions, he had stacked the boxes in the corner, between the couch and the fireplace, and tried not to think about the secrets those boxes held. And the irony of that didn't escape him. The music box and its secrets. Ellen Parker’s evidence box.
“Are you going to call Neal and let him know they arrived?” El tucked herself under his arm and rested her head against his chest.
“No – he’ll probably call and ask. Or we can tell him when we see him tonight.”
They had dinner at Neal’s that Saturday night. He made Chicken Veronique – a dish that Peter would never have dreamed of ordering, on account of its overly fussy French name. “It sounds a hell of a lot more impressive than it actually is.”
Between the entree and the dessert, Peter casually mentioned that the boxes had arrived. Neal just nodded and served him a slice of the raspberry-peach torte with vanilla ice cream. He didn’t ask if Neal wanted to come over during the week and go through them and Neal didn’t ask if he could.
El just watched the pair of them with narrowed and understanding eyes.
The boxes remained in the living room as summer came to its unofficial close on Labor Day. Peter went down to D.C. to spend the holiday weekend with El and left Satchmo in Neal’s care, wondering if he’d want to use the time to start going through the boxes without his interference. But Neal surprised him, offering to keep Satch in his apartment for the three days. Not that that would have stopped Neal, who had a key to the house and knew the alarm code. Not to mention the fact that he was more than competent with a set of lock picks and had circumvented more sophisticated security systems.
But Peter came home late Monday afternoon and the boxes were unmolested. He repacked his overnight bag, exchanging his weekend casual clothes for the suit he’d needed for the office the next morning. That hadn’t been the plan – he was only supposed to pick Satch up, maybe share a meal with Neal and then head back to the house. But he missed Neal a lot more than he missed his bed and sent him a quick text asking if there’d be a problem if he spent the night.
Neal responded quickly and unequivocally. No. Can’t wait.
He had finished his third beer before asking Neal about the boxes.
“You said you didn’t want me to go through them without you.”
Peter just raised an eyebrow. “And you’re so good at following my instructions.”
Neal laughed. “I’ve gotten better over the years, don’t you think?”
Peter laughed as well, knowing just how foolish a statement that was.
Summer came to its official end and the three of them went away for a long weekend in Vermont, before the leaf-peepers crowded the scenic byways. Still, Neal made no move to look inside the boxes and Peter stopped asking.
Periodically, he’d ask Neal how he was doing, and to his surprise, Neal started opening about personal things: his feelings about his mother, even about James and the damage the man had done to him. Felix Turner, however, remained a closed subject. Neal didn't mention the name or the boxes and Peter didn't either.
They remained undisturbed until mid-October, when Elizabeth needed to stay in D.C. over the long Columbus Day weekend and Peter didn’t join her. As much as she missed him, El suggested he stay in New York; they’d have little time together over the weekend. She had back-to-back fundraisers and would be on the go from the time she woke up on Saturday until well after midnight Monday morning. He took her advice and decided to stay home. The long weekend would be a good time to tackle some of the chores that always needed to be done this time of year.
And this year, he’d have help. Friday morning, before he left Neal’s apartment to go to the office, Peter told him that he was expected at the house in Brooklyn bright and early, and to dress appropriately. There was messy work to be done.
A little after nine, Neal arrived, wearing a flannel shirt and paint spattered jeans. Peter wasn’t surprised about the jeans, but the flannel – red and black and green plaid – wasn’t something he’d ever expected to see gracing the body of Neal Caffrey. But he forbore commenting, handed Neal a pair of work gloves and directed him out to the patio with the simple instruction that the gutters needed to be cleaned.
That task finished, they trimmed the vines that decorated the trellis, then packed up the grill and the patio furniture and moved it to the basement. It was a little after one when Peter declared them done for the day.
“Beer?”
“Sure.”
Hours earlier, Neal had stripped off the flannel shirt and had worked up a sweat in his white cotton tee shirt. Peter had enjoyed the view, particularly when the tight cotton rode up his body, giving him teasing glimpses of smooth, pale flesh.
He wondered if Neal would be up to sharing a shower and giving him a bit more of a show.
“Moz is coming over in a bit. Hope you don’t mind.”
Nothing like getting doused with a bucket of ice water. “Sure, no problem.” He hadn’t seen much of Moz lately. The man had sternly disapproved of the romantic relationship between the three of them and it had made for some very awkward moments. He knew that Moz had, on several occasions, visited Elizabeth in D.C., but in keeping with a well-honed need for self-preservation, he’d refrained from asking his wife about the details of her friendship with Moz.
“I thought that it would be a good time for the three of us to go through the boxes.” Neal tilted his head towards the corner of the living room.
“That sounds like an excellent idea.”
Neal raised an eyebrow. “You really think so?”
“Yeah, I do. It’s the family thing, remember? Moz is your family. And family -”
“Helps each other get through the hard stuff, right?”
“Right. You’re learning.”
“I haven’t told Moz the whole story – about meeting Ned.”
“No?” That surprised Peter; he thought that there was little that Neal didn’t share with Moz.
“No – and I didn’t tell him until after I got back from St. Louis. I actually didn’t tell him until he found the file with Felix’s New York Times articles.”
“Why not?”
“Do you really need to ask?”
Peter thought about it for a moment, knowing Moz’s sensitivity about family, Neal’s unwillingness to deal with things. Kind of a toxic combination. “Ah, yeah.”
“So – unless Moz asks for details about how I found out about Felix Turner, let’s not go into it.”
Peter wasn’t sure why the random encounter with Ned Weeks needed to be treated like a state secret, but it wouldn’t cost him anything to do as Neal asked.
He was just about to fetch them fresh bottles of beer when the doorbell rang. “That would be Moz.”
And it was. Moz looked at him, taking note of the sweat-stained LaMoyne tee shirt and Neal’s equally dirty white undershirt and wrinkled his nose. “I guess it was too much to expect you not to indulge your – ahem – carnal needs in the sanctity of Mrs. Suit’s home.”
Before Peter could formulate a cutting reply, Neal chuckled, clapped Moz on the back and answered. “Well, if you consider cleaning the gutters, cleaning up the leaves and moving patio furniture to be indulging our carnal needs, you might need a refresher course on human sexuality.”
“Hmm.” Moz glared at both of them and set a bag on the table with a heavy thunk. “If we’re going to spend the afternoon trawling through Neal’s childhood, I’m going to need alcohol.”
“Should I bother with a glass for you?” Peter couldn’t help the snark in his voice. Moz was deliberately trying to set him on edge.
“No, but a corkscrew will help.”
Neal retrieved the required implement and a wine glass, putting them in front of Moz before giving both of them a stern look. “Do we need some ground rules here?”
Peter stifled a smile as Mozzie muttered something about being here for Neal in his time of need as he busied himself with the wine.
“Then let’s get started.” Neal hefted the first box onto the table and opened it. It contained only CDs and cassette tapes, but Neal asked that they look at each of them. “I don’t know what’s here – and I don’t know what, if anything, I’ll find – but …”
“But you never know,” Moz finished for him.
And naturally, the music yielded nothing but music. When they finished, Neal asked, “Does Goodwill take this stuff?”
“Probably. You don’t want any of them?”
“No.”
The next box was more exciting, in its own way. Neal’s – or rather Danny Brooks’ – elementary school report cards and art projects – everything sorted by year and labeled. There were birthday cards that he’d made for his mother, one for each year from the time he was six until he was seventeen, each one carefully preserved and annotated.
Neal let out a deep, shuddering breath.
“You okay?”
He shrugged. “I guess so. I should have expected this. What do I do with all of it?”
“What do you want to do? Do you want any of it?”
Neal scrubbed his face. “I – I don’t know.” He picked up the birthday cards. “I’ll keep these.”
“And I’ll take care of the rest.” Moz piped up, putting everything else back in the box. “Are you okay with that?”
Peter wasn’t sure what Moz was going to do with the stuff, but he felt an upwelling of gratitude for the man’s willingness to shoulder that burden.
The next box was a mix of the mundane and the dramatic. There was a pile of sheet music – all show tunes. Neal flipped through and took out two pieces – Sunrise, Sunset and oddly telling, Memory, from Cats – and put the rest with the items heading to Goodwill. Underneath the sheet music were photo albums.
Neal bowed his head and set them aside. “I’ll look at them later, okay?”
Both Peter and Moz nodded. What could they say?
Two more boxes yielded more childhood memorabilia. In addition to the shoebox that Neal had unearthed that night in St. Louis were framed photographs of people who might have been Neal’s maternal grandparents. There were also pictures of Neal as a young boy – formal school photographs of a child who was instructed to smile. Peter wanted to linger, to ask questions, but Neal was eager to press on. Underneath the pictures was a blanket crocheted in baby blue yarn, a pair of tiny shoes and a soft cotton hat with a blue rabbit embroidered on it. Someone once loved Neal very much. He sighed again and Peter asked, “Do you want to take a break?”
“No.” Neal reached into the box and pulled out, of all things, a rabbit. The fuzz was mostly worn off, its button eyes long gone, the ears stained and tattered. “I think Ellen gave me this, right before we left D.C. I remember holding it on a long car ride; it made me feel safe when nothing made sense anymore.” Neal set the rabbit aside, with the photo albums and his baby things. “I can’t believe she kept this, all of this. That the Marshals let her take all of this stuff.”
“You sure you’re all right? We can finish another day.”
“No, I’m good. Just two more boxes, right? Let’s get it done.”
Peter retrieved the last cartons; they were the heaviest of the lot and the ones that probably contained Neal’s mother’s papers. He was almost afraid of what they would find.
He was right about the contents. The box they opened was a disorganized mess, but as they sorted through it, the papers told a sad tale of a life gone off the rails. It was filled with legal papers relating to James Bennett, copies of his indictment and his plea agreement. Letters from him to Neal’s mother, envelopes addressed to Neal, all of them routed through WitSec. Copies of insurance policies and bank statements, all in James’ name. All paid out to Neal’s mother.
“I don’t want this shit. Burn it, shred it. It’s got nothing to do with me.”
Peter waited for Moz to say something but the man just shifted the box to the floor and opened the last carton.
Neal took a deep breath and pulled out a stack of manila envelopes. In contrast to the previous box, this one was highly organized – much like the carton of Neal’s childhood paperwork. Most of the weight, though, came from another photograph album – an overly ornate volume bound in fake leather and tarnished embossing on cover.
Felix and Veronica – Our Wedding
Peter wasn’t sure who gasped – maybe they all did.
“I guess I’ve got my proof.” Neal traced the letters that spelled out the man’s name, but he didn’t open it.
“You don’t want to look?”
“No. Not yet.”
He handed the album to Peter and opened one of the envelopes. “And this makes it official. My mother’s marriage license to Felix Turner.” Neal handed that off to him and looked at another paper. “And her divorce was final in January of 1978.” He opened another envelope. “And this makes it really official. My birth certificate. I was born Neal George Turner, in March, 1977. Parents listed as Veronica Turner, nee Caffrey and Felix Turner.” Neal was silent for a moment, then he asked, “What’s the date on the marriage license?”
Peter checked, “October 25, 1976.”
“And I was born five months later. So, they had to get married.”
“Given what Ned told you, did you really think it was a love match?”
Moz pounced on that. “Who’s Ned?”
Damn. Peter forgot that Neal hadn’t told Moz about Ned and Felix.
But Neal didn’t flinch. “Ned was the guy who thought I was Felix Turner’s son.”
“And why wouldn’t it have been a love match?”
“Because Ned was Felix’s lover.”
“Ah.” Thankfully, Moz left it at that.
There was one more envelope in the box, and it bore the name of a D.C. law firm. Neal struggled to pull out the mass of papers. “Shit.”
“What’s the matter?”
Neal wiped his mouth and handed the documents to Peter. “James adopted me.”
Peter looked through them. There was correspondence between the D.C. firm and Felix Turner. The first letter was dated May, 1978 – when Neal would have been about fourteen months old – requesting that Felix consent to the termination of his parental rights and permit the adoption of the infant Neal George Turner by James Bennett. There were copies of the return correspondence and the signed forms granting consent. Peter noticed that there was little more than three months between the date of the first letter and the date of the adoption petition. Felix hadn’t put up a fight.
“This means nothing, Neal.” Moz took the words right out of Peter’s mouth. “It changes nothing. You are the man you are because of the life you’ve lived. Because of your friends and the people who love you. You’re not that bastard’s son because thirty-five years ago, some judge banged his gavel and said the magic words.”
“I know.” He tossed the adoption papers on top of the box with the documents about James, the ones Neal wanted to destroy. “I am what I am and that’s all that I am.”
“As first said by the greatest philosopher of them all,” Moz said with no small amount of satisfaction.
“Exactly.” Neal leaned over and kissed Moz on the forehead. “You know what, guys – I really am okay. Mind if I go up and take a quick shower?”
Peter waved his hand in the general direction of the staircase. “Go ahead.” That suited him fine. He wanted a few minutes alone with Mozzie.
He waited until he heard the water turn on, not that he really needed to make sure that Neal couldn’t overhear them. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For being here. For being Neal’s friend. I know it’s been difficult for you – with us.”
Moz just shrugged.
“We will never come between you and Neal – you know that.”
“I don’t understand how you do what you do, Suit. I don’t understand how you manage to juggle your wife and Neal and keep everyone happy.”
Peter thought better of making a joke about multitasking and answered Mozzie seriously. “I don’t juggle El and Neal. They are equal parts of my life; they are secure in my love and my commitment to them. It’s not your place to judge.” Peter hoped Moz would understand. As much as he worried about Moz’s occasionally pernicious influence over Neal, he hated the idea that he was coming between the two men.
Moz stared at him and Peter wondered just what it was going to take to convince him that no one was cheating or being cheated upon.
Moz blinked and the tension of the moment snapped. “Well, I guess I’m done here.” He got up, hefted the box he’d promise to take. “Tell Neal I’ll see him next week, about the thing.”
“The thing? What thing?” Peter got mildly worried.
“He’ll know what I’m talking about. And my best to Mrs. Suit when you see her. Tell her that I’ve got a new recipe for sesame seaweed salad that she might want to try.”
Peter tried not to gag at the thought. “I’ll be sure to let her know.”
“You do that.” Moz looked at the bottle of wine, still opened and still mostly full. “I guess it would be too much to ask if you’d hold onto that for me?"
“Not a problem.”
“Very well.” Moz went over to the door and stared at it, then glared at him.
Peter sighed. “I’ll get that for you.”
Moz made it down to the street before turning back to him. “Don’t forget to tell El about the recipe.”
“No, I won’t.” Peter closed the door and shook his head. Of all the things…
“You won’t what?” Neal was coming down the stairs.
“Believe me, you don’t want to know.” He reached for Neal, drawing him close and kissing him. “I’m very proud of you.”
Neal kissed him back and Peter could taste his passion, his love. “Why are you proud of me?”
“You know – for going through everything.” Peter glanced over at the dining room, where the remnants of a life were neatly piled. “For dealing with this like a man.”
“A man?” Neal raised an eyebrow.
“An adult.”
They went into the living room and Neal flopped onto the couch. Satchmo lumbered up to him and Peter sat down next to Neal. The dog gave him the stink eye and wedged himself between the two of them, resting his chin on Neal’s knee.
“I’m really okay, Peter. I’ve lost nothing, and maybe I’ve gained a little clarity.”
“Clarity?” That surprised him. It seemed to Peter that Neal’s origins were more opaque than ever.
“My mother wasn’t … present. She was depressed, emotionally absent most of the time. She loved me but she could never escape her own sadness. I always thought it was because she was mourning my father – excuse me, the man I’d thought was my father. When I was seventeen, I learned that James Bennett wasn’t dead and my mother knew that all along. Her sadness seemed a lie, a terrible and selfish weakness. I felt cheated.”
“Neal – ”
“Why do you think I didn’t ever try to see her for twenty years? I resented her so much. For the lies, for everything.” Neal’s hand shook as he stroked Satchmo’s head.
Peter understood.
“How many times have you called me Peter Pan – the boy who never grew up? Well, I didn’t – I never grew out of my anger and resentment.”
“I’m sorry – I didn’t know.”
Neal stopped stroking Satchmo and wove his fingers through Peter’s hand. “But now I understand. My mother suffered more than anyone. She married a man because she had to, a man who couldn’t love her. A man who walked away from her and never looked back. She must have thought that she was the luckiest woman in the world when she found James. Not only did he love her, he loved her baby enough to want to give him his name. But that didn’t last either. How long before James went on the take? Before he got greedy and vicious and cruel? How long before her world was destroyed again? She was cut off from almost everyone – no family, no friends except Ellen. And Ellen was James’ partner – another reminder of a life gone wrong.”
Peter felt helpless; there was little he could offer other than comfort. “You can’t change the past, Neal.”
“I know that. I can’t get my childhood back and I can’t have my mother back. I don’t know if it was chemistry or circumstances or a combination of both, but my mother was dealt a bad hand and never recovered from the blows. I wish I could have been a better son, I could have tried just a little harder to understand.”
“Are you going to keep blaming yourself?”
“Guilt is inevitable, isn’t it?”
“Yes. And a little guilt is healthy. It reminds us that there are always consequences. Just as long as you don’t let it eat you alive.”
Neal squeezed his hand. “And if I start going down that path, I’ve got people who’ll keep me from spiraling too deep into the dark places, right?”
Peter lifted Neal’s hand and pressed a kiss on it, enjoying the strong muscle and bone, the heat and warmth of Neal’s skin. “You have people who love you, who care about you. You have us, your family.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It took Neal the better part of a month before he could bring himself to look at the photograph albums. First was the oldest volume and there were no ghosts amongst the pictures of his mother as a young child, a teenager, a woman getting ready to step into adulthood. And there were photos of his grandparents – they looked happy and prosperous. One picture was of a man in a business suit standing next to a gigantic Chevrolet, smiling with the pride of ownership. Another picture, dated 1955, showed a woman holding an infant – his mother – in front of a big brick house.
It seemed that his mother was an only child, but she had friends and a loving family and lived an ordinary life of a girl growing up in a turbulent time in America. Neal took comfort in those images. It seemed that his mother didn’t want for anything – materially or emotionally. Of course, he knew that static pictures couldn’t tell a complete story and who knew what was lurking in the shadows, but on the face of things – it all looked normal.
He removed one photograph from the book and used it as the basis for a sketch. His mother, age fifteen, playing the piano. This was how he preferred to remember her.
There were some ghosts in the second album, but they were now familiar ones. His own childhood. Neal smiled at some of the pictures of him – he’d have to show these to Peter and Elizabeth, especially the ones of him at two months old – fat and naked on some fake bearskin rug.
The album seemed to chronicle most every waking moment of his life from the time he was born until he was about a year old. In many of the pictures, he was cradled in his mother’s arms, in his maternal grandparents’ arms. And in one or two, he might have been held in his father’s arms, but the heads on those photos had been carefully cut off.
He didn’t blame his mother for that vandalism. He might have done the same in her place.
There were no pictures of James in either of these albums, nor in the framed photographs she’d had in her room at the nursing home. For a moment, Neal regretted telling Peter and Moz that the box of papers with James’ criminal history should be destroyed. There might have been something there, maybe the one picture he remembered, of his father – no, James – in his dress blue uniform. And then he discarded that regret. He had no need of any memories of James Bennett. Whatever good deed he’d done by adopting him was far outweighed by the damage he caused to the lives of everyone who had had the misfortune to care about him.
The last photograph album – the one documenting his mother’s disastrous wedding to his biological father – was the one he most dreaded looking at. The one he couldn’t bring himself to even open.
The picture Peter had shown him, that long-ago June evening, was of a man happy and in love. And in a way, that man was as much of a liar as James Bennett and his lies had just as many consequences.
He wondered if his mother had known about Felix’s sexuality when she’d married him, if he’d told her the truth. Maybe she thought she could change him. After all, he’d had sex with her, he’d impregnated her. Maybe she was willing to take that chance.
Neal looked at the album but didn’t open it. He couldn’t bring himself to look and see a version of the truth he could never really understand.
The book sat on his dining room table for weeks. Peter would see it and he wouldn’t comment. Moz would carefully push it out of the way. June never asked.
And Neal couldn’t bring himself to take that final step.
A few days before Thanksgiving, Elizabeth stopped by unexpectedly. She brought pie and a six-pack of apple ale, an unexpected combination.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you until Thursday afternoon.” He was celebrating the holiday with Peter and Elizabeth, of course. Moz was invited but he usually volunteered at a homeless shelter for the day. He might, though, stop by for dessert. And wine.
“I thought you’d like a little company. Peter said you had a head cold and had cancelled all of your appointments this week.”
“There weren’t that many, and yes – a sinus infection. Which is why you shouldn’t be here either.”
El waived aside his objections. “I’m married to a Burke; therefore I’m invulnerable to germs.”
Neal chuckled at her illogic. “I seem to recall an episode where Peter was particularly sick and then so were you.”
El laughed, too. “It’s okay. I’ve been taking Mozzie’s bee pollen concoction, so I should be fine.”
“Well, if you want to risk it, I’m happy for the company. And the pie. The apple ale, though – that I’m going to pass on.”
“More for me, then.” Neal watched, bemused, as El made herself at home in his kitchen, serving them both a generous slice of pie and popping the top on a bottle. He brewed a cup of tea and sat down at the table, across from Elizabeth. He loved this woman. Not like he loved Kate, not like he thought he loved Rebecca. No – his feelings weren’t romantic. They were deeper, finer, less easy to categorize. She was more than just a beloved part of Peter’s life. She was someone he loved for herself. He sighed with happiness at the realization.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, what are you thinking?”
“How much I love you.”
Her cheeks flushed. “Neal – ”
“Oh, no, not like that.”
She tilted her head and gave him a curious look. “Oh? Then how?”
“I know I probably sound ridiculous, but I love you like I love the salt in my food. You give my life meaning, Elizabeth Burke. You bring me gelato and pie and weird beer and always tell me when I’m about to do something stupid. You make me happy.”
She leaned over and kissed him. “I love you, Neal Caffrey. You bring chaos and wine and excitement into my life. And you make me happy, too.”
Neal wondered how he managed to have this woman love him. To have this person love him, after all his sins, his crimes. Peter’s love was different – that was a relationship forged in mutual mistrust and healthy admiration. Elizabeth had no reason to love him, but she gave him her trust and allowed him to share the greatest part of her life.
“What’s this?” She pulled his parents' wedding album towards her and looked at the cover. “Ah.”
“Yeah, ah.”
“Have you looked at it yet?”
He shook his head. “I can’t bring myself to take this last step.”
“Why?”
He sighed. “I don’t know. I have all the proof I need – my birth certificate. My real one. I’ve seen the adoption papers. This man – Felix – didn’t want me. He didn’t fight for his right to be a father. He walked out and never looked back.”
“Or maybe he didn’t want to tear your life apart. It seems like your mother married James soon after she got divorced. Right afterwards.”
“Peter told you?”
“And I looked at the dates on the legal paperwork for your adoption.”
“Why?”
“Because I was curious and because I didn’t want to ask you. It’s something that bothers you and I didn’t see any reason why I needed to cause you pain when the documents were sitting in a box in the basement.”
“I should have figured that Peter wouldn’t shred them so quickly.” He swallowed. “Did you find anything interesting?”
“It’s possible that your mother knew James while she was still married to your father.”
“That she cheated on him?”
“Or that she realized that her marriage to Felix wasn’t much of a partnership and looked for happiness elsewhere.”
Neal tried to accept that.
“And consider this – maybe your father figured that you’d be happier with a man who wanted to be a father. He had to figure that James – a police officer – could give you a good life. Why not think of it that way? Felix Turner was gay and closeted and probably miserable living a lie. He left to find a life where he could be happy. Why shouldn’t he have wanted the same thing for your mother? For you?”
“I think you love happy endings, El. I think you see the best in people, even strangers who have been dead for three decades.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing.” Neal ran his fingers over the album cover. “Will you look at this with me?”
“Of course.” Elizabeth moved around the table and sat down next to him. Together, they opened the photo album.
The first page was kind of anti-climactic, merely a copy of the wedding invitation. “I guess I now know where my middle name came from.” His maternal grandfather was George Caffrey and his maternal grandmother was Dorothy. There was no mention of Felix’s parents, which wasn’t uncommon, especially if they weren’t financially contributing to the wedding.
“Your mom never told you?” El asked gently.
“No, she didn’t like to talk about the past or her family.” Neal didn’t say, She didn’t like to talk about anything.. He took a deep breath and turned the page. “And there it is, the last mystery revealed.”
“Sweetie.” El wrapped an arm around him and hugged him.
“I really do look like him, don’t I?”
“Yes – the resemblance is startling. You could almost be twins.”
The photograph was almost a cliché of the 1970s. His mother in a wedding gown that screamed “Little House on the Prairie” chic, her dark hair feathered and teased. Felix – because it was still hard to think of this man as his father – wearing a dark suit. “Thank god, I was afraid his hair would be permed, he’d have a mustache and sideburns, and be wearing a powder blue tuxedo.”
El laughed, “Well, there’s a bit of a mullet going on there …”
Neal stared at the picture, trying to divine their thoughts. They were in a very traditional pose, Felix behind his mother, cupping her elbows. They were staring into the camera, smiling. It was hard to read anything from their expressions. If he didn’t know what came next, he’d have to say that they both looked happy.
The album was a testament to every wedding photographer’s cliché. A portrait of his mother and his grandmother in front of a mirror. His mother pinning a white rose onto his grandfather’s lapel. There were photographs of his maternal grandparents with Felix, but there were none of Felix and his own parents and Neal had to wonder at that.
His mother had plenty of bridesmaids – some of the faces were familiar from the family photo album he’d already looked through. Felix’s groomsmen were a motley sort, most sporting the dreaded mustaches and perms and serious mullets. One of the men looked out of place – or at least his expression was. He wasn’t precisely scowling, but he was clearly unhappy.
“Is that James?” Elizabeth tapped a fingernail on that man.
The question startled Neal. Of all the things he was expecting to find in this photo album, James Bennett’s face was not on the list. The face was small and there was a lot of hair. “Hold on.” Neal fetched a magnifying glass from the worktable and peered at the man in question. With no small amount of relief, he noted, “No, thank god. This guy’s eyes are definitely dark brown.”
“That would have been something.”
“I don’t even want to think about it.”
“Yeah.” Elizabeth sighed. “That might just be too much of a coincidence.”
There were a dozen more posed photographs and then the candid shots. The family arriving at the church, the ceremony, leaving the church. Pictures of happy people at the reception, laughing and dancing and cutting the wedding cake. Everything was glossy and polished and perfect.
All so banal. So ordinary. No secrets to be discovered. At least not until the very end. Between the last page and the back cover, there was a plain white envelope and Neal’s hands shook as he opened it and pulled out more pictures.
He looked at them and it finally hit him. The truth that he’d been chasing since he’d learned that he wasn’t James’ son. His mother had loved Felix Turner.
Neal spread out the photographs on the table and stared at them. They weren’t from his parents' wedding, but from when he’d been born. These were the pieces of the photographs that his mother had cut apart, where she’d excised Felix from the history of her baby’s life.
“She couldn’t bear to get rid of them. Of him. She kept this for thirty years – the record of a failed marriage through everything she’d been through. She kept him. Despite everything, she loved him.”
He got to his feet, feeling like he’d just come through a long and terrible illness, and made his way over to the bookcase where he’d stored the album with his baby pictures. El took that book from him and started going through it, finding the pages with the mutilated photographs.
“Here.” She laid a piece – of Felix looking down at something – on top of a picture of him as a newborn and the world snapped into focus. There was so much love and adoration in Felix’s face, love for the child in his arms. For him.
El found the missing piece of another picture. Felix sitting on his mother’s bed, his arms around her as she held her baby. His father’s smile was gentle, his eyes filled with wonder and joy. Despite everything else, he’d created this life and in this moment, he was happy.
Neal closed his eyes. It hurt too much. From the time he was old enough to understand that he didn’t have a father, he’d begged his mother, he’d begged Ellen for stories about the man. His mother, of course, was vague. His daddy had been a hero and he died. Ellen painted a picture of a man larger than life, at least until she couldn’t let him go on believing those lies. Neal had to wonder if she even knew the truth – that James wasn’t his real father.
Even after his world had fractured, he never stopped longing for knowledge, for understanding about the man who fathered him. And what he found were more lies and betrayals, and they nearly destroyed him. But he survived and although he’d messed everything up, the people he loved forgave him, gave him another chance. More than another chance. They’d opened their lives to him and loved him.
And still, there was another truth out there. One he only had fragments of. Pictures, a handful of official documents. A few years’ worth of impersonal prose about subjects that meant nothing.
“I think you need to talk to him, Neal. Maybe he can help fit in the missing pieces. Help you understand.”
“Who?”
“Ned Weeks – the man your father loved.”
It made sense, but the idea terrified him.
END PART FOUR - GO TO PART FIVE
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…
The boxes arrived from St. Louis mid-morning Saturday and the postman had given Peter a dirty look as he hauled each of the cartons up the front steps. That dirty look had turned grateful as Peter shook the man’s hand and slipped him twenty bucks.
Following El’s instructions, he had stacked the boxes in the corner, between the couch and the fireplace, and tried not to think about the secrets those boxes held. And the irony of that didn't escape him. The music box and its secrets. Ellen Parker’s evidence box.
“Are you going to call Neal and let him know they arrived?” El tucked herself under his arm and rested her head against his chest.
“No – he’ll probably call and ask. Or we can tell him when we see him tonight.”
They had dinner at Neal’s that Saturday night. He made Chicken Veronique – a dish that Peter would never have dreamed of ordering, on account of its overly fussy French name. “It sounds a hell of a lot more impressive than it actually is.”
Between the entree and the dessert, Peter casually mentioned that the boxes had arrived. Neal just nodded and served him a slice of the raspberry-peach torte with vanilla ice cream. He didn’t ask if Neal wanted to come over during the week and go through them and Neal didn’t ask if he could.
El just watched the pair of them with narrowed and understanding eyes.
The boxes remained in the living room as summer came to its unofficial close on Labor Day. Peter went down to D.C. to spend the holiday weekend with El and left Satchmo in Neal’s care, wondering if he’d want to use the time to start going through the boxes without his interference. But Neal surprised him, offering to keep Satch in his apartment for the three days. Not that that would have stopped Neal, who had a key to the house and knew the alarm code. Not to mention the fact that he was more than competent with a set of lock picks and had circumvented more sophisticated security systems.
But Peter came home late Monday afternoon and the boxes were unmolested. He repacked his overnight bag, exchanging his weekend casual clothes for the suit he’d needed for the office the next morning. That hadn’t been the plan – he was only supposed to pick Satch up, maybe share a meal with Neal and then head back to the house. But he missed Neal a lot more than he missed his bed and sent him a quick text asking if there’d be a problem if he spent the night.
Neal responded quickly and unequivocally. No. Can’t wait.
He had finished his third beer before asking Neal about the boxes.
“You said you didn’t want me to go through them without you.”
Peter just raised an eyebrow. “And you’re so good at following my instructions.”
Neal laughed. “I’ve gotten better over the years, don’t you think?”
Peter laughed as well, knowing just how foolish a statement that was.
Summer came to its official end and the three of them went away for a long weekend in Vermont, before the leaf-peepers crowded the scenic byways. Still, Neal made no move to look inside the boxes and Peter stopped asking.
Periodically, he’d ask Neal how he was doing, and to his surprise, Neal started opening about personal things: his feelings about his mother, even about James and the damage the man had done to him. Felix Turner, however, remained a closed subject. Neal didn't mention the name or the boxes and Peter didn't either.
They remained undisturbed until mid-October, when Elizabeth needed to stay in D.C. over the long Columbus Day weekend and Peter didn’t join her. As much as she missed him, El suggested he stay in New York; they’d have little time together over the weekend. She had back-to-back fundraisers and would be on the go from the time she woke up on Saturday until well after midnight Monday morning. He took her advice and decided to stay home. The long weekend would be a good time to tackle some of the chores that always needed to be done this time of year.
And this year, he’d have help. Friday morning, before he left Neal’s apartment to go to the office, Peter told him that he was expected at the house in Brooklyn bright and early, and to dress appropriately. There was messy work to be done.
A little after nine, Neal arrived, wearing a flannel shirt and paint spattered jeans. Peter wasn’t surprised about the jeans, but the flannel – red and black and green plaid – wasn’t something he’d ever expected to see gracing the body of Neal Caffrey. But he forbore commenting, handed Neal a pair of work gloves and directed him out to the patio with the simple instruction that the gutters needed to be cleaned.
That task finished, they trimmed the vines that decorated the trellis, then packed up the grill and the patio furniture and moved it to the basement. It was a little after one when Peter declared them done for the day.
“Beer?”
“Sure.”
Hours earlier, Neal had stripped off the flannel shirt and had worked up a sweat in his white cotton tee shirt. Peter had enjoyed the view, particularly when the tight cotton rode up his body, giving him teasing glimpses of smooth, pale flesh.
He wondered if Neal would be up to sharing a shower and giving him a bit more of a show.
“Moz is coming over in a bit. Hope you don’t mind.”
Nothing like getting doused with a bucket of ice water. “Sure, no problem.” He hadn’t seen much of Moz lately. The man had sternly disapproved of the romantic relationship between the three of them and it had made for some very awkward moments. He knew that Moz had, on several occasions, visited Elizabeth in D.C., but in keeping with a well-honed need for self-preservation, he’d refrained from asking his wife about the details of her friendship with Moz.
“I thought that it would be a good time for the three of us to go through the boxes.” Neal tilted his head towards the corner of the living room.
“That sounds like an excellent idea.”
Neal raised an eyebrow. “You really think so?”
“Yeah, I do. It’s the family thing, remember? Moz is your family. And family -”
“Helps each other get through the hard stuff, right?”
“Right. You’re learning.”
“I haven’t told Moz the whole story – about meeting Ned.”
“No?” That surprised Peter; he thought that there was little that Neal didn’t share with Moz.
“No – and I didn’t tell him until after I got back from St. Louis. I actually didn’t tell him until he found the file with Felix’s New York Times articles.”
“Why not?”
“Do you really need to ask?”
Peter thought about it for a moment, knowing Moz’s sensitivity about family, Neal’s unwillingness to deal with things. Kind of a toxic combination. “Ah, yeah.”
“So – unless Moz asks for details about how I found out about Felix Turner, let’s not go into it.”
Peter wasn’t sure why the random encounter with Ned Weeks needed to be treated like a state secret, but it wouldn’t cost him anything to do as Neal asked.
He was just about to fetch them fresh bottles of beer when the doorbell rang. “That would be Moz.”
And it was. Moz looked at him, taking note of the sweat-stained LaMoyne tee shirt and Neal’s equally dirty white undershirt and wrinkled his nose. “I guess it was too much to expect you not to indulge your – ahem – carnal needs in the sanctity of Mrs. Suit’s home.”
Before Peter could formulate a cutting reply, Neal chuckled, clapped Moz on the back and answered. “Well, if you consider cleaning the gutters, cleaning up the leaves and moving patio furniture to be indulging our carnal needs, you might need a refresher course on human sexuality.”
“Hmm.” Moz glared at both of them and set a bag on the table with a heavy thunk. “If we’re going to spend the afternoon trawling through Neal’s childhood, I’m going to need alcohol.”
“Should I bother with a glass for you?” Peter couldn’t help the snark in his voice. Moz was deliberately trying to set him on edge.
“No, but a corkscrew will help.”
Neal retrieved the required implement and a wine glass, putting them in front of Moz before giving both of them a stern look. “Do we need some ground rules here?”
Peter stifled a smile as Mozzie muttered something about being here for Neal in his time of need as he busied himself with the wine.
“Then let’s get started.” Neal hefted the first box onto the table and opened it. It contained only CDs and cassette tapes, but Neal asked that they look at each of them. “I don’t know what’s here – and I don’t know what, if anything, I’ll find – but …”
“But you never know,” Moz finished for him.
And naturally, the music yielded nothing but music. When they finished, Neal asked, “Does Goodwill take this stuff?”
“Probably. You don’t want any of them?”
“No.”
The next box was more exciting, in its own way. Neal’s – or rather Danny Brooks’ – elementary school report cards and art projects – everything sorted by year and labeled. There were birthday cards that he’d made for his mother, one for each year from the time he was six until he was seventeen, each one carefully preserved and annotated.
Neal let out a deep, shuddering breath.
“You okay?”
He shrugged. “I guess so. I should have expected this. What do I do with all of it?”
“What do you want to do? Do you want any of it?”
Neal scrubbed his face. “I – I don’t know.” He picked up the birthday cards. “I’ll keep these.”
“And I’ll take care of the rest.” Moz piped up, putting everything else back in the box. “Are you okay with that?”
Peter wasn’t sure what Moz was going to do with the stuff, but he felt an upwelling of gratitude for the man’s willingness to shoulder that burden.
The next box was a mix of the mundane and the dramatic. There was a pile of sheet music – all show tunes. Neal flipped through and took out two pieces – Sunrise, Sunset and oddly telling, Memory, from Cats – and put the rest with the items heading to Goodwill. Underneath the sheet music were photo albums.
Neal bowed his head and set them aside. “I’ll look at them later, okay?”
Both Peter and Moz nodded. What could they say?
Two more boxes yielded more childhood memorabilia. In addition to the shoebox that Neal had unearthed that night in St. Louis were framed photographs of people who might have been Neal’s maternal grandparents. There were also pictures of Neal as a young boy – formal school photographs of a child who was instructed to smile. Peter wanted to linger, to ask questions, but Neal was eager to press on. Underneath the pictures was a blanket crocheted in baby blue yarn, a pair of tiny shoes and a soft cotton hat with a blue rabbit embroidered on it. Someone once loved Neal very much. He sighed again and Peter asked, “Do you want to take a break?”
“No.” Neal reached into the box and pulled out, of all things, a rabbit. The fuzz was mostly worn off, its button eyes long gone, the ears stained and tattered. “I think Ellen gave me this, right before we left D.C. I remember holding it on a long car ride; it made me feel safe when nothing made sense anymore.” Neal set the rabbit aside, with the photo albums and his baby things. “I can’t believe she kept this, all of this. That the Marshals let her take all of this stuff.”
“You sure you’re all right? We can finish another day.”
“No, I’m good. Just two more boxes, right? Let’s get it done.”
Peter retrieved the last cartons; they were the heaviest of the lot and the ones that probably contained Neal’s mother’s papers. He was almost afraid of what they would find.
He was right about the contents. The box they opened was a disorganized mess, but as they sorted through it, the papers told a sad tale of a life gone off the rails. It was filled with legal papers relating to James Bennett, copies of his indictment and his plea agreement. Letters from him to Neal’s mother, envelopes addressed to Neal, all of them routed through WitSec. Copies of insurance policies and bank statements, all in James’ name. All paid out to Neal’s mother.
“I don’t want this shit. Burn it, shred it. It’s got nothing to do with me.”
Peter waited for Moz to say something but the man just shifted the box to the floor and opened the last carton.
Neal took a deep breath and pulled out a stack of manila envelopes. In contrast to the previous box, this one was highly organized – much like the carton of Neal’s childhood paperwork. Most of the weight, though, came from another photograph album – an overly ornate volume bound in fake leather and tarnished embossing on cover.
Felix and Veronica – Our Wedding
Peter wasn’t sure who gasped – maybe they all did.
“I guess I’ve got my proof.” Neal traced the letters that spelled out the man’s name, but he didn’t open it.
“You don’t want to look?”
“No. Not yet.”
He handed the album to Peter and opened one of the envelopes. “And this makes it official. My mother’s marriage license to Felix Turner.” Neal handed that off to him and looked at another paper. “And her divorce was final in January of 1978.” He opened another envelope. “And this makes it really official. My birth certificate. I was born Neal George Turner, in March, 1977. Parents listed as Veronica Turner, nee Caffrey and Felix Turner.” Neal was silent for a moment, then he asked, “What’s the date on the marriage license?”
Peter checked, “October 25, 1976.”
“And I was born five months later. So, they had to get married.”
“Given what Ned told you, did you really think it was a love match?”
Moz pounced on that. “Who’s Ned?”
Damn. Peter forgot that Neal hadn’t told Moz about Ned and Felix.
But Neal didn’t flinch. “Ned was the guy who thought I was Felix Turner’s son.”
“And why wouldn’t it have been a love match?”
“Because Ned was Felix’s lover.”
“Ah.” Thankfully, Moz left it at that.
There was one more envelope in the box, and it bore the name of a D.C. law firm. Neal struggled to pull out the mass of papers. “Shit.”
“What’s the matter?”
Neal wiped his mouth and handed the documents to Peter. “James adopted me.”
Peter looked through them. There was correspondence between the D.C. firm and Felix Turner. The first letter was dated May, 1978 – when Neal would have been about fourteen months old – requesting that Felix consent to the termination of his parental rights and permit the adoption of the infant Neal George Turner by James Bennett. There were copies of the return correspondence and the signed forms granting consent. Peter noticed that there was little more than three months between the date of the first letter and the date of the adoption petition. Felix hadn’t put up a fight.
“This means nothing, Neal.” Moz took the words right out of Peter’s mouth. “It changes nothing. You are the man you are because of the life you’ve lived. Because of your friends and the people who love you. You’re not that bastard’s son because thirty-five years ago, some judge banged his gavel and said the magic words.”
“I know.” He tossed the adoption papers on top of the box with the documents about James, the ones Neal wanted to destroy. “I am what I am and that’s all that I am.”
“As first said by the greatest philosopher of them all,” Moz said with no small amount of satisfaction.
“Exactly.” Neal leaned over and kissed Moz on the forehead. “You know what, guys – I really am okay. Mind if I go up and take a quick shower?”
Peter waved his hand in the general direction of the staircase. “Go ahead.” That suited him fine. He wanted a few minutes alone with Mozzie.
He waited until he heard the water turn on, not that he really needed to make sure that Neal couldn’t overhear them. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For being here. For being Neal’s friend. I know it’s been difficult for you – with us.”
Moz just shrugged.
“We will never come between you and Neal – you know that.”
“I don’t understand how you do what you do, Suit. I don’t understand how you manage to juggle your wife and Neal and keep everyone happy.”
Peter thought better of making a joke about multitasking and answered Mozzie seriously. “I don’t juggle El and Neal. They are equal parts of my life; they are secure in my love and my commitment to them. It’s not your place to judge.” Peter hoped Moz would understand. As much as he worried about Moz’s occasionally pernicious influence over Neal, he hated the idea that he was coming between the two men.
Moz stared at him and Peter wondered just what it was going to take to convince him that no one was cheating or being cheated upon.
Moz blinked and the tension of the moment snapped. “Well, I guess I’m done here.” He got up, hefted the box he’d promise to take. “Tell Neal I’ll see him next week, about the thing.”
“The thing? What thing?” Peter got mildly worried.
“He’ll know what I’m talking about. And my best to Mrs. Suit when you see her. Tell her that I’ve got a new recipe for sesame seaweed salad that she might want to try.”
Peter tried not to gag at the thought. “I’ll be sure to let her know.”
“You do that.” Moz looked at the bottle of wine, still opened and still mostly full. “I guess it would be too much to ask if you’d hold onto that for me?"
“Not a problem.”
“Very well.” Moz went over to the door and stared at it, then glared at him.
Peter sighed. “I’ll get that for you.”
Moz made it down to the street before turning back to him. “Don’t forget to tell El about the recipe.”
“No, I won’t.” Peter closed the door and shook his head. Of all the things…
“You won’t what?” Neal was coming down the stairs.
“Believe me, you don’t want to know.” He reached for Neal, drawing him close and kissing him. “I’m very proud of you.”
Neal kissed him back and Peter could taste his passion, his love. “Why are you proud of me?”
“You know – for going through everything.” Peter glanced over at the dining room, where the remnants of a life were neatly piled. “For dealing with this like a man.”
“A man?” Neal raised an eyebrow.
“An adult.”
They went into the living room and Neal flopped onto the couch. Satchmo lumbered up to him and Peter sat down next to Neal. The dog gave him the stink eye and wedged himself between the two of them, resting his chin on Neal’s knee.
“I’m really okay, Peter. I’ve lost nothing, and maybe I’ve gained a little clarity.”
“Clarity?” That surprised him. It seemed to Peter that Neal’s origins were more opaque than ever.
“My mother wasn’t … present. She was depressed, emotionally absent most of the time. She loved me but she could never escape her own sadness. I always thought it was because she was mourning my father – excuse me, the man I’d thought was my father. When I was seventeen, I learned that James Bennett wasn’t dead and my mother knew that all along. Her sadness seemed a lie, a terrible and selfish weakness. I felt cheated.”
“Neal – ”
“Why do you think I didn’t ever try to see her for twenty years? I resented her so much. For the lies, for everything.” Neal’s hand shook as he stroked Satchmo’s head.
Peter understood.
“How many times have you called me Peter Pan – the boy who never grew up? Well, I didn’t – I never grew out of my anger and resentment.”
“I’m sorry – I didn’t know.”
Neal stopped stroking Satchmo and wove his fingers through Peter’s hand. “But now I understand. My mother suffered more than anyone. She married a man because she had to, a man who couldn’t love her. A man who walked away from her and never looked back. She must have thought that she was the luckiest woman in the world when she found James. Not only did he love her, he loved her baby enough to want to give him his name. But that didn’t last either. How long before James went on the take? Before he got greedy and vicious and cruel? How long before her world was destroyed again? She was cut off from almost everyone – no family, no friends except Ellen. And Ellen was James’ partner – another reminder of a life gone wrong.”
Peter felt helpless; there was little he could offer other than comfort. “You can’t change the past, Neal.”
“I know that. I can’t get my childhood back and I can’t have my mother back. I don’t know if it was chemistry or circumstances or a combination of both, but my mother was dealt a bad hand and never recovered from the blows. I wish I could have been a better son, I could have tried just a little harder to understand.”
“Are you going to keep blaming yourself?”
“Guilt is inevitable, isn’t it?”
“Yes. And a little guilt is healthy. It reminds us that there are always consequences. Just as long as you don’t let it eat you alive.”
Neal squeezed his hand. “And if I start going down that path, I’ve got people who’ll keep me from spiraling too deep into the dark places, right?”
Peter lifted Neal’s hand and pressed a kiss on it, enjoying the strong muscle and bone, the heat and warmth of Neal’s skin. “You have people who love you, who care about you. You have us, your family.”
It took Neal the better part of a month before he could bring himself to look at the photograph albums. First was the oldest volume and there were no ghosts amongst the pictures of his mother as a young child, a teenager, a woman getting ready to step into adulthood. And there were photos of his grandparents – they looked happy and prosperous. One picture was of a man in a business suit standing next to a gigantic Chevrolet, smiling with the pride of ownership. Another picture, dated 1955, showed a woman holding an infant – his mother – in front of a big brick house.
It seemed that his mother was an only child, but she had friends and a loving family and lived an ordinary life of a girl growing up in a turbulent time in America. Neal took comfort in those images. It seemed that his mother didn’t want for anything – materially or emotionally. Of course, he knew that static pictures couldn’t tell a complete story and who knew what was lurking in the shadows, but on the face of things – it all looked normal.
He removed one photograph from the book and used it as the basis for a sketch. His mother, age fifteen, playing the piano. This was how he preferred to remember her.
There were some ghosts in the second album, but they were now familiar ones. His own childhood. Neal smiled at some of the pictures of him – he’d have to show these to Peter and Elizabeth, especially the ones of him at two months old – fat and naked on some fake bearskin rug.
The album seemed to chronicle most every waking moment of his life from the time he was born until he was about a year old. In many of the pictures, he was cradled in his mother’s arms, in his maternal grandparents’ arms. And in one or two, he might have been held in his father’s arms, but the heads on those photos had been carefully cut off.
He didn’t blame his mother for that vandalism. He might have done the same in her place.
There were no pictures of James in either of these albums, nor in the framed photographs she’d had in her room at the nursing home. For a moment, Neal regretted telling Peter and Moz that the box of papers with James’ criminal history should be destroyed. There might have been something there, maybe the one picture he remembered, of his father – no, James – in his dress blue uniform. And then he discarded that regret. He had no need of any memories of James Bennett. Whatever good deed he’d done by adopting him was far outweighed by the damage he caused to the lives of everyone who had had the misfortune to care about him.
The last photograph album – the one documenting his mother’s disastrous wedding to his biological father – was the one he most dreaded looking at. The one he couldn’t bring himself to even open.
The picture Peter had shown him, that long-ago June evening, was of a man happy and in love. And in a way, that man was as much of a liar as James Bennett and his lies had just as many consequences.
He wondered if his mother had known about Felix’s sexuality when she’d married him, if he’d told her the truth. Maybe she thought she could change him. After all, he’d had sex with her, he’d impregnated her. Maybe she was willing to take that chance.
Neal looked at the album but didn’t open it. He couldn’t bring himself to look and see a version of the truth he could never really understand.
The book sat on his dining room table for weeks. Peter would see it and he wouldn’t comment. Moz would carefully push it out of the way. June never asked.
And Neal couldn’t bring himself to take that final step.
A few days before Thanksgiving, Elizabeth stopped by unexpectedly. She brought pie and a six-pack of apple ale, an unexpected combination.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you until Thursday afternoon.” He was celebrating the holiday with Peter and Elizabeth, of course. Moz was invited but he usually volunteered at a homeless shelter for the day. He might, though, stop by for dessert. And wine.
“I thought you’d like a little company. Peter said you had a head cold and had cancelled all of your appointments this week.”
“There weren’t that many, and yes – a sinus infection. Which is why you shouldn’t be here either.”
El waived aside his objections. “I’m married to a Burke; therefore I’m invulnerable to germs.”
Neal chuckled at her illogic. “I seem to recall an episode where Peter was particularly sick and then so were you.”
El laughed, too. “It’s okay. I’ve been taking Mozzie’s bee pollen concoction, so I should be fine.”
“Well, if you want to risk it, I’m happy for the company. And the pie. The apple ale, though – that I’m going to pass on.”
“More for me, then.” Neal watched, bemused, as El made herself at home in his kitchen, serving them both a generous slice of pie and popping the top on a bottle. He brewed a cup of tea and sat down at the table, across from Elizabeth. He loved this woman. Not like he loved Kate, not like he thought he loved Rebecca. No – his feelings weren’t romantic. They were deeper, finer, less easy to categorize. She was more than just a beloved part of Peter’s life. She was someone he loved for herself. He sighed with happiness at the realization.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, what are you thinking?”
“How much I love you.”
Her cheeks flushed. “Neal – ”
“Oh, no, not like that.”
She tilted her head and gave him a curious look. “Oh? Then how?”
“I know I probably sound ridiculous, but I love you like I love the salt in my food. You give my life meaning, Elizabeth Burke. You bring me gelato and pie and weird beer and always tell me when I’m about to do something stupid. You make me happy.”
She leaned over and kissed him. “I love you, Neal Caffrey. You bring chaos and wine and excitement into my life. And you make me happy, too.”
Neal wondered how he managed to have this woman love him. To have this person love him, after all his sins, his crimes. Peter’s love was different – that was a relationship forged in mutual mistrust and healthy admiration. Elizabeth had no reason to love him, but she gave him her trust and allowed him to share the greatest part of her life.
“What’s this?” She pulled his parents' wedding album towards her and looked at the cover. “Ah.”
“Yeah, ah.”
“Have you looked at it yet?”
He shook his head. “I can’t bring myself to take this last step.”
“Why?”
He sighed. “I don’t know. I have all the proof I need – my birth certificate. My real one. I’ve seen the adoption papers. This man – Felix – didn’t want me. He didn’t fight for his right to be a father. He walked out and never looked back.”
“Or maybe he didn’t want to tear your life apart. It seems like your mother married James soon after she got divorced. Right afterwards.”
“Peter told you?”
“And I looked at the dates on the legal paperwork for your adoption.”
“Why?”
“Because I was curious and because I didn’t want to ask you. It’s something that bothers you and I didn’t see any reason why I needed to cause you pain when the documents were sitting in a box in the basement.”
“I should have figured that Peter wouldn’t shred them so quickly.” He swallowed. “Did you find anything interesting?”
“It’s possible that your mother knew James while she was still married to your father.”
“That she cheated on him?”
“Or that she realized that her marriage to Felix wasn’t much of a partnership and looked for happiness elsewhere.”
Neal tried to accept that.
“And consider this – maybe your father figured that you’d be happier with a man who wanted to be a father. He had to figure that James – a police officer – could give you a good life. Why not think of it that way? Felix Turner was gay and closeted and probably miserable living a lie. He left to find a life where he could be happy. Why shouldn’t he have wanted the same thing for your mother? For you?”
“I think you love happy endings, El. I think you see the best in people, even strangers who have been dead for three decades.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing.” Neal ran his fingers over the album cover. “Will you look at this with me?”
“Of course.” Elizabeth moved around the table and sat down next to him. Together, they opened the photo album.
The first page was kind of anti-climactic, merely a copy of the wedding invitation. “I guess I now know where my middle name came from.” His maternal grandfather was George Caffrey and his maternal grandmother was Dorothy. There was no mention of Felix’s parents, which wasn’t uncommon, especially if they weren’t financially contributing to the wedding.
“Your mom never told you?” El asked gently.
“No, she didn’t like to talk about the past or her family.” Neal didn’t say, She didn’t like to talk about anything.. He took a deep breath and turned the page. “And there it is, the last mystery revealed.”
“Sweetie.” El wrapped an arm around him and hugged him.
“I really do look like him, don’t I?”
“Yes – the resemblance is startling. You could almost be twins.”
The photograph was almost a cliché of the 1970s. His mother in a wedding gown that screamed “Little House on the Prairie” chic, her dark hair feathered and teased. Felix – because it was still hard to think of this man as his father – wearing a dark suit. “Thank god, I was afraid his hair would be permed, he’d have a mustache and sideburns, and be wearing a powder blue tuxedo.”
El laughed, “Well, there’s a bit of a mullet going on there …”
Neal stared at the picture, trying to divine their thoughts. They were in a very traditional pose, Felix behind his mother, cupping her elbows. They were staring into the camera, smiling. It was hard to read anything from their expressions. If he didn’t know what came next, he’d have to say that they both looked happy.
The album was a testament to every wedding photographer’s cliché. A portrait of his mother and his grandmother in front of a mirror. His mother pinning a white rose onto his grandfather’s lapel. There were photographs of his maternal grandparents with Felix, but there were none of Felix and his own parents and Neal had to wonder at that.
His mother had plenty of bridesmaids – some of the faces were familiar from the family photo album he’d already looked through. Felix’s groomsmen were a motley sort, most sporting the dreaded mustaches and perms and serious mullets. One of the men looked out of place – or at least his expression was. He wasn’t precisely scowling, but he was clearly unhappy.
“Is that James?” Elizabeth tapped a fingernail on that man.
The question startled Neal. Of all the things he was expecting to find in this photo album, James Bennett’s face was not on the list. The face was small and there was a lot of hair. “Hold on.” Neal fetched a magnifying glass from the worktable and peered at the man in question. With no small amount of relief, he noted, “No, thank god. This guy’s eyes are definitely dark brown.”
“That would have been something.”
“I don’t even want to think about it.”
“Yeah.” Elizabeth sighed. “That might just be too much of a coincidence.”
There were a dozen more posed photographs and then the candid shots. The family arriving at the church, the ceremony, leaving the church. Pictures of happy people at the reception, laughing and dancing and cutting the wedding cake. Everything was glossy and polished and perfect.
All so banal. So ordinary. No secrets to be discovered. At least not until the very end. Between the last page and the back cover, there was a plain white envelope and Neal’s hands shook as he opened it and pulled out more pictures.
He looked at them and it finally hit him. The truth that he’d been chasing since he’d learned that he wasn’t James’ son. His mother had loved Felix Turner.
Neal spread out the photographs on the table and stared at them. They weren’t from his parents' wedding, but from when he’d been born. These were the pieces of the photographs that his mother had cut apart, where she’d excised Felix from the history of her baby’s life.
“She couldn’t bear to get rid of them. Of him. She kept this for thirty years – the record of a failed marriage through everything she’d been through. She kept him. Despite everything, she loved him.”
He got to his feet, feeling like he’d just come through a long and terrible illness, and made his way over to the bookcase where he’d stored the album with his baby pictures. El took that book from him and started going through it, finding the pages with the mutilated photographs.
“Here.” She laid a piece – of Felix looking down at something – on top of a picture of him as a newborn and the world snapped into focus. There was so much love and adoration in Felix’s face, love for the child in his arms. For him.
El found the missing piece of another picture. Felix sitting on his mother’s bed, his arms around her as she held her baby. His father’s smile was gentle, his eyes filled with wonder and joy. Despite everything else, he’d created this life and in this moment, he was happy.
Neal closed his eyes. It hurt too much. From the time he was old enough to understand that he didn’t have a father, he’d begged his mother, he’d begged Ellen for stories about the man. His mother, of course, was vague. His daddy had been a hero and he died. Ellen painted a picture of a man larger than life, at least until she couldn’t let him go on believing those lies. Neal had to wonder if she even knew the truth – that James wasn’t his real father.
Even after his world had fractured, he never stopped longing for knowledge, for understanding about the man who fathered him. And what he found were more lies and betrayals, and they nearly destroyed him. But he survived and although he’d messed everything up, the people he loved forgave him, gave him another chance. More than another chance. They’d opened their lives to him and loved him.
And still, there was another truth out there. One he only had fragments of. Pictures, a handful of official documents. A few years’ worth of impersonal prose about subjects that meant nothing.
“I think you need to talk to him, Neal. Maybe he can help fit in the missing pieces. Help you understand.”
“Who?”
“Ned Weeks – the man your father loved.”
It made sense, but the idea terrified him.
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
