White Collar Fic - All the Dreams Have Been Undone

[elrhiarhodan]

Title: All the Dreams Have Been Undone
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey (Peter/Neal)
Word Count: ~2100
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Beta Credit: sinfulslasher, theatregirl7299
Summary: Continues the story begun in At the Other Side of Heaven, Neal Falls and searches for Peter. The Devil is quite helpful.

Author’s Note: Written as an additional fill for my Fic-Can-Ukah meme, for sandy79. She requested "Shapes like stars – Peter/Neal" in the Winged Neal'verse. I tried to write another story in that 'verse, but it feels complete and I kept drawing blanks. sandy79 – I hope that you don't mind that I've used a different wing!verse for your story.

Title from the Eurhythmics song, "My True Love".

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The plain is vast, desolate and at, first impression, lifeless. But when Neal looks closer, he sees the truth. Life clings most tenaciously to the rocks, in the shadows, burrowing under the sand. There is life everywhere, abundant but unfamiliar. Creatures that slither and skip and run without purpose, unless survival itself is purpose.

The heat and the bright light are unpleasant but endurable. But the loneliness eats at him, and loneliness is a strange emotion for Neal. As one of Her angels, he is accustomed to walking alone, of talking with his fellow angels only about a battle to come or a battle won. She who is – or who was – his God is jealous, intolerant of any congress – even friendship – between Her angels. She demands complete and utter devotion.

Which was why he is here, on this endless plain. He remembers the truth and, in that moment, surrenders. Devil's words have resurrected the memory She stole from him, and the Devil speaks true.

Peter waits for you...

Or maybe Neal simply hopes that the Devil hasn't lied.

He knows that he's been carrying a sword, wearing the armor, sitting in the seat of another angel. One with dark eyes and bright wings and a smile of unsurpassed sweetness. Neal remembers following this angel into battle, he remembers the stir of desire when that angel's gaze touched him.

He remembers the rose. A single white rose, taken from Her garden.

Neal then remembers the screams, he remembers being made to watch as She tortured Peter, as She ripped his mind – his vast intellect – to shreds, as She broke his body and cast him out.

Then, and only then, did She turn to Neal, Her eyes filled with blood, Her terrible beauty stained by anger and satisfaction, and She wiped his mind clean of love. Neal now understands the sense of wrongness he felt every time he donned his armor, every time he hefted that sword. He was given the spoils of disaster as if they were the greatest honor.

With the Devil's words, Neal now sees that Heaven, golden white, pure and clean, is nothing more than a bastion of lies. He wants no part of that anymore. He'd rather live amongst the dirt and scrub, sleep in the sand hollowed out by the wind, share his bed with all manner of strange creatures, than wallow in the filth She perpetrates.

His Fall, for all its suddenness, is a willful decision. He has no armor, but his sword – Peter's sword – is still in his hand when he Falls. When Neal wakes alone on the barren plain, he thinks of tossing it aside. But it's Peter's, and it's his only link to him.

The light in the western sky begins to fade and Neal furls his wings against his body. With the coming dark, a deep chill fills the air. The day's bright heat gives way to a cold night. Neal looks up and sees the stars in Heaven. No, not Heaven, but some other celestial firmament. They have their own shapes now, their own dance. They can guide him if he wants, but he knows not where that path will lead.

All he knows is that he needs to find Peter, to discover the deeper truth to the Devil's words. “Peter waits for you, Beautiful One. He’s been waiting for you for an eternity … Foolish Outcast that he is, he never loses hope. You are the only thing he remembers.”

Neal grips the sword and thinks of Peter, of the last perfect memory. Her garden, a white rose, the knowledge that he is loved.

The last thought warms him and directs him. He needs to find the place where the roads meet. Peter will be there, waiting for him. He knows that in his blood, his bones. He thinks about Peter waiting for so long and he wants to weep. He should have remembered, he should never have let Her steal his memories. He should have broken free and Fallen, he should have caught Peter before he landed and saved him an eon's worth of pain.

But he didn't. He will find Peter, though, and spend the next eon making sure he knows that he is loved.

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

Peter limps to the crossroads, like he's done every day for countless days, for countless years. Part of him doesn't understand why he persists in this foolishness, this utter madness. But the whole of him remembers that last moment of perfection.

Neal will never come for him. Neal is in Heaven, he sits at Her right hand. The Devil speaks true. That is the most painful of ironies. She might call the Devil the Prince of Lies, but the Devil doesn't lie. He just twists the truth into weapons that cause utter devastation.

Once again, the Devil is waiting for him. He is smug as he stands tall, and despite the bright desert light, the Devil is wrapped in shadow.

The Devil greets him with suspicious good cheer. "Ah, Peter, it's good to see you."

Peter's tongue is stuck; his damaged brain can't seem to find the words today. Finally, he manages an all-too-aggressive reply. "What do you want?"

The Devil laughs. "Do you really have to ask?"

Peter takes a shallow breath against the pain that's been his sole and constant companion for an eternity. He knows what the Devil wants, but he's not going to give it to him. "I have no time for your games."

"On the contrary, all you have is time. What would your days be like without me?"

"Peaceful." The word erupts, hoarse and guttural.

"I'd think you've had a surfeit of peace, old friend."

"We are not friends."

"But we could be." The Devil – for the first time in their long association – touches him, a finger stroke against his arm. Peter shudders, not in disgust, but in suppressed longing. No one touched him since She took Her vengeance. It's all Peter can do not to lean in, to seek out another touch, a more purposeful caress.

But the Devil steps back. Peter expects a smirk, a grin of triumph, but the Devil's expression is full of compassion. Peter wants to roar, to strike at the Devil, to wipe that pity off the creature's face. To grind him into the dust.

His wings flex and pull against his damaged body, twisting his spine, and he collapses. He's the one who's ground into the dust. He's nothing.

"Get up." The Devil stands over him. "Get up." The Devil commands.

"No. Leave me here, let me go. Let me die." For the first time since he was expelled from Heaven, Peter truly longs for an end to his existence. Neal will never come for him. Neal is as beyond his reach now as was before Peter so foolishly robbed Her garden and gave him a token of his love.

The Devil does not pick him up. Instead, he kneels beside Peter and whispers, "Neal comes for you. He searches for you. He remembers. Don't give up."

Peter gazes into the Devil's dark eyes, as fathomless as the night. "Why? Why are you doing this?"

The Devil's lips curve into a smile. "Because every time you stand here and wait, you defy Her."

Peter closes his eyes against the darkness. "And that defiance gives you strength."

"No, I am strong enough – I might not win most battles against Her angels, but winning isn't everything. I am the balance, Peter. I am freedom. I am choice. Your very existence on this plain validates my own struggle."

Peter turns his face towards the sand. He wants to deny the Devil's words, but the truth is always there. "Go away."

The Devil remains. "He comes, Peter. He searches for you. Do you want him to find you like this, surrendering to Her will? He is so very close."

"Please go," Peter begs. This is a first. He never begs, not even when She broke him, not even when he Fell into nothingness.

The Devil touches him again, for the last time; his fingers brush a brief caress against his face. "Hold fast, Peter. Neal is coming."

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

Neal lets the sword guide him to the road – a road which seems to go in only one direction. Whenever he looks back, all he sees is sand and stone and shadow. There is nothing else.

He walks along, refusing to consider the possibility of flight. This is a journey he needs to take in this slow, cumbersome manner. He worries that if he takes to the air, She will see him and send Her angels to take him back to Heaven. To Hell.

It feels like he's been walking forever. Night comes and Neal walks. He doesn't feel the cold now. All he feels is purpose. Need. The urgency to find Peter before it's too late. The sword lights the way in the darkness, its burden never growing heavy.

The sun rises and Neal still walks. He can feel the crossroad in the distance, the border between this empty plain and something, someplace, else. Not Heaven. Never Heaven. Never again.

The heat shimmers and distorts the distance. The illusion of water glimmers on the horizon, but Neal isn't fooled. He keeps walking, letting the sword carry him forward. The night comes again and he doesn't rest. Weariness is a stranger to him. Neal carries forward but all he sees is Peter handing him the white rose, the memory both a succor and a bane.

Six times the sun rises and sets as Neal walks along the road. His journey ends with the seventh dawn.

The crossroads are ahead. The day is too young for the sun to craft illusions and as he approaches, Neal sees two figures. One prone, the other kneeling.

He instantly recognizes the kneeling figure. It is the Devil. Then he sees that it is Peter on the ground, and Neal charges, sword upraised. "No, you shall not have him!"

The Devil stands, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. "He is yours, Beautiful One." Then the Devil disappears, but two words linger in the morning air. "Be happy."

Neal finally drops the sword and falls to his knees. Peter is almost unrecognizable, his body twisted, his face stained by dirt and tears and time. Neal touches Peter and Peter struggles, his face contorted, his eyes tightly shut. "No, no – leave me alone. Let me go. Let me die."

"It's me, Neal. I remembered. I'm here, now."

Peter's stops struggling and he opens his eyes. At first, they are unfocused, hazy with confusion. Peter's brow furrows and he whispers, "Neal?"

Neal's heart sings at the sound of his name. It's been so long since he's been called that. She had no need for words. The Devil took care to call him The Beautiful One. Maybe the last time someone spoke that syllable was Peter himself, in the heat of battle.

"Yes, it's me. It's Neal. I'm sorry it's taken so long. I'm sorry you've waited like this. Forgive me." Neal murmurs those words against Peter's skin. It's dry and rough but Neal doesn't care. He wraps his arms around Peter; he spreads his wings to shelter him from the sun.

Peter replies, but the words are broken sounds that Neal can't understand. Not yet. He will, though. He found Peter and even if he can't mend what She broke, he can give solace, he can reach into those damaged places and plant seeds of hope.

He can love.

And that love will be enough.

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

Between the setting of the sun and its rising, the crossroads vanish. The vast plain is transformed. It is no longer a barren wasteland, but a rich and fertile valley. Trees, tall and ancient, replace the boulders, grass and flowers carpet the world. And where the sword landed now grows a rose bush. It blooms regardless of the time of day, pure white roses that perfume the air.

Peter is still broken in body and in mind. But he is alive. Neal is here and he looks at him with such love, such joy, that Peter cannot help but feel as if hope itself flows through his veins. How can it not, when love is what makes his heart beat?

FIN