elrhiarhodan

Title: Everything's Far and Nothing is True
Author:

elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Mozzie, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones, OMC, Implied Peter/Neal
Word Count: ~4000
Spoilers: None (A/U from the end of S4)
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Beta Credit:

theatregirl7299,

sinfulslasher
Summary: Neal longs to escape, he dreams of having the freedom to find Peter. Peter needs his family, he needs Elizabeth and Neal, but he's afraid. A continuation of the story first told in The Lost and Found, and You Never Know What the Wind May Blow.

Author’s Note: Written for

poetry_fiction's Ai Ogawa 2015 Challenge, for the prompt: I perform my desperate acts only in my thoughts.

Also, a birthday present for my very dearest

pooh_collector. Hugs the fuzzy little bear very tightly.

Title from the Oysterband song, "The Lost and Found".

__________________

Neal can't stop himself from planning his escape. It would be so damn easy. Despite Peter's warnings, he knows that these days the Marshals are less than diligent about reporting on his tracking anklet, and unless someone's actively monitoring his map, they take about twenty-four hours to react to an interruption in the signal.

Twenty-four hours is a lifetime when you're planning an escape. He's got passports that even Mozzie doesn't know about, identities and mythologies so well established that they might as well be real human beings. In twenty-four hours, he could be anywhere - stretched out on the Bali's pink sand beaches, casing the Prado or the Hermitage or the Louvre, sipping caipirinhas and watching the sun set behind the Sugar Loaf.

Or finding Peter on some desolate stretch of highway between Utah and Arizona. That was where the text came from last night.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when one of the pillows on his bed slips down and rests against his back, Neal dreams that he's not alone. That Peter's there, behind him, holding him steady, keeping him anchored.

But Peter's not here. He's somewhere out there, enjoying his freedom, exploring the world.

If Neal doesn't miss him so damn much, he'd be jealous.

So he plots and schemes and makes the most outrageous and desperate plans. But they're all in his head. Neal doesn't dare whisper them to Moz, because Moz will take them as pure intention and Neal worries that one morning, he'll find himself strapped into the seat of some dodgy aircraft as it rumbles down the runway and he'll have lost everything that matters.

Nor does Neal say anything to Elizabeth. She's suffering enough – missing Peter, needing Peter, trying not to resent her husband's absence and his silence. He's the best friend he can be and he knows it's barely enough.

In the privacy of his mind, it's easy to pretend that the new ASAC doesn't give a shit about what he does. He can fantasize that Diana and Clinton don't call up his tracking map every morning and every night. In his head, Neal dreams of spending the night at the house in Brooklyn, curling up with Satchmo and Elizabeth, and patiently waiting for Peter to call and tell them he's coming home.

That he's coming back to them.

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

The emergency room at the hospital in Page is small, but efficient. It helps that there aren't too many other people waiting. Triage doesn't take long; his blood pressure is normal and other than some nasty road rash and the useless left arm that he keeps cradled against his chest, Peter has no other injuries from his motorcycle accident.

It takes some effort and puts him in excruciating pain, but the nurse and an aide manage to get his leather jacket off. His tee shirt, however; isn't worth saving and they cut it off and exchange it for a worn cotton gown that smells like the cheap laundry detergent that every hospital he's ever been in uses. The x-ray is another exercise in sadomasochism, but he makes it through without vomiting from the agony or otherwise embarrassing himself.

The nurse asks him a few more questions, flashes a light in his eyes and seems satisfied before leading him over to a curtained cubicle.

While he's waiting, Peter manages to retrieve his cell phone without keeling over, but it's a useless exercise. Not only is the battery dead, but when Peter finally finds an outlet and plugs it in, he notices the signs all over the Emergency Room advising that mobile phone usage is restricted to doctors and emergency personnel. He'll still too much of a lawman to break the rules. He'll have to wait to call El and Neal.

Suddenly, it feels like that wait might just kill him. He hasn't heard their voices in months – his own choice – but he needs to hear them now. He's thinking about getting up and leaving the hospital when someone pulls the curtain open.

"I'm Doctor Anguillar. You are Peter Burke?" The woman holds out her hand.

"Yes, I am." Peter takes her hand and almost laughs. It seems so long since he's acted out such social courtesies. Maybe he's tired and jaded, but the woman in a white coat with a stethoscope around her neck seems just too bright and shiny, far too young, to be a doctor.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

It's actually hard for Peter to talk. It's been way too many months since he was required to string together so many words and he's a little terse. "I had a motorcycle accident just south of the entrance to the scenic route through the Peaks. I hit some gravel on a turn and spun out. My shoulder took the brunt of it."

The doctor pins his x-ray to a light board and even Peter – no doctor – can see the dislocation. But the doctor has some unexpected and bad news.

"Your collarbone is broken in three places and it looks like there is some damage to the socket – some of it looks pre-existing."

"I was in a car accident a few months ago, same arm was injured. But they didn't tell me that there was bone damage – just some pulled ligaments from the seatbelt restraint." Peter adds, "I had surgery on my other rotator cuff about more than twenty years ago."

The doctor made some notes. "Okay, I'll set up a consult for Ortho, and I suspect they'll want to put some pins in and clean up the bone fragments. Whether they can relocate the joint before surgery is doubtful."

Peter swallows hard. He hasn't expected this.

"Where are you from, Mr. Burke?"

Mister Burke still sounds so strange. It's been twenty years since he was called that. He answers, though. "New York. Been riding through the country for a few months."

"So you don't have any family in the area?"

Peter shakes his head and regrets it as the motion sets up a ringing pain through his entire upper body. "I was going to call my wife but I'm not allowed to use my cell phone in here."

The doctor seems startled by that last bit of information.

Peter grits his teeth and points to one of the signs.

She laughs. "I don't think anyone has paid attention to that rule in years. Everyone uses cell phones in the ER. Call your wife; let her know what's going on. Do you think she'll be able to come out here?"

"I don't know, I hope so." A thought occurs to him. "Any chance I can fly back to New York for the surgery?"

"Not if you don't want to risk permanent injury and a hell of a lot of pain. You probably won't be able to fly back for a week, at least."

"Ah. Okay." He should have figured. He should have figured on a lot of things.

"I'll put in orders for something to help you deal with the pain. Are you allergic to anything? Have you had any issues with painkillers?"

"Vicodin – I can't take that."

"Why not?"

"Had my wisdom teeth pulled out about a decade ago, the oral surgeon prescribed Vicodin. I took one and started seeing snakes coming out of the walls."

"Hmm, that's not one I've heard before. We'll start you with two milligrams of Percocet. That should make the visit from Ortho a little more bearable."

"Thank you."

The doctor leaves, closing the curtain behind her. Peter retrieves his phone, it was charging for about forty minutes. And now that he could call Elizabeth, Neal, anyone and everyone, he seems stuck. What could he say? Hi, hon. Feel like making a trip to Arizona? I crashed my bike and need some surgery. It would be nice to see your face when I come out of anesthesia.

But he has to call. Now, before he's loopy from the meds and the pain. But he doesn't call Elizabeth. He doesn't call Neal.

He calls Mozzie. Because he's a coward and he was a coward for four months. Avoiding the people who love him because he can't bear to hear their disappointment, their love and longing like chains dragging him back home. Back under.

Not for the first time since his sojourn began, Peter wonders if this is what Neal feels like. Trapped and ready to chew off his leg just to be free, but at the same time, fearing that freedom like a child fearing the monster in the closet.

The phone rings six times and Peter's about to hang up when he hears Mozzie's voice.

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in."

"Moz – " Peter understands the man's sarcasm.

"I have to wonder what kind of trouble you're in if you're calling me and not your loving and way too patient wife."

"How is she?"

"Barely holding it together. She puts on a good face when I see her, but she misses you. For reasons I barely comprehend."

"I deserve that."

"That and a hell of a lot more." Moz is silent for a moment, as if he's waiting for something. But Peter doesn't answer.

Shame is a very effective gag.

"What's the matter, Peter?"

It's Moz's rare use of his given name that triggers Peter's ability to speak. "I had an accident. I'm … mostly okay."

"Define 'mostly'."

"Broken collar bone, dislocated shoulder. I'll need surgery."

"And you want me to break the news?"

"Could you tell them?"

"Them?"

Peter's heart stutters. "Elizabeth and Neal. Neal is still in New York, right?"

"Ah, of course. Neal. And he is. Still here. The Demi-Suits are keeping him busy. Too busy. Your replacement seems the decent sort, although Neal isn't really the complaining type."

"How is he?"

"Do you really think you're entitled to know that?" Moz turns pugnacious again.

"Please." He's not above begging.

"Let's just say that Neal's smiles are even brighter these days."

Peter closes his eyes in understanding. Neal's smiles are like a barometer. The brighter they are, the more pain he's burying. "Please let them know I'm okay and that I'll be home as soon as I can." He gives up the dream of having El come out to Arizona. He doesn't deserve her. He can't let himself imagine Neal coming here, that's an impossibility beyond any he ever dreamed of.

"I might do that."

"Moz, please. Please tell them."

"Quid pro quo, Suit. Quid pro quo."

Peter lets out a sigh. Why should anything be different now? "What do you want?"

"You tell me where you are. And you don't have surgery until you talk with your wife. Which means that you answer your goddamned phone when she calls you!"

Peter winces at Mozzie's raised voice. "Okay, okay. I promise. And I'm at Page Hospital, in the Emergency Room."

"Good. Expect to hear from El tonight."

"And Neal?"

"If he wants to talk to you, he'll call. But don't count on it." With that, Moz ends the phone call.

Peter supposes that he deserves that. That and much worse.

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

Neal can't seem to shake the bad feeling that was dogging him since mid-morning. It's like something went wrong, or something's about to go wrong.

Nothing at the Bureau, however. For the last four months, he was relegated to various and sundry matters: mortgage fraud, identity theft, 419 scams involving a certain Nigerian prince who wants to give anyone who helps him out a substantial share of his forty-million dollar inheritance, and other even less thrilling cases. The exciting stuff is left for the agents.

The new ASAC, Mitchell Feingold, doesn't believe in putting a CI into field operations unless that CI has direct and valuable information. Not because he doesn't trust Neal (which he doesn't) but because CIs, no matter how useful they can be, aren't trained agents, don't carry guns and badges, and if they get hurt or killed, there's way too much paperwork to deal with.

Feingold might not be Peter, but he's a decent sort of agent. He expects Neal to show up every day, to work his eight hours, to stay out of trouble and stay within his radius. He shows Neal enough respect that Neal doesn't resent the nine-to-five routine (mostly) and Neal gives him the same respect. He doesn't lie to him (not that he needs to) and he stays out of trouble (as much as possible).

The morning slowly makes its way towards the afternoon, and for the hundredth time since ten AM, Neal checks his cell phone. Nothing from Moz, nothing from Elizabeth. And, of course, nothing from Peter. The text he got last night will probably be the only communication from him for another week or so.

But his skin is itching and he has to do something or he'll go mad. Without thinking about it, Neal goes upstairs. This short journey, once so commonplace, is now a rare trip. Neal's not an agent, not an admin nor an analyst. He's a felon on work-release and he doesn't belong upstairs unless he is being summoned.

He knocks on the ASAC's door. "Agent Feingold?"

The man looks up, a slightly annoyed expression on his face.

"Sorry to interrupt, but do you have a moment?"

Feingold nods and gestures for him to come in. "Sure – and sorry. The powers that be in Washington want me to sign off on a budget that would be ridiculous for a Resident Agency Office in Fargo. I appreciate the interruption. What can I do for you?"

Neal relaxes a little. Maybe this won't be so bad. He takes a deep breath and tries to organize his thoughts. And just blurts out, "Can I ask for a favor?"

That earns him a raised eyebrow. "A favor?"

Neal licks his lips, knowing that he's giving away too much information. But sometimes honesty is the best policy, at least up to a point. "Peter Burke – " Neal swallows and looks down. It was so long since he said that name. "He was, he is a good friend."

"Who lost his job because of you. Or so I've been told."

Neal goes cold. No, this was a terrible idea. What was he thinking? "I know."

Feingold leans back in his chair and stares at him. "So, what about Peter Burke?"

"When he was my handler, I had an approved corridor to his house."

"I know – I had it revoked. He's not your handler anymore." Feingold doesn't have to tell him how he feels about a felon on a tracking anklet having the privilege of visiting his handler.

"But he's still my friend."

"Is he? I heard that he's taken himself off. A voyage of discovery, or so I've been told." Feingold's definitely playing with him now.

"He has. But his wife, Elizabeth, is my friend too."

"You've got to be kidding me, Caffrey. Burke's wife?" Feingold's derision is even more evident.

"No – I'm not kidding. And it's not what you think. Not at all." Neal allows just a touch of outrage to creep into his tone.

Feingold relents, just a little. "Okay – if you say so."

"I do." Neal fishes his phone out and calls up a photo - the "prom pose". "Elizabeth took this." He shows the photo to Feingold, not that it proves anything about anything. Or maybe it reveals too much.

"What do you want, Caffrey?"

"Can I have my corridor to the Burkes' home reinstated?" A million justifications and explanations are on the tip of his tongue, but Neal swallows them all.

Feingold stares at him, taking way too long to answer. Finally, "Let me think about it. I'll get back to you before the end of the day."

Neal thanks him and leaves. This is better than he expected. He settles back at his desk, still itchy with the sense of impending doom, but there's nothing he can do about it. A few minutes later, Feingold comes out of his office and asks Clinton and Diana to come upstairs. Neal has to wonder if that summons has anything to do with his request.

And it seems like it does. Neal's got his monitor angled to catch reflections; he can't read lips from this distance, but watches as Clinton and Diana keep turning back to look at him. He imagines their conversation:

Feingold asks, "What's the deal with Caffrey and Elizabeth Burke?"

Clinton's the first to respond. "Neal and Mrs. Burke? What do you mean?"

Feingold clarifies, "Are they having a thing? A fling?"

Diana chimes in. "You have to be kidding, right?" She looks over her shoulder at him. "Neal and Elizabeth Burke? That's really kind of funny."

"So, as far as you know, they're not?"

"There are many things that Neal does on a regular basis that make me want to kick his ass, but that – never."

Clinton nods in agreement, but he looks back into the bullpen, at Neal.

His handlers head back downstairs and Feingold steps out of his office. All he says is, "Caffrey – request granted."

Diana and Clinton snag him for lunch. Usually he goes out with one of them a few times a week, but he can't remember if they ever tag-teamed him like this.

They're barely settled at a table in the soup and salad place that Diana prefers when they pounce on him.

"What's going on?"

"What do you mean?" Except that Neal knows exactly what they mean.

"Why was Feingold asking about you and Elizabeth Burke?" Clinton asks but Neal can see the speculation in Diana's eyes. She knows about his personal relationship with Peter and she probably wondered about him and Elizabeth.

"I asked him if I could have my corridor to the Burkes' back." Neal doesn't elaborate.

"Is there anything going on that we should know about?" Clinton's interrogation technique needs some work. Subtlety is not his forte.

Neal laughs and smiles brightly. "Between me and Peter's wife?"

"Yeah."

Neal shakes his head and drops the smile. "No – there's nothing. Nothing except friendship. Peter's been gone for four months and we don't know when – or if – he's coming back. She needs a friend. I need a friend. Can you understand that?"

Diana still looks skeptical, but Clinton nods and relaxes. "Okay – just making sure. Can't cover your back if we don't know what needs to be covered."

Neal blinks, a little overwhelmed. It was a long while since he received any sense of solidarity from these two. They never outright blamed him for Peter's forced retirement, but there was a coolness that Neal had never managed to overcome. Mostly because he deserves it.

The conversation shifts to their lunch order and plans for the weekend. Neal doesn't contribute much – what's he going to say? That he's going to see Elizabeth, cook dinner for her, hold her as she rages against him, against her missing husband, against the unfairness of everything.

Just as they're finishing, Diana asks, "Have you heard anything?"

"I got a text message last night. Peter says he's okay. That's it."

"Where is he?"

A few months ago, Neal told them that Moz was able to trace Peter's location in the hopes that they might go look for the missing man. They didn't.

"South of Lake Powell, just north of the Arizona border."

"Desolate country," Clinton notes.

"You've been there?"

"Yeah – took a road trip through the Southwest after my last deployment, before starting law school. Hit a bunch of the national parks and got a serious case of the heebie-jeebies driving through Navajo country. That's where Peter is heading."

Neal thinks about Georgia O'Keefe and Frederick Remington and ghostly paintings on canyon walls. He's never been to the Southwest, but lately he was dreaming of imposing mesas and night skies so clear he can see all the way to Andromeda. He wonders if he's viewing the world through Peter's eyes.

They head back to the office and Neal spends the next few hours productively working through the latest set of files dumped on his desk. Feingold gave him something of value for no reason other than his rather plaintive request. The least he can do is his job.

Five o'clock comes and Neal is out like a shot. He stops and picks up wine and the makings for a simple meal. He didn't bother to text Elizabeth, he knows that she's home tonight – they talked yesterday, after they received Peter's message. Neal wanted to ask her to come over, but hadn't when she told him she wanted to just close out the world tonight.

It was only four months, but the trip to Brooklyn seems like an endless voyage to an unknown land. It was late summer the last time he was here, and the winter isn't being kind to the neighborhood. Dirty piles of snow choke the streets, along with the occasional discarded Christmas trees still draped in faded tinsel like so many Norma Desmonds.

Neal rings the doorbell – letting himself in wouldn't be right, not without Peter home and waiting for him. To his surprise, Mozzie answers the door.

"Good, you're here. El didn't tell me she was expecting you."

"She wasn't. I thought I'd surprise her."

Moz takes the bottle from him and nods approvingly. "You'll need this."

Neal worries about that comment as he sets the groceries down on the counter and looks around. "Where's Elizabeth?"

"She's not home yet. Something about some confusion with a flower delivery. She'll be home soon."

Neal asks, "Do you spend a lot of time here?"

"Enough, but not too much."

He tamps down a spurt of jealousy and unpacks the food. He cooked for Peter and Elizabeth on a few occasions and knows his way around the Burke kitchen. Water is set to boil for pasta and it takes a few minutes to start a sauce simmering. There are scallops ready for a quick broil and he has Moz set three places at the dining room table.

Satchmo is unusually clingy and Neal almost trips over the dog a few times, at least until the front door opens and Elizabeth walks in. Satchmo, despite his age and his usually placid nature, runs to her and barks like a puppy.

Whatever Elizabeth says in greeting is drowned out by the dog's excitement, and only when Satchmo flops into his dog bed, panting in happiness and exhaustion, does she turn to Neal.

Of course, her first question is obvious. "How are you here? Won't you get in trouble?"

"No, I won't. I asked for permission. It was granted."

Elizabeth wraps her arms around him and Neal holds her tight. He missed her. Even though she's a frequent visitor to his apartment – he missed her like this.

Moz clears his throat, interrupting their reunion. "I got a phone call this afternoon. From Peter."

FIN