White Collar Fic - A Forever Kind of Family - Part Two of Three (Reverse Big Bang R2)

[elrhiarhodan]

Title: A Forever Kind of Family - Part Two of Three
Author: elrhiarhodan
Artist: eldorah
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones, Reese Hughes, Kyle Bancroft, Original Male Characters, Original Female Characters; Peter/Elizabeth
Word Count: ~16,500
Spoilers: All of Season 6, Especially Au Revoir
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Brief scene of animal neglect
Beta Credit: sinfulslasher
Summary: The year between his "death" and the final sentencing of the Pink Panthers brought a lot of changes in Neal's life, and in Peter's, too. Families are made - by birth and by choice - and both men learn that the bonds of friendship can never really be broken.

Author’s Note: Written as a pinch hit for eldorah's artwork for Round 2 of the wc_reverse_bb.

__________________



Six Months Post Mortem - A Bird in the Hand

It had felt strange to leave the dogs behind, but he had an appointment with the trustees at the Louvre. He was presenting the first iteration of the new security system – and while he'd often brought Peter and Diana with him on his consultations, today wouldn't have been a good day to show up with the dogs.

He couldn't wait to get home and tell them that the trustees had signed off on this first phase. Peter would look at him with deep satisfaction, as if he never doubted that Neal would be successful. Diana, however, would be a little more reserved, but she'd come around. Just in time for her post-dinner treat. The three of them would then cuddle on the couch while Neal ran through the specs, double-checking with manufacturers and software companies, making certain that everything worked just the way he promised it would.

Even though it had taken Neal a few months to stop calling Peter Pietro, he'd immediately changed Artemis to Diana, since the poor dog probably had nothing good to associate with that name. The vet had told him that all the signs were there that she'd been a breeder at a puppy mill. Even though the greyhound was only three years old, she'd already had at least three litters. It was a miracle that her owner had bothered to have her spayed – probably because she'd had problems with her last litter. It was even more surprising that he hadn't simply put her down once her breeding was over. Maybe she'd been sold as a pet to someone who ultimately decided they didn't want her – which was why she'd been abandoned on a Parisian street.

She and Peter bonded from that first night. The Saint still looked at him like the sun rose and fell in his eyes, but Diana brought out all of his protective instincts. He made sure she ate first and finished everything in her bowl. When they went out, no one approached Diana without Peter's thorough vetting.

Neal's reputation – the future of his family – was riding on the successful implementation of this proposed security system. He had won a small contract with Cartier, and another with Chopard, and others soon followed – all small jobs at the retail operations level. They paid well, but until Neal proved himself with this massive contract with the Louvre, there would be no repeat business.

Tonight, though, he was going to celebrate. Not just with the very excellent homard au beurre – lobster in butter sauce with artichokes and chanterelle mushrooms that he was going to make. But with a special bottle of wine, too. He wanted Champagne: Veuve Clicquot or Tattinger or maybe even Perrier-Jouet. And there was even some hand-chopped sirloin for his companions – they deserved to celebrate as much as he did.

Neal went into his favorite wine shop and was shocked. Robert looked like he was about to cry, and from the back of the store, there was someone cursing. Loudly, with great relish. Then the cursing stopped, only to be followed by a deep voice intoning parts of a Latin mass. Then the cursing started again.

"What's going on?" It sounded like a scene from The Exorcist.

"My great uncle died."

Neal blinked at the non sequitur. "I'm very sorry."

"He was a priest, a good and holy man. Much venerated by his parish."

Not knowing what to say, Neal just nodded.

"As a priest, he took a vow of poverty – everything he had belonged to the Church."

"Okay."

"Everything except Mozart."

"Mozart?" Neal repeated the name with a pang. Those two syllables were so evocative.

But Robert didn't notice. He just wrung his hands. "My great-uncle had a parrot."

Neal began to put the pieces together.

"And I am his only living relative."

"So, you inherited your great-uncle's parrot."

"Yes – the Church did not want it."

"You could sell it."

Robert sighed. "It is most … voluable."

More Latin – which Neal recognized as the Great Doxology – was followed by a stream of rather inventive curses. "I guess that's the parrot? But who's saying Mass to it? Did the parish send someone to deliver it?"

"No one – that's just the parrot. It's – what's the word – schizophrenic. It says the Holy Mass and then it spews utter filth. I can't keep that creature near my family – my son and my daughter would hear that. And my wife swears that if I bring the bird into my house, she'll make it into soup. Who will want to buy such a bird?"

Other than a Lenny Bruce-wannabe, Neal couldn't think of anyone who'd be interested.

"Monsieur Victor, you would do me such a great favor…"

Neal shook his head. "I already have two companions."

Robert countered, "The parrot is old – my uncle bought it in the '70's – when he was a missionary in Africa. It probably won't live much longer."

"I know nothing about keeping birds."

"Please, Monsieur Victor, I can't let the creature die and I can't keep it here. Mozart loved my uncle and my uncle loved Mozart. You must understand what that's like. Your Pierre and your Artemis – they are important to you and you have made arrangements for them in case something happens, no?"

Actually, Neal hadn't and he filed the idea away. The problem was, he had no one – at least no one in Paris – who would be willing to care for two large dogs. Maybe when everything in New York was settled, he'd make arrangements then.

"Please take Mozart – it is a good bird. It just misses my uncle, and the shop – it's too much chaos for a bird. That's why Mozart is being so difficult."

Neal could feel his resolve weakening.

"I will make it worth your while." Robert unlocked the temperature controlled cabinet where he kept his very best, and most expensive vintages. Not one, but two bottles of Pessac-Leognan Haut-Brion 1982 were placed on the counter – each one retailed for over a thousand Euros.

"Robert – no. This isn't right."

"No, it is exactly right. You will sell these beautiful bottles and use the money to care for Mozart." Robert reached for another bottle, a Mouton-Rothschild 2002. "This is for your own enjoyment."

Neal sighed and couldn't help but appreciate the irony; he was getting paid with extraordinary wines to take care of a foul-mouthed bird named Mozart. It was only fitting. So he nodded.

"Ah, my friend – you will be rewarded in heaven. Come, let me introduce you."

Robert took him into the back, where Mozart was entertaining himself. The bird was much smaller than Neal expected, about the size of a large squirrel. It was gray with a large black beak and bright yellow eyes. It looked at him with intelligent curiosity.

"Here – it likes apples." Robert had sliced a chunk off of a piece of fruit. Neal took it and held it out to the bird. To his astonishment, the creature hopped onto his fist and carefully plucked the apple from his fingers, consuming it with great delicacy.

Neal was charmed. "Hello, Mozart."

"Dominus vobiscum, you asshole."

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

Six months after Neal's death

It had been a grueling week. The Pink Panthers' trial was about to begin, after months of legal maneuvering. Peter was scheduled to testify this week and the U.S. Attorney had rightfully insisted on intensive pre-trial preparation.

Which only served to open the wounds that had barely started to heal.

He was invited to take part in the government's trial strategy sessions and it was unbearably difficult to listen to the attorneys discuss how much Neal's involvement with the Bureau should be revealed. Finally, the lead attorney looked to him to cast the deciding vote.

"You knew Caffrey the best. How much of a ticking time bomb is his reputation going to be?"

Peter gritted his teeth and forced himself to give a measured reply. "Neal Caffrey was the finest asset the Bureau had. In cases with his direct involvement, we had a ninety-seven percent conviction rating."

"We know that, but Caffrey was still a criminal."

Peter knew he was skirting the truth, but Neal's reputation was something he could still protect. "No – he was a reformed criminal. He served his time and then some. He had opportunities to run – "

"Which he did, didn't he?"

Peter growled, "Only to help catch one of the FBI's most wanted. Look – Neal Caffrey came to us when he had been given the opportunity to join the Panthers. He was eager to help put them behind bars. We've already gone over that."

The attorney nodded, but added, "And made his own release contingent on your success. The defense has made motions to get completed records of Caffrey's involvement with the Bureau. We've had to turn over some of them."

Peter knew that, and it still stuck in his throat that innocent people might be exposed.

"We still need to know who 'Confidential Informant Number 2' is."

"No, you don't." There was no way he was throwing Mozzie to the wolves. "He had no direct involvement with the Panthers and there's no reason to bring him up in direct examination."

"Why don't you let us do our jobs, Agent Burke?"

Peter clamped his mouth shut, making it clear just how much he disagreed with this possible line of questioning.

The attorney sighed, realizing that Peter's cooperation was wearing thin. "Can you at least tell us what his role was?"

"Logistic support, planning. He helped Caffrey from time to time. Which meant he assisted the Bureau, but always in an unofficial capacity. I don't even know his real name."

"But do you know for certain that he wasn't involved in the Panthers?"

"Yes." Peter didn't elaborate, wanting to end this line of questioning as quickly and neatly as possible.

The attorneys moved on from Mozzie's involvement, but Peter was sure that they'd come back to him eventually. They peppered him with questions about Neal, preparing him for what would be a grueling cross-examination by the Panthers' attorneys – particularly Woodford's.

As they were finishing up, one of the junior attorneys commented, "You know, it's probably a good thing that Caffrey's dead."

Peter wanted to tear the man's tongue out, but restrained himself. "Why the hell would you even think that?"

The guy held up his hands in defense. "Just that the Panthers have a bad reputation when it comes to letting anyone who could talk live – Woodford especially so. One of the reasons why they've been so hard to catch is that anyone who even thinks of betraying them ends up dead. Did you know that Woodford was arrested three times in Europe before he took charge of the Panthers, and each time he walked because the government's star witnesses ended up dead? So did their families."

Peter froze, suddenly terrified for Elizabeth, for his unborn son. "And Woodford knows that I'm an FBI agent."

"I doubt that Woodford would come after you and yours – Caffrey brought you in, the only threats he's made have been against his corpse. Like I said, it's a good thing he's dead. Otherwise, he'd be spending the rest of this life in WitSec. Probably working in a carwash or flipping burgers in Lower Bumfuck, Idaho."

The lead attorney on the case tried to mollify Peter. "Look, if it makes you feel safer, we'll have a security detail for you."

"For my wife. I can handle myself. Until Woodford and the crew are sentenced, I want someone watching my wife twenty-four seven. Surveillance on the house, someone with her when she goes out without me. She's eight and a half months pregnant, damn it."

"Okay, okay. I'll get right on it."

Peter looked at his watch; it was a quarter to six. "I'm done. I have to go pick my wife up – we have childbirth classes tonight. Come tomorrow morning, seven AM, I expect to find a surveillance vehicle in front of my house."

The other man nodded.

Peter left in a rush, not because he was going to be late, but because he was so angry – at the U.S. Attorney's Office and at himself. Why the hell did it take six months for him to realize that Woodford and the Panthers were a threat to him?

At least Neal had done an excellent job of keeping Mozzie out of it, because there was no way he could protect him. Moz's own paranoia and his disdain for bureaucracy would make that impossible. Peter remembered the last time he'd tried to safeguard him, and smiled sadly at the memory.

He could still feel Neal standing next to him as Elizabeth took a picture. He could still hear her asking, "So who's Newman and who's Redford?"

If he had to pick one of the best moments of his friendship with Neal – it would be that one. They were so perfectly in sync, so absolutely certain that each had the other's back. He trusted Neal, and Neal put his faith in him.

He'd never have that moment again.

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


Eight Months Post Mortem - Planetary Furballs

Neal leaned back from his desk and sighed in satisfaction. His books were balanced, he had plenty of money in the bank, and his business – a legitimate occupation that he could be proud of – was flourishing. The Louvre job was going very well, and the trustees were making noises about releasing information about the new security contract to the press. He'd finally gotten some repeat business with Cartier – to upgrade their flagship store here in Paris; and there were other clients, too. Prominent art galleries, a few high-end boutiques, even a couple of private homes. There was something about a man in a well-cut suit who attended every consultation with a pair of extremely well-behaved and very large dogs that screamed "trustworthy".

Little did they know what went on at home. Not that Peter and Diana were anything less than well-behaved; it was Mozzie who was the agent of chaos. He'd brought the voluble African Gray home and life had never been the same again. Mozart became Mozzie within a few hours, which wasn't surprising.

It wasn't just Neal's need to rebuild the family he'd left behind; the similarities between the parrot he'd adopted and his old friend were too great to ignore.

The human Mozzie didn't have the parrot's salty vocabulary, but to Neal's astonished delight, once he was less stressed, his new companion seemed to have a great fondness for spouting Einstein, Shakespeare, and Jerry Lewis at surprisingly appropriate moments.

In their own quiet way, the dogs had expressed a certain amount of skepticism at Mozzie's introduction into their home. It was almost as if they didn't trust the bird's influence on Neal. Or that just might have been a combination of his own wishful thinking and anthropomorphism. Peter warmed up to Mozzie first, soon letting the parrot perch on his back for a little while. Eventually, Moz's favorite perch became Peter's head. The Saint accepted Mozzie's shenanigans, up to a point. When the parrot became too much to deal with, Peter would shake his head, sending both bird and strands of drool flying.

Diana, on the other hand, had little tolerance for Moz. The one time he tried to use her as a perch, she snapped at him - neatly taking off two tail feathers. From the safety of his cage, Moz recited Easter Mass, punctuated with Kiswahili invective.

In a way, it felt like old times.

But right now, the dogs were snoozing in the patch of winter sunlight and Mozzie was in his cage, singing to himself. It sounded like an aria from The Marriage of Figaro. Quite fitting, really.

It was a few weeks into the New Year and the days were still far too short. Winters in Paris were mostly wretched, wet but rarely cold enough for snow. At least they were thankfully brief. It rained steadily from November on, and Neal hated to admit it, but he missed the snow. Even the filthy sludge that lingered for weeks after the snow ended. He couldn't help himself and routinely checked the weather in Manhattan - it was another year of record snowfalls and bitter cold. Too many winters - four in prison and then four shackled to the FBI - he'd spent longing for milder climates. For the sun and the blue skies of the Mediterranean, or the South Seas. Instead, he had a view of a city skyline cloaked in perpetual gray. Not unlike what he had now, except it was the end of January and in a few weeks, warmer winds would usher in the famous springtime in Paris.

Neal thought about heading out, maybe down to the local cafe. He used to be a social creature, but the past few months, he'd drawn into himself. Maybe it was the winter, maybe it was the knowledge that his friends still mourned him and there was a new life who bore the name he still called himself in the privacy of his thoughts.

June had paid a visit to the Burkes two weeks after Elizabeth gave birth. She had delivered a christening gift and taken some pictures - which she'd sent to him. The baby was a handsome blob, as two week old babies often were. It might have been too early to tell, but he had his mother's dimples and his father's smile. It took every ounce of willpower that Neal had not to send a gift, not to hop on an airplane and go back to New York and greet his namesake in person.

But he couldn't. The Panthers' trial was under way, and he'd put everyone in danger by showing up alive, undoing everything he'd work so hard to prevent.

June sent regular updates. Baby Neal at a month, at six weeks, at nine weeks. He was beautiful and healthy, and Neal wished with all his heart that he could be there, watching him grow, instead of living for a handful of photos every few weeks.

Neal sighed. There was no point in brooding. He made a general announcement to his companions, "Okay, guys - I'm heading out for dinner." Mozzie interrupted his aria to tell him to go fuck himself. Diana and Peter didn't bother to comment.

He put on his hat, grabbed an umbrella, and opened the door, only to find Charlotte, the woman who lived on the floor below him, about to knock on his door.

At first, she seemed flustered, then she shook her head and chuckled. "Ah, Victor, either you're psychic or my footsteps have gotten very heavy." Then she noticed his hat and the umbrella and frowned. "You are on your way out. Perhaps we can talk in the morning?"

"Just heading down for a bite to eat. Maybe you'd like to join me?"

Charlotte didn't hesitate. "You know, that does sound nice."

Neal held out his arm and escorted her back to her apartment to retrieve her coat, before heading to the bistro at the corner. The evening, which had been so lackluster, took on a warm glow. Charlotte reminded him of June, and for that reason alone, Neal had cultivated a delicate friendship with her. She was probably a decade younger than his former landlady and partner in the occasional crime, in her mid-sixties, rather than mid-seventies. In the light from the street lamps, she looked a decade younger than that.

But she had the same elegance, the same sense of style, and best of all, the same conspiratorial sense of fun. He invited her up for coffee a few times and she especially enjoyed conversing with Mozzie, exchanging all sorts of insults in a variety of languages. In fact, she was the one who taught the bird how to curse in Kiswahili, a language she'd learned when she'd worked as a teacher in a small village in Tanzania thirty years ago.

They settled at a table and decided to split a bottle of wine.

Neal was curious as to why Charlotte had come to his apartment, but didn't press. She'd get to it eventually.

She asked about the dogs, he asked her about her grandchildren. Neal mentioned a new exhibit at the Musée Marmottan Monet, and Charlotte mentioned that she was a member, and would he like to go with her? By the time they'd reduced their shared order of moules marinières, the specialty of this particular bistro, to a bowl of shells and fragrant broth, Neal couldn't contain his curiosity any longer.

Neal wiped his mouth and finished the last of his wine, and asked, "So, what did you want to talk to me about?"

Charlotte sighed. "I need a favor."

Neal smiled and rashly promised, "Anything."

"I've told you, my eldest daughter, Claudette, is about to give birth again."

Neal nodded and tried not to feel the ache in his chest. "And?"

"My granddaughter, Simone, has two cats."

Neal could almost hear the train of thought barreling down the tracks.

"Claudette is worried about having cats in the house where there's a newborn."

"You know it's a myth that cats will steal a baby's breath."

"I know, and Claudette knows she's being illogical. But she lost a baby to crib death two years ago…"

"I'm sorry." Neal rested his hand atop Charlotte's.

"So, even though she knows she's being silly, she also has reason to worry. Simone was shattered when her baby brother died – that's one of the reasons why they got the kittens – to help the child get past her grief."

"Won't taking the cats away from her be cruel?"

"Well, the plan is to find them a temporary home. Six months, a year at the most - just until the dangerous time passes. And put them with someone that Simone can visit. They live in Montmartre, just a few Metro stops away."

"Why don't you take them?"

"I would, but you know that I'm out of town so much."

Charlotte spent about half her time in Paris and the rest of the time with her other daughter, who lived in Arles. Neal watered her plants and checked on her apartment during the weeks she was absent. "And I guess you can't keep taking the cats with you."

"Oh, no, certainly not. Suzette's husband is very allergic."

Of course he is. "Very well, ask me."

"Victor – would you please consider this?"

"You do know I have two large dogs."

"Who are exceedingly polite and well-behaved. They wouldn't dream of hurting another animal."

Peter might not, but Neal wasn't so sure about Diana. Her patience was limited. "The cats are going to freak when they see the dogs."

"I don't think so. Claudette and her family have a wolfhound – and I don't think dogs come any bigger than that. The cats love him."

Neal played his last card. "Mozart will not be happy to have to fight off two cats. He's accustomed to his freedom during the day. He'll be a very tempting target. If he gets stressed, it's going to High Mass and bad language until my ears bleed."

Charlotte had considered that, too. "Bancroft and Hughes are city cats. They wouldn't know what to do with a bird if they caught it. I think they're frightened of pigeons."

"Bancroft and Hughes?"

She shrugged, the perfect Gallic gesture. "Simone named them. She was – at the time – very interested in astronomy. I think one's named for a comet and the other for a lunar crater, or some such nonsense. Don't ask me to make sense of an eight year old's brain."

Neal sat there, trying to think of any other reason to reject this request. But all he could think was Peter, Diana, Mozzie. Hughes and Bancroft. The only ones that were missing were Clinton and Elizabeth. Then he'd have the full set.

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

Eight months after Neal's death

"Hey hon, how are you?"

"The same as I was a half-hour ago. Just fine."

"And Neal? The baby's okay?"

"Peter, everything is just fine. Relax. Enjoy yourself." With those instructions, El hung up on him.

Peter sighed, knowing that he was being ridiculously overprotective. But this was the first time he'd been away overnight since the baby was born and he couldn't stop thinking of all the things that could go wrong. Not that El was having problems - the birth had been almost ridiculously easy. Her labor had lasted just six hours. Neal was a healthy baby, he had perfect Apgar scores, he ate like a little piggy, slept like a log, cried hardly ever.

Peter found himself holding his breath because everything was so perfect.

His therapist told him this was normal - not only because he was a fairly late-in-life new father, but the sudden and violent loss of his closest friend made him naturally distrustful and wary. Insecure.

He'd started seeing a therapist about three months ago, initially to placate El, who'd been worried that he was getting too caught up in his grief. She didn't want him to miss out on what was going to be the happiest part of their lives, and Peter knew that she was right. He couldn't shake the emptiness, he couldn't stop blaming himself, and he knew that he couldn't continue that way.

Neal was gone and he had to learn to accept it.

The therapist was good - even if it seemed that she spent most of their forty minutes listening to him extol the virtues of the late Neal Caffrey. At least for the first few weeks. At some point, Peter stopped polishing Neal's memory and started telling her about all the times that Neal had angered him. A lot of the pain from the time after he'd gotten off for Pratt's murder started spilling out, and for a while it felt like he hated Neal.

But that passed, too, and finally Peter started opening up about his own feelings. The loss, the aching sense of failure. How, despite all the wonderful things happening, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was always one step away from disaster. That it could all be taken from him in an instant, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He was still working through that, but it was getting better. When he received the invitation to Kyle Bancroft's retirement dinner in D.C., he mentioned it to El and he let her talk him into attending. She would be just fine for one night on her own.

Which didn't stop him from calling every half-hour or so. Peter knew he was being ridiculous - it wasn't as if he didn't go to work every day and he certainly didn't check in with that level of frequency. Today, though, he'd already called six times. It was a little after four and the train was just pulling into Union Station. The party was at the Willard Hotel in downtown D.C., and scheduled to start around six.

If El hadn't been so adamant that he get away - even just overnight - Peter would have gone to the party and taken a late train home. But this was a test, a chance to prove to himself that life wasn't a catastrophe waiting to happen. That he could relax his vigilance.

It was a short trip from the station to the hotel and Peter checked in, took a quick shower and dressed. He still had an hour or so before the party was to start and instead of calling, he sent El a quick text.

To his delight, she responded with a selfie of her and the baby, who was all pink and rosy and so beautiful it shook Peter to the soul.

Just as Elizabeth had. In the moments after giving birth, when she told him that his son's name was Neal, not Andrew – as they planned. For months, Peter had a dozen conversations with El about naming their son Neal, but they all took place in his head. They hadn't even settled on a name until a week before she gave birth, and when El suggested Andrew simply because she liked the name, Peter agreed.

Andrew Burke sounded good, it was a strong name, but Peter couldn't help but feel that Neal Burke sounded even better.

Looking at his beautiful family, Peter didn't hesitate to call home. El answered on the first ring, and Peter didn't let her say anything except hello.

"Hon, I'm not calling to check in with you."

"Then why are you calling – didn't you get my reply?"

"I did – and I wanted to tell you that I love you. I wanted to hear your voice."

El didn't respond right away, and when she did, it wasn't what he was expecting to hear. "Are you all right? Do you want to come home? Maybe I pushed you too fast."

Peter swallowed against the love and the worry he heard in his wife's voice. "No, I'm okay. I really am. Just seeing the picture of you and Neal, it made my heart sing and I wanted to tell you that I love you. That's it."

"Oh, hon. I love you, so very much."

"How's Neal?" At that moment, his son chose to join the conversation, letting out a demanding squall.

"Hungry."

"Then I'll let you go. I'll send you a text when I'm back in my room and you can call me. It shouldn't be too late."

Peter could hear El unbuttoning her blouse, the scratchy riff of Velcro as she opened her nursing bra, and finally the sound of his son suckling. "That sounds perfect, love you."

"Love you, too." Peter hung up and felt something that had been so elusive for so long, seep into his bones – peace.

That peace was broken when a calendar alert signaled on his phone. It was six o'clock and time to party – if an FBI retirement dinner could really be classified as a party.

Fitting the stature of an Assistant Director, the dinner was held in the hotel's largest ballroom – there were at least thirty tables set up. Peter snagged his place card and hoped he was seated with at least one person he knew.

And he was – Reese Hughes was holding court with a few agents who looked to be of the same vintage. His old friend and mentor smiled when he approached. Reese did the usual introductions and the other men hung around for a couple of minutes before dispersing.

Reese gave him a thorough and piercing look. "How are you?" He and Reese occasionally met for coffee, and it was Reese who'd recommended the therapist. He'd been a patient of hers for a year or so after his wife had passed away.

He answered honestly, "Doing better."

His old boss nodded sharply and his lips thinned. "What a terrible, terrible waste."

"Yeah." Peter looked out into the distance, not seeing the fancy chandelier or the hundreds of men and women in suits, but his lost friend. It still hurt, but the pain wasn't quite so crippling.

"Sorry. I just …" Reese grimaced and wiped his mouth. "Maybe I need some therapy myself."

In an effort to lighten the mood, Peter pulled out his phone. "Or perhaps some baby pictures?"

Reese smiled. "Of course."

Peter narrated the sequence, knowing that he sounded like an idiot, but this was his boy – and of course he was a prodigy.

People stopped by, most of them were agents Peter knew. Some congratulated him on his new baby, but most expressed their condolences for Neal. Peter had long since known that his CI was something of a legend in the FBI. Hadn't Phil Kramer referred to them as the Gotham City's finest cop and robber? He thanked everyone and couldn't wait for the evening to end.

The dinner was interminable; indifferent food punctuated by boring speeches extolling the career of the retiree. Unlike Reese's retirement dinner – a rollicking party that Peter and several friends had paid for – this was a government reception. Which meant no alcohol to dull the pain.

Finally, Bancroft gave his speech. Peter had always like the man, respected him as a law enforcement agent, and thought him an excellent administrator, but he wasn't the most sparkling of public speakers, and Peter's mind began to drift. He could almost hear Neal's amusing commentary on the banality of his speech.

A burst of applause shook him out of his day dreams. The room lighting brightened and servers started distributing coffee and cake. When Bancroft came over, Peter stood.

"Congratulations, sir."

"For what – surviving thirty-five years of terminal bureaucracy?" Bancroft smiled to ease the sting of his reply. "Good to see you, Peter."

"Thanks." He waited for the inevitable.

"Sorry about Caffrey."

"Thank you." There was nothing else he could say.

Bancroft turned to leave, but then turned back. "For the record – when you made the request to cut his sentence short, I was the one who recommended keeping him on. I liked Caffrey – a lot. I had even hoped that he'd make a real career with the FBI. When he pushed for an early release, I – " Bancroft frowned and shook his head. "I let my disappointment get in the way of justice. And now he's dead. I didn't pull the trigger, but if I hadn't been such an ass, he might still be alive. I'm sorry."

Peter stood there, stunned. Bancroft nodded once, sharply, and walked away.

"Come on." Reese tugged at him. "There's a bar around the corner."

Peter resisted. "Getting drunk won't change anything."

"No, but I could use some company. It's going to be a long night."

"We could just go home – the trains are still running."

Reese sighed. "Nothing like being a new father to make you even more responsible than ever." He tugged on him again. "Come on, let's raise a glass to Neal. To the one who's gone and to the one who's just arrived."


GO TO PART THREE