elrhiarhodan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elrhiarhodan) wrote2015-11-19 10:39 am
elrhiarhodan) wrote2015-11-19 10:39 am
Entry tags:
- character: clinton jones,
- character: david siegel,
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: landon shepherd,
- character: matthew keller,
- character: mozzie,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: peter burke,
- character: sara ellis,
- character: theo berrigan,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: comfort porn,
- genre: domesticity,
- genre: emotional trauma,
- kink: cuddling,
- kink: kissing,
- pairing: neal/keller,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- wc verse: it must be now,
- white collar,
- written for: wcbb,
- year: 2015
White Collar Fic - It Must Be Now - Part Five (WCBB)
Title: It Must Be Now - Part Five of Seven
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Artist:treonb / Art Post
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, David Siegel, Diana Berrigan, Theodore "Mozzie" Winters, Theo Berrigan, Sara Ellis, Clinton Jones, Matthew Keller; Peter/Elizabeth (Past), Peter/Neal (Past), Neal/Keller (Past), Peter/Neal
Word Count: ~60,000
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Major Character Illness
Beta Credit:pooh_collector, sinfulslasher
Summary: In this alternate universe, the story opens as Peter and Elizabeth's marriage ends. Peter tries to move into a new life, but finds himself haunted by his past - a relationship with Neal Caffrey when they were both students at Harvard - and a future that might come to an end far too soon.
Author’s Note: Many, many thanks to my alpha readerstheatregirl7299 and miri_thompson, who provided an endless bounty of encouragement.
Even more thanks to my wonderful and talented artist,treonb, who created the beautiful and evocative promo video.
Title from the Annie Lennox Song "Oh God (Prayer)", which TreonB used in the vid.
__________________
By late Saturday afternoon, Peter was actually feeling better. That wasn't to say he was feeling good, he just wasn't quite so wretched. The fog from the Compazine had lifted, the nausea hadn't returned, and he wasn't quite so exhausted. It also helped that it was one of those perfect autumn days – the sun shining out of a painfully blue sky, the air crisp and clean, or as clean as the air could ever be in Manhattan.
The world outside his window was too enticing and Peter figured he'd throw caution to the wind and go for a short walk. Winter would be here soon enough and so would other, less pleasant things. It would be a shame to let the day go to waste. To be on the safe side, he took the bottle of pills with him and a plastic grocery bag. Shoving the bag into his jacket pocket, he was hit by a wave of melancholy – there was a time when taking a walk always meant grabbing a bag. He missed Satchmo and if he'd made a big deal out of getting custody of the dog in the divorce, El probably wouldn't have fought him. But he worked long hours and it wouldn't have been fair to keep the dog cooped up in a strange apartment all day.
Now, though, he wished he had Satchmo. The Lab would be good company and keep him from getting too depressed about his illness. Peter sighed and told himself that there was no point in making such wishes – Satch was happy with El, far happier than he'd be with a sick man.
Peter headed out before he could talk himself into staying inside and dwelling on the past. He didn't have a destination in mind, but he found himself heading east, towards Central Park. It would be nice to see the changing foliage.
His pace was slow and the streets were crowded, but no one was rushing anywhere. This was a residential neighborhood and it seemed like the whole world was outside, enjoying the autumn afternoon.
The crowds thinned a bit as Peter turned the corner onto Central Park West. The pungent scent of decaying leaves was like heaven, reminding Peter of his childhood in upstate New York. He hadn't planned on heading into the park, but it would be nice to find a bench and linger for a while. Instead of crossing over, though, he kept walking – past the Dakota and the Langham – only stopping when he reached the entry for the San Remo. He told himself that he was just pausing to catch his breath. Going inside was out of the question. He'd be the worst sort of fool to see if Neal was home. And even if he was, why in the world would Neal want to see him? And yet he was rooted there, gazing up at the building, unable to leave, unwilling to go forward.
"Peter?"
Neal was standing in front of him, his face both curious and wary.
Peter was trapped – the sins of his past cruelty staring him in the face and there was no escape.
"Are you okay?" There was too much concern in Neal's eyes, too much wonder, too much joy. Too much of everything.
"I live – " He gestured to the west, "on Columbus Avenue, not all that far away. I was out for a walk. Just admiring the architecture."
"Ah." Neal stepped back as if he'd been slapped. "I thought … maybe you were coming to see me."
"I, uh. Um. I knew you lived here."
Neal's lips curved in a slight smile, and it might have been the play of light flickering through the trees, but hope seemed to glow again from those beautiful eyes. "Would you like to come up?"
Peter felt like his whole life had come down to this moment – a chance reunion on a city street that could lead to a turning point and maybe his one opportunity for redemption, forgiveness. He knew that if he walked away now, he'd never have this moment again. So he nodded and his silent assent was rewarded with another smile, one that just might ease the pain of a quarter century's worth of regret.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal couldn't believe that Peter was here, in his home. That he'd followed him meekly through the lobby to the elevator, that he stood silent as they travelled up to his apartment, although Peter had smiled slightly when he'd pressed the number for the twenty-first floor. Neal wondered if that had any significance for him.
Feeling more than a bit off kilter, Neal went into host mode. "Can I get you something? Coffee? A cold drink?"
Peter nodded and licked his lips, as if he were thirsty. "Sparkling water if you've got. Ice water would be fine if you don't."
"Sparkling water? When did you get so fancy?"
Peter shrugged. "Habit, I guess. Too many years of dealing with pretentious snobs who'd only drink Perrier or Pellegrino."
"Or maybe you've become one of them?"
Peter shrugged again. "Maybe."
"I'll be right back. I'm sure I have some sparkling water. But if not, you'll have to make do with club soda – or worse, seltzer."
Peter chuckled, and the familiarity of that sound was like a bubble of joy in his soul. He left Peter in the living room and raced to the kitchen – as if he were afraid that if he took too long, Peter might just disappear. But once he was alone, Neal told himself to just calm down and stop acting like a giddy teenager. This encounter didn't mean a damn thing – his company was a client of Peter's firm and likely Peter's presence here was little more than good client relations.
Neal rooted around in his refrigerator and found what he was looking for. One small green bottle and a glass with ice in hand, he returned to the living room. Peter was standing at the floor to ceiling window, looking out at the park.
"It seems that I'm in the pretentious snob club, too. The only thing I have is Perrier."
Peter thanked him, took the bottle and emptied most of it into the glass, which he finished in two gulps. He emptied the rest and made quick work of that, too. "Sorry – I was thirsty."
"That's okay. Want another?"
"No, this is fine." Peter set the glass on a table, and Neal noticed, with a smile, that he'd found a coaster first.
Of course Peter saw his expression and wondered, "What's so amusing?"
"Someone's housebroken you." He tilted his head towards the abandoned glass. "The Peter Burke who lived in the house on Sidney Street wouldn't have known what to do with a coaster."
That seemed to annoy Peter, and he snapped back, "What do you want me to say? I've grown up. I'm not the person I was back then."
The humor of the moment disappeared like the setting sun, and Neal nodded. "No, you're not. And neither am I."
Neal wasn't surprised when Peter said, "This was a bad idea, coming up here."
"Maybe it was." No, not maybe. Definitely. But Peter's words still felt like a punch in the gut. Neal reminded himself that nothing good could come of trying to turn back the clock.
"Then why did you invite me?"
"Because I wanted to talk to you." Because I've waited twenty-five years for this moment.
"About what?"
Neal shoved his hands in his pockets and stared hard at Peter. "About what went wrong."
"What do you mean, what went wrong?"
"Back in Cambridge. Back then. Why you felt that you needed to forget you ever knew me." Neal couldn't believe what he was saying.
Peter turned back to the window and seemed enraptured by the view. It was after four and the evening shadows were consuming the world. "What do you want me to say?"
Neal could see the tension in Peter's shoulders; his whole posture screamed "stay away." But he wasn't going to back down, not now. He would never get this chance again. "I want you to tell me the truth."
"Let's not go there."
"Why not? Don't you think – after twenty-five years – I deserve the truth?"
Peter didn't answer him; he just continued to stare into the darkness.
"Tell me, Peter. Tell me why."
"You know why."
Neal wasn't going to give in. "Tell me."
Peter turned around, a single tear running down his cheek, his lips pursed as if he was fighting against the words.
Neal was relentless, he had to be. "Tell me." Please.
Finally, Peter answered. "Because you were the only one."
"The only one?"
"The only one who could change my mind. Who could make me give up my dreams."
Neal shook his head, truly puzzled. "How could I have done that?"
"You don't even know, do you?"
"Know what?"
"As long as you were in my life, I'd always be tempted."
Neal thought he understood what Peter was telling him. "You were the most compartmentalized and driven person I ever met. There was nothing you couldn't do if you set your mind to it. If you didn't want to be tempted, if you didn't want to have sex with me, there was nothing I could have done to change your mind. No amount of seduction would have worked."
Peter whispered, "You're wrong, Neal."
"No, I don't think so."
Peter shook his head. "I'm not talking about sex."
Now Neal was even more confused. "If not sex, then what?"
"Love. The longer you were in my life, the easier it was going to be to fall in love with you. If we lived together, even as 'just friends – no benefits', I would have risked everything to build a life with you." Peter laughed, and the sound was harsh. "Ironic, isn't it? I was Mr. No-Strings, fuck 'em and leave ‘em, never kiss, never have sex with the same guy twice, but from the moment we got together, from the first time you kissed me, all those rules flew out the window."
"What are you saying?"
"It didn't take long before you were the only guy. The only one."
Neal gave him a scathing, skeptical look. "Bullshit, Peter. I was there, remember?"
"I'm not lying. Yeah, there were more girls than I could count, but by the end of the year, you were the only guy, the only man I was having sex with. For the next two years I told myself that I could just walk away, that I wouldn't need you, want you anymore. But that last year – when you went to Europe for a conference, whenever you went to Vegas or Atlantic City for a game, all I could think about was who you were sleeping with – who you were kissing. My jealousy terrified me."
Neal was stunned speechless.
Peter didn't stop, the words poured out of him. "And worse than that – I could see what would happen. I'd turn into some horrible needy and insecure thing, constantly terrified that you'd find me lacking, that you didn't feel the same way I felt, that I really was nothing more than a convenience – the fuck-buddy in the next room."
"So you ended it because you didn't want to get hurt. It wasn't really just about your career, was it?"
"No, not really. I told myself when I applied to the FBI that this was a good alternative. The Bureau was worse than the military about gays. There'd be no way I could keep up the pretense of a just-friends life with you and be an agent." Peter laughed, the bitterness even more palpable. "And the funny thing was, five years in, the FBI completely changed its policy about gay and lesbian agents."
Neal knew that. The consent decree the FBI entered into in 1992 had long been overshadowed by the injustice of DOMA and Don't Ask, Don't Tell. "But you were married by then."
"No, I wasn't. I hadn't even met my wife, but I couldn't go back. After what I did to you – how in the hell would I even have had the right to think you'd want to talk to me?" Peter dropped that bombshell and started to leave.
Neal grabbed his arm and pulled him back. "You don't get to tell me that and just go. You don't get to destroy me again and walk out of my life like nothing matters."
Peter didn't fight him. He just stood there, like a steer waiting for slaughter.
Neal, in his anger, didn't bother leashing his tongue. "You know, when I allowed myself to think about this – this reunion – in my crueler moments, I imagined you'd have grown a gut and man-boobs, that you would be married to a woman who'd turned brittle from her dissatisfaction with you. That you had children who barely tolerated you, or worse. That your life was filled with misery."
"That's not far from the truth. No kids. My wife left me because she couldn't stand my need to be perfect. I stifled her. And she got custody of the dog, which would probably bite me if he saw me again." Peter looked down at his body and his lips twisted in self-loathing. "But no man-boobs, sorry to say."
Neal wasn't willing to let go of his anger. "Sometimes I wasn't so cruel to you in my imagination – sometimes, in my imagination, I saw you much as you were back then. You were handsome as a god – still as perfect as you were when you were twenty-five. Sometimes you'd be a closet case, chasing ass but always denying what you were. But other times, you were ridiculously happy with the life you'd chosen."
"And what would I say to you in your imagination, when we met again?"
Neal shrugged. "Usually nothing. We'd see each other and your eyes would slide away. You'd just continue walking. You still didn't want to know me."
"And that's what you thought when you weren't being cruel?" Peter let out a harsh laugh. "I guess I deserve that."
Neal watched the play of expression across Peter's face – he wasn't bothering to hide the pain and the self-loathing. He reached out and brushed his fingers across Peter's cheek, tracing the path of that single tear. "Whatever I imagined has no connection to the reality I see here."
"That Peter Burke's a dried out husk, sick and bitter and old before his time?"
"No, that Peter Burke is like some shattered seraph, broken but not destroyed. And all the more beautiful for whatever pain he's survived."
Peter stepped away and Neal's fingers grew cold at the loss of that connection. "You always were a poet."
"You always inspired me."
Peter hunched his shoulders and met Neal’s gaze with steady eyes. "I'm sorry – for everything. I didn't know what to do, how to handle what I felt. I wanted something and I was too afraid to give up my dreams to reach for it."
Neal wanted to tell Peter that it wasn't too late, that maybe they could both have their dreams when he realized that Peter didn't know how he felt, that they shared the same fears. He was about to pour his own heart out when Peter's face sort of crumpled and he turned a terrifying shade of green.
"Bathroom – please." Peter clapped a hand over his mouth and looked around frantically.
Neal didn't ask any questions, he took Peter's arm and pulled him towards a small powder room.
They barely made it – Neal stepped aside as Peter found the toilet and started retching. The sound was ugly, the smell worse, but Neal couldn't let Peter fall into his own vomit and held his head. Peter continued to heave until Neal was sure there couldn't possibly be anything left in his stomach.
After far too long, the spasms stopped, and Peter shuddered before lifting his head and collapsing to the floor. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills, but his hands were shaking too hard to open it.
Neal took the bottle from him and scanned the label. "Compazine, 10 mg, take every six hours for nausea." He shook out a single pill, ran back to the living room for the glass Peter had used, and filled it with some tap water. Peter took the pill and swallowed, and Neal watched – to make sure the medication stayed down.
"Are you okay?"
Peter nodded. "Just give me a few."
"Okay." Neal reached over and flushed the toilet, then offered Peter one of the small hand towels to clean himself up. "Do you need any help?"
"No – just let me be."
Neal stood there, not happy at leaving Peter alone when he was in such distress.
"Please."
Neal retreated to the living room and noticed that he'd left the pill bottle where Peter's glass had been. He'd avoided saying anything to Peter about how terrible he looked – it seemed like stating the obvious. And Peter clearly knew that he looked bad. What had he called himself? A dried out husk, sick and bitter and old before his time.
He picked up the bottle and reread the label, hoping to find some clue about Peter's illness in the name of the doctor that issued the prescription. Google was a marvelous tool, and he had friends in the medical field who could be relied on for information. But he wasn't going to need either Google or his friends; the name of the pharmacy gave him all the information he needed.
Neal swallowed and carefully put the bottle down. His hands were shaking as bad as Peter's had been and he felt like rushing to his own bathroom to throw up.
That prescription had been filled at Memorial Sloan Kettering. The premier cancer hospital in New York, if not the country.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter sat on the floor and leaned against the commode – a position he'd become all too accustomed to this week. It seemed that his earlier hopes that the chemo-induced nausea was in retreat were in vain.
He knew he needed to get up and get out and get home. The Compazine worked quickly on the nausea, but he had about a half-hour window before he'd be overtaken by the drug-induced stupor. Peter heaved himself to his feet and clung to the sink while the room spun.
A few deep breaths and the dizziness passed. He washed up and stared at his face in the mirror. The image reflected back didn't surprise him; he looked like week-old crap and felt worse. It wasn't just the physical weakness, but the shame of putting that weakness on such graphic display. Of all the times he'd let himself think about a reunion with Neal, he never imagined that it would go like this. That he'd spill his guts – metaphorically and literally.
As much as he wanted to, he couldn't hide in this tiny powder room forever, and if he'd felt any embarrassment about losing his lunch in front of Neal, having Neal drag out his comatose body would be far worse.
Another deep breath and Peter stepped out of the room. If he turned right, he'd be back in the living room where Neal was probably waiting for him. If he went left, he'd find the elevator and could leave without another word.
Peter turned right.
Neal was sitting on the couch, staring at a bottle of pills. His pills.
Peter sighed and Neal looked up, his face wrecked, but he didn't say anything. Peter sat down next to Neal, close enough to feel his body heat. He picked up the bottle and looked at it, smiling wryly. "I guess you've figured out my big secret."
"It's bad, isn't it?"
Peter nodded. "I've been having radiation treatments for a month. My first chemo session was last Monday."
"Can I ask – ?" Neal bit his lip and looked down at his hands.
Peter understood. "It's a fairly aggressive lymphoma."
"But they caught it early, right?"
He shook his head. "No, not really. It's Stage III."
"What does that mean?"
"It started in a lymph node in my chest and has spread to my groin and neck." Oddly enough, Peter didn't feel the same horrible dread he'd had every other time he'd discussed his illness. The other day, he could barely say the word "cancer", but now he was telling Neal just how far the disease had progressed without breaking apart. Maybe because he'd already been shattered.
Neal nodded, but his whole body rocked back and forth. Still staring at his hands, he asked, "What's the prognosis?"
"If I survive the treatment, I have a seventy percent chance for a five-year survival. That's how they measure these things – in five year increments."
"What do you mean, if you survive the treatments?"
Peter took a deep breath; this was the murky territory he'd refused to think about. "My chemo schedule is accelerated and that has a lot of risks. I'll probably need to be hospitalized after the third dosage and be kept in isolation to avoid infections."
"You seem remarkably okay about this."
That earned a laugh.
"What's so funny?"
"Today – right now, it's the first time I've told anyone how bad it is, and how bad it's going to get. Not even my partners at work know the details. Up to now, I've been in deep, deep denial."
"What about your friends? Your family?"
"No one. My folks passed away and I have no one else. Like I told you, my wife left me and there's no way I'd burden her with this. She's entitled to her own life now." Peter scrubbed his face. "Look, I've really got to get home. The Compazine knocks me out and I've got about fifteen minutes before I crash." Then he added, "I'm not running away."
Neal finally looked at him. "Stay here tonight. I've got four extra bedrooms and one has an en suite."
"I'm just a few blocks away – I'll be fine."
"But I won't be. I'll worry about you."
Peter was about to say that he'd be much more comfortable in his own bed, but the truth was, he hadn't had a good night's sleep in months and the idea of staying here was just too enticing. It didn't help that the drug was beginning to fog his senses and he doubted he'd be able to stay awake long enough to get a cab, let alone get home. "Okay, okay. If you really don't mind."
"I wouldn't have offered if I did."
Peter had his doubts about that – the Neal Caffrey he'd known twenty-five years ago was the soul of decency, and would never let anyone suffer if he could do something about it. He didn't think that the passage of time had changed him all that much.
He yawned and tried to get to his feet, but the lassitude was almost too much. Neal stood and held out a helping hand, which Peter accepted gratefully.
"The suite's upstairs – we can take the elevator if you can't walk."
"No – I think I can make it." He took a step and swayed. "Maybe not."
Neal guided him not to the main entrance, but to a small internal elevator that looked like it hadn't been updated since the thirties. It creaked a bit as it ascended, and Peter commented, knowing he sounded like an idiot, "Hope we don't get stuck."
"I wouldn't mind. Getting stuck with you."
Before Peter could respond, the elevator stopped and Neal let them out. "This way." He opened a pair of double doors and flipped on the light, revealing a rather grand suite. "I don't have too many guests, but my housekeeping service changes the sheets once a week, regardless. So everything should be fresh. If you need me, there's a phone next to the bed – pound-zero will ring the other phones in the apartment. Or just give a shout – I won't be far away."
"I'm sure it will be fine." Peter stared at the bed with longing.
"I don't think I have any pajamas for you, but …"
"It's okay – I'll be fine." It took some effort, but he pulled off his jacket and toed off his shoes. The doors shut behind him with a gentle click, and the part of his brain that was still functioning realized that he'd just been extremely rude.
Peter managed to get the rest of his clothes off and as he slid under the covers, his last conscious thought was that maybe he now had a reason to live.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
What the hell are you doing? Neal asked himself this question over and over as he stood at the window and looked out over the park. The logical part of him, the mathematician who found beauty in the tyrannical rule of numbers, tried to dismiss the chaotic state of his emotions. And failed miserably.
Neal told himself that just because Peter had made such a dramatic re-entrance into his life didn't mean that he had to surrender his heart all over again.
But it was too late. His heart had never really been his own. Hadn't he chided himself over and over for his dreams? Hadn't his imaginary ideal always been Peter Burke? For chrissakes, hadn't he picked an event planner simply because the company was called "Burke Premier"?
And wasn't that going to be a fucking mess? What Neal didn't want to think about was how he was going to tell Elizabeth that he'd had a three-year intimate relationship with her ex-husband, and that he was still foolishly, stupidly in love with him. And Peter just happened to be that guy, the one who'd broken his heart.
Neal sighed. One problem at a time. He first needed to figure out what to do in the next twenty-four hours. At some point, Peter was going to wake up and he was going to want to leave – to retreat back behind the wall he'd built for himself. Neal wasn't going to try to fight the urge to care for Peter. To do so would be like fighting the urge to breathe.
Actually, the first step was going to be figuring out what Peter needed. There was always the internet, but he could do better and he sent a quick text to a friend.
Call me when you get this. Have a problem you can help with.
Less than a minute later, his phone rang.
"I hope this is a real problem, Caffrey – because this call's going to cost me a fucking fortune."
"Send me the bill, Sara."
"Don't think I won't. Now, what's the problem?"
"I just learned that …" Neal paused, it hurt so much to articulate this. "A friend has cancer."
"A friend?"
"Yeah, a friend. I'm not talking about myself, don't worry."
"Okay, okay – because that's exactly what I was thinking."
Neal had met Sara Ellis about five years ago at a London casino. She'd entered a poker tournament as an amateur and had managed to hold her own and advance to the final table. Where she'd quickly been eliminated. After the game – which he'd won – Neal looked her up, intending to offer her some coaching if she wanted to turn pro. He'd been surprised to discover that Ms. Sara Ellis was actually Doctor Sara Ellis, oncologist, who had no interest in playing poker professionally.
They'd struck up an almost-instant friendship – much like the one he'd formed with Elizabeth Burke. Sara was driven, dedicated to her career and had little interest or time for romance. But she was someone Neal enjoyed knowing.
"First, tell me why you're calling me back on a Saturday night at – " Neal checked the time and accounted for the difference in time zones, "eleven-thirty."
"I'm on-call."
"You're the head of the department."
"Who still has to do her share of the less-desirable shifts if she wants to keep the respect of her staff. Now, tell me about your friend and what you need to know."
"He has Stage III lymphoma – he told me it's aggressive, so the treatment is aggressive. He's having both radiation and chemo simultaneously. When I saw him this evening, he was okay and then he wasn't. It was like someone flipped a switch."
"Nausea? Weakness? Exhaustion?"
"Exactly. We were talking and then he turned green and spent the next half-hour over the toilet. He took a pill and just about passed out."
Sara peppered him with a dozen other questions, but Neal had no answers. Frustrated, she snapped, "I can't help with so little information. And I'm not second guessing another doctor's diagnosis."
"I don't need you to. I need to know what to do, what to expect. Peter's sleeping here tonight, but I don't know what he'll need when he wakes up."
"Sorry for that – it comes from too many people begging for a second opinion at cocktail parties."
"That's okay – I have no idea how you manage to do what you do and stay sane, anyway."
"I'm not so sure I am sane. But anyway – one of the most important things you can do is make sure your friend eats properly. Getting enough calories is important. Do you know if he's talked with a nutritionist?"
"Don't know, but somehow I doubt it. He's the stubborn and stoic type."
"All right. If the chemo's wrecking his stomach, he'll do best with soft foods. They'd call them nursery foods here. Oatmeal, soft eggs, soup, pureed fruit if he can't tolerate fresh fruit. Things that will be easy to digest."
"What about those protein drinks? Nutritional supplements?"
"Those are good, but not the stuff for athletes – the stuff for old people. They're basically liquid candy bars with some extra vitamins. They'll provide some needed calories, but your friend might not be able to tolerate them – they can cause intestinal issues."
Neal tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder and started taking notes. "What about the way he just conked out?"
"The anti-nausea meds he took cause extreme drowsiness, and since he took a pill on a completely empty stomach – with nothing to buffer – the effects would be pretty immediate. I'd check on him, make sure he doesn't get dehydrated – that's a big risk right now." She went on to describe the symptoms of dehydration.
They talked for another half-hour, with Sara doing a good job of terrifying him with what to expect as the chemo and radiation progressed. It wasn't just going to be hair loss. The radiation was going to start burning Peter's skin. There was a good chance that he'd have long-term orthopedic and neurologic issues.
"You sure you're up to this, Caffrey? Your friend's a very sick man and will get a lot sicker before he gets better."
He took a deep breath, grateful that Sara didn't say if he ever does. "Don't know. But how can I not? He's someone I care about."
"He's the one, isn't he?"
"The one?"
"The only one for you – I can hear it in your voice. You've finally met someone."
No point in denying the truth. "Yeah. And don't you dare mention Dark Victory."
"Wouldn't dream of it – I hate that movie, anyway – it's a stupid, manipulative melodrama. Call me when you have more information."
"Will do. And don't forget to let me know what I owe you for the call."
"Don't worry about it, this is my hospital-provided cell phone. I don't pay for it."
Neal disconnected with a laugh, feeling a lot better than he had before talking with Sara. He made a list of items that he'd have his grocery service deliver and grabbed a bottle of water to take upstairs.
Before checking on Peter, Neal changed into a pair of loose track pants and a tee shirt – his customary yoga outfit. He had a long night of difficult research in front of him and before he started, he needed to get himself emotionally centered. But first, he needed to check on Peter.
As Neal was about to go into the guest bedroom, his phone beeped. Intending just to turn it on to silent mode, he saw the incoming email was from Sara and he figured it was something he'd need to see sooner than later.
Neal read and re-read Sara's message a dozen times, and smiled as he thought about how he was going to explain to Peter that kissing could save his life.
He entered the bedroom and nearly tripped on the clothes Peter had left scattered on the floor. It took a moment to pick them up and drop them on the bench at the foot of the bed. Neal went over to the bathroom, cracked open the door and turned on the light. That gave him enough illumination to check on Peter without waking him up. And it helped that Peter was on his side, facing the door.
It was strange, being in a bedroom with Peter. Until that last night, they'd never actually slept in the same bed, but Neal was as frequent a visitor to Peter's bedroom in that house on Sidney Street as Peter was to his.
And even with Sara's email in mind, intimacy of any sort was not on the agenda. He just wanted to make sure Peter was all right.
He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the man who'd been such a huge part of his life for so long. At rest, the toll that his illness was taking was far too apparent – there was a slackness in Peter's neck and jaw, the skin thin and a little saggy – like that of a man thirty years older.
Neal couldn't resist and he traced a finger along that jawline. He remembered when they were young, how quickly Peter's scruff grew in, and how much he'd enjoyed the beard burn. There was little trace of that now, although the skin was rough and dry.
Neal was about to get up when Peter licked his lips and shifted restlessly before opening his eyes. Neal held his breath, not sure if Peter was waking up or just in that in-between place between sleep and consciousness.
"I had a terrible dream, Neal." Peter's voice sounded strange, shallow and breathy. "We were old and we weren't friends anymore."
Neal wondered if Peter was still asleep, if he was dreaming that they were still in college. Unwilling to shatter an illusion, Neal just said, "We're friends, Peter."
"I'm scared, Neal." There was so much terrible emotion in those words. "I'm afraid."
Now Neal wasn't at all certain if Peter was awake or dreaming. "I know, but I'm here for you." He took a deep breath and added, "Always."
"Would you stay with me?" There was so much vulnerability in Peter's expression. "I'm afraid and I don't want to be alone."
Even if Sara hadn't told him how important touch was, Neal couldn't deny this request. "Okay." He got up and shut off the bathroom light. The room wasn't completely dark – Peter hadn't lowered the shades and the city lights filtered through the sheer curtains. Neal stretched out on top of the covers and waited – not sure what Peter wanted from him. Not sure what he wanted from himself. Then Peter turned and slotted himself against Neal, using his shoulder as a pillow.
From the evenness of his breathing, Peter seemed to have fallen back to sleep. Neal stared up at the ceiling, joy and terror and grief at war within him.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter woke slowly, his mind split between disorientation and a sense of deep contentment.
He knew where he was – a guest room in Neal Caffrey's vast apartment; and he remembered why he was here – he'd gotten sick and Neal had been unwilling to let him go home.
What he wasn't clear about was why Neal was stretched out next to him, on top of the covers, sound asleep but looking very uncomfortable. The room was filled with early morning light and Peter took the opportunity to really look at Neal.
Time had laid a light hand on Neal, but the passage of years was evident. His once-dark hair was threaded with gray, except that his temples were almost completely silver. On another man, Peter might have thought that such drama was courtesy of a skilled hairdresser, but even back in their twenties, the sides of Neal's beard had grown in that color.
At rest, there were laugh lines around his lips and crows' feet at the corners of his eyes. Neal was fifty and it was clear that he didn't strive to hide it. Working in the private sector, Peter had routinely encountered men who desperately worked to erase any hint of aging – as if the appearance of youth would somehow magically bestow an ability to indulge in all forms of excess without consequence.
When he'd been introduced to Neal at the office, Peter wasn't sure what to make of him. Their meeting had been brief and at least on his part, very strained, and he couldn't tell how much remained of the loving, eager and open-souled man he'd known half a lifetime ago. But yesterday, after spending just a few minutes in Neal's company, he knew that the essential character of this man was still as fine and pure.
Of course the intervening years had made their mark on him; and his own lies and cruelty had damaged Neal, but he was the same man he'd tried so hard not to fall in love with.
And Peter knew he needed to be very careful. Not to stop himself from falling in love all over again, because that had already happened. No, he needed to make sure he didn't take advantage of the better angels of Neal's nature, to lean on that generous soul as if he had any right to. It would be so easy to dream of a life with this man, not one that they might have had if he hadn't been a coward, but a life where they discovered the men they were now.
Peter sighed and told himself to stop being such a damned romantic fool.
The noise woke Neal, who propped himself up on one elbow. "How are you feeling?"
He took a deep breath and considered the question. His body ached, which was nothing new, but he felt a lot more alert and energized than he had in days. "Surprisingly okay."
"Then I'll let you get up."
"That's a good idea." His bladder was getting anxious and his mouth tasted like he'd been on a three-day bender. Peter wanted to ask why Neal slept with him, but couldn't find the courage. Instead, he asked, "Would you mind if I showered before going home?"
Neal stared at him for a moment and Peter wished he hadn't asked. After all, there was no need to shower here. He had a perfectly acceptable bathroom at home – less than a half-dozen blocks away. But then Neal smiled and everything seemed all right with the world. He got off the bed and opened a door. "The en suite. It's kept fully stocked for guests and there are fresh towels and a robe for you."
Peter remembered Neal saying something about not having a lot of visitors, but still had to wonder.
Neal must have read the curiosity in his expression. "I bought the condo from a company that had leased it out as a corporate apartment. It came with all the amenities of a high end hotel and I've never changed them."
"If you're sure you don't mind. I really am okay, and can go home and get out of your hair."
Neal's face took on a serious cast. "You're not in my way. And we need to talk." At that, Neal left.
We need to talk. Was there a more ominous combination of words in the English language? Peter chuckled wryly at that thought. Of course there was. You have cancer, ranked up there, too.
He showered and took some time grooming. He felt better than okay and wanted to look better. He couldn't help the fact that he was putting on yesterday's clothes, but he wanted – no, needed – to show Neal that he was something more than a diagnosis.
Wrapped in a white terrycloth robe, he went back to the bedroom to finish dressing. And smiled.
His clothes had been neatly folded, and placed on top were new packages of underwear and socks. Armani, even.
The shorts and tee shirt fit well and the snug way the underpants framed his package gave him a bit of a confidence boost. Then he realized that they were a size smaller than what he'd been wearing, and that sobered him. But that was a fact of his life at the moment. Among many other facts and almost irrelevant when weighed against the fact that Neal Caffrey, a man who should have spat in his face, held him through the night.
He finished dressing, frowning a bit at the sour smell coming from his shirt, but there wasn't much he could do about it. It wasn't bad, just another reminder that he was sick. Peter fussed a bit with his hair, fully aware that he was delaying the inevitable.
We need to talk.
Like yesterday afternoon, his timing was superb. He left the guest room just as Neal was emerging from his own bedroom.
"You doing okay?"
Peter nodded. "Yeah, I am. And thanks for the contribution." He made a vague gesture to his torso.
"I figured that you'd like something clean." Neal tilted his head and gave him a considering look. "I don't think my sweaters will fit, though."
"It's okay. I live around the block, not on the other side of the country. I will be going home."
Neal looked like he wanted to debate that and a pleasurable curl of heat blossomed in Peter's belly.
"Let's go down."
Peter followed Neal back to the main floor, this time via a rather grand curving staircase instead of the rickety elevator, and into the kitchen.
He couldn't help but compare it to the one in his own condo. It was equally luxurious, but there was an undeniable appeal to this space. Unlike his own, this kitchen was frequently used. There was a laptop at one end of the large center island with a pile of papers next to it. The modern appliances had a patina only acquired through actual use – like the ones in the house in Brooklyn. He'd rarely done more than reheat leftovers or make coffee – food had lost its appeal long before his diagnosis.
"What do you want for breakfast?"
"Nothing, really. Not much of an appetite, you understand."
Neal didn't seem to hear his reply, and said, "I have oatmeal – the instant kind, or how about some eggs?"
"Really, I'm not hungry. And I really should get going."
Neal pointed at one of the stools at the island and commanded, "Sit."
Peter bristled at the order. "Excuse me?"
"Peter – "
He cut Neal off. "Look – I really appreciate the help last night, and everything. But – "
Now Neal cut him off. "No buts. Sit down, Peter." Neal stared at him, his expression utterly implacable.
"You can't stop me from leaving."
Neal's laugh wasn't the least bit humorous. "Right now, a light breeze would knock you over. Don't be an ass. Sit down. We need to talk."
Right. Peter gave in with bad grace and sat down.
"Now, what do you want with your coffee? Oatmeal?"
Peter made a face. He could still enjoy his morning coffee, but the idea of food was off-putting, to say the least. "Nothing."
Neal frowned. "Coffee on an empty stomach – especially after what you went through last night – is a bad idea."
"I know, but I need it. You want to talk, great – but unless you're prepared to caffeinate me and soon – I'm leaving."
"Okay – you win, for now." Although there was one of those pod-type machines on the counter, Neal fussed with an espresso machine that wouldn't look out of place in a Parisian café. The scent of good coffee, freshly ground just for one cup, filled the kitchen. Neal served it au lait style, in a large cup with a pot of steamed milk and a box of sugar cubes.
"I can't believe you remembered how I like my coffee."
Neal shrugged. "Some things stick with you." He didn't fuss for himself, using the single-serve pod machine for his own cup.
Peter fixed his coffee and took a sip. It tasted like perfection and the sweetness was an easy pleasure. But he couldn't bear the suspense and had to ask, "So, what do we need to talk about?"
Neal fiddled with his cup, staring at it before letting out a small sigh.
"What's the matter?" Peter was getting nervous.
Neal pushed the coffee away from him and looked up, this time meeting Peter's gaze. "I want you to move in with me."
Peter wasn't sure he heard correctly. "What?"
"I want you to move in with me." Neal repeated his earlier words, enunciating carefully.
"You're not serious."
"I am."
Peter took a deep breath. It felt like the world had started to spin on a different axis. "Why?"
"Because you aren't taking care of yourself."
"I'm – " Peter realized he was about to start the same argument he'd had with Landon earlier in the week. He might have been able to lie to her, but he couldn't seem to lie to Neal. So he went on the offensive. "We haven't seen each other in twenty-five years, not since I dumped you like a bag of trash. And now you want me to move in with you? Why?"
"Like I just said, you need someone to take care of you."
Peter blinked. "And to repeat myself, why, after everything, would you want to do that?"
Neal just repeated, "Because you need someone to care for you."
"I'm a grown man, Neal – I think I can take care of myself."
"You have cancer." Neal paused and swallowed, and Peter had to wonder if that word tasted as foul to Neal as it had to him. "You live alone. I bet if I looked in your kitchen I'd find a lot of dust and a bunch of microwave meals and take-out containers. How much weight have you lost?"
Peter shook his head. "Neal, you don't have to do this."
"What if I want to?"
"And you still haven't answered my question, why would you want to?"
Neal laughed – the sound filled with self-mockery, not humor. "Because, after twenty-five years, I still love you."
END PART FIVE - GO TO PART SIX
Author:
elrhiarhodanArtist:
treonb / Art PostFandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, David Siegel, Diana Berrigan, Theodore "Mozzie" Winters, Theo Berrigan, Sara Ellis, Clinton Jones, Matthew Keller; Peter/Elizabeth (Past), Peter/Neal (Past), Neal/Keller (Past), Peter/Neal
Word Count: ~60,000
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Major Character Illness
Beta Credit:
pooh_collector, sinfulslasher Summary: In this alternate universe, the story opens as Peter and Elizabeth's marriage ends. Peter tries to move into a new life, but finds himself haunted by his past - a relationship with Neal Caffrey when they were both students at Harvard - and a future that might come to an end far too soon.
Author’s Note: Many, many thanks to my alpha readers
theatregirl7299 and miri_thompson, who provided an endless bounty of encouragement. Even more thanks to my wonderful and talented artist,
treonb, who created the beautiful and evocative promo video. Title from the Annie Lennox Song "Oh God (Prayer)", which TreonB used in the vid.
By late Saturday afternoon, Peter was actually feeling better. That wasn't to say he was feeling good, he just wasn't quite so wretched. The fog from the Compazine had lifted, the nausea hadn't returned, and he wasn't quite so exhausted. It also helped that it was one of those perfect autumn days – the sun shining out of a painfully blue sky, the air crisp and clean, or as clean as the air could ever be in Manhattan.
The world outside his window was too enticing and Peter figured he'd throw caution to the wind and go for a short walk. Winter would be here soon enough and so would other, less pleasant things. It would be a shame to let the day go to waste. To be on the safe side, he took the bottle of pills with him and a plastic grocery bag. Shoving the bag into his jacket pocket, he was hit by a wave of melancholy – there was a time when taking a walk always meant grabbing a bag. He missed Satchmo and if he'd made a big deal out of getting custody of the dog in the divorce, El probably wouldn't have fought him. But he worked long hours and it wouldn't have been fair to keep the dog cooped up in a strange apartment all day.
Now, though, he wished he had Satchmo. The Lab would be good company and keep him from getting too depressed about his illness. Peter sighed and told himself that there was no point in making such wishes – Satch was happy with El, far happier than he'd be with a sick man.
Peter headed out before he could talk himself into staying inside and dwelling on the past. He didn't have a destination in mind, but he found himself heading east, towards Central Park. It would be nice to see the changing foliage.
His pace was slow and the streets were crowded, but no one was rushing anywhere. This was a residential neighborhood and it seemed like the whole world was outside, enjoying the autumn afternoon.
The crowds thinned a bit as Peter turned the corner onto Central Park West. The pungent scent of decaying leaves was like heaven, reminding Peter of his childhood in upstate New York. He hadn't planned on heading into the park, but it would be nice to find a bench and linger for a while. Instead of crossing over, though, he kept walking – past the Dakota and the Langham – only stopping when he reached the entry for the San Remo. He told himself that he was just pausing to catch his breath. Going inside was out of the question. He'd be the worst sort of fool to see if Neal was home. And even if he was, why in the world would Neal want to see him? And yet he was rooted there, gazing up at the building, unable to leave, unwilling to go forward.
"Peter?"
Neal was standing in front of him, his face both curious and wary.
Peter was trapped – the sins of his past cruelty staring him in the face and there was no escape.
"Are you okay?" There was too much concern in Neal's eyes, too much wonder, too much joy. Too much of everything.
"I live – " He gestured to the west, "on Columbus Avenue, not all that far away. I was out for a walk. Just admiring the architecture."
"Ah." Neal stepped back as if he'd been slapped. "I thought … maybe you were coming to see me."
"I, uh. Um. I knew you lived here."
Neal's lips curved in a slight smile, and it might have been the play of light flickering through the trees, but hope seemed to glow again from those beautiful eyes. "Would you like to come up?"
Peter felt like his whole life had come down to this moment – a chance reunion on a city street that could lead to a turning point and maybe his one opportunity for redemption, forgiveness. He knew that if he walked away now, he'd never have this moment again. So he nodded and his silent assent was rewarded with another smile, one that just might ease the pain of a quarter century's worth of regret.
Neal couldn't believe that Peter was here, in his home. That he'd followed him meekly through the lobby to the elevator, that he stood silent as they travelled up to his apartment, although Peter had smiled slightly when he'd pressed the number for the twenty-first floor. Neal wondered if that had any significance for him.
Feeling more than a bit off kilter, Neal went into host mode. "Can I get you something? Coffee? A cold drink?"
Peter nodded and licked his lips, as if he were thirsty. "Sparkling water if you've got. Ice water would be fine if you don't."
"Sparkling water? When did you get so fancy?"
Peter shrugged. "Habit, I guess. Too many years of dealing with pretentious snobs who'd only drink Perrier or Pellegrino."
"Or maybe you've become one of them?"
Peter shrugged again. "Maybe."
"I'll be right back. I'm sure I have some sparkling water. But if not, you'll have to make do with club soda – or worse, seltzer."
Peter chuckled, and the familiarity of that sound was like a bubble of joy in his soul. He left Peter in the living room and raced to the kitchen – as if he were afraid that if he took too long, Peter might just disappear. But once he was alone, Neal told himself to just calm down and stop acting like a giddy teenager. This encounter didn't mean a damn thing – his company was a client of Peter's firm and likely Peter's presence here was little more than good client relations.
Neal rooted around in his refrigerator and found what he was looking for. One small green bottle and a glass with ice in hand, he returned to the living room. Peter was standing at the floor to ceiling window, looking out at the park.
"It seems that I'm in the pretentious snob club, too. The only thing I have is Perrier."
Peter thanked him, took the bottle and emptied most of it into the glass, which he finished in two gulps. He emptied the rest and made quick work of that, too. "Sorry – I was thirsty."
"That's okay. Want another?"
"No, this is fine." Peter set the glass on a table, and Neal noticed, with a smile, that he'd found a coaster first.
Of course Peter saw his expression and wondered, "What's so amusing?"
"Someone's housebroken you." He tilted his head towards the abandoned glass. "The Peter Burke who lived in the house on Sidney Street wouldn't have known what to do with a coaster."
That seemed to annoy Peter, and he snapped back, "What do you want me to say? I've grown up. I'm not the person I was back then."
The humor of the moment disappeared like the setting sun, and Neal nodded. "No, you're not. And neither am I."
Neal wasn't surprised when Peter said, "This was a bad idea, coming up here."
"Maybe it was." No, not maybe. Definitely. But Peter's words still felt like a punch in the gut. Neal reminded himself that nothing good could come of trying to turn back the clock.
"Then why did you invite me?"
"Because I wanted to talk to you." Because I've waited twenty-five years for this moment.
"About what?"
Neal shoved his hands in his pockets and stared hard at Peter. "About what went wrong."
"What do you mean, what went wrong?"
"Back in Cambridge. Back then. Why you felt that you needed to forget you ever knew me." Neal couldn't believe what he was saying.
Peter turned back to the window and seemed enraptured by the view. It was after four and the evening shadows were consuming the world. "What do you want me to say?"
Neal could see the tension in Peter's shoulders; his whole posture screamed "stay away." But he wasn't going to back down, not now. He would never get this chance again. "I want you to tell me the truth."
"Let's not go there."
"Why not? Don't you think – after twenty-five years – I deserve the truth?"
Peter didn't answer him; he just continued to stare into the darkness.
"Tell me, Peter. Tell me why."
"You know why."
Neal wasn't going to give in. "Tell me."
Peter turned around, a single tear running down his cheek, his lips pursed as if he was fighting against the words.
Neal was relentless, he had to be. "Tell me." Please.
Finally, Peter answered. "Because you were the only one."
"The only one?"
"The only one who could change my mind. Who could make me give up my dreams."
Neal shook his head, truly puzzled. "How could I have done that?"
"You don't even know, do you?"
"Know what?"
"As long as you were in my life, I'd always be tempted."
Neal thought he understood what Peter was telling him. "You were the most compartmentalized and driven person I ever met. There was nothing you couldn't do if you set your mind to it. If you didn't want to be tempted, if you didn't want to have sex with me, there was nothing I could have done to change your mind. No amount of seduction would have worked."
Peter whispered, "You're wrong, Neal."
"No, I don't think so."
Peter shook his head. "I'm not talking about sex."
Now Neal was even more confused. "If not sex, then what?"
"Love. The longer you were in my life, the easier it was going to be to fall in love with you. If we lived together, even as 'just friends – no benefits', I would have risked everything to build a life with you." Peter laughed, and the sound was harsh. "Ironic, isn't it? I was Mr. No-Strings, fuck 'em and leave ‘em, never kiss, never have sex with the same guy twice, but from the moment we got together, from the first time you kissed me, all those rules flew out the window."
"What are you saying?"
"It didn't take long before you were the only guy. The only one."
Neal gave him a scathing, skeptical look. "Bullshit, Peter. I was there, remember?"
"I'm not lying. Yeah, there were more girls than I could count, but by the end of the year, you were the only guy, the only man I was having sex with. For the next two years I told myself that I could just walk away, that I wouldn't need you, want you anymore. But that last year – when you went to Europe for a conference, whenever you went to Vegas or Atlantic City for a game, all I could think about was who you were sleeping with – who you were kissing. My jealousy terrified me."
Neal was stunned speechless.
Peter didn't stop, the words poured out of him. "And worse than that – I could see what would happen. I'd turn into some horrible needy and insecure thing, constantly terrified that you'd find me lacking, that you didn't feel the same way I felt, that I really was nothing more than a convenience – the fuck-buddy in the next room."
"So you ended it because you didn't want to get hurt. It wasn't really just about your career, was it?"
"No, not really. I told myself when I applied to the FBI that this was a good alternative. The Bureau was worse than the military about gays. There'd be no way I could keep up the pretense of a just-friends life with you and be an agent." Peter laughed, the bitterness even more palpable. "And the funny thing was, five years in, the FBI completely changed its policy about gay and lesbian agents."
Neal knew that. The consent decree the FBI entered into in 1992 had long been overshadowed by the injustice of DOMA and Don't Ask, Don't Tell. "But you were married by then."
"No, I wasn't. I hadn't even met my wife, but I couldn't go back. After what I did to you – how in the hell would I even have had the right to think you'd want to talk to me?" Peter dropped that bombshell and started to leave.
Neal grabbed his arm and pulled him back. "You don't get to tell me that and just go. You don't get to destroy me again and walk out of my life like nothing matters."
Peter didn't fight him. He just stood there, like a steer waiting for slaughter.
Neal, in his anger, didn't bother leashing his tongue. "You know, when I allowed myself to think about this – this reunion – in my crueler moments, I imagined you'd have grown a gut and man-boobs, that you would be married to a woman who'd turned brittle from her dissatisfaction with you. That you had children who barely tolerated you, or worse. That your life was filled with misery."
"That's not far from the truth. No kids. My wife left me because she couldn't stand my need to be perfect. I stifled her. And she got custody of the dog, which would probably bite me if he saw me again." Peter looked down at his body and his lips twisted in self-loathing. "But no man-boobs, sorry to say."
Neal wasn't willing to let go of his anger. "Sometimes I wasn't so cruel to you in my imagination – sometimes, in my imagination, I saw you much as you were back then. You were handsome as a god – still as perfect as you were when you were twenty-five. Sometimes you'd be a closet case, chasing ass but always denying what you were. But other times, you were ridiculously happy with the life you'd chosen."
"And what would I say to you in your imagination, when we met again?"
Neal shrugged. "Usually nothing. We'd see each other and your eyes would slide away. You'd just continue walking. You still didn't want to know me."
"And that's what you thought when you weren't being cruel?" Peter let out a harsh laugh. "I guess I deserve that."
Neal watched the play of expression across Peter's face – he wasn't bothering to hide the pain and the self-loathing. He reached out and brushed his fingers across Peter's cheek, tracing the path of that single tear. "Whatever I imagined has no connection to the reality I see here."
"That Peter Burke's a dried out husk, sick and bitter and old before his time?"
"No, that Peter Burke is like some shattered seraph, broken but not destroyed. And all the more beautiful for whatever pain he's survived."
Peter stepped away and Neal's fingers grew cold at the loss of that connection. "You always were a poet."
"You always inspired me."
Peter hunched his shoulders and met Neal’s gaze with steady eyes. "I'm sorry – for everything. I didn't know what to do, how to handle what I felt. I wanted something and I was too afraid to give up my dreams to reach for it."
Neal wanted to tell Peter that it wasn't too late, that maybe they could both have their dreams when he realized that Peter didn't know how he felt, that they shared the same fears. He was about to pour his own heart out when Peter's face sort of crumpled and he turned a terrifying shade of green.
"Bathroom – please." Peter clapped a hand over his mouth and looked around frantically.
Neal didn't ask any questions, he took Peter's arm and pulled him towards a small powder room.
They barely made it – Neal stepped aside as Peter found the toilet and started retching. The sound was ugly, the smell worse, but Neal couldn't let Peter fall into his own vomit and held his head. Peter continued to heave until Neal was sure there couldn't possibly be anything left in his stomach.
After far too long, the spasms stopped, and Peter shuddered before lifting his head and collapsing to the floor. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills, but his hands were shaking too hard to open it.
Neal took the bottle from him and scanned the label. "Compazine, 10 mg, take every six hours for nausea." He shook out a single pill, ran back to the living room for the glass Peter had used, and filled it with some tap water. Peter took the pill and swallowed, and Neal watched – to make sure the medication stayed down.
"Are you okay?"
Peter nodded. "Just give me a few."
"Okay." Neal reached over and flushed the toilet, then offered Peter one of the small hand towels to clean himself up. "Do you need any help?"
"No – just let me be."
Neal stood there, not happy at leaving Peter alone when he was in such distress.
"Please."
Neal retreated to the living room and noticed that he'd left the pill bottle where Peter's glass had been. He'd avoided saying anything to Peter about how terrible he looked – it seemed like stating the obvious. And Peter clearly knew that he looked bad. What had he called himself? A dried out husk, sick and bitter and old before his time.
He picked up the bottle and reread the label, hoping to find some clue about Peter's illness in the name of the doctor that issued the prescription. Google was a marvelous tool, and he had friends in the medical field who could be relied on for information. But he wasn't going to need either Google or his friends; the name of the pharmacy gave him all the information he needed.
Neal swallowed and carefully put the bottle down. His hands were shaking as bad as Peter's had been and he felt like rushing to his own bathroom to throw up.
That prescription had been filled at Memorial Sloan Kettering. The premier cancer hospital in New York, if not the country.
Peter sat on the floor and leaned against the commode – a position he'd become all too accustomed to this week. It seemed that his earlier hopes that the chemo-induced nausea was in retreat were in vain.
He knew he needed to get up and get out and get home. The Compazine worked quickly on the nausea, but he had about a half-hour window before he'd be overtaken by the drug-induced stupor. Peter heaved himself to his feet and clung to the sink while the room spun.
A few deep breaths and the dizziness passed. He washed up and stared at his face in the mirror. The image reflected back didn't surprise him; he looked like week-old crap and felt worse. It wasn't just the physical weakness, but the shame of putting that weakness on such graphic display. Of all the times he'd let himself think about a reunion with Neal, he never imagined that it would go like this. That he'd spill his guts – metaphorically and literally.
As much as he wanted to, he couldn't hide in this tiny powder room forever, and if he'd felt any embarrassment about losing his lunch in front of Neal, having Neal drag out his comatose body would be far worse.
Another deep breath and Peter stepped out of the room. If he turned right, he'd be back in the living room where Neal was probably waiting for him. If he went left, he'd find the elevator and could leave without another word.
Peter turned right.
Neal was sitting on the couch, staring at a bottle of pills. His pills.
Peter sighed and Neal looked up, his face wrecked, but he didn't say anything. Peter sat down next to Neal, close enough to feel his body heat. He picked up the bottle and looked at it, smiling wryly. "I guess you've figured out my big secret."
"It's bad, isn't it?"
Peter nodded. "I've been having radiation treatments for a month. My first chemo session was last Monday."
"Can I ask – ?" Neal bit his lip and looked down at his hands.
Peter understood. "It's a fairly aggressive lymphoma."
"But they caught it early, right?"
He shook his head. "No, not really. It's Stage III."
"What does that mean?"
"It started in a lymph node in my chest and has spread to my groin and neck." Oddly enough, Peter didn't feel the same horrible dread he'd had every other time he'd discussed his illness. The other day, he could barely say the word "cancer", but now he was telling Neal just how far the disease had progressed without breaking apart. Maybe because he'd already been shattered.
Neal nodded, but his whole body rocked back and forth. Still staring at his hands, he asked, "What's the prognosis?"
"If I survive the treatment, I have a seventy percent chance for a five-year survival. That's how they measure these things – in five year increments."
"What do you mean, if you survive the treatments?"
Peter took a deep breath; this was the murky territory he'd refused to think about. "My chemo schedule is accelerated and that has a lot of risks. I'll probably need to be hospitalized after the third dosage and be kept in isolation to avoid infections."
"You seem remarkably okay about this."
That earned a laugh.
"What's so funny?"
"Today – right now, it's the first time I've told anyone how bad it is, and how bad it's going to get. Not even my partners at work know the details. Up to now, I've been in deep, deep denial."
"What about your friends? Your family?"
"No one. My folks passed away and I have no one else. Like I told you, my wife left me and there's no way I'd burden her with this. She's entitled to her own life now." Peter scrubbed his face. "Look, I've really got to get home. The Compazine knocks me out and I've got about fifteen minutes before I crash." Then he added, "I'm not running away."
Neal finally looked at him. "Stay here tonight. I've got four extra bedrooms and one has an en suite."
"I'm just a few blocks away – I'll be fine."
"But I won't be. I'll worry about you."
Peter was about to say that he'd be much more comfortable in his own bed, but the truth was, he hadn't had a good night's sleep in months and the idea of staying here was just too enticing. It didn't help that the drug was beginning to fog his senses and he doubted he'd be able to stay awake long enough to get a cab, let alone get home. "Okay, okay. If you really don't mind."
"I wouldn't have offered if I did."
Peter had his doubts about that – the Neal Caffrey he'd known twenty-five years ago was the soul of decency, and would never let anyone suffer if he could do something about it. He didn't think that the passage of time had changed him all that much.
He yawned and tried to get to his feet, but the lassitude was almost too much. Neal stood and held out a helping hand, which Peter accepted gratefully.
"The suite's upstairs – we can take the elevator if you can't walk."
"No – I think I can make it." He took a step and swayed. "Maybe not."
Neal guided him not to the main entrance, but to a small internal elevator that looked like it hadn't been updated since the thirties. It creaked a bit as it ascended, and Peter commented, knowing he sounded like an idiot, "Hope we don't get stuck."
"I wouldn't mind. Getting stuck with you."
Before Peter could respond, the elevator stopped and Neal let them out. "This way." He opened a pair of double doors and flipped on the light, revealing a rather grand suite. "I don't have too many guests, but my housekeeping service changes the sheets once a week, regardless. So everything should be fresh. If you need me, there's a phone next to the bed – pound-zero will ring the other phones in the apartment. Or just give a shout – I won't be far away."
"I'm sure it will be fine." Peter stared at the bed with longing.
"I don't think I have any pajamas for you, but …"
"It's okay – I'll be fine." It took some effort, but he pulled off his jacket and toed off his shoes. The doors shut behind him with a gentle click, and the part of his brain that was still functioning realized that he'd just been extremely rude.
Peter managed to get the rest of his clothes off and as he slid under the covers, his last conscious thought was that maybe he now had a reason to live.
What the hell are you doing? Neal asked himself this question over and over as he stood at the window and looked out over the park. The logical part of him, the mathematician who found beauty in the tyrannical rule of numbers, tried to dismiss the chaotic state of his emotions. And failed miserably.
Neal told himself that just because Peter had made such a dramatic re-entrance into his life didn't mean that he had to surrender his heart all over again.
But it was too late. His heart had never really been his own. Hadn't he chided himself over and over for his dreams? Hadn't his imaginary ideal always been Peter Burke? For chrissakes, hadn't he picked an event planner simply because the company was called "Burke Premier"?
And wasn't that going to be a fucking mess? What Neal didn't want to think about was how he was going to tell Elizabeth that he'd had a three-year intimate relationship with her ex-husband, and that he was still foolishly, stupidly in love with him. And Peter just happened to be that guy, the one who'd broken his heart.
Neal sighed. One problem at a time. He first needed to figure out what to do in the next twenty-four hours. At some point, Peter was going to wake up and he was going to want to leave – to retreat back behind the wall he'd built for himself. Neal wasn't going to try to fight the urge to care for Peter. To do so would be like fighting the urge to breathe.
Actually, the first step was going to be figuring out what Peter needed. There was always the internet, but he could do better and he sent a quick text to a friend.
Call me when you get this. Have a problem you can help with.
Less than a minute later, his phone rang.
"I hope this is a real problem, Caffrey – because this call's going to cost me a fucking fortune."
"Send me the bill, Sara."
"Don't think I won't. Now, what's the problem?"
"I just learned that …" Neal paused, it hurt so much to articulate this. "A friend has cancer."
"A friend?"
"Yeah, a friend. I'm not talking about myself, don't worry."
"Okay, okay – because that's exactly what I was thinking."
Neal had met Sara Ellis about five years ago at a London casino. She'd entered a poker tournament as an amateur and had managed to hold her own and advance to the final table. Where she'd quickly been eliminated. After the game – which he'd won – Neal looked her up, intending to offer her some coaching if she wanted to turn pro. He'd been surprised to discover that Ms. Sara Ellis was actually Doctor Sara Ellis, oncologist, who had no interest in playing poker professionally.
They'd struck up an almost-instant friendship – much like the one he'd formed with Elizabeth Burke. Sara was driven, dedicated to her career and had little interest or time for romance. But she was someone Neal enjoyed knowing.
"First, tell me why you're calling me back on a Saturday night at – " Neal checked the time and accounted for the difference in time zones, "eleven-thirty."
"I'm on-call."
"You're the head of the department."
"Who still has to do her share of the less-desirable shifts if she wants to keep the respect of her staff. Now, tell me about your friend and what you need to know."
"He has Stage III lymphoma – he told me it's aggressive, so the treatment is aggressive. He's having both radiation and chemo simultaneously. When I saw him this evening, he was okay and then he wasn't. It was like someone flipped a switch."
"Nausea? Weakness? Exhaustion?"
"Exactly. We were talking and then he turned green and spent the next half-hour over the toilet. He took a pill and just about passed out."
Sara peppered him with a dozen other questions, but Neal had no answers. Frustrated, she snapped, "I can't help with so little information. And I'm not second guessing another doctor's diagnosis."
"I don't need you to. I need to know what to do, what to expect. Peter's sleeping here tonight, but I don't know what he'll need when he wakes up."
"Sorry for that – it comes from too many people begging for a second opinion at cocktail parties."
"That's okay – I have no idea how you manage to do what you do and stay sane, anyway."
"I'm not so sure I am sane. But anyway – one of the most important things you can do is make sure your friend eats properly. Getting enough calories is important. Do you know if he's talked with a nutritionist?"
"Don't know, but somehow I doubt it. He's the stubborn and stoic type."
"All right. If the chemo's wrecking his stomach, he'll do best with soft foods. They'd call them nursery foods here. Oatmeal, soft eggs, soup, pureed fruit if he can't tolerate fresh fruit. Things that will be easy to digest."
"What about those protein drinks? Nutritional supplements?"
"Those are good, but not the stuff for athletes – the stuff for old people. They're basically liquid candy bars with some extra vitamins. They'll provide some needed calories, but your friend might not be able to tolerate them – they can cause intestinal issues."
Neal tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder and started taking notes. "What about the way he just conked out?"
"The anti-nausea meds he took cause extreme drowsiness, and since he took a pill on a completely empty stomach – with nothing to buffer – the effects would be pretty immediate. I'd check on him, make sure he doesn't get dehydrated – that's a big risk right now." She went on to describe the symptoms of dehydration.
They talked for another half-hour, with Sara doing a good job of terrifying him with what to expect as the chemo and radiation progressed. It wasn't just going to be hair loss. The radiation was going to start burning Peter's skin. There was a good chance that he'd have long-term orthopedic and neurologic issues.
"You sure you're up to this, Caffrey? Your friend's a very sick man and will get a lot sicker before he gets better."
He took a deep breath, grateful that Sara didn't say if he ever does. "Don't know. But how can I not? He's someone I care about."
"He's the one, isn't he?"
"The one?"
"The only one for you – I can hear it in your voice. You've finally met someone."
No point in denying the truth. "Yeah. And don't you dare mention Dark Victory."
"Wouldn't dream of it – I hate that movie, anyway – it's a stupid, manipulative melodrama. Call me when you have more information."
"Will do. And don't forget to let me know what I owe you for the call."
"Don't worry about it, this is my hospital-provided cell phone. I don't pay for it."
Neal disconnected with a laugh, feeling a lot better than he had before talking with Sara. He made a list of items that he'd have his grocery service deliver and grabbed a bottle of water to take upstairs.
Before checking on Peter, Neal changed into a pair of loose track pants and a tee shirt – his customary yoga outfit. He had a long night of difficult research in front of him and before he started, he needed to get himself emotionally centered. But first, he needed to check on Peter.
As Neal was about to go into the guest bedroom, his phone beeped. Intending just to turn it on to silent mode, he saw the incoming email was from Sara and he figured it was something he'd need to see sooner than later.
Neal –
Forgot to mention, but I've read a number of studies that touch is highly beneficial for chemotherapy patients. Intimacy releases oxytocin, a hormone which can aid in healing, mental outlook and overall wellness. While sex can produce the greatest amount of oxytocin, therapeutic massage and even skin-to-skin contact can help. Kissing is really good, too.
If you care for this guy, don't let his illness stand in the way of day-to-day intimacy.
Forgot to mention, but I've read a number of studies that touch is highly beneficial for chemotherapy patients. Intimacy releases oxytocin, a hormone which can aid in healing, mental outlook and overall wellness. While sex can produce the greatest amount of oxytocin, therapeutic massage and even skin-to-skin contact can help. Kissing is really good, too.
If you care for this guy, don't let his illness stand in the way of day-to-day intimacy.
Neal read and re-read Sara's message a dozen times, and smiled as he thought about how he was going to explain to Peter that kissing could save his life.
He entered the bedroom and nearly tripped on the clothes Peter had left scattered on the floor. It took a moment to pick them up and drop them on the bench at the foot of the bed. Neal went over to the bathroom, cracked open the door and turned on the light. That gave him enough illumination to check on Peter without waking him up. And it helped that Peter was on his side, facing the door.
It was strange, being in a bedroom with Peter. Until that last night, they'd never actually slept in the same bed, but Neal was as frequent a visitor to Peter's bedroom in that house on Sidney Street as Peter was to his.
And even with Sara's email in mind, intimacy of any sort was not on the agenda. He just wanted to make sure Peter was all right.
He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the man who'd been such a huge part of his life for so long. At rest, the toll that his illness was taking was far too apparent – there was a slackness in Peter's neck and jaw, the skin thin and a little saggy – like that of a man thirty years older.
Neal couldn't resist and he traced a finger along that jawline. He remembered when they were young, how quickly Peter's scruff grew in, and how much he'd enjoyed the beard burn. There was little trace of that now, although the skin was rough and dry.
Neal was about to get up when Peter licked his lips and shifted restlessly before opening his eyes. Neal held his breath, not sure if Peter was waking up or just in that in-between place between sleep and consciousness.
"I had a terrible dream, Neal." Peter's voice sounded strange, shallow and breathy. "We were old and we weren't friends anymore."
Neal wondered if Peter was still asleep, if he was dreaming that they were still in college. Unwilling to shatter an illusion, Neal just said, "We're friends, Peter."
"I'm scared, Neal." There was so much terrible emotion in those words. "I'm afraid."
Now Neal wasn't at all certain if Peter was awake or dreaming. "I know, but I'm here for you." He took a deep breath and added, "Always."
"Would you stay with me?" There was so much vulnerability in Peter's expression. "I'm afraid and I don't want to be alone."
Even if Sara hadn't told him how important touch was, Neal couldn't deny this request. "Okay." He got up and shut off the bathroom light. The room wasn't completely dark – Peter hadn't lowered the shades and the city lights filtered through the sheer curtains. Neal stretched out on top of the covers and waited – not sure what Peter wanted from him. Not sure what he wanted from himself. Then Peter turned and slotted himself against Neal, using his shoulder as a pillow.
From the evenness of his breathing, Peter seemed to have fallen back to sleep. Neal stared up at the ceiling, joy and terror and grief at war within him.
Peter woke slowly, his mind split between disorientation and a sense of deep contentment.
He knew where he was – a guest room in Neal Caffrey's vast apartment; and he remembered why he was here – he'd gotten sick and Neal had been unwilling to let him go home.
What he wasn't clear about was why Neal was stretched out next to him, on top of the covers, sound asleep but looking very uncomfortable. The room was filled with early morning light and Peter took the opportunity to really look at Neal.
Time had laid a light hand on Neal, but the passage of years was evident. His once-dark hair was threaded with gray, except that his temples were almost completely silver. On another man, Peter might have thought that such drama was courtesy of a skilled hairdresser, but even back in their twenties, the sides of Neal's beard had grown in that color.
At rest, there were laugh lines around his lips and crows' feet at the corners of his eyes. Neal was fifty and it was clear that he didn't strive to hide it. Working in the private sector, Peter had routinely encountered men who desperately worked to erase any hint of aging – as if the appearance of youth would somehow magically bestow an ability to indulge in all forms of excess without consequence.
When he'd been introduced to Neal at the office, Peter wasn't sure what to make of him. Their meeting had been brief and at least on his part, very strained, and he couldn't tell how much remained of the loving, eager and open-souled man he'd known half a lifetime ago. But yesterday, after spending just a few minutes in Neal's company, he knew that the essential character of this man was still as fine and pure.
Of course the intervening years had made their mark on him; and his own lies and cruelty had damaged Neal, but he was the same man he'd tried so hard not to fall in love with.
And Peter knew he needed to be very careful. Not to stop himself from falling in love all over again, because that had already happened. No, he needed to make sure he didn't take advantage of the better angels of Neal's nature, to lean on that generous soul as if he had any right to. It would be so easy to dream of a life with this man, not one that they might have had if he hadn't been a coward, but a life where they discovered the men they were now.
Peter sighed and told himself to stop being such a damned romantic fool.
The noise woke Neal, who propped himself up on one elbow. "How are you feeling?"
He took a deep breath and considered the question. His body ached, which was nothing new, but he felt a lot more alert and energized than he had in days. "Surprisingly okay."
"Then I'll let you get up."
"That's a good idea." His bladder was getting anxious and his mouth tasted like he'd been on a three-day bender. Peter wanted to ask why Neal slept with him, but couldn't find the courage. Instead, he asked, "Would you mind if I showered before going home?"
Neal stared at him for a moment and Peter wished he hadn't asked. After all, there was no need to shower here. He had a perfectly acceptable bathroom at home – less than a half-dozen blocks away. But then Neal smiled and everything seemed all right with the world. He got off the bed and opened a door. "The en suite. It's kept fully stocked for guests and there are fresh towels and a robe for you."
Peter remembered Neal saying something about not having a lot of visitors, but still had to wonder.
Neal must have read the curiosity in his expression. "I bought the condo from a company that had leased it out as a corporate apartment. It came with all the amenities of a high end hotel and I've never changed them."
"If you're sure you don't mind. I really am okay, and can go home and get out of your hair."
Neal's face took on a serious cast. "You're not in my way. And we need to talk." At that, Neal left.
We need to talk. Was there a more ominous combination of words in the English language? Peter chuckled wryly at that thought. Of course there was. You have cancer, ranked up there, too.
He showered and took some time grooming. He felt better than okay and wanted to look better. He couldn't help the fact that he was putting on yesterday's clothes, but he wanted – no, needed – to show Neal that he was something more than a diagnosis.
Wrapped in a white terrycloth robe, he went back to the bedroom to finish dressing. And smiled.
His clothes had been neatly folded, and placed on top were new packages of underwear and socks. Armani, even.
The shorts and tee shirt fit well and the snug way the underpants framed his package gave him a bit of a confidence boost. Then he realized that they were a size smaller than what he'd been wearing, and that sobered him. But that was a fact of his life at the moment. Among many other facts and almost irrelevant when weighed against the fact that Neal Caffrey, a man who should have spat in his face, held him through the night.
He finished dressing, frowning a bit at the sour smell coming from his shirt, but there wasn't much he could do about it. It wasn't bad, just another reminder that he was sick. Peter fussed a bit with his hair, fully aware that he was delaying the inevitable.
We need to talk.
Like yesterday afternoon, his timing was superb. He left the guest room just as Neal was emerging from his own bedroom.
"You doing okay?"
Peter nodded. "Yeah, I am. And thanks for the contribution." He made a vague gesture to his torso.
"I figured that you'd like something clean." Neal tilted his head and gave him a considering look. "I don't think my sweaters will fit, though."
"It's okay. I live around the block, not on the other side of the country. I will be going home."
Neal looked like he wanted to debate that and a pleasurable curl of heat blossomed in Peter's belly.
"Let's go down."
Peter followed Neal back to the main floor, this time via a rather grand curving staircase instead of the rickety elevator, and into the kitchen.
He couldn't help but compare it to the one in his own condo. It was equally luxurious, but there was an undeniable appeal to this space. Unlike his own, this kitchen was frequently used. There was a laptop at one end of the large center island with a pile of papers next to it. The modern appliances had a patina only acquired through actual use – like the ones in the house in Brooklyn. He'd rarely done more than reheat leftovers or make coffee – food had lost its appeal long before his diagnosis.
"What do you want for breakfast?"
"Nothing, really. Not much of an appetite, you understand."
Neal didn't seem to hear his reply, and said, "I have oatmeal – the instant kind, or how about some eggs?"
"Really, I'm not hungry. And I really should get going."
Neal pointed at one of the stools at the island and commanded, "Sit."
Peter bristled at the order. "Excuse me?"
"Peter – "
He cut Neal off. "Look – I really appreciate the help last night, and everything. But – "
Now Neal cut him off. "No buts. Sit down, Peter." Neal stared at him, his expression utterly implacable.
"You can't stop me from leaving."
Neal's laugh wasn't the least bit humorous. "Right now, a light breeze would knock you over. Don't be an ass. Sit down. We need to talk."
Right. Peter gave in with bad grace and sat down.
"Now, what do you want with your coffee? Oatmeal?"
Peter made a face. He could still enjoy his morning coffee, but the idea of food was off-putting, to say the least. "Nothing."
Neal frowned. "Coffee on an empty stomach – especially after what you went through last night – is a bad idea."
"I know, but I need it. You want to talk, great – but unless you're prepared to caffeinate me and soon – I'm leaving."
"Okay – you win, for now." Although there was one of those pod-type machines on the counter, Neal fussed with an espresso machine that wouldn't look out of place in a Parisian café. The scent of good coffee, freshly ground just for one cup, filled the kitchen. Neal served it au lait style, in a large cup with a pot of steamed milk and a box of sugar cubes.
"I can't believe you remembered how I like my coffee."
Neal shrugged. "Some things stick with you." He didn't fuss for himself, using the single-serve pod machine for his own cup.
Peter fixed his coffee and took a sip. It tasted like perfection and the sweetness was an easy pleasure. But he couldn't bear the suspense and had to ask, "So, what do we need to talk about?"
Neal fiddled with his cup, staring at it before letting out a small sigh.
"What's the matter?" Peter was getting nervous.
Neal pushed the coffee away from him and looked up, this time meeting Peter's gaze. "I want you to move in with me."
Peter wasn't sure he heard correctly. "What?"
"I want you to move in with me." Neal repeated his earlier words, enunciating carefully.
"You're not serious."
"I am."
Peter took a deep breath. It felt like the world had started to spin on a different axis. "Why?"
"Because you aren't taking care of yourself."
"I'm – " Peter realized he was about to start the same argument he'd had with Landon earlier in the week. He might have been able to lie to her, but he couldn't seem to lie to Neal. So he went on the offensive. "We haven't seen each other in twenty-five years, not since I dumped you like a bag of trash. And now you want me to move in with you? Why?"
"Like I just said, you need someone to take care of you."
Peter blinked. "And to repeat myself, why, after everything, would you want to do that?"
Neal just repeated, "Because you need someone to care for you."
"I'm a grown man, Neal – I think I can take care of myself."
"You have cancer." Neal paused and swallowed, and Peter had to wonder if that word tasted as foul to Neal as it had to him. "You live alone. I bet if I looked in your kitchen I'd find a lot of dust and a bunch of microwave meals and take-out containers. How much weight have you lost?"
Peter shook his head. "Neal, you don't have to do this."
"What if I want to?"
"And you still haven't answered my question, why would you want to?"
Neal laughed – the sound filled with self-mockery, not humor. "Because, after twenty-five years, I still love you."
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Hands you some tissues.
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Sniff oh boys
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Crying.
Awww Neal baby you are so sweet.
I want them to be happy and live together until they are 96. (Well maybe even 90 would do)
And maybe they could have a puppy version of Satchmo?
And El and Peter will be friends again?
And Moz will come by to share some Bordeaux?
Ok
Ok.
I'm gonna stop now .
This story is perfect. I love domestic future fics.
Hugs.
I answered your pm by the way.
Lj stopped sending me notices for a whole week.
Should be fixed by now.
Hugs again.
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I am so happy you are okay - and I did get your message.
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Did I mention I adore your David Siegel in this?
And your Sara seems awesome.
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Love this so much. But I'm worried!!!! :O ;__;
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Thank you.
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Couldn't agree more. Neal should have done that.
I don't like Peter getting off this easy. He didn't even apologize.