White Collar Fic - A Message Never Sent

[elrhiarhodan]

Title: A Message Never Sent
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Neal Caffrey, Peter/Elizabeth
Spoilers: S6.6 – Au Revoir
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~2400
Beta Credit: sinfulslasher
Summary: Peter loves being a father, even when his curious son finds things that he shouldn't have. When seven year old Neal brings him an old photograph, Peter wonders if it's time to tell his child about the man he was named after.

A/N: Written for the fifth night of Fic-Can-Ukah, for aragarna, who picked the prompt "A black and white photograph" and asked for "Peter/El, or Peter, in canon." The black and white quality of the photo is questionable, but I hope she enjoys this none-the-less.

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"Dad, who is this?"

Peter looked up from his tablet and the crossword puzzle – they'd finally stopped getting the physical newspaper a few years ago – to find his son holding a photograph.

"Let me see, kiddo."

Neal handed him the picture and plopped down next to him on the couch. At seven, his son was a lanky little boy who seemed to have inherited El's spectacular good looks and his tall, lean frame. Peter looked at the photo and blinked. "Where'd you get this?"

His son bit his lip and wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Neal?"

"In the basement – it was in a box that said 'art books'. I know I'm not supposed to go into the basement by myself, but I was bored."

Peter sighed and tried not to smile. His son was not the average child, not by any stretch of the imagination. At fourteen months, he was speaking in complete sentences. At two years old, he could read. At three, he was doing long division. In short, his son was a genius with an IQ almost off the charts.

But he was also a little boy with a vivid imagination, unquenchable curiosity, and a boundless capacity for getting into trouble. He was – in short – just like his namesake.

"What did I tell you about the basement?"

"That it's not a place for little boys to go by themselves."

"And why is that?"

"Because there are things in there that could be dangerous."

"Such as?"

"Chemicals and power tools and old pipes and machinery that could hurt a curious little boy," Neal recited gravely.

"And what did Mom and I tell you about what you should do when you're bored?"

"To call you or Mom or Grandma or Pop-Pop."

Peter sighed and stared at his son. He didn't say anything, knowing that in a few seconds, Neal would break down and apologize. Five, four, three, two …

"Daddy, I promise I'll never go down there again! And I'll obey the rules and I'll be a really good boy all the time." Neal threw himself against him, promising the impossible.

He put the photo down and wrapped his arms around his little boy. Being a parent was the hardest and most important thing he ever did, but every moment was worth it. "Okay, but remember, when Mommy and I make a rule, we do it because we don't want you to get hurt. It's not something random or stupid."

Neal nodded and snuggled against him. "Will you tell me about the picture?"

"Hmm, do you think I should?"

Neal looked at him, practically batting his big eyes at his father. "I think you should. I'm curious and if you don't satisfy my curiosity, I might do other things that get me into trouble."

Peter had to laugh. Of course, his son, the genius, was absolutely correct.

He looked at the photo and couldn't stifle the pang under his heart. The photograph was a print from a picture Elizabeth had taken with her phone. It had faded to black and white, in the way that most inkjet printouts used to do, but the loss of color didn't really matter.

"That's you, Daddy. But who's the man standing next to you? You look like you're getting married."

"Very funny, kiddo."

"But you're both wearing monkey suits. Why are they called monkey suits? That seems like a silly thing to call them. They should be called 'penguin suits' not 'monkey suits'. Monkeys don't wear suits." A few months ago, Neal had discovered the Classic Movie Channel and spent hours watching screwball comedies from the 1930s. To his parents' utter frustration, he talked like Cary Grant or Carole Lombard or Katherine Hepburn for a couple of weeks. He wasn't pretending to be the characters from the movies; he just absorbed the period's rather unique and totally irritating speech patterns.

"So? Are you getting married to this man?"

"No, of course not. I'm married to Mommy."

"Oh, right. But the Supreme Court said it's okay for two boys or two girls to get married."

Peter sighed as his son rattled off case law and precedent. It didn't pay to interrupt Neal.

"Okay, so? Where were you going? To a wedding?"

"No, it was for a case."

"Oh…" Neal's eyes got huge. His son's curiosity about everyday things was boundless, but his interest in his father's career was stratospheric. "Can you tell me?"

Peter debated the question. Much of what he did these days was dull and boring, infinite paperwork compounded by unwieldy bureaucracy. Which was fine. It meant he could lead a nine-to-five life and be the father his son needed. But there were times that he still longed for the excitement of field work. When he wished for the impossible.

Peter searched for a way to tell this story that would satisfy his son's interest but without causing a chain reaction of curiosity and questions. "You remember Uncle Mozzie?"

Neal nodded. "He's the one who gave me my favorite teddy bear and told me a story about evil dragons and heroic knights."

"Yup." It sometimes freaked Peter out that his son could remember things from before his first birthday.

"Well, Uncle Mozzie was in trouble and he needed my help. I had to pretend to be a bad guy to catch another bad guy."

"Is the real bad guy the man standing next to you?" Neal pointed at the picture. "Because that really doesn't make sense. You really look like you're going to a wedding. Or getting married."

Peter remembered that one of Neal's playmates had two daddies who had gotten married a few months ago; maybe Neal had seen the wedding pictures and was fixating on that.

"No, this isn't the bad guy."

"Who is he?"

Peter wasn't going to get away with a generic answer. Not only did that violate his own personal parenting code about lying to his son, he knew that Neal would latch onto his vagueness like a dog with a bone. And besides, Neal was seven. It was time he learned a little about the man he'd been named for.

"Daddy?"

Peter smiled and pressed a kiss against the crown of his son's head. "This man was my best friend. His name was Neal…"

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

Elizabeth came in a little after nine, dropped her bag on the floor, kicked off her shoes and flopped down on the couch, exhausted. "My day was a bitch. How was yours, hon?"

"My day was just fine. Filed my department's budget report and managed to avoid getting any paper cuts or stapler injuries."

"Hah! Very funny." El picked up his wineglass and finished the contents – a moderately priced red. "How's our awesome offspring tonight?"

Peter took a deep breath, but before he could say anything, El must have read the expression on his face. "Oh no, that can't be good."

"It's okay. He found this." Peter handed El the photograph.

She looked at it with a sad smile. "Ah. I guess Neal was in the basement again."

"Of course, exploring. He was bored, but was – naturally – extremely repentant and promised never to misbehave again. He says he found it in a box marked 'art books'. Fitting, I'd say."

El shrugged. "Putting it in a book about Art Deco paintings seemed appropriate at the time."

Before Neal was born, they'd had a minor argument about this picture – El wanted to leave it in its place of honor on the bookcase, Peter wanted to put it away. It hurt too much to see it every day. In the end, Elizabeth gave in and Peter never asked what she had done with the print. The frame now held a photo of him holding his newborn son. Another Neal.

"It's amazing just how much trouble this one photo has gotten me into."

El leaned her head against his shoulder. "That's right – it gave Phil Kramer so much heartburn."

"Yeah."

"So, what did you tell Awesome Offspring?"

"The truth."

"Highly edited, naturally."

"Of course. And actually, he was more fixated by the tuxedos than anything. Kept wanting to know if we were getting married, or going to a wedding."

"Well, I did call it the 'prom picture', didn't I?"

"That you did."

"Can I put it back in a frame? Leave it out?"

"Yeah, you should." Maybe hiding it away had been a mistake.

"Okay." El snuggled against him.

Peter loved these moments – the gentle end of the day when he and El sat together and became husband and wife after a long day apart. They didn't need to talk much – more than twenty years of marriage made verbal communication unnecessary much of the time.

El let out a rather prodigious yawn. "I think I need to get to bed. I'll check on Neal, make sure he's not up and making plans to take over the world."

"Okay, hon." Peter gave El a kiss. "I'll be up in a few."

He watched Elizabeth collect her shoes and head up, admiring her very lovely backside. More than two decades of marriage and she was still the only woman for him.

Peter sighed, hit by a touch of melancholy. So much time…

He picked up the picture of him and Neal and let the sadness overtake him. Grief had its purpose. Eight years and he still missed his friend; he still grieved for the loss of companionship.

And then Peter shook his head at his foolishness. It wasn't as if Neal was really dead. Just gone from his life.

In all these years, they'd seen each other just once. Peter had followed the clues that Neal had laid out for him; he'd tracked Neal to a spacious apartment in Montmartre, in the shadow of the Sacré-Coeur. They'd talked for hours and it was like they'd never been apart, that Peter had never grieved. But as the sun rose, turning the marble domes of the cathedral pink and gold, they'd both made a decision.

Peter had his life – a wife he loved and a son who needed him. Neal had a life of his own – a business that kept him in good hats and fine suits and better wine. He was happy and he was free and while he missed his life in New York, he'd accepted that that life was over.

"I'm not coming back."

"I know. I didn't think you would."

"So, this is it?"

Peter sighed. He missed his friend, he missed him more than he'd ever thought possible. He'd formulated unbeatable arguments about why Neal needed to come home. Why he needed to be a daily presence in his namesake's life. But those arguments were forgotten when he realized that Neal really did need to live his own life. That staying in constant contact would inevitably diminish the freedom he'd earned. "I don't want to lose you again."

"But you understand why it wouldn't work."

"Yeah."

"We could email each other once a month."

"Or text."

"Or I could send you postcards of all the museums I'm casing."

Peter corrected him. "You mean all the museums you're working for."

"That would work."

"We'll stay in touch." That sounded so bland, like what you'd say to a co-worker who'd just retired, but never really meant to. But neither of them was willing to promise anything more.

Sitting in the airport, waiting for his flight home, Peter received an email from "Victor Moreau". All it contained was a link to a new Gmail account and a password. Puzzled, but willing to play along with Neal, he set up the account in his phone. The inbox was empty, but surprisingly, there was a message in the drafts folder.

The message had no text, just an artfully composed photograph of two empty wine glasses, and in the background, an easel with a half-finished painting that Peter had seen in Neal's apartment. He saved the photo, but deleted it from the message, replacing it with a far-less arty snap of his boarding pass resting on top of a Starbucks cup.

This became their personal version of Snapchat. Every night, Peter took a picture – most of the time of his son, or Elizabeth, or the two of them together. Sometimes he'd send a picture of a cup of coffee, a half-empty beer bottle, the cork from the wine he'd opened. He never wrote anything in these drafts. He let the pictures speak for themselves.

Neal's photographs were far more creative – pictures of places he was visiting, close-ups of architectural details, blooming flowers, artwork, the sunrise view from his apartment window. Photos of a life being lived.

And every once and a while, Neal would send a picture of the inside of his apartment – his current painting project, a meal he'd made, a book he was reading. There were never any words.

Peter wondered if Neal was happy. Sometimes he'd look at the picture of the day and feel that his friend was lonely, that he regretted his choices, and that all he needed was for Peter to say "come home".

Peter never did, but he saved every photo that Neal sent.

Elizabeth knew about this – he couldn't keep it a secret. But they never talked about it; she never asked which picture he'd sent or asked to see what Neal had sent. Every night, though, she gave him a few minutes of privacy, a chance to compose his thoughts and remember some of the best times of his life. A chance to look at what Neal sent him. A chance to communicate without words.

Tonight, Peter was going to break their unspoken rule. He set the photo his son had found on the coffee table, next to his empty wine glass, and took a picture.

He opened up the message that had been sitting in the draft folder for seven years – today's picture was of the Nike of Samothrace. Which meant that Neal was working for the Louvre again. He saved it and replaced it with the photo he'd just taken.

Then he typed, "I've told my son about his namesake. Maybe someday you'll meet."

FIN

Note: The threads of this story will be picked up by theatregirl7299 for the eleventh day of Fic-Mas.